#Game of Thrones Borrower
Text
Offline Valor: Chapter 2
[Borrower!AU]
Previous Chapter: Chapter 1
Next Chapter: Chapter 3
Word Count: 3587
CW: Blood, flashbacks of death & violence
Rowan the Crownbreaker, son of Clan Ash, knew he should feel more pain than this.
His fingers twitched idly as he stood upon the rampart of cardboard and cobble. Through the open window at the far end of the room came a warm, arid wind that smelled of a storm. It filled the cavernous attic’s interior almost like a whispering omen from the Low Heavens. Rowan desperately wished he could close the window, but to do so would require a strength that none in Clan Ash possessed.
With no other option, Rowan opted to stand watch. He stood vigilant upon the wall for any sign of shadow that might cross the window in front of the warm amber glow of the monolithic light pole that stood as a lonely sentinel for this block of the sleepy titanic neighborhood. He even readied himself whenever he heard a cricket too loud, lest a mercenary ranger from the Forsaken Fane swoop in under cover of night.
Despite his resolve, his eyelids grew heavy. He bit his cheek and dug his fingers into the cardboard, hoping that a bit more tactility would keep him alert. He could sleep when the Lowlord lay in a pool of his own blood.
He wasn’t worthy of rest, not yet.
Be it the gravity of exhaustion or the absence of Ash’s typical merriment around their warrior’s sacrament, Rowan found his attention flitting down to examine the meager campfires near the base of the wall. He surveyed the loose circles of tissue paper tents and the faintly illuminated faces of the remnants of his family polishing off their crumm finalis. Typically there was laughter, singing, and dancing, but tonight the camp was silent as a grave. There would be no singing before the morrow.
As he took note of those who were alive and those who were absent, Rowan felt a pain like a dull knife carving deep in the chambers of his heart. It was a slow, methodical feeling. He hurt, but he felt like he deserved to hurt more.
It almost didn’t seem fair.
Rowan spied his aunt, the Raidsinger Nail, slipping out from her tent and making her way over to speak with one of his cousins. Though the cousin sat outside the glow of the fires, he could only assume she was attempting to make last minute preparations for their final stand against Lowlord Yucca’s forces in the morning.
The stairs creaked behind him.
Rowan’s hand was a blur as fingers curled around creaking leather and plastic as he gripped the hilt of his dagger. He pivoted, the blade ready to fly from his fingertips-
-as he turned, a hand caught his wrist. Rowan grunted in surprise.
“A bit slow on the draw, nephew,” came the soft chuckle of Uncle Oleander. He released his grip and let Rowan’s wrist fall. “Rest easy, ‘tis only me.”
Rowan sighed. He sheepishly sheathed his blade. “My apologies, Uncle.”
“For being too slow? Or nearly slitting my throat?” His uncle grinned as he moved to join him upon the parapet. And though Oleander teased, Rowan couldn’t help but feel a bit of embarrassment at both his ineptitude and paranoia.
“All is forgiven, Rowan,” Oleander hummed as he laced his fingers and rested his arms on the wall. Though his lips were a permanent smile under his mustache, the glow from the campfires below cut strange shadows across his face that almost seemed to cast him in a dark, weary light.
“I see appetite has eluded you as well,” his uncle noted. “This kind of thing always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I personally try to avoid connotations between merriment and death. But your aunt typically revels in tradition. So if the Raidsinger wishes to perform one last crumm finalis, to give our clan a little faith, then I see little harm in it. Faith can be a powerful motivator, after all.”
Rowan didn’t respond. He had his own personal distaste for the crumm finalis, but that all seemed so trivial at the moment. After a few seconds of the two men studying the camps below, his uncle cleared his throat.
“How do you fare?” he finally asked as he looked toward Crownbreaker. His tone was somber. “Nail was looking for you.”
Rowan could answer honestly. In truth, he felt vivisected–laid bare before an altar of rage and anguish. But despite the pain, he still couldn’t feel anything. How do you explain a paradox of this sort?
“I fare.” Rowan shrugged halfheartedly.
There was a beat as Oleander waited for Rowan to elaborate. When he did not, his uncle turned his full attention towards the Crownbreaker. With his hand now resting upon the saffron pommel of his rapier he asked, “Is it fear? Grief? I know this last excursion into Ash Haven might have been difficult for you…and you were one of the few who made it out alive.”
Rowan shuddered. His mind went back to Lowlord Yucca…the look of fury in his eyes…the hands at Rowan’s throat. Rowan couldn’t even think of the family he lost that morning, all he could feel was the Lowlord’s fingers digging into his neck
“No,” Rowan corrected quietly. He dug his fingers deeper into the parapet till he felt the cardboard bend under his grip. “Anger.”
His uncle clicked his tongue knowingly.
“Anger can be stoked for the most righteous of causes,” Oleander admitted with a sigh. “But it is a hot coal and if one is not careful, it can easily devour if left unattended.”
Rowan flinched as his uncle put a hand on his shoulder. Rowan felt guilty for not being able to meet his eyes. He knew his uncle was right–he was always right, but the gravity of this conversation made it feel like this might very well be Oleander’s final lesson to him.
“Be careful with how long you let that emotion dwell, Rowan.”
Silence fell over the pair as they regarded the titanic vista beyond the faroff window. Oleander stroked his mustache thoughtfully as rolling dark clouds started to choke the Heavens Low. Oleander drew breath and went to say more, but-
Cold water ripped Rowan the Last back to consciousness.
He gasped and flailed. Panic replaced the air in his lungs as the chill robbed him of his breath. As he splashed around, his fingers managed to find a glass rim that encircled him. He gripped the rim till his knuckles went white. His knees knocked against a wall in front of him, and his feet settled on a floor of some kind. He steadied his breathing as he slowly regained awareness…
Not drowning then. Just standing in a vertical glass tub filled with cold water.
Rowan couldn’t be sure what was happening. His memory felt melted–it was hard to grasp the last few days, let alone what happened to get him in this position.
All he could remember was Uncle Oleander’s face…his words…
The storm.
The Lowlord.
The decimation.
Even as Rowan tried to come to his senses, he saw movement around him, before him, and above him.
When Rowan finally had the sense to look up, he recoiled and pressed up against the back of the glass tub. It all was coming back to him now, like ink to water.
Rowan had nearly forgotten about the titan that saved him.
The titan was a woman with soft pink hair that cascaded past her shoulders like soft waterfalls. Her features were smooth and her eyes dark and soft. She had grace and femininity that belied her mountainous figure.
In fact, Rowan would dare say she was rather pretty.
She pulled her hands back ever so slightly and fingers the size of able bodied men curled back instinctively; however, she still kept her hands hovering within grabbing distance of him and the glass tub.
“You’re…” The Titan seemed breathless. Her eyes were wide and kept darting with microscopic movements. “...you’re not dead. That’s, um…pog.”
As soon as that last word slipped out the Titan closed her eyes tight. Rowan wasn’t sure the meaning of, but it certainly wasn’t one that the Titan had intended.
“I mean, um…wow. Sorry, l-let’s try that again,” the Titan laughed awkwardly. She pursed her lips and swallowed. “You’re awake.”
Rowan slowly nodded. He was too exhausted to verbalize any sort of response. While out of his periphery he could tell they were in the kitchen, he refused to look away from her.
He searched her face for any indication that might suggest she meant him harm. And despite his searching, he saw nothing that suggested ill will. The memory of her words–you can trust me–was an odd reassurance that filled his chest with an uncomfortable warmth. The moment he felt that, he tried to shove down. Every lesson of Oleander bubbled under the surface of his groggy consciousness like hot tar as he considered his next move and the echoes of his family screaming in his ears: do not trust her.
And yet…
Rowan ran a damp hand down his face as he broke her gaze. He closed his eyes and tried focusing on the feeling of his calloused skin against his scruff. The sensation was oddly grounding. He sighed, then scooped up a bit of water to splash his face.
Perhaps sensing he was finally relaxing just a bit, the Titan pulled her hands back all the way and took a seat. Earth Below, even sitting, she easily towered over the kingslayer.
Rowan got a better look at the kitchen. It was a bit tidier than some of the other titan homes he had frequented. The walls were white, the cabinets were dark black, and the fixtures brass. A massive chrome coffin with two handles on one side stood proudly off to the side–it was a Frigid Vault. Rowan fondly remembered when Aunt Nail taught him how to throw up a hook and rope to get a secure grip on one of the handles. Within the Vault lay many wondrous feasts that were preserved by the icy magics of titanic understanding.
But for once, Rowan wasn’t considering looking for food. The thought of eating made him nauseous.
He was up on the counter by the sink. Between him and the brass canyon was his cloak, his shirt, his daggers, a pair of tweezers fit for the fingers of a titan, and a tube of medicine salve that Rowan recognized from foraging runs.
Finally, he spied a large washcloth bundled up like a hill of linen next to his clothing and weapons. It had once been an olive green, but now it was stained with blood. A lot of blood.
He could only assume it was his.
“Take deep breaths for me, okay?”
Rowan frowned as he listened to her voice. For some reason hearing such a gargantuan person make such a soft spoken request was genuinely disarming. He’d never met a titan before–never even thought he’d meet a one–so any expectations of what might sound or act like was based around the stories told to him. Her timbre was surprisingly clear and concise, and she sounded like any Borrower woman of his own size.
Eventually he relented, and tried calming his breathing with deep inhales and steady exhales. As he breathed he felt a bit of soreness in his left side that prickled into a twist of mild pain–it was enough to make him wince. Whether or not the Titan picked up on that, she gestured to the left side of his chest with a finger.
“I, um…had to take off your shirt. Had to see where you were bleeding and why.”
Upon hearing this, Rowan looked down. He still wore his boots and trousers, both of which were properly soaked through. His muscles glistened from the water and the lawn mower's marks stood brightly in contrast–it was a deep lattice work of scars across his pallid skin that he was still getting used to.
Opposite of the burned tissue that dominated the right side of his chest, he spied a strange patch that hugged his left pectoral. It went down to his abdomen, then wrapped back beneath his armpit and nearly touched his spine. The patch’s material was rather confusing to Rowan. It seemed to be some kind of malleable plastic.
“It looked like a stitch had popped,” the Titan explained as she absentmindedly smoothed out her shirt. “It probably came loose from your run in with Chu Cu.”
Even as the words left the Titan’s mouth, she puffed out her cheeks and looked off. It was as if some kind of realization crossed her mind. She ran a hand through her hair and looked in desperate need of a drink. “This is…absolutely f@$%ing insane...”
Rowan squinted. He wasn’t quite sure what that fourth word meant, but he presumed it was some kind of titanic vulgarity.
After a prolonged moment of silence, the Titan threw her hands up in the air.
“PLEASE say something!” she blurted. Rowan jumped in the tub at the sudden din of her words. “You haven’t said a single thing! I’m trying not to just freak out here! You’re a little man who nearly got eaten by my neighbor's cat, I just cleaned up a lot of your blood, and fixed your stitching. So I would really like some help feeling like I’m not just totally losing my mind right now!”
She looked down at him pleadingly. Rowan looked up at her as he tried to figure out a proper response. Lazuli had been the one with the silver tongue, not him. How could he possibly hope to console a titan and explain to her what he was?
As he attempted to gather his thoughts, a look of horror washed over her expression as she seemed to recognize how her outburst might’ve come off. She put a hand to her mouth then whispered brokenly, “O-Oh f@$%! I didn’t mean to shout...I-I’m so so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare y-”
At that, Rowan actually managed a chuckle. It was mirthless noise, and it seemed to catch the Titan’s off guard.
“Believe me, miss.” Rowan ran a hand over his dirty hair and shrugged. “Far more terrifying and monstrous things have left me unphased. And seeing as you are neither terrifying nor monstrous, you have nothing to apologize for.”
The Titan stared at him. Despite partially covering her mouth, he noticed her jaw hanging slightly though Rowan couldn’t be sure as to why.
“Y-You are confused,” Rowan pointed with a groan as readjusted himself in the glass tub. He winced from the accumulated pain he’d accumulated over the last few weeks of running. “I would be too, were the roles reversed…so I apologize for any untoward anxiety I might have put into your heart.”
The Titan just mouthed a three word phrase of disbelief that Rowan couldn’t decipher. She blinked and looked taken aback. “I, um…wow. Huh. I…didn’t expect you to be so, um…”
Rowan raised an eyebrow. The Titan cleared her throat and shook her head.
“N-Nevermind,” the Titan replied. “I’m just glad you’re awake and you seem to be doing okay. How do you feel?”
How did Rowan feel?
He felt carved out–hollowed. It was like there was nothing left inside. And truthfully, he felt exhausted.
None of that, of course, was the Titan’s fault.
“I am well enough off.” Rowan waved her off. “But I am grateful for the aid. You saw the beast attempting to eat me, and you stopped it. You saw I was bleeding and suffering from the sun’s heat, and you took me in and treated my wounds and put me in a…”
He paused, then looked down at the water and the glass, upright tub. “...I believe this is a bathtub?”
The Titan looked a bit flustered before correcting him. “That’s, um…that’s a shot glass, sir.”
Rowan processed that. Then a rogue smile tugged at his lips as a flicker of amusement danced in his chest. “You put me in a cup?”
“Okay well when you put it like that it sounds like a really dumb idea, but I was panicking!” the Titan protested with a furious blush. “I wasn’t gonna like, drink you or anything! Th-that was just the first clean thing I saw that could hold water!”
“I know, I know,” Rowan reassured with a chuckle. “Sometimes physicians simply have to work with what they have at their disposal.”
The Titan furrowed her brow. “You…you think I’m a physician? N-No, I’m just a-”
“Regardless of what I ended up in, I hope you know how thankful I am for your charity, lady-titan. I cannot recount an instance in recent memory where a titan has expressed that degree of kindness upon seeing a Borrower like myself. So, again, I thank you.”
The Titan’s expression softened. She smiled and hummed, “Oh, um…yeah. For sure. Y-You’re welcome, little guy. I’m just glad you’re okay.”
After a moment of awkward staring and Rowan standing in the cup of cold water, the Titan moved to stand. Rowan’s breath hitched as he was reminded of the Titan’s scale.
“I have…so many questions for you,” the Titan admitted with splayed hands, “but I don't want to overwhelm you. You’ve gone through hell, and I don’t wanna add to it. So, um…you just, ah…have a nice soak, and…um. You just shout when you’re done, okay? Take as long as you need, there’s no rush.”
Rowan felt a surprising wave of gratitude, but it wasn’t without discomfort. Time was not a luxury that nomads like Clan Ash could afford. So to hear the Titan wishing to simply table her curiosity till he had time to rest was perplexing.
“Are you certain? I understand if you have questions, and I wish to answer whatever I can. If you wish to speak now, we can speak. This is not a grievous wounds, I am well able to spe-”
“I’m sure.” The Titan grinned. “Look, guy…I’m not gonna push you. You just rest and we can talk later. But, like…also, if you change your mind and just want to leave, I mean. Window’s open. But please if you do decide to leave, just give yourself an hour or so to cool off. Then make sure you get plenty of water in you, and please please stay in the shade when you’re outside. It’s a kajillion degrees, and I wouldn’t want you getting a heatstroke, okay?”
Rowan considered her words. “I appreciate that. Though I believe I will be staying, if only for a moment. I owe you an explanation in order to express my thanks for you saving me, gracious titan.”
The Titan grew visibly flustered at that. “O-Oh, I have a name ya’ know. You’re sweet but, um…gracious? And, titan? Too much, dude. I’m just a normal person–call me Zelly.”
“Zelly,” Rowan mulled over the name. “Sounds very regal. Are you nobility?”
The Titan–Zelly–threw her head back and guffawed. When she looked back down at Rowan she gasped, “Oh, you were being serious? Um. No. Definitely not nobility. Um…are you nobility?”
“Neither am I, thankfully,” Rowan wryly replied. He was reminded of polished silver and crushed porcelain floors. An open air throne overlooking the treetops. The touch of mercury. The smell of hazelnut. A friend who placed their diadem aside, and sat close to him as they sipped from pewter mugs.
The memory was like sweet vinegar to the taste.
“My name is Rowan the Last, Once-of-Ash,” he added somberly. “But you may call me Rowan.”
“Rowan the…?” Her voice trailed off. Zelly shook her head, as if opting to ask later. “Well, um…Mr. Rowan. You just get some rest, okay? I’m going to grab something from the fridge and, um, go decompress a bit.”
She turned and walked over to the Frigid Vault–which she had called a “fridge”--and effortlessly tugged on one of the handles and opened the Vault with ease. It was a feat that typically took several teams of Borrowers to do, yet she did so with one hand. Rowan could feel a shockingly cold gust of air, even from here.
“Do you want anything?” Zelly asked as she leaned back to meet his gaze. Rowan raised his hand, indicating he was fine.
As Zelly rummaged through the “fridge,” Rowan tried to close his eyes and follow the titan’s request to rest. But even as he closed his eyes, he saw the images burned into his eyelids. He remembered the sound of screaming, the smell of gunpowder, the taste of his own blood…
He remembered hearing the crunch of Uncle Oleander’s shoulder before he vanished from sight as he tumbled off the edge of the roof.
He remembered the Lowlord Yucca running Aunt Nail through with a cruel, gnarled blade.
He remembered when it was just he and Yucca standing on the precipice of shingles while the uncaring storm rained hot tears upon the bodies and blood around them.
He remembered when their blades met. He remembered when two became one, and the Lowlord lay in a pool of his blood.
He remembered how empty that victory felt.
The dull knife carved deep. The pain pressed upon his heart. The grief was so immense that its weight made his ribs groan. No rest would come.
He would never be worthy of rest.
All left decimated, with only a single speck of Ash on the wind.
Rowan, once of Clan Ash, had truly become the very Last.
#g/t#giant/tiny#gianttiny#gt#Borrower!AU#Borrowers#Offline Valor#g/t writing#g/t community#cw blood#cw death#cw violence#ogtoc Rowan#ogtoc Zelly#ogtoc Oleander#wholesome giantess#Borrower x Streamer#Game of Thrones Borrower#g/t hurt/comfort
108 notes
·
View notes
Text
Borrowing your 6x great grandmother’s outfit
“From my blood come the prince/ss that was promised….”
#house of the dragon#hotd#game of thrones#rhaenyra targaryen#daenerys targaryen#borrowing your 6x great grandmother’s outfit#the prince that was promised#the princess that was promised#emma d’arcy#emilia clarke
101 notes
·
View notes
Text
the misfortune of house of the dragon brainrot is that i remember shit from game of thrones and then i get mad and i was recently reminded of “robert’s rebellion was built on a lie” which makes me so unambiguously furious i’m finally gonna crack down and enumerate that fury to the rest of the populace in what may be my longest ramble to date.
so, first things first, i’m gonna be so very brave and ignore the emotions and everything behind rhaegar running off with lyanna, ignore the skeeviness of this man in his midtwenties pursuing a young teenager and the skeeviness of doing it while married and how much of a dick fucking move that is to do to elia who didn’t deserve any of that from her shit husband, ignore whether or not rhaegar and lyanna were in love or if it was kidnapping or whatever, because that’s not important.
what’s important is that the crown prince, the heir to the throne, next in line to the seat of power, committed an egregious offense against three major political powers. the foundational building block of robert’s rebellion isn’t about whether or not rhaegar and lyanna were “in love”, it’s about how rhaegar insulted house stark by taking a member of their family into custody in a way that puts her reputation at risk, he insulted house baratheon by taking someone who had been promised to a baratheon (it sounds awful to phrase it like that but this is how it would be seen in westerosi society), and he grievously insulted house martell by publicly shaming and humiliating a martell princess in a deeply embarrassing way. robert’s rebellion is built on rhaegar looking at his house’s allies and friends and essentially spitting on their faces.
and even then, that’s not what kicks off robert’s rebellion. what the rhaegar and lyanna situation does is kick off the starks going to the crown, to the legal head of the country, and wanting the situation dealt with. brandon, though somewhat brashly, is well within his rights to go to his king and say that he and his family have been dealt a grievous offense and that it needs to be addressed and rectified in some way. aerys’s response to that is to kill two members of that family, brandon and rickard, in an unseemly and brutal way, all for using the proper channels available to them to try and find a way to address a problem, an insult being done to them and their family, and then after aerys murders them for it because the idea happens to offend him, because he’s nuts, he then demands that two people who haven’t done anything at all yet, another stark son and lyanna’s baratheon fiancé, be handed over to him to also be executed.
what happens to brandon and rickard isn’t the only thing that’s seen as morally bankrupt in the eyes of westeros, it’s also aerys ordering that jon arryn break faith and hand over two teenagers who haven’t done anything or started any conflict themselves because they are also part of the wronged parties from his own son’s apparent fuck up. that is what causes jon arryn to summon his banners. that is what robert’s rebellion was built on, aerys’s actions following rhaegar’s. because aerys has, in modern parlance, broken the social contract (for anyone who isn’t as big a dork as i am about historical politics, the social contract is a theory/model that argues that individuals consent to be ruled by an authority and trade away certain freedoms in exchange for the remainder of those rights being protected in a safe and maintained social order, and that when a ruler breaks that promise by becoming too despotic or creating a breakdown in the social order, the populace is no longer beholden to uphold their end as well in consenting to be governed).
now, westeros doesn’t have a solid concept of the social contract because that’s something that only became a talked about thing during our age of enlightenment (mid 1600s to early 1800s AD) it’s a pseudo-medieval society, roughly equivalent to, like, the 800s AD (given that the doom of valyria is meant to be this world’s equivalent to the fall of the roman empire, which happened in 400 AD, while the doom happens about 400 years before the events of asoiaf). but there’s clearly some element of “we will allow ourselves to submit to your rule on the condition that you be good to us as a ruler, or else we will no longer allow said rule”, because that’s the entire basis for northern independence in the main books. the northerners believe that joffrey, in executing ned so suddenly and unceremoniously, on what are largely viewed to be trumped up charges, has broken the baratheon line’s social contract with the north, and thus do not need to uphold their own end of the contract, thereby declaring rebellion and fighting against that regime. and that’s what happens with robert’s rebellion. the arryns, starks, and baratheons have decided that, through the actions of it’s head (aerys) and it’s second in command (rhaegar), house targaryen has broken it’s side of the social contract, which means they no longer have to consent to be ruled by house targaryen, and will fight against house targaryen’s actions against them at that point.
robert’s rebellion was not, and never had been, built on the idea that lyanna wasn’t in love with rhaegar. that might have been robert’s own personal motivation, but that didn’t factor into the rebellion at large. robert’s rebellion was built on the really bad decisions made by prominent political actors in westeros, and how everyone responded to them. the main issue was that a group of powerful people saw that the other side of the social contract had violated that contract, decided to react, then everyone else chose sides based on who they supported in that decision and promptly duked it out for a year until one side ultimately won.
and man does that one line really encapsulate that season 8 gets the brunt of the backlash for being unbearably awful but basically everything that happened from them taking main control away from the books onward was just the height of stupidity, in every way.
#personal#asoiaf#anti game of thrones#i should have a tag for the specific moments when i write mini essays on here about shit i know none of you care about#but yeah i despise that line fuck that line#like whether or not the fifteen year old and the 25 married guy were in deep unconditional love doesn't matter#(even tho rhaegar is a huge asshole and elia should be allowed to hit him with a hammer)#(and then lyanna can borrow the hammer for robert who also sucks and will always suck but that's not the point here)#robert's rebellion started when aerys acted like a monster and essentially made the executions of brandon and rickard#the straw that broke the camel's back#also rhaegar's an idiot for knowing for a while at that point that his dad is unfit to rule and not doing anything about it#but that's it's own thing#really aerys and rhaegar are a textbook example of how birthright monarchy is just a giant fucking scam
22 notes
·
View notes
Text
managed to pump out one last big picture before school, thank you mister jade tales of the abyss <3
#tales of the abyss#tales of#jade curtiss#colonel jade curtiss#tales of jade#jade balfour#bunart#dont look at me#and yes i used the anime throne chair bc it was easier#i love the game one more but Im on borrowed time#we all know jade could and would sit right beside peony#fuck even in the games last third#jade stands beside him despite being a colonel#hes not the highest possible rank in the malkuth army#he just has bestie privilege#poor jaspar has to deal with so much#yes i will draw jaspar in the future i promise#he was such a cute character from the manga and jade even writes that letter to him <3#good JC my baby#evil JC will always be my babe#im gonna stop blabbing now uidjhgvliafdsa
15 notes
·
View notes
Text
A Game of Thrones, Eddard IV
Ned turned back to the royal steward. “Pray give me a few moments to change into something more presentable.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“My wagons are still straggling through the city. I shall need appropriate garments.”
“It will be my great pleasure,” the steward said.
And so Ned had come striding into the council chambers, bone-tired and dressed in borrowed clothing.
#a game of thrones#eddard iv#asoiaf#a song of ice and fire#eddard stark#ned stark#house stark#king's landing#red keep#small council#royal steward#stewards#clothes#clothing#garments#wagons#presentable#council chambers#borrow#borrowed#tired
1 note
·
View note
Text
And I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that's why I love you
-“True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper
#I’m in a vow without honor kick#so bare with me while I equate song lyrics to my fav couple#I’m not great at gifs so I’ll be borrowing ones already on here#myra stark#Jaime Lannister#a vow without honor#jamyra#jaime Lannister x myra stark#game of thrones fic#game of thrones#cyndi lauper#true colors
1 note
·
View note
Text
Libby is such a useless app there are always a billion holds for every book if there's a library nearby there's just no reason to ever use Libby. So fucking bullshit that they force libraries to rebuy ebooks every 18mo or whatever the fuck kill all fucking ceos
#basically its all fake and a scam to force libraries to spend $$#their shitty fake reasoning is that since ebooks dont get wear and tear they wojld only ever need to buy one copy where a physical theyd buy#more#but its bullshit its all fake they just want to wring money from public libraries#the only time i was able to borrow no prpblem was during the Game of thrones phase bc they literally had like 50 copies of every book in the#series so there was no wait
0 notes
Text
THE HIGHEST TOWER (1/2)
Summary: As a Princess of the Realm the chance to escape political marriage and abscond with your Promised was beyond anything you could wish for. When the time is right, your dragon will lead you to them and your mother will support your union. In return, you must do all you can to protect her claim, even if you must do so from within the very heart of the Greens.
Soulmate AU: Your animal familiar leads you to your soulmate.
Pairing: Cregan Stark x Reader (eventual), Aemond Targaryen x Reader (mentioned)
Word Count: 4296
Warnings: Canon typical warnings, swearing, just general character awfulness, some espionage, canon divergence, my first time writing for hotd.
Masterlist
You had lived the better part of eight and ten years in the Red Keep. The daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen handed off to the Queen like some paltry trinket. The King’s first and final word on the matter of his granddaughter. Thrust carelessly into Alicent’s care at the fresh age of ten, a peace offering and a trade for Lucerys’ life. You scarcely remembered life beyond the borders of the castle. Only that one moment your brother's life had been under threat and the next yours was all but forfeit.
Your mother had clasped the back of your neck, pulled you toward her and begged her father for mercy. You who had not even been in the room when Aemond had lost his eye, lost to your own midnight flight atop dragon back. And then the curtain of Rhaneyra’s hair parted, and from over her shoulder Daemon met your eyes. For a single poignant moment, he stared and then a smirk broke across his face as if he knew.
Knew that you were not the innocent that your mother would have the King believe you to be. Knew that your midnight rendezvous with your dragon at the exact moment of Vhagar’s claiming was not mere coincidence. Your intentions had been innocent at first. A trip to the kitchen for a cup of milk which you would warm on the stove – a feat the late Sir Harwin Strong had taught you. Past your brothers’ room, your mother’s room, the servants' quarters and a balcony overlooking the beach. And then you had seen him. Aemond scaling your cousin’s dragon. And that just wouldn’t do.
Targaryens – true Targaryens who did not cower under the cover of darkness – needed their dragons if they had any hope of finding their Promised. Your cousin, Baela who always shared her sweets and let you borrow her wooden sword, deserved the chance to meet her Promised in the wake of her mother’s death. The man or woman that Vhagar would lead her to when the Old Gods saw fit. In the game of thrones when Targearyens already found so few chances for happiness, how could Aemond strip his cousin of her chance at true love? True, as an eldest daughter Baela’s future husband was most certainly decided – likely one of your brothers. But you were certain that Jacaerys or Lucerys would be understanding and gracious when the time came for Baela to claim her Promised, as she would be when the time came for her Lord-Husband. Such was the way of things. At least for the lucky.
Imagining your dragon, Laesuvion, claimed by another and leaving you with no guide to your Gods-given Promised made you feel ill. And so, you set out on bare, hurried feet to find and mount Laesuvion. You were a Targaryen born of the blood of dragons, of true Valyrian features. Vhagar was your cousin’s dragon by right and it was your duty to protect that claim. She was a formidable, indomitable beast but shackled with a new rider on his first flight. If you had one chance to disrupt the yet fragile bond being formed by dragon and rider, it was to dislodge the green boy and send him toppling toward the sea.
Laesuvion had hatched for you in your cradle. He was much younger and smaller than Vhagar but all the faster. It would be no trouble to fell your traitorous cousin. The difficulty became disguising the shock of white scales along the elongated arch of Laesuvion’s neck whilst searching for Vhagar’s camouflaged breadth.
“Aderī Laesuvion. Dokimarvose.” (Quickly Laesuvion. Focus.) You urged him.
Despite your efforts, you only caught sight of them twice. Once among the clouds, though you were sure Aemond got a greater view of you than you did him. And again, as Vhagar was returning to land Driftmark. Your hunt had been unsuccessful. But you had been sure no one would suspect you of such vengeful intent toward your uncle. Except perhaps Daemon.
“It is a fair price, Rhaenyra,” Daemon’s smirk was cunning, “They will not harm her.”
The betrayal on your mother's face heated your blood. How dare he tell her what to do? Your mother, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the iron throne. This man who was no one, husband of no one, Prince of nowhere, heir of nothing. Who was he to command your mother? And now, to step toward you and attempt to pry you away from her. So close you could almost-
Almost hear the two of them whispering. To each other. To you.
“Think.” Daemon hissed, “They will demand her for Aemond sooner or later.”
“She is my only daughter.”
“She will still be your daughter in the Red Keep.” He kept up the pretence of fighting your mother, despite her arms having gone lax around you. “Not a bastard. Not a bargaining chip. Your daughter. At the heart of the greens.”
“She is a child.”
“A Targaryen child.”
“She is my child.”
“Then let her prove it.”
“Mother,” You warbled. “I don’t want to go.”
“Tala.” Daemon shifted, and his eyes met yours again as if you should know this word. You did not. “You will go. Make your mother proud. Learn at court. Find those who support her claim and those who will side with the Hightowers. You are weak and a girl, they will not suspect you. When the time comes you will be our most valuable weapon.”
“But I want to go home, Kepa.” (Father or paternal uncle)
“Oh, my sweet girl.” Rhaenyra held your face and brushed away your tears. “You will.”
“’Nyra.” Daemon warned.
“But not today.” She kissed each of your cheeks. “Today you must be strong for me. You must be strong for your brothers. You must do as Daemon says, we must keep them happy.”
And then your mother pulled you toward her firmly, pressed her lips to your ear and whispered a promise. A reward should you embark on this mission. Beyond sweets and silk dresses and extra time on Laesuvion. Beyond anything you had ever been promised or ever dreamed of asking for. Do this for your mother and she would exempt you from the chains of political marriage that would shackle each of your brothers. There was no guarantee you would be lucky like your brothers, married to one who would understand. But do this and you could have your Promised under the eyes of the Seven, the Old Gods, and the traditions of old Valyria itself. Even at 10, you knew that for a Princess and a second-born, there was no greater boon.
So, you did what you had to do for your one shot to truly be with your Promised. You squared your shoulders, kissed your mother's cheek, and stumbled toward Queen Alicent. She gripped you by the shoulder, tucked you into the folds of her skirt, and stared cruelly down her nose at your mother.
“Now I will have no more fighting.” Said the King and having satisfied his wife for the first time in their long marriage, he ambled off to bed.
As the crowd dispersed, Sir Criston Cole flanked the Queen and as a unit, the three of you marched from the room. Your mother, scarcely held together in Daemon’s embrace, gave one last warbling cry as you passed the threshold and disappeared, not to be seen again for nine long years.
You were kept that night in the Queen’s own quarters to thwart rescue or escape. Behind a bolted door and no less than three kings’ guards. And yet, that morning, upon waking with puffy eyes from silent tears and aching limbs from the harsh sitting room sofa, you found something that had not been there before.
A gift from Daemond, most assuredly, tucked under the pillow you had slept on. The handle was perhaps an inch too long for your small age, but the blade was curved and wicked sharp and would require little finesse to cause harm. Inlaid in the pommel was a single ruby, the size of your thumb and wonderfully smooth. Carved into the cross-guard flowing Valyrian script read valar morghūlis. (All men must die.)
You would call the dagger gaomilaksir, duty. You would carry it as a reminder of the promises you and your mother had made one another. One day, as Daemon had said, you would become her greatest weapon.
There had been few bright spots in your life as the Queen’s ward. So, few in fact, that you could count them on one hand.
One.
You could not fly. Such a thing would only encourage escape back to Dragonstone and your mother. But you could visit Laesuvion and watch him sweep through the clouds. He had grown much in your teenage years. Still lithe in build and elegant in frame, but more angular like an arrow strung tight. He did not take to Kings Landing, not in all your years trapped there. So used to the comfort of Dragonstone and your family’s own dragons, he often abandoned the Dragonpit entirely. Kept tethered to the Keep by your presence alone.
“Where is Laesuvion?” You were just shy of ten and two when you approached the Dragonkeeper Acolyte.
“Hunting, my lady.” He knocked his quarterstaff against the ground. “He flew north not three hours ago.”
“Do you not offer him food?”
The keeper lowered his head, “He refuses it, my lady.”
“Offer him better.”
“We give him our very best, lady. He is a magnificent but stubborn creature.”
“He is a dragon, not a creature.” You conjured up a playful grin. “And I am a princess, not a lady.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” The Acolyte blustered, “Shall I inform you upon his return?”
“That won’t be necessary,” You strode to his side and plunked yourself down to lean against the stone entrance. “I shall wait for his return here.”
And so, you did. Silently, for the better part of twenty minutes as the Acolyte threw furtive glances your way.
Until finally, “Truly, my lady. Your Highness. He could be hours still.”
Wonderful. You thought and cast a dazzling grin up at him. “Perhaps you ought to keep me better company then.”
And so, you began your mission. You charm the Dragonkeepers – Acolyte and Elder, all seventy-seven of them – who knew the princes and their dragons, their strengths and weaknesses. You befriend the maids, the scullery, the wet nurses, and the servants they bunk with. Piece by piece, inch by inch, you win back your mother's share of Kings Landing.
Two.
Strange though she was, your Aunt Heleana always welcomed you into her chambers. In your shared youth, she always had a critter clutched between her hands as if it were the most precious thing she owned. You are four and ten, a year younger than your aunt when she is forced to split her time between her menagerie of insects and the chubby masses of her twin babes.
“The young prince has lungs,” You smiled at Heleana as the wet nurse rocked a wailing Jaehaerys. “He will make glorious speeches when he is grown.”
“Only one.” She examined the creature in her hands. Today she favoured a centipede, passing Jaehaera onto you.
You had long since learned to ignore her ramblings, “The sweet Princess must be the wordsmith, then.”
“The fourth in an age.” Heleana startled as if only just noticing your presence. “Apologies, Hāedar. You wished to speak?” (Younger female sibling or cousin)
“No apologies necessary, Mandia.” (Older female sibling or cousin). The Valyrian word tasted foul. You had your own siblings on Dragonstone, those whom you had been stolen from and those whom you had yet to meet. But Heleana liked it when you pretended that you were not a prisoner, that you were her mother’s daughter and not her forcibly attained ward. And so you swallowed it with a smile, “Might we talk privately?”
Heleana startled again as she turned to the wet nurse. “Take the children to the nursery, Bria.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Bria gave an awkward curtsy, shuffled the still-wailing Jaehaerys to one side and received Jaehaera from your arms. Heleana turned to you expectantly as the trio disappeared through a side door.
“It is a sensitive matter I am afraid,” You eyed the centipede as it escaped her hands and crawled across her skirts. “I do not wish to cause offence.”
Heleana’s eyes pinched at the corners, “It is not such a terrible burden – to be a wife. Mostly he ignores you.”
“You misunderstand me,” You hurried. “I only wished to speak of your grandfather.”
“Not my brother?”
“Do you wish to speak of your husband?”
“No,” Heleana gave you a quizzical look. “I speak of Aemond, who will be your husband.”
“Aemond?” Your uncle who’s selfishness had trapped you here. One of Alicent’s precious children married to her living doll. The thought would have been hysterical were it not so frightening. Surely not.
“It is the natural progression of things. I was given to Aegon and now you to Aemond.” Heleana’s attention returned to the centipede. “One pairing to strengthen our house, another to mend its bonds. So says grandfather.”
“Oh Mandia. I am entrusted to your mother. There need be no marriage to bring me into the fold. We are family.”
“Yes. So says mother.” Heleana stared. Not so blind as she seemed. “But grandfather always gets what he wants.”
And so, you are four years into your mission, having sat patiently by the Queen's side. Having listened and learned and noted those your mother can count on. Four years in and the time to begin quietly making moves had arrived with a head start from your oblivious Aunt.
But then you see the centipede crawl from her hands again and writhe across her skirt. And you think maybe Heleana’s warnings have more to do with where the critter is trying to lead her than it has to do with you.
Three.
It took you longer than you would like to admit to worm your way into Otto Hightower’s confidences – if there were such a thing.
You had quickly learned in your first year at the Keep that Alicent feared her father, distrustful of his greed and power lust. Not much unlike yourself, she had been sent into the greedy hands of a different house in pursuit of the Iron Throne. Were Otto not so blinded by his ambitions you might have begun to worry that Daemon’s strategy might ring familiar. But Lord Hightower’s strength was also his greatest weakness. So careful in his scheming, gently coaxing his will unto others, moving his pawns about the board, sacrificing all but himself, he could not see his tactics turned against him. Beyond your connection to Rhaenyra, you barely registered as a piece in the game.
Daemon had been right. Weak and a girl and not a threat. Not yet.
So, you worked tirelessly to endear yourself to Alicent. Just as you learned from her, you began to teach in turn. When you are in the room Otto Hightower dares not spin his lies about succession. When you appear around corners in search of your Queen-mother talk of hastening the king's condition ceases. When you are near, Alicent is safe. She begins to wear you like the expensive accessory you are, a decorative shield.
Hours trailing your Queen-mother to and from meetings of the small council, waiting patiently at her side as she sat in place of the King. Serving wine to fat and foolish lords.
And then finally, on the eve of your ten and fifth nameday, the Queen brings you along to the Hand's Tower.
“Father.” She greets.
“Alicent,” Otto brings you to his office, where a tea set for two lays steaming. “I see you have brought your shadow.”
The Queen barely glances your way as you serve her tea and then her father’s, before retreating to stand at her shoulder. She glares across her father’s desk, “This does concern her.”
“She is approaching her fifteenth year, two since her first blood. Time has well arrived for her to marry,” He stares directly at you then, “Have you any fondness for your uncle, Princess?”
“My lord, the Princes and I are often kept busy by our duties.” Your friends among the servants have divulged their schedules. You stay firmly away from drunken Aegon and selfish Aemond, remaining civil only with young Daeron.
“You must see reason.” Alicent implores her father. “They hold no affection for one another. Aegon and Heleana have already wed in the name of strengthening our family. To marry her would serve only to anger Rhaenyra.”
“And to bind her eldest daughter to us.” Interesting that he would say so openly in front of you. Perhaps you have been more effective in playing a Green than you had thought. “Aemond will be a good husband to her.”
“I have no doubt,” Alicent says and as silence stretches you suspect she is losing conviction; you have not saved her this time.
You clear your throat delicately, “If I may?”
“Of course, sweet pet.” Alicent reaches out to fuss with your hair. She likes it long and keeps its length to your hip despite how cumbersome it can be. Short hair is unbecoming, she claims.
You look to Otto in false deference, “My lord?”
“Very well.”
“I think,” You begin carefully. “Aemond and I may be of better use to you.”
“And how might that be?” He is condescending but you have his attention.
“When the time comes that grandsire passes on, I suspect the lords of the realm will need cause to back a claim to the Iron Throne. My Septa says that peace such as we have seen under his rule may bring unrest. I do not doubt that Aemond will make a fine and just husband. All I mean is that mayhaps it would be wise to keep us unwed until we may serve a greater purpose.”
No mention of your mother nor their ill-begotten plan for Aegon. Hightower's methods played against him.
“And when the time comes you will do this?” He demands.
“It is my duty to my house.”
He tilts his head as a predatory bird might. “You must swear it, to myself and to your Queen, upon your young brothers.”
To pause would mislay your ruse. To hesitate would be to sign your life away to Aemond Targaryen.
“I swear it, upon the lives of my brothers.”
He considered you for a moment, and then his daughter.
“You have done well with her, Alicent.” Your Queen-mother sighs as Otto Hightower stands. “Enjoy your tea, I have matters to attend to elsewhere. Perhaps you will be of more use than we originally suspected, Princess.”
Your first true victory. You will not be shackled to the Keep; you will be kept safe until your mother comes for you. Until such a time that you and Laesuvion can seek out your Promised.
Four.
The Queen held a strange fondness for you. Platinum-haired and purple-eyed, the spitting image of the Realm’s delight and perhaps the only trueborn among your siblings. She took pains to brush and braid your hair, dress you in green and flout you at court. Her perfect tamed Targaryen. Who would eat from her hand, take tea by her side, sit prim and silent as her Queen-mother decorated her. You were her walking-talking glimmering triumph over Rhaenyra.
At ten, Alicent’s obsession stole you from your mother. At ten and four, it protected you from a hasty marriage. And now, at ten and eight, it was your path to freedom.
“Mother?”
Oh, how Alicent loved it when you called her that. One more thing ripped from Rhaenyra’s thieving hands. Alicent pushed into your room with a tired facsimile of a smile and took the seat across from you by the roaring hearth.
“My sweet pet.” She was dressed head to toe in full regalia. “I am so sorry to have missed you today.”
You tucked a piece of scrap paper into the book you had been reading, buying yourself time to school your features into innocent confusion. “As am I. My door has been locked. I am sorry I could not come to you.”
“A precaution – one that I fought.” Alicent reached for your hair, running her fingers through its length. “But we cannot trust you to betray your mother. Regardless of the years you have spent in our care.”
“I do not understand, mother.” But you do.
“Your grandsire is dead.”
You close your eyes, “Aegon is king.”
“Yes.”
“You did not wish for this.”
“I wish Viserys were still a living corpse. That he would outlive us all so that none could claim his cursed throne. Not Aegon. Not Rhaenyra. Not my father.”
“That is not a solution.”
She tugs at your hair harshly, “Foolish pet, there is none.”
You blink harshly. Your eyes scarcely holding back tears. For the first time since you left your mother's embrace, you are truly scared. No longer are you the meek girl who walks in the Queen’s shadow. Given liberties and protection in a twisted echo of her love for Rhaenyra. You are a living embodiment of what House Targaryen will be to House Hightower. A pretty little puppet kept from your dragon, cloistered away like some trophy, scrambling for a scrap of power to delude yourself that you have some control.
“What is to become of our house?” You whisper.
“Your mother and Prince Daemon remain on Dragonstone. No blood has yet been shed.” Alicent brushed your hair softly behind one ear. “We have sent Aemond to Storm’s End to do as you once suggested. To offer himself to one of the Baratheon girls, that Lord Borros might see reason and acknowledge Aegon as rightful King.”
Good, there were those beyond the Keep who remained steadfast and loyal. It was time to return to your mother, then. To tell her all you had learned these last eight years. To name her allies and set Daemon loose upon her foes. Now was the time.
“What of my brothers?”
Alicent leant back, “Scouts have spotted Vermax flying north likely as an envoy to rally support among the lords.”
“How could they have mobilized so quickly? Was Aegon not crowned mere hours ago?”
“He was, indeed.” Alicent’s gazed into the fire. “The Lady Rhaenys was not so welcoming of solitude as you have been.”
“She has gone to Dragonstone?”
“She has.”
“And no one has come for me?”
“They have not.”
For a moment you each stared listlessly into the hearth. When Alicent shifts back to face you, she has a letter clutched in her hand. It is crisp and of fine quality but most strikingly, stamped with the King’s seal.
“I am under no delusions,” Alicent says softly, mournfully. “You can no more contest your mother's claim than I can Aegon’s. We are matching pieces in this game, I think.”
Your fear swells, “Mother.”
“Please, my sweet girl.” She smooths the hair atop your head. “You must do me one last favour as my ward.”
“I don’t understand.”
She presses the letter into your hands. “Jacaerys will fly first to the Vale, to treat with House Arryn and then to Winterfell. You will take this and beat him there. You will do as you swore to do those years ago.”
“I ca–”
“Listen!” She jerked you by your shoulders. “You must listen. You will wed Lord Stark. He is as fine a match as any. The north is loyal to Rhaenyra and will remain steadfast, you will be well treated. You must go, with this missive from the King, his final wish to send you north to snow and safety. In return for your hand, they will take no part in the fighting, they will protect you as their own, until such a time that the victor is crowned. Do you understand me, pet?”
“The King never cared for me.” You said foolishly.
“And yet, with his dying breath, he spoke of you and of Aegon. That you would carry his legacy, that you would see out his dream to the North. That Prince Aegon was Promised to this kingdom. You must believe me. You must do this for your grandsire.”
“I do believe you mother.” She was deluded. “I will do what must be done.”
Alicent has offered you one gilded cage for another. You will not be fool enough to fall into this one. You will find Laesuvion and be gone in the dead of night. You tuck the King’s missive into your book and smile at the Queen.
“Shall we call for tea, mother? You have much to tell me. I hear I have missed a coronation.”
Five.
You shape your fifth and final joy as the Queen Alicent’s Ward whilst escaping her clutches. You take three sharp detours on your path to the Dragonpit. First, to the chamber of the small council where you snatch the King's ball of quartz, you will make a gift of this to your mother. Then to the creche where the Keeper’s turned a blind eye as you pilfered three precious Dragon eggs. Finally, you find yourself ascending the steps of the Lord Hand’s Tower. To take the Dowager Queen from the Greens would be the greatest gift to your mother and her cause. But Alicent, despite her many faults, had been as kind to you as one might be toward a favourite pet. And so you do as a pet would – you do not bite the hand that fed you. Instead, you do both your Queen-mother and the woman that birthed you, a favour. You find Otto Hightower asleep in his study and you pass onto him your final gift from Daemon Targaryen.
You leave gaomilaksir in the heart of Hightower as you flee north, your duty complete.
(Part 2 : The Winter Keep)
#cregan stark x reader#cregan stark#cregan x reader#cregan x you#cregan fanfiction#jacaerys velaryon#prince jacaerys#lucerys velaryon#aemond targaryen#aegon ii targaryen#queen alicent#alicent hightower#hotd#house of the dragon#hotd fanfic#otto hightower#rhaenyra targaryen#daemon targaryen
362 notes
·
View notes
Text
Lore: The Bhaalspawn
Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index
[tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess and it's borderline impossible to cover everything. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]
I decided to compile all of the information I could find/remember on the Children of Bhaal in one place; drawing on the original games, BG3, WotC "canon", and a magazine article written by the writers of the original games meant for playing Bhaalspawn in pen and paper games. There's a surprisingly large amount of information.
Also prodding a bit at the distinction between a Bhaalspawn, as in a quasi-deity, and their tiefling descendants, who are also called by that name.
As with all D&D lore, sources may conflict, but nevertheless, here it is.
-
There are technically two variants of being that can be referred to as bhaalspawn (three, if we count the Dark Urge as something separate).
The term "Bhaalspawn" is usually applied to a Child of Bhaal, a quasi-deity who has the Lord of Murder for a father. Most are Demigods, born of a mortal parent, although Bhaal has seemingly also produced at least one Titan, who has no mortal lineage at all (hi, Durge). With the exception of that last one, they were all sired before his death during the Time of Troubles. Many, if not most, had Bhaal's priests as their mortal parent - willingly conceived as part of the greater plan to resurrect their god.
As is the norm for half-planar-half-mortals, the offspring of a Child of Bhaal will be of the planetouched (tieflings, aasmiar, genasi). As Bhaal is an evil-aligned god, his grandchildren and descendants are specifically tieflings (or some humanoid equivalent, if they have children with non-humans).
Each Child carries the divine essence of their father, woven into their very being (the god himself specifically derides them as having "borrowed" existences). This divine essence wasn't distributed evenly, and some carried more of Bhaal's taint than others. Some were aware of his influence acting on them from birth, and others never knew what they were until their more powerful and ambitious siblings came knocking to tear their essence out of them.
Being so tied to Bhaal, the souls of his children are inherently tied to him and the Throne of Blood - when they die their essence returns to him and takes their souls with it. A Bhaalspawn can worship another god and receive spells as a divine spellcaster if that deity accepts them, but there is no other afterlife waiting for them except for their father's domain. Specifically, this is the Throne of Blood, a section of Banehold (Bane's domain) which should be on the first layer (Khalas) of the plane of Gehenna (also known as "The Bleak Eternity of Gehenna"). Every single game has placed the Throne of Blood on a different Lower Plane (the Hells, the Abyss, the Grey Wastes), but none have used the one actually given in the tabletop canon, for some reason.
Mount Khalas is an active volcano, hundreds of thousands of miles high with slopes of at 45° at their very flattest. The slope is generally more like a sheer cliff face, and falling may "completely shred" the would-be climber. The mountain floats in an infinite void by the border of the Nine Hells. The ground is full of bottomless black chasms and magma flows fed by "waterfalls" of the stuff, and the ground glows crimson from the heat of the molten rock. The air is clogged with pyroclastic ash and it's impossible to see further than a dozen feet in any direction. It also features the River Styx, a river polluted by all the filth and evil of existence that flows through all the Lower Planes. The next layer of Gehenna, Mount Chamada, is visible overhead, glowing faintly, "burning like a small, bloody moon." The spirits of the dead who are sentenced to this plane are those who were consumed by greed and a ruthless and insatiable lust for power in life; in death they are selfishness embodied.
The domains of the deities who reside there are carved into ledges on the slopes. Banehold - also known as the Barrens of Doom and Despair - is "an inhospitable locale, filled with vast deserts of black sand and huge plains of dark granite." The sky is blood red and sunless. The only source of water on the plane is the Styx.
Some Bhaalspawn feel the pull of their father's domain so strongly that their soul can be pulled into Gehenna before they die. Should these individuals become sickened or injured enough they will fall into a coma as their connection to life weakens and their soul is dragged into their father's realm in the Lower Planes. It will return to their body once they're healed and that the pull of life is strong enough.
Some Bhaalspawn have reported the ability to "feel" deaths occurring around them, which is also said to be a pleasant experience that calls to them.
Due to their inherently divine nature, every one of them has the latent capacity for sorcery, though not all will manifest it.
It was originally claimed that all the Children perished in the Bhaalspawn crisis, however a small ttrpg supplement published by the writers in a magazine article (meant for playing Bhaalspawn as tabletop characters) claimed that while many died, including all the most powerful of their kind, many "weaker" Bhaalspawn survived the crisis.
There is conflicting information about the free will of these survivors following the foiling of Bhaal's first resurrection. As per the original game's canon, Bhaal's command over them is gone once broken, and these Children were free to act out their lives as they saw fit - bar stuff like the occasional nightmare and inherent urge to go on a killing spree. The power in their blood is their own to repurpose.
Baldur's Gate 2 presented the possibility of a Bhaalspawn being totally cleansed of their father's taint and rendered fully mortal and free of all divine meddling. 5e has retconned this in both tabletop supplements and BG3 canon, and posits that while one of the Children can (seemingly) be unchained from most of Bhaal's control, his divinity is an inherent part of them and they may still become pawns in his designs.
Judging by the first two games it seems that a Bhaalspawn's ability to resist their father's control is related to their own willpower and how tied to death and negativity they are. Being sheltered from death and suffering allows themselves to distance themselves from him, while exposure and harbouring feelings of hatred will destroy the barriers and push them closer.
One of the things Bhaal may try to push his children into doing is interfering with the plans of Cyric, who originally killed him during the Time of Troubles and temporarily usurped him as god of murder.
Bhaalspawn grow in power with age and experience. While signs can start early, by the end of their adolescence they will all have begun manifesting various abilities and signs. What defines "growing in power" is rather nebulous - in game mechanics it's tied to character levels. Technically, a Bhaalspawn could manifest the ability to create supernatural darkness and turn into the Slayer at age 17 and, by the time she's 18, have manifested as much as eleven more powers (and a plethora of dark influences plaguing her to go with them, including an addiction to killing). Or she could go her entire existence never having more than those two traits, a nasty temper, and some horrific nightmares.
Quasi-deities are immortal - ageless and unable to die from natural causes. While theoretically, a Bhaalspawn might not manifest this trait, it would conflict with other established lore on half-deities (because D&D lore loves conflicting with itself). Bhaalspawn immortality tends to kick in at any point in adulthood, at which point their age freezes. They could be in their twenties - and is more likely to manifest at a younger age, but theoretically it could kick in when they're 87 or older.
A Child of Bhaal can usurp their father and take his godhood for themselves:
They must prove themselves worthy of being Lord of Murder by deliberately orchestrating a thousand innocent deaths (the method can be anything).
They must seek out a portion of their father's flesh. Remnants of Bhaal's slain avatars, such as the remains of the Raveger in the Moonshaes, or traces remaining in the Winding Water from the Time of Troubles are recommended. Bhaal's actual corpse would've been in the Astral Plane, pre-Sundering. What one is meant to do with this chunk of flesh is unspecified.
And then one is meant to present themselves for judgement by the overgod Ao, who will decide if they deserve the job. This seems to involve some kind of epic quest in a very dangerous location to prove oneself.
-
The term "bhaalspawn" also seems to be applied to the tiefling children and descendants of the true Children. Tieflings descended from Bhaal show no outward signs of their heritage the way most other tieflings do, appearing as regular members of their species under physical examination and lacking strange quirks - such as those seen on tieflings descended from the god Mask, who cast no reflections. That said, planetouched descended from deities are known to bear birthmarks in the shape of their divine ancestor's holy symbol, so that might be the exception. Like many of the non-Asmodeus tieflings, they bear the taint of the lower planes in their being, and from birth they often feel it pushing them to bend to their whims. In the case of bhaal-spawned tieflings, these urges would be murder ideation and an obsession with death.
God-descended tieflings are no more inherently powerful than the regular kind descended from fiends like devils, demons and night hags.
As with all of the non-Asmodeus tieflings, after the first tiefling grandchild the blood tends to go dormant and hide itself for generations, until it suddenly manifests in a child born to an unsuspecting normal family who is unaware that the taint of the god of murder lurks in their bloodline.
-
There are various abilities (and side-effects) a Bhaalspawn might manifest. Interestingly, while a Bhaalspawn can manifest the vast majority of them, they will never manifest all the possible powers available to their "family." Meanwhile, the most powerful of them will manifest all of the dark urges and traces of evil that threaten to consume their kind.
There are no rules given for their tiefling descendants. Tieflings have been known to manifest a variety of quirks and spell-like abilities, such as those that have been provided for the Children of Bhaal, it's not unthinkable that their heritage may cause them to manifest one or two of them. Going off of the tiefling creation chart from 2e, a tiefling will randomly manifest one advantage, and one drawback.
So a grandchild of Bhaal might have poisonous blood and be unable to control herself from going berserk from bloodlust in battle. One might heal at an unusually fast rate and give off an aura of death that causes strangers to respond to them like they're a monster. Another tiefling may be able to temporarily boost his strength to impressive levels, but be consumed by the urge to murder.
While only the most powerful manifest every trait, the signs of being a Bhaalspawn include:
The undead can sense a Bhaalspawn if they're within 60ft of each other - so clearly that they can pinpoint their exact location. Even protective magics that should hide them from the undead's senses won't keep them from being aware of their presence, it will only prevent them from being able to know exactly where they're standing. In BG2, a vampire named Phlydian describes it as being able to "smell the murder in [their] heart."
Being around the Children of Bhaal triggers the fight-or-flight instinct and makes others uneasy; they give off an unsettling aura that causes those nearby to subconsciously pick up on them as predatory, and Bhaalspawn have a harder time convincing others to like and trust them. Divination spells that reveal alignment and intention will detect them as evil, regardless of whether they truly are or not.
Bhaalspawn are harmed by holy weapons, and those who are particularly murderous can also be harmed by holy water.
Bhaalspawn blood is black and viscous, and the divine essence within it calls out to the lower planes. A bleeding Bhaalspawn leaves a "scent" that calls to all fiends of the Lower Planes, including devils and demons. Even if it doesn't have the texture and colour, the blood is poisonous. If their blood enters the bloodstream of another being it will immediately cause weakness and fatigue. If the blood is not purged, the individual will weaken into a coma and eventually die.
Of course this won't affect beings immune to poison. According to Phlydian vampires find the divine blood of the Children of Bhaal irresistibly "sweet."
They experience chronic, horrific nightmares that are traumatic enough to impair the demigod's daily functioning. These visions can occasionally be resisted through willpower, but not staved off indefinitely.
Bhaalspawn always want to kill, and may lose control of themselves in physical conflict, trying to strike at everything within reach. They struggle to restrain themselves, and limiting attacks to non-lethal damage requires will saving throws. They are reckless in combat, paying attention to little except slaughtering their opponent/s - not even caring about their own safety,
The urge to kill can be a fundamental need, If not met, thoughts of murder slowly overwhelms their willpower, thoughts and their awareness of their surroundings, until they're finally driven to kill somebody. This urge cannot be sated by anything except for the murder of a sapient being. (This is similar to the effects of some hungers that affect the undead, causing them to devolve into mindless, feral animals driven by hunger - it may look the same.)
They are possessed by a constant undercurrent of rage, and when humiliated or frustrated they must keep a grip on their anger or slip into a state of violent killing rage not unlike that shown by barbarians in combat - their strength and endurance is greatly strengthened as they attempt to attack the subject of their ire.
They may actually find their sense of free will is innately weaker than that of regular mortals.
They are drawn to the sight of the dying and the dead, and take involuntary pleasure in the sight.
--
Bhaalspawn are also known to manifest various quirks and spell-like abilities (which they can cast as three times per hit dice/character levels a day. So a level 12 Bhaalspawn with "death knell" can cast it 36 times a day). Again; not every one of them manifests every ability, many will probably never have more than two, but powerful individuals may still manifest most of them.
They are able to boost their strength to impressive or even superhuman levels (depending on base strength) for anywhere between 1-20 minutes.
They are immune to all poisons and toxins.
They are resistant to being wounded, unless the wounds are caused by an object made of or plated in silver. Complete immunity to being harmed by unenchanted weapons is also a possibility for the most powerful individuals.
(I've never been clear on what damage reduction looks like - I suppose either it's harder to break their skin, or else the wounds simply close up or at least heal up a bit automatically.)
They can cure moderate wounds like a divine spellcaster.
If they touch a dying creature they can drain the remaining life-force from them, killing them and temporarily strengthening themselves (as in physical strength and hit points, as well as boosting the power of their spells)
Some may manifest the similar ability to drain the life force from a target by looking at them, stealing their vitality to heal themselves. The target doesn't need to be dying, and may be perfectly healthy
They are unaffected by any but the most extreme of temperatures, to the point where they're resistant to elemental damage of that kind (this could be cold or heat, or both). Some Bhaalspawn are also resistant to electricity and any magic cast on them.
They can strike mortal dread into nearby beings.
They can use divine energy to smite their foes - or they can maifest it as a 20ft area of darkness and tangible evil ("cold, cloying and greasy" to the senses) that damages non-evil beings within it.
They can create supernatural 15-20ft clouds of impenetrable blackness that extinguishes all sources of light, as per the darkness spell.
One Bhaalspawn manifested the (involuntary) ability to instinctually teleport to safety whenever he panicked - this is just speculation, but I would assume this works the same as the ability available to Bhaal's Deathstalker priests; they can teleport to the Throne of Blood in the Lower Planes, and from there teleport back into Toril at any location not protected by warding magic.
And, last but not least, Bhaalspawn are known to be able to transform into the Slayer when particularly favoured by their father. In one, exceptional, case a Bhaalspawn was known to manifest Bhaal's other avatar; the Ravager.
#I'll probably notice a thousand flaws the moment I hit post...#FYI the aferlife sucks if you're a Bhaalspawn#“You have an air of irresistible desperation about you”#No shit sherlock#I'm still judging you for not detecting Orin you useless vampire (affectionate)#durge#the dark urge#dark urge#orin the red
302 notes
·
View notes
Text
Charles Leclerc x Wolff!Reader - Instagram AU
request: charles leclerc with a reader who is toto wolff’s daughter and a driver for ferrari
scuderiaferrari
Liked by ynwolff, charles_leclerc, and 601,538 others
scuderiaferrari Scuderia Ferrari is pleased to formally announce that Y/N Wolff will be driving for the team in the coming season. We are confident that together, we can succeed on and off the track
View all 2,247 comments
ynwolff 🏎🐎 ❤️
ferrarifan3 omg yes she’s my favorite
f1fan2 i would pay so much money to see toto’s reaction to his daughter signing with a rival
ynwolff
Liked by charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari, and 1,258,036
ynwolff dreams do come true! i will be driving for ferrari in this year’s formula 1 world championship. i will be eternally grateful to scuderia ferrari for the opportunity they have given me and to everyone who has supported me along the way
View all 5,297 comments
scuderiaferrari ❤️
charles_leclerc excited to race alongside you!
susie_wolff your father doesn’t have instagram but he wants me to pass on how proud he is of you (and that he still love you despite you choosing ferrari)
ynwolff
Liked by susie_wolff, lewishamilton, and 712,843 others
ynwolff how you know that dad and i are out to lunch together
View all 3,061 comments
mercedesamgf1 👀
scuderiaferrari do we know you?
ynwolff’s story
ynwolff
Liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris, and 850,732 others
ynwolff borrowing this sign from a fan for reasons
View all 3,954 others
landonorris subtle
pierregasly should’ve gotten a billboard
ynfan1 y/n really said ✨hint✨
charles_leclerc
Liked by yourusername, scuderiaferrari, and 1,265,534 others
charles_leclerc saw the sign
View all 5,194 comments
ynwolff he woke me up from my nap
charles_leclerc worth it
ynwolff you’re lucky i love you
pierregasly congrats!
landonorris so happy for you guys
arthur_leclerc finally a sister!
scuderiaferrari red wedding ❤️
ferrarifan4 bestie … i don’t think that means what you think it means
f1fan6 i guess the ferrari admin isn’t a game of thrones fan
#fake instagram#instagram au#instagram edit#f1 blurb#f1 instagram au#instagram imagine#f1#f1 fanfic#f1 imagine#insta edit#f1 fandom#f1 rpf#f1 x you#f1edit#formula 1#f1 fic#f1blr#f1 fanfiction#charles leclerc#ferrari#f1 x reader#mercedes amg f1#scuderia ferrari#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc x y/n#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#cl16#charles leclerc blurb
2K notes
·
View notes
Note
The Current event makes me smile since it kind of confirms a headcanon I had that the Great Seven have animated movies based on them. Makes me wonder about the plot of the movies
Disney should get on the Twisted Wonderland AU Animated Remakes. What is Ursula was a good witch, what if Scar was right to take the throne and did he take it from Mufasa? (Or whoever is the stand in for him)
The Evil/Beautiful Queen...actually GOOD?
Yeah, it makes sense! Since the Great Seven are historical figures and the stuff of legends, surely there would be popular media made in their image. It’s like how the Disney fairy tales borrow from stories in the public domain or how there are historical retellings and reinventions (Hamilton, anyone?).
I believe TWST has mentioned films based on their own stories and history before too, but purely in the animated sense rather than live action. In book 3, Ace and one of the Atlantica Museum guards talk about an animated movie based on the tale of the mermaid princess and her prince; this movie is said to have come out ~30 years ago, which corresponds with Disney’s animated The Little Mermaid. Ace compliments the movie’s soundtrack too way to stroke your own ego, Disney/j.
Later on in Tapis Rouge, the characters discuss other films based on the Great Seven, including one Queen of Hearts movie. A Sea Witch movie is also mentioned; in it, she “goes gigantic” and also sings as she brews potions. The Octatrio quite enjoy this particular film.
(Side note: I don’t have the link for it anymore since it’s such an old post, but another anon once suggested to me that people probably also write fanfics of Neige and Vil since they’re celebrities… Think like “My mom sold me to One Direction?!” Wattpad kinds of fics, but replace One Direction with Vil or something.)
It’s… interesting this event specifically has Vil promoting a live action adaption of an in-universe animated film about the Beautiful Queen—an animated film which was the first full-color animated movie AND it originally released close to 90 years ago. They also reference the funding issues that Disney suffered while producing Snow White + inviting bank employees in to preview the movie to acquire more investments, stating that the studio that made the animated Beautiful Queen experienced the same. The in-game live action is even slated to come out “NEXT YEAR”. They’re not being subtle here with TWST’s references to their own version of the irl Disney Snow White (the live action is coming out in 2025, the OG is also almost 90 years old, etc.). I wonder if the EN server will actually get Tapis Rouge around the time of the irl release of Disney’s live action Snow White as part of a promotional campaign? 😂
UPDATE: There are even more not-so-subtle references to Disney animations in part 4 of the event, including discussion of cel animation, rotoscoping, adding blush to the characters, and how Disney brought in real animals/observed the “real thing” to help with animating similar scenes or subjects. They also cheekily say that most animation nowadays is CG 💀
I know some books under Disney publishing try to show alternate tellings or show the villains in a more sympathetic light, but I don’t know that they would ever commit to fully animating a film like that. It definitely would not happen in the style of traditional animation, Disney no longer seems well-equipped to handle that task 😔 I feel like it would also be pretty niche or might not get overwhelming positive reception with recent audience calls for “true bad guys” instead of twist or sympathetic villains (though I’m not sure what percentage of people watching Disney actually have this opinion).
I do wonder how those “AU” films would work though…? It wouldn’t be as simple as suddenly turning the G7 into “good guys”. The scenario and other characters would also have to drastically change. TWST doesn’t necessarily make the original “good guys” “bad” in a world where the villains are historical figures; we still hear plenty of positive or neutral stories about the achievements of the mermaid princess and other Disney heroes.
There are also times when the same story diverges into multiple separate stories that seemingly have no connection to one another. For example, there is a story where a princess marries a street rat (clearly referencing Aladdin) and they live happily ever after in spite of the difference in their social statuses. However, there simultaneously exists a story in which the Sorcerer of the Sands saves a princess from being deceived by a fake prince (also referencing Aladdin). The same goes for the mermaid princess (Ariel)—there is both a story referring to a “mermaid princess” who married a human prince and also a different story (clearly still pulled from the same film) about a mermaid who made a deal with the Sea Witch to find true love but broke her contract in the end.
Very cool idea, just not sure where it would lead or it it’s feasible or worth it monetarily for Disney.
#twisted wonderland#twst#disney twisted wonderland#disney twst#Vil Schoenheit#Evil Queen#Snow White#notes from the writing raven#fapis rouge in the shaftlands spoilers#Hamilton#Neige LeBlanche#twst en#twisted wonderland en#The Little Mermaid#Ariel#Ursula#Jafar#Aladdin#book 3 spoilers#Ace Trappola#Azul Ashengrotto#Tweels#Octavinelle#Jade Leech#Floyd Leech
133 notes
·
View notes
Text
Offline Valor: Chapter 4
[Borrower!AU]
Previous Chapter: Chapter 3
Next Chapter: Coming Soon...
Word Count: 5250
Note: there is a brief depiction of mourning described with abstract violence and metaphorical blood
---
The breeze from the massive spinning blades high above felt nice against Rowan’s hot skin as he knelt by his satchel. He took inventory of what he still had after his encounter with Chu Chu–unfortunately, a portion of his rations was lost and what little remained was flecked with mold. He was certain he could stomach a bit of it; however, he didn’t want to take the risk of getting sick while in this weakened state. He’d just have to throw it out.
The Crownbreaker sighed as he rested his hands in his lap–his slacks were still damp from the cold soak in Zelly’s shot glass.
He didn’t know what to do next.
Food was the priority. Resources would be plentiful out here given the amount of titans; however, he lacked the equipment to properly ration out whatever food he found. He’d probably only waste whatever he’d take.
A part of him wondered if he should find the nearest Borrower town. He knew Clan Moss and Clan Silt had settled somewhere within the Titanlands, and he knew the Chantry of the Unsleeping Night lay within a two days journey–but to get there was treacherous, and Rowan doubted he could do it alone in his current condition.
Alone.
He set his jaw and studied the backs of his hands–the veins, the bruised knuckles, the faint scars…the memory of his father’s blood.
Rowan was no stranger to death. Mourning was an old friend he’d carried since he was a child. But the gravity of this felt so much deeper. It wasn’t just mourning or loneliness…it was isolation. It felt like someone had taken a knife and carved out every worthwhile thing inside of him, and Rowan could only sit and watch as hope ran free from the yawning hole in his chest.
It was a helpless, bleeding feeling–his hands could do nothing to stop the flow.
He looked up and was reminded of the vastness of the space around him. He was in her kitchen, yet Rowan had never felt this way in a kitchen before. There was no quiet charm nor organized cacophony–it was daunting like a cathedral. The chrome cliffs, the porcelain plains, the towering, lacquered mountains…it was hard not to feel utterly alone in a place that was meant for someone so much grander than himself. This was not a place for a Borrower to stay.
He knew he was free to go whenever he wanted, of course. Zelly had made that clear. But his direction was uncertain, and the emotional bloodloss left him numb and faint.
Rowan set his bag to the side and moved to stand–as he did so, his vision darkened and his knees buckled beneath him. He staggered with a grunt, fighting to blink away the dark splotches of color. After a moment of stillness to catch his breath, he carefully moved towards the bright orange basin that Zelly had filled with fresh water. He slowly crouched and splashed some to his face before taking a sip from cupped hands. The calluses were rough against his peeled, sunburned lips. The water was soothing, but it did little to restore his strength.
As he shook his hands free of droplets, the big, colorful woman slid into view beneath the kitchen’s arched threshold.
Rowan turned to regard Zelly with curiosity. While she had stepped out to give him privacy in his rest, she still occasionally had stuck in her head to quietly check on him. And whether they were of curiosity or concern, her peeks hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Food’s here!” she announced as she struck a dramatic pose with a laugh–a leg kicked up behind her. One arm was raised proudly to hold aloft a large paper bag while the other hand was placed securely beneath its bottom–lest the heavy contents ripped free.
Rowan was caught off guard by her enthusiasm.
“That was…fast.” Rowan blinked. “How did-...?”
The question turned cold on his lips as his curiosity was swallowed up by exhaustion. He didn’t need to know how the food arrived. While he was certain Zelly would tell him how, he doubted he had the energy to wrap his head around the magical logistics. The most important thing he needed to worry about was staying conscious and not imposing upon his titanic hostess.
Perhaps not having heard the question, she dropped her foot back down and crossed the monolithic distance between them with ease. Rowan was still getting used to feeling the presence of a titan moving so close. It was a bit mesmerizing–if not terrifying–to see such a colossal creature move with such casual, immense speed. A single stride could outrun the fastest calvary.
Her excitement mellowed out as she approached the counter and stopped within arm’s reach. Whether conscious of it or not, she’d done so before as well–it put her close, but not in a way that was suffocating. After setting the church-sized paper bag on the plateau off to the side she squatted down, so her face was on-level with the surface of the counter.
“How are you feeling?” She smiled. Her fingers came up so they curled over and rested on the cliff’s edge.
Rowan couldn’t answer that honestly.
“I fare,” Rowan lied as he readjusted his pancho slightly. He made a mental note that he’d need to stitch a new shirt later. Perhaps she had some scraps of cloth he could use? “I appreciate your efforts, Miss Zelly…this is all much more than I could ever ask for.”
Zelly chuckled. “It’s not much, ‘just wanna make sure you’re okay. I’ve treated patients with heat exhaustion and blood loss before, so I know what to look out for. They just weren’t as, um, short as you. So this is a bit new for me too.”
Rowan snorted. Short. That was a rare thing to be called.
“Well, I find myself in good hands,” Rowan reassured. His voice trailed off as he caught her staring at him, though he couldn’t be certain what those huge brown eyes were studying. Surely she was looking for symptoms, but he couldn’t shake the fact there was a hungry curiosity there.
“So,” Zelly finally broke the silence as she cleared her throat. “That counter probably isn’t all that comfy.”
Rowan furrowed his brow. It had felt fine to him. He had slept on concrete, after all–but even as he opened his mouth to protest, she shook her head.
“Yeah, no, let’s get you moved to somewhere softer so we can eat,” Zelly decided. “Would it be okay if I moved you?”
“Yes, I believe so,” he replied. “But only if that would not be a both-”
“Dude,” she cut him off with a snort and grin. She rolled her eyes and turned one of her hands so it was an extended platform off the edge of the counter. “You weigh like a couple of grapes–it’s not a bother, c’mon.”
While that sort of flippancy might’ve rubbed him the wrong way in the past, now he found it oddly disarming.
Rowan couldn’t remember what he said while he took the first few steps, but after the third or fourth is when he noticed how much his knees tingled. He took that next step, and one of his knees completely gave out from beneath him.
His foot twisted, his vision darkened as he tumbled forward…
…and right off the side of the counter.
Through the miasma of fainting, he could softly make out Zelly’s swearing as the air around him whistled. Through the spots of vision, he made out two hands the size of wagons shooting out for him at terrifying speeds.
Something about that image was enough to trigger his fight or flight, and while his brain couldn’t fully comprehend the columns of flesh and muscle that surrounded him–he fought and kicked against them as they closed in around him…
But when he realized he’d stopped falling, he paused. He slowly came to his senses, he noticed his hands and feet gently sinking against the muscle of Zelly’s fingers. While her skin was soft–almost unnaturally so–against his palms and soles, they kept him secure as he dangled hundreds of leagues in the air. If she hadn’t been fast enough…
He focused instead on the mysterious, sudden smell of berries and not on what would have been a fatal fall.
With fingers as steady as an archer’s, she carefully readjusted them around Rowan until he was gently guided down into her cupped hands. He gazed up at her with wide eyes, his chest heaving with adrenaline-rich breath. The muscles in her palm were warm against his bare back and the sweet smell overwhelmed him. Rowan swallowed and fought the urge to dig his fingers into her palm.
The titan stared back at him through disheveled pink hair that fell like rosy vines before her face. Her lips slightly parted as she panted as well.
She looked just as scared as he was.
Zelly studied him for a moment long before sighing with relief–it gently rolled over him like a summer’s breeze.
“You okay?” she asked with a surprisingly tender amount of gentleness.
“Y-Yes…thank you.” Rowan had to force himself to relax, but he managed a nervous chuckle. “You have quick hands–steady too. You really are a master physician, aren’t you?”
“Something like that, but let’s not make a habit out of this,” Zelly quipped. After a moment more of catching their breath, she finally rose to her full height.
“Normally, I don’t eat in the kitchen.” She lowered him to just beneath the sternum. “How ‘bout we move to the living room? Couch’ll be way softer than the counter.”
While Rowan found the room’s name a bit peculiar, nothing seemed untoward about the suggestion. He shrugged. “Whatever works best for you.”
With a nod, she shifted him to one hand and grabbed the bag’s handles as she made their way out. As she walked, she made sure to tilt her hand slightly towards her–so in the event of him passing out, he’d fall against her instead of plummeting towards the floor. He was grateful for that thoughtfulness, since his vertigo as she walked was quite real. Every footstep of hers he could feel through her hand–in a way it felt like he was a titan, walking with such casual ease through the towering halls of giants. He couldn’t even begin to process if he’d been born in such a world.
Zelly took a left into what Rowan assumed was the “living room” (though he still could not be sure why it was called that.) Thankfully it was much smaller and more intimate compared to the grandeur of the kitchen. Three of the walls formed the beginnings of a square, while the fourth bowed outwards into three additional walls–all lined with windows. Light poured in through partially drawn, slightly transparent curtains which billowed with the breeze from the partially open window. Rowan could hear the laughter of titan children playing outside. In front of the window was a long couch and armchair that was positioned off in the corner. A low, glass-top table stretched in front of the couch.
“Alright, how are we gonna do this?” Zelly murmured–more to herself than to Rowan. First, she set the bag down on the table before moving to sit on one end of the vast couch. She leaned across and gently tilted her hand so Rowan could step down onto the opposite end. As he gingerly placed a foot down on the immense cushion, he noted how strange the fabric felt against his skin and how it sank slightly as he put his weight down. Rowan eased himself down into a sitting position, and watched as her massive fingers pulled away. He doubted he’d ever get used to interactions like this.
“There.” She pulled herself back and crossed one leg beneath her. “Better?”
“Much better,” Rowan admitted.
“Oh! Onnnnnne more thing.” Zelly pursed her lips and pulled out the magical rectangle from her short’s pocket. She reached back over and placed the slab behind him, so that the colorful side was facing up.
“Perfect,” Zelly beamed as she sat up. “That way I don’t accidentally sit on you! I’ll notice my phone case. Plus, it kinda serves as a bit of a backrest!”
He looked back over his shoulder to examine the device. It wasn’t a perfect rectangle, as it did have a soft plastic pink shell that gave it a bit of shape along its length. The top was covered with a mosaic of stickers of all shapes and sizes: some were stylized designs of things Rowan recognized like sparkling fruit or animals; others were of more wild designs reminiscent of the eclectic Faofolk and their art–robots, beasts, creatures with strange edges and exaggerated proportions.
“I appreciate your concern, thank you.” Rowan rested his elbows on the rubbery shell. She flashed a smile, then began pulling out styrofoam containers out of the bag. He’d seen plenty of containers of similar kind in Port Cattail. They made a rather unpleasant squeaking noise as the containers rubbed up against one another.
“So, this is…Greek?” the Crownbreaker asked in an attempt to start some sort of conversation that wasn’t centered around him.
“Yup!” Zelly chirped. “Greek food is simple, healthy, and it has a nice flavor that’s never too much–ya know? So I figured it’d be an okay meal for us to share…”
She paused, then gave him a serious look–Rowan had seen Lea give it to him on more than a few occasions, complete with the raised eyebrow and insistent frown. “And if there’s anything you don’t like, I won’t be offended. I ordered plenty just in case, so you just eat whatever tastes good.”
Her tone was surprising, yet so familiar. Despite their vast differences, it perplexed Rowan to see Zelly treat him so…normal. Just like a Borrower woman would if she had a guest of equal size at the dinner table.
“I will, thank you.” Rowan nodded, still lost in thought. After a bit more rearranging, Zelly set the emptied bag on the floor and placed a hand on one of the containers.
“So, I have two options for gyros: lamb and falafel.” Seeing Rowan’s blank stare, she promptly smacked the palm of her free hand to her forehead. “RIGHT, you don’t know what those are. Okay, so, gyros have lettuce, tomatoes, onion, and are served on this sorta…soft, bready stuff. It comes with a special Greek sauce that is creamy and has a nice zest to it. Lamb is a type of meat, and falafel is made of fried chickpeas which are-”
She scrunched up her face as her voice trailed off. “...actually, I don’t know what chickpeas are. But! It’s vegetarian, so no meat if you have any dietary restrictions.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“I do love falafel,” Zelly admitted with a shrug. “But the lamb from this place is to die for–so I’d honestly recommend that, if it’s your first time. But you’re welcome to try some falafel later if you’d like!”
“I will take your word for it,” Rowan hummed. “Lamb it is.”
Zelly grinned from ear to ear as she picked up one of the containers with one hand and set it in the cushion between the two of them. Carefully she opened up the styrofoam container to reveal a steaming hill of vibrant veggies of red and green dotted with white squared chunks the size of his fist, overlayed with slabs of dark brown meat with the blackened edges and a drizzle of creamy sauce speckled with black. The aroma was breathtaking, and the sheer quantity was…overwhelming. It was hard to imagine he was worthy of such a feast. And to think this might be a single meal for a titan like Zelly…
Rowan’s eyes widened and his stomach roared–hunger gripped his insides with dull teeth and growled eagerly.
“I-Impressive!” he noted, trying to hide the fact he was beginning to salivate and the welling guilt that accompanied it. “I can see why you picked this.”
Zelly looked rather proud of herself at the praise. She hummed a little laugh and bounced with excitement. She reached over towards the side of the container nearest to Rowan and broke down the styrofoam wall so the edge of the container lay flat against the cushion…Spirits, there was more food in the box? The “hill” laid on a beige, toasted material that Rowan really couldn’t identify. Was that the supposed bread that she mentioned before? But she didn’t stop there. Zelly ripped off an edge of styrofoam and offered it to Rowan between a pinched thumb and finger.
“Sorry I can’t getchu, like…an actual plate,” she apologized with a chuckle when she noticed his quizzical look. “I hope this’ll work?”
Rowan couldn’t help but chuckle at both her thoughtfulness and creativity. He accepted the impromptu plate and stood up. “This works just fine, thank you.”
“I just realized you don’t have utensils,” she hissed, then flashed an apologetic look. “Um…I can try to look to see if I can find something? Maybe like a toothpick, or-”
Rowan held up a hand and tried not to laugh. “Tis fine, really. You act as though I have never had to eat with my hands before.”
Zelly blinked in surprise. “A-Ah! Cool, right–my bad, um…here, let’s do this…”
She rummaged around in the bag then withdrew a pair of titan-sized utensils wrapped in plastic. She tore off the utensil’s sheath then divided up a sizable portion from the hill. “There. That’ll get you started. Just lemme know if you need any more, okay?”
Rowan nodded, though he had somewhat tuned out what she was saying. His stomach screamed… When was the last time he ate? He couldn’t recall. With a bit of effort, he rose and slowly approached the intoxicating vista. The styrofoam felt odd beneath his feet as he stepped up to awkwardly gather up a bit of portion for his meal… He did somewhat wish he had his dagger to spear his food, but he wasn’t above getting his hands messy. He tore off a chunk of meat ladened with sauce, grabbed a bit of the lettuce which gave a satisfying crunch as he tore it free, and one of the hand-sized chunks of white vegetable–though as he brought it close, he was a bit overwhelmed by its particular scent.
“Oh grab a bit of the pita too!” Zelly suggested excitedly. Rowan gave her a look, which prompted her to point towards the bready layer beneath. “That stuff! That’s what really makes a gyro a gyro. Just wrap it all up in that and take a bite!”
When in Fao, do as the Faofolk do, Rowan thought as he reached down and peeled off a chunk of the soft pita. There was a part of him that wanted to just scarf down what he had, but there was a certain respect he wished to show towards his hostess’ recommendations. Taking his food back towards the phone case, he sat down next to it and awkwardly placed the acquired ingredients onto the pita then wrapped it up as best as he could. He held it up for confirmation: “Like this?”
Zelly nodded eagerly.
Rowan’s heart raced as he finally took a bite.
The taste made him…well, melt, for lack of a better term. His whole body shivered as he savored seasoning of the meat and the way the pita soaked up the sauce. The crispness of the lettuce and the odd-smelling white vegetable added not only brilliant texture, but a zip that he wasn’t quite expecting.
It was a single bite, but Rowan couldn’t hold back after that. He scarfed down the rest, and had to remind himself to breathe. His unbridled ravenousness beckoned a wave of guilt.
He nearly jumped when he noticed Zelly still looking at him expectantly.
“Welllllll?” She grinned.
“Very good.” His overwhelming exuberance left him sheepish, but Spirits Around he couldn’t help himself.
“GOOD!!!”
As starving as he was, Rowan had to restrain from scrambling up to grab more–he knew his stomach had shrunken within the last few days, so he’d need to pace himself. He licked the sauce off his fingers and still tasted the lingering lamb on his lips.
“I…did promise you some answers.” He set the styrofoam plate to the side. “I-”
Rowan jumped as Zelly clapped eagerly and leaned forward over the mountain of good, her eyes wide with excitement. “OKAY YES, please! What are Borrowers? Where do you come from, why are you called that? You mentioned royalty, so are there, like, tiny monarchies and governments and stuff? What are your people like? Why haven’t I noticed you before? How are there-”
Zelly paused as she studied Rowan, then excitement melted to embarrassment as she pulled back suddenly and held up her hands.
“S-Sorry, I got excited. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, I just…sorry.”
It dawned on him how naked he felt without his daggers–not that he believed he needed them nor that Zelly had done anything beyond startle him, but they were comforting to have. He did however have his cloak–and that was enough to ground him for a bit. He reached up and rubbed a thumb across the familiar fabric and sighed through his nostrils. As his heart still raced at the volume of her outburst, he cleared his throat and raised a hand of reassurance.
“I-I understand. This is all brand new to you, and I do want to repay your generosity somehow–even if it is merely satisfying curiosity.”
The question was, how much should he divulge? He thought of Lazuli’s calculating look and the cautioning words of his uncle Oleander… Both had prompted him to exercise caution in the past, yet neither were here now to make sure the Crownbreaker didn’t blunder.
Rowan had to be incredibly careful with his words.
“Okay, cool.” Zelly seemed to relax a bit, though the awkwardness lingered. She picked up her fork and stabbed the top of the mountain of veggies and meat to gather up a bite. “So, like…let’s just start with Borrower. What…are you, exactly? Just like tiny people? Or are you Fairies?”
“Not fairies,” Rowan shook his head. Fairies weren’t real, though Pixies had been; they’d been extinct for some time now, however, and without knowing if Zelly was aware of their atrocities he held his tongue. “You say ‘tiny people,’ but…to me, we are just people…because to us, it is the titans who are giants. So I confess, I’m not quite sure how to properly explain it.”
Zelly excavated a section of the hill, then took a thoughtful bite. That bite was…so much compared to his. The phrase I am so hungry I could eat a lizard was probably quite literal for titans. Rowan tried focusing on her face, and not how the fork passed her lips.
“Huh…” She slowly nodded as she chewed. She covered up her mouth with her free hand. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
Then, after she swallowed, she asked: “Okay, so…magic. Is that a thing?”
“Yes, magic is real.” Rowan felt safe to confirm that–it wasn’t an uncommon thing after all.
“And you guys are…around town? Or outside of Santa Almita?”
“We call your ‘town’ the Titanlands,” Rowan explained. “Anything within what you call ‘Santa Almita’ or outside of it that is occupied by Borrowers is called ‘the Tens.’ So…yes, we are around.”
“The Tens…got it,” Zelly noted. “So how come I’ve never seen you before, though? There have to have been times I would’ve noticed tiny people.”
Rowan went to answer, but found he lacked the words. He furrowed his brow, recollecting a time when he had listened to Lazuli pontificate by candlelight as the two of them sat alone in their study while the princeps penned the Pax Minimus. There WAS a reason for that, and Rowan knew it…but the reason was so foggy in his mind.
“I cannot say,” he admitted, more perplexed than anything. “All I know is that something protects my kind from being seen.”
“So…some kinda magic?” Zelly ventured
“Some kinda magic,” Rowan echoed, though the word ‘kinda’ felt odd in his mouth.
“And why are you called Borrowers?” She frowned. “Do you…borrow stuff?”
Rowan huffed–he didn’t know the answer to that either. “I am not quite sure. I know there are different scholars and priests who have theories about why we are called that, and how it comes from some…’cycle of Borrowing’...but I confess, I do not know. Some call titans Givers, so maybe it has something to do with that?”
Rowan studied Zelly’s face, then sighed. “I apologize, I know this does not really give you any of the answers you were looking for…”
“No, it’s okay!” Zelly replied quickly. “It’s actually kinda nice knowing that you don’t have all the answers either–is that weird?”
“I guess not,” Rowan hummed. He paused, then added: “You seem to be taking all of this considerably well…”
Zelly raised her eyebrows and scoffed. “Oh no dude, this is nuts–I literally can’t believe any of this is happening.” While not the answer he’d been expecting, the frankness was rather refreshing–the titan wasn’t perfect either.
“Not in, like…a bad way,” she clarified quickly as if detecting some sort of worry. “Just in a I don’t know how anyone is supposed to react, so I’m just trying my best sort of a way.”
“I understand,” he reassured.
“I’m just making sure you’re okay,” Zelly continued. “And after you’re feeling better, I can always help take you wherever you need to go.”
She smiled as she set her fork aside to gather up the slightly decreased hill of veggies and meat so she could wrap it up in the pita–much like Rowan had before–and added: “Just relax, and rest–you’re safe with me. ”
He was puzzled by the sentiment, though he didn’t try and brush it off. The notion was charming, but it did little to absolve his grief—he knew he needed to be on the road as soon as possible, lest he overstayed his welcome. Still, for the moment Rowan was willing to put his trust in Zelly.
“Thank you again, Zelly,” he hummed. “Do you mind if I have seconds?”
Through the chewing of her gargantuan bite of gyro, she replied with a muffled go for it.
—
After a few minutes of eating in relative silence, the anxiety got to be a bit too much–so Zelly quietly excused herself and hurried off to her room.
Fingers flew across the keyboard as she messaged her manager Emmett in order to get the next few days cleared. She needed that much time off at least, if Rowan truly had heat exhaustion, just to make sure he’d be okay. The next few days had been lined up with quite a bit: a collab with Team CaliBurn, the meeting with Tanma’s friend about the Vtuber avatar commission, and several other streams she’d planned for weeks in advance. All of that seemed so miniscule now compared to the weight of responsibility she now felt.
It made her sick, really.
Rowan seemed to be doing well enough. He had enough strength to talk and move–though the fact he nearly blacked out and fell off the counter was a bit disconcerting. Not to mention the way he’d scarfed down his food too…
Still, he seemed to be doing better. He wasn’t much of a talker–something Zelly couldn’t really relate to–but she didn’t want to overwhelm him with questions, no matter how much her curiosity begged her. She knew how much she could be for people her size and taller, she could only imagine what it was like for someone smaller.
After she sent the last of the messages to Emmett, she leaned back in her chair…and like a magnet, her eyes fell on the black and red USB sitting on the corner of her desk. Her once bubbling anxiety now burned like bile in her throat. She carefully reached over and picked up the thumb drive like a vivisected organ and turned it over carefully. The once bright initials written in silver Sharpie were mostly faded now–either from the oils in her fingers or just by her idly rubbing it in contemplation. It felt sacrilege that she’d treated one of her only gifts left from Oakley with such thoughtlessness.
Was Zelly just going to screw up Rowan too?
She chewed her lip as she leaned back in her chair. Her eyes riveted on the Discord chat, waiting for her manager’s reply–Oakley’s old USB turning over and over again in her fingers. She prayed Emmett would be understanding; she knew how stressful it might be to have to reschedule so much at the last minute.
i’ll see what i can do, came Emmett’s reply. She felt her shoulders relax a bit, but the weight in her chest didn’t lighten. A second message: everything ok?
There was no way she could answer that honestly. This was CRAZY and Zelly still wasn’t 100% sure if she was dreaming or sober. Finding a tiny man bleeding in her driveway who’d nearly been eaten by her neighbor’s cat was not on her 2023 bingo card.
But resisting the impulsive honesty, she simply replied: yea IRL stuff came up // needing a few days off
She sent the message then leaned back on her chair to study the ceiling. She did some quick mental math in an attempt to figure out a timeline for Rowan’s recovery…
Heat exhaustion recovery took about 48 hours at a max, but Zelly wasn’t quite sure if Borrower physiology changed things… Were they technically magical? Would that play into anything? Would recovery differ because he is so much smaller and closer to the ground?
Then there was the chest wound. She’d cleaned it as best as she could, but there was only so much she could do at her size. There was a possibility of infection, so she’d just have to wait and see…depending on how long Rowan would decide to stick around, that is. He could leave in the middle of the night, for all she knew—and it wasn’t like she was going to lock the windows and force him to stay.
As she planned she idly spun in her chair, she noticed a bit of color out in the driveway that hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier when she stepped into her room.
Zelly frowned. She stood up and made her way over to the window to get a better look. Parked behind her car was a familiar, dark hatchback.
It was Nikol’s car–but she was nowhere to be seen.
Zelly couldn’t breathe. When had Nikol pulled in? She went for her phone to check her messages, then realized Rowan had it. Before she had any time to question further, she heard the front door open downstairs and Nikol’s voice calling out through the halls: “Hey babe! I got somethin’ for you!”
Horror set in and Zelly couldn’t hold back her scream.
She bolted out of her room as fast as she could–only stopping briefly as she ran right into her computer chair. With a swear and shove, she pushed past it and practically threw herself down the steps as she ran. Panic clouded all sensibility as only one thought was able to form:
The front door was right next to the living room, which was exactly where she had left Rowan.
#ogtoc rowan#ogtoc zelly#g/t#gt#giant/tiny#g/t writing#sfw g/t writing#Game of Thrones + Borrowers#The Borrowers#Borrowers!AU#wholesome giantess#gentle giantess#Offline Valor
79 notes
·
View notes
Text
Inside William’s Next Act: Tatler’s May issue goes behind the scenes as the Prince of Wales is rising above the noise — and playing the long game
The burden of leadership is falling upon Prince William, but as former BBC Royal Correspondent, Wesley Kerr OBE, explains in Tatler’s May cover story, the future king is taking charge
By Wesley Kerr OBE
21 March 2024
When I first met Prince William in 2009, he asked me if I could tell him how he could win the National Lottery.
It was a jokey quip from someone who has since become the Prince of Wales, the holder of three dukedoms, three earldoms, two baronies and two knighthoods, and heir to the most prestigious throne on earth.
He was, of course, being relatable; I was representing the organisation that had allocated Lottery funding towards the Whitechapel Gallery and he wanted to put me at ease.
William is grand but different, royal but real.
At 6ft 3in, he has the bearing and looks great in uniform after a distinguished, gallant military career.
He will be one of the tallest of Britain’s kings since Edward Longshanks in the 14th century and should one day be crowned sitting above the Stone of Scone that Edward ‘borrowed.’
William, by contrast, has a deep affinity with Scotland and Wales, having lived in both nations and gained solace from the Scottish landscape after his mother died.
He’s popular in America and understands that the Crown’s relationship to the Commonwealth must evolve.
The Prince of Wales has long believed that ‘the Royal Family has to modernise and develop as it goes along, and it has to stay relevant’, as he once said in an interview.
He seeks his own way of being relatable, of benefitting everybody, in the context of an ancient institution undergoing significant challenge and upheaval, as the head of a nation divided by hard times, conflicts abroad, and social and political uncertainty.
We might recognise Shakespeare’s powerful line spoken by Claudius in Hamlet: ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.’
With the triple announcement in January and February of the Princess of Wales’s abdominal surgery and long convalescence, of King Charles’s prostate procedure and then of his cancer diagnosis, the burden of leadership has fallen on 76-year-old Queen Camilla and, crucially, on William.
The Prince of Wales’s time has come to step up; and so he has deftly done.
In recent months, we have seen a fully-fledged deputy head of state putting into practice his long-held ideas, speaking out on the most contentious issue of the day and taking direct action on homelessness.
Last June, he unveiled the multi-agency Homewards initiative with the huge aspiration of ending homelessness, backed with £3 million from his Foundation to spearhead action across the UK.
He is consolidating Heads Together, the long-standing campaign on mental health, and fundraises for charities like London’s Air Ambulance Charity.
He was, of course, once a pilot for the East Anglian Air Ambulance services – a profession that had its downside: seeing people in extremis or at death’s door, he found himself ‘taking home people’s trauma, people’s sadness.’
Tom Cruise was a guest at the recent London’s Air Ambulance Charity fundraiser, William’s first gala event after Kate’s operation.
And more stardust followed when William showed that, even without his wife by his side, he could outclass any movie star at the Baftas.
There’s also his immense aim of helping to ‘repair the planet’ itself with his Earthshot Prize: five annual awards of £1 million for transformative environmental projects with worldwide application.
This project has a laser focus on biodiversity, better air quality, cleaner seas, reducing waste and combating climate change. Similar aims to his father; different means to achieve the goal.
On the issue which has caused huge convulsions – the Middle East conflict – William’s 20 February statement from Kensington Palace grabbed attention.
He said he was ‘deeply concerned about the terrible human cost of the conflict since the Hamas terrorist attack on 7 October. Too many have been killed.’
There were criticisms – along the lines of ‘the late Queen would have never spoken out like this’ or ‘what right does he have to meddle in politics?’ – but it was hard to disagree with his carefully calibrated words.
His call for peace, the ‘desperate need’ for humanitarian aid, the return of the hostages.
The statement was approved by His Majesty’s Government, likely cleared with the King himself at Sandringham the previous weekend and also backed by the chief rabbi of Great Britain, Sir Ephraim Mirvis.
Indeed, William and Catherine had immediately spoken out on the horrors of 7 October.
William followed up the week after his Kensington Palace statement by visiting a synagogue and sending a ‘powerful message’, according to the chief rabbi, by meeting a Holocaust survivor and condemning anti-Semitism.
This is rooted in deep personal conviction following William’s 2018 visit to Israel and the West Bank, says Valentine Low, the distinguished author of Courtiers and The Times’s royal correspondent of 15 years, who was on that 2018 trip.
‘William was so moved by his visit to Israel and the West Bank, he found it very affecting, and he was not going to drop this issue – he was going to pay attention to it for the rest of his life,’ says Low.
‘He must feel that… not to say something on the most important issue in the world [at that moment] would be a bit odd if you feel so strongly about it.’
There was concern from some commentators about politicising the monarchy, but this rose above the particulars of party politics.
As Prince of Wales, like his father before him, there is perhaps space to speak out sparingly on carefully chosen issues.
On this occasion, his views were in line with majority public opinion.
On homelessness, news came that same week that William was planning to build 24 homes for the homeless on his Duchy of Cornwall estate.
‘William’s impact is very personal,’ says Mick Clarke, chief executive of The Passage, a charity providing emergency accommodation for London’s homeless.
‘Two weeks before Christmas, the prince came to our Resource Centre in Victoria for a Christmas lunch for 150 people.
He was scheduled to stay for an hour, to help serve, wash up, and talk to people.
He ended up staying for two and a quarter hours, during which time he went from table to table and spoke to every single person.’
Clarke continues:
‘William has an ability to listen, talk and to put people at ease. During the November 2020 lockdown, he came on three separate occasions to help.
It gave the team a boost that he took the time; it was his way of saying: “I support you; you’re doing a great job.”’
Seyi Obakin, chief executive of Centrepoint, one of the prince’s best-known causes, adds:
‘People associate his patronage with the big moments like the time he and I slept under Blackfriars Bridge.
The things that stick with me are smaller in scale and the more profound for it – in quieter moments, away from the cameras, where he has volunteered his time.’
It is a different approach from the King’s.
As Prince of Wales, he was involved in the minutiae of dozens of issues at any one time, working into the night to follow up on emails, crafting his speeches, writing or dictating notes.
Add to that much nationwide touring over 40 years (after he left active military service in 1976), fitting in multiple engagements, often being greeted formally by lord lieutenants.
This is not William’s style. He has commended his father’s model, but he does things his own way.
Although patronages are under review, William has up till now far fewer than either his father or his grandparents.
Charles is sympathetic to William’s approach and his desire to make time with his young family sacrosanct.
They are confidantes, attested by the night of Queen Elizabeth’s death.
They were both at Birkhall with Camilla, reviewing funeral arrangements while the rest of the grieving family were nearby at Balmoral, hosted by the Princess Royal.
Charles has had almost six decades in public life and is the senior statesman of our time, with even longer in the spotlight than Joe Biden.
After Eton and St Andrew’s University, where he met Catherine, William served in three branches of the military between 2006 and 2013, finishing as a seasoned and skilled helicopter rescue pilot.
His later employment as an air ambulance pilot stopped in 2017, when he became a full-time working royal.
At that time, not so long ago – with Harry unmarried, Andrew undisgraced, and Philip and Elizabeth still active – William shared the spotlight.
Now, after the King, he’s the key man.
He can look back on the success of his first big campaign initially launched with his wife and brother in 2016: Heads Together.
‘We are delighted that Prince William should have become such a positive and sympathetic advocate for mental health through his Heads Together initiative and now well-established text service, Shout, among other projects,’ says the longtime CEO and founder of Sane, the remarkable Marjorie Wallace CBE.
‘It is not always known that he follows in the footsteps of his father, the King, whose inspiration and vision were vital in the creation of our mental health charity Sane.
As founding patron, he was instrumental in establishing our 365-days-a-year helpline and was a remarkable and selfless support to me in setting up the Prince of Wales International Centre for Sane Research.’
'Indeed,' says Wallace, 'this is where Prince William echoes the work of his father, showing the same ‘understanding and compassion for people struggling through dark and difficult times of their lives and has done much to raise awareness and encourage those affected to speak out and seek help.
We owe a huge debt to His Majesty and the Prince of Wales for their involvement in this still-neglected area.’
Just as I saw all those years ago at that early solo engagement in Whitechapel, William still approaches his public duties with humour and fun.
‘He defuses the formality with jocularity,’ says Valentine Low, citing two public events in 2023 that he witnessed.
In April last year, while on a visit to Birmingham, William randomly answered the phone in an Indian restaurant he was being shown around and took a table booking from a customer – an endearing act of spontaneity.
On his arrival later that day, the unsuspecting diner was surprised to be told exactly whom he had been talking to.
In October, Low reported, William ‘unleashed his inner flirt as he hugged his way through a visit with Caribbean elders [in Cardiff] to mark Black History Month.
As he gave one woman a hug – for longer than she expected – he joked: “I draw the line at kissing.”
And while posing for a group photograph, he prompted gales of laughter when he quipped: “Who is pinching my bottom?”’
Low believes that when William eventually becomes king, he will be more ‘radical’ than his father but wonders if people will respond to ‘call me William’ when ‘the whole point of the Royal Family is mystique and being different.’
However, William has thought deeply about his current role and is prepared for whatever his future holds.
For now, there is a decision to be made on Prince George’s secondary schooling. It’s said that five public schools are being considered, all fee-paying.
Eton is single-sex and boarding but close to home. Marlborough (Catherine’s alma mater) is co-ed and full boarding. And Oundle, St Edward’s Oxford and Bradfield College (close to Kate’s parents) are co-ed with a mix of boarding and day.
As parents, William and Catherine aspire to raise their children ‘as good people with the idea of service and duty to others as very important’, William said in an interview with the BBC in 2016.
‘Within our family unit, we are a normal family.’ Which may be one reason why he is so resistant to their privacy being compromised either by the media or close family members.
The 19th-century author Walter Bagehot wrote:
‘A family on the throne is an interesting idea also. It brings down the pride of sovereignty to the level of petty life… a princely marriage is the brilliant edition of a universal fact, and, as such, it rivets mankind.’
If hereditary monarchy is to survive, it must beguile us but also demonstrate its utility, that it is a force for good.
William said in that 2016 interview, ‘I’m going to get plenty of criticism over my lifetime,’ echoing Queen Elizabeth II’s famous Guildhall speech in 1992 ‘that criticism is good for people and institutions that are part of public life. No institution – city, monarchy, whatever – should expect to be free from the scrutiny of those who give it their loyalty and support, not to mention those who don’t.’
William saw close up his mother’s ability to bring public focus and her own personal magnetism to any subject or cause she focused on.
He admires his father’s work ethic, the way he ‘really digs down,’ sometimes literally (I understand that gardening is giving the King solace during his cancer treatment).
But the biggest influence for William was Her late Majesty, as he said on her 90th birthday.
As an Eton schoolboy, William made weekend visits to the big house on the hill, being mentored by Granny rather as she had been tutored in the Second World War by the then vice-provost of Eton, Sir Henry Marten.
William said in 2016:
‘In the Queen, I have an extraordinary example of somebody who’s done an enormous amount of good and she’s probably the best role model I could have.’
That said, his aim was ‘finding your own path but with very good examples and guidance around you to support you.'
Queen Elizabeth II had a brilliant way of rising above the fray and usually being either a step ahead of public opinion or in tune with it.
If you are at the helm of affairs in a privileged hereditary position, your duty is to serve and use your pulpit for the benefit of others.
In a democracy, monarchy is accountable.
The scrutiny is intense, with an army of commentators paid for wisdom and hot air about each no-show, parsing each announcement, interpreting each image.
William takes the long view. He has ‘wide horizons,’ says Mick Clarke.
‘There are so many causes that are more palatable and easier to achieve than ending homelessness, but his commitment and drive are 100 per cent.’
The prince seeks a different way of being royal in an ancient institution that must move with the times. His task? To develop something modern in an ever-changing world.
He faces all sorts of new issues – or old issues in new guises.
Noises off from within the family don’t help – Andrew’s difficulties, or the suggestions of prejudice from Montecito a couple of years ago (now seemingly withdrawn), which prompted William’s most vehement soundbite: ‘We’re very much not a racist family.’
William is maybe a new kind of leader who can keep the monarchy relevant and resonant in the coming decades.
Queen Elizabeth II is a powerful exemplar and memory, but she was of her time. William is his own man.
He must overcome and think beyond ‘the unforgiving minute.’
Indeed, he could seek inspiration in Rudyard Kipling’s poem, If.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch[…]
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
This article was first published in the May 2024 issue, on sale Thursday, 28 March.
#Prince William#Prince of Wales#British Royal Family#Wesley Kerr OBE#Edward Longshanks#Homewards#Heads Together#London’s Air Ambulance Charity#East Anglian Air Ambulance#Tom Cruise#BAFTAS#Earthshot Prize#Kensington Palace#King Charles III#Sir Ephraim Mirvis#Valentine Low#Duchy of Cornwall estate#The Passage#Centrepoint#Birkhall#Sane#Marjorie Wallace CBE#Shout#Balmoral#Prince George#Walter Bagehot#Sir Henry Marten#Rudyard Kipling#If
146 notes
·
View notes
Text
i'm obsessed with you.
Bradley "Rooster Bradshaw x F!Reader
summary: Jake is sick of Rooster pining over you & takes matters into his own hands.
anon request: I have a rooster request! I’m thinking a fic where hangman asks reader to the military ball and we get a jealous rooster
t/w: mentions of alcohol, jealous!Rooster, friend!Jake, cursing.
Rooster's engrossed with the video game in front of him, only halfway paying attention to what his roommate is talking about.
"Anyway, I just thought I'd ask you," Jake finishes and Rooster realizes Jake is waiting for an answer of some kind.
Shaking his head, he says, "Yeah, man, whatever."
Surprise flickers across the blonde's face, but Rooster is right back into the video game, not bothering to probe.
Jake pulls his phone from his pocket and begins feverishly typing.
A ping comes a second later, Jake lightly pumping his fist.
~
Rooster holds an arm open to you later that evening at the Hard Deck. You slide right into his hold, slipping your arm around his waist. Bringing his beer bottle to his lips, he lets his other hand casually rest on your shoulder. To an outsider, they would think the two of you were dating.
Rooster hasn't had the guts to make that a reality.
He's content to let the gang make fun of him being in love with his best friend. There is no point in denying it, they all know how much he adores you.
Everyone but you, of course.
"Did he tell you?" you ask Rooster after a few pleasant moments of being in one another's arms.
"Hmm?" he asks, eyeing the game going on at the pool table. Phoenix does her best to flirt with Bob, but he's oblivious. She lines up her shot, sending Bob a wink before pulling back and making contact with the cue. The 7 ball makes its destination.
"Jake?" you probe.
Rooster still hasn't computed.
"Jake? Did he tell you he's taking me to the military ball? Where is your head tonight?" you poke him in his stomach.
Rooster's world stops. Hangman asked you to the ball?
That's what Jake was asking him this afternoon? If he could take you to the ball?
You always go to the ball with Rooster.
"Did you agree?" Rooster asks, knowing full well you did. Why else would Hangman have done that stupid little fist pump?
You shrug the shoulder against his torso, like it's no big deal. "Well, yeah. I know you and I always go together, but he told me he'd talked to you about it. You said it was fine." You're looking at him, your brows knitting together.
Of course you're confused. Hangman did talk to Rooster about it. Rooster had agreed. Because Rooster wasn't paying fucking attention.
And now he's fucking pissed.
Hangman joins the two of you. "Thanks for letting me borrow your girl." The grin he gives Rooster is dangerously close to the teasing grins he used to dish out before the two men squashed their animosity.
Rooster feels your chuckle against his body.
"We're just friends, Jake," you tell him. The blonde's eyebrow slightly raises. Rooster knows you missed it, but he sure as shit didn't.
The pain in Rooster's stomach at the word friend is almost too much to bare. Hearing that word was almost as disgusting as hearing how 'Jake' sounded coming from your pretty lips. Almost flirtatiously.
How could you be so blind to his feelings?
Was it because you liked Jake?
You and Hangman could get pretty flirty, but he usually kept it tame, keeping Rooster's feelings somewhat in mind. Hangman was a pretty touchy flirt, but he always kept his hands to himself.
Now the only thing Rooster can think about is Jake pulling you into him on the dance floor, spinning you around to the music. Or standing there, a possessive arm around your waist as he and Mav discuss the latest fucking Game of Thrones episode.
Rooster is beginning to find it quite hard to keep his anger at bay. What the fuck happened to the bro code?
Hangman watches Rooster intensely.
"What color will your dress be? I bet you're going to look so beautiful," Jake turns his attention to you, and Rooster's casual hold on you becomes tighter. More possessive. Just like Jake's hold will be at the ball.
"Oh, I haven't decided, maybe navy?" you say dreamily. You're supposed to be wearing a pretty, navy dress with Rooster, not Hangman.
The only thing keeping him going is your arm still locked around his waist.
Jake steps a little closer, his hand reaching out to take a stand of your H/C hair in between his fingers.
This does it.
Rooster snaps. "Do not touch her." He jerks you back, and your hair slips out of Hangman's hold.
You push yourself back from Rooster, taking in the men, your eyes wide.
Jake and Rooster stare one another down. Rooster takes in his 'friend,' noting the challenge behind his eyes.
"Come on, man," Hangman pushes.
Rooster feels like hitting him, but he knows the repercussions he'd have with Mav won't be worth it. Still, his hand curls in and out of a fist at his side.
One punch. Right against that perfect fucking jaw.
"Tell her," he mouths.
Confusion replaces his anger as quickly as it set in moments before.
Rooster turns toward you. You trade glances between the two men. Jake jerks his head toward you.
Words escape the man as he takes you in. The naivety across your features cause him to melt. Rooster swears you are the most adorable thing on the planet.
“I don’t want you to go the the ball with Hangman,” Rooster tells you. “I want you to go with me.”
“But—“ you begin, but Rooster cuts you off.
“Because I’m fucking obsessed with you.”
Your mouth falls open, and a sweet flush falls on your cheeks. “What?”
Rooster steps toward you, a newfound confidence coursing through his veins. He takes your face into his hands, craning your face up. He hovers his mouth over yours, pausing to relish in the fact that he has you so close. Savoring this moment as long as he can.
Before he can chicken out, he kisses you. Pulling you as close as he can before it becomes inappropriate, he deepens the kiss. You clutch his waist, gripping his t-shirt between your fingers.
When the kiss breaks, the two of you stare at one another, breathing heavy.
Hangman smacks Rooster on the back. "Atta boy! Been concocting this plan for weeks."
Jake gives the both of you a wide grin, and saunters toward the bar.
a/n: this request totally inspired me! I hope y'all like it!
masterlist
#rooster top gun#topgun#top gun#top gun maverick#top gun maverick fic#bradley rooster bradshaw#bradleybradshaw#bradley bradshaw x y/n#bradley bradshaw#bradley x reader#rooster fluff#rooster fanfic#rooster x reader#rooster#topgunmaverk#top gun imagine#top gun fanfiction
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ LINKS: - DEMO - PINTEREST (TBA) -
[ this is a secondary wip! my main project is Unwilling Souls on @unwilling-souls-if ]
Spring Panic is an interactive story about a talented and affection-depraved spellcaster, with elements of slice-of-life. Navigate through ancestral feuds and familial pressure in a colourful magic world. You'll have to deal with extremely serious matters, such as choosing the meal of your talking cat or what flowers to grow in your garden.
Follow and shape the Main Character from birth to early adulthood, and become the best witch this world has ever seen (or don't. Maybe you'll crave something else 🌟)
TW: The game contains depictions of emotional neglect (of the MC and their brother), (optional teenage) alcohol and drug comsumption, references to bullying.
｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ CUSTOMIZABLE PARTS:
~their name
~ gender identity with separate pronouns, and the ability to transition between childhood and teenagehood, or during teenagehood
~ general physical appearance
~ most relationships
~ magical preferences
｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ SET PARTS:
~ emotionnally stumped by anxiety and pressure
~ their love for their little brother and their best friend
~ sensory issues and overloads
~THE FAUNEUS FAMILY— yours. [ detailed post here ]
~GATSBY. Your familiar. He's a talking black cat. And a prick.
~SANEM. A tired spirit that haunts the woods of your middle and high school. They're bored and sardonic, but at least they're like that with everyone and not just you.
~THE COUNCIL. [ detailed post TBA ]
~THE VYPERLYN FAMILY— the one your family hates. [ detailed post TBA ]
note: the story follows the MC's life. Some ROs are met during their childhood, some later.
note pt2: detailed character sheets will be posted later for each RO.
｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ CERISE. (she/her, only romanceables by f!mc and nb!mc)
tropes: childhood friends to lovers, idiots in love
-Character sheet-
Cerise is the daughter of a witch and a fairy. The both of you had no friends. What started as a tentative first-try at friendship quickly became an unbreakable bond. Cerise wiped your tears more times than you could count, and you held her hand during hard times.
｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ BARTHELEMY "Please-don't-call-me-Barty" VYPERLYN (he/him)
tropes: academic rivals to lovers, possible one-sided ennemies to lovers, Romeo and Juliet/ stars-crossed lovers
Barthelemy has been made your rival by your families, your schoolmates, and the council. When they come back from a childhood abroad, they immeditaly snatch the first place that you occupied. Oddly enough, he's one of the few people that treat you with respect.
｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ DAPHNE (she/her)
tropes: enemies to lovers, ice queen, forbidden love
Daphne is a fairy. More than that, she's the fairy that everyone loves and fawns over. She smiles and backstabs like she breathes, and she has dug her nails in the metaphorical throne of Amaranth Institute. She wants you out of her way, but you recognize in her the familiar cracks caused by unbearable pressure.
｡+ﾟ☆ﾟ ASPEN (they/he)
tropes: golden child x troublemaker, secret relationship, player in love
Aspen is walking 'danger' sign. Toying with laws and rules, their sticky fingers always seem to 'borrow' the wallets of the wealthy. They are a hero to the kids of the city, a pest to the authorities, and a mystery to you. They keep theri cards close, and you sometimes closer.
652 notes
·
View notes
Note
This is something I thought of but it suits the men you like more than it does mine
Imagine an au or smth in which your fave plays the cello
Now imagine y/n oc sitting on his lap, he's choking them while using a toy on them and in that position it's almost like he's playing y/n like they're a cello
I think you could do this prompt justice better than I ever could so I hope you enjoy it ✨️
Cellist Kid
Okay, but hear me out. Cellist Kid.
Cellist. Kid.
Thoughts below the cut.
Synopsis: your academic rival and you do not get along. You find his boorish intensity revolting, and he finds your attitude standoffish. As your conductor decides to pair you together to practice, tempers flare and passion ignites.
Themes: afab!reader x Kid, cellist!kid x flautist!reader, choking, Kid has both hands, kissing swearing, college AU, NSFW, 18+, smut, P in V sex, drabble length, creampie, enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers, hate sex.
College AU with Eustass Kid wanting to practice playing electric bass, but instead joins an orchestral ensemble at his college for extra credit. They don't play metal, punk, or rock: but he absolutely has a soft spot for movie soundtracks that use heavy bass: game of thrones, lord of the rings, Narnia, all of the songs of his childhood.
He decides the closest thing to a bass is a cello. It takes him a while to understand how to use a bow, but he picks it up in no time. He enjoys this time he spends playing music, it's a way he gets to unwind and hone in on his musicality.
The only hiccup in this perfect symphony is you. Not your playing, but your attitude. You loathe him, and he despises you.
You're a flautist who often gets the lead line for the pieces because you're extremely talented and dedicated to your craft. You hang shit on Kid for joining a failing Warhammer painting group with his best friend, MSK - and he taunts you just as much for joining a Dungeons & Dragons group being ran by a DM named Usopp, an English literature major who enjoys spinning roleplaying tales.
But the more you play music together, the more the conductor of the band decides to place you two together in a more permanent way. You're perfect for each other, in your conductors opinion. The deep rattle of the bass clef played by Kid harmonises perfectly with the treble you produce with your fluttery breath and nimble fingers.
You've been aggressively quippy with each other for a few months now, the rest of the orchestra rolling their eyes every time you have a fued in front of them. Your conductor decides to place the two of you together to sort it out between you.
Now that you're in an empty classroom together, all lecturers gone for the night, the tension draws thick between you. Your snarl draws his heckles up, his growl causes your skin to ignite with disdain at him.
"What the hell is your problem with me, cellist?" You finally curse at him, acknowledging his presence for the first time in twenty minutes. He halts tuning his pegs and places his broad bow in the case at his feet.
"Could say the same for you, flooty," he spat back, his nose scrunching at you while reaching for his amber rosin.
"I hate you," you snarl at him.
"I hate you," he barked at you in response.
"I hate you first," your body moved against its will, placing your flute carefully within the hard case beside you and stomped towards him.
"I hate you second," he growls in return, the gruff grumble igniting flames in his chest as he casts aside his borrowed cello in its stand.
"What does that even matter?" you question him, cocking your head to the side and furrowing your brows, "I could wring your neck and scream at you for how much I despise you!"
"Would be a better sound than your fucking playing, that's for sure!" he draws himself closer to you, his much taller frame towering over yours.
You see red, reaching up and circling his neck with your hands. You use all your might to shove him down onto the chair he was formerly sat atop and accidentally fall on top of him. Your thighs frame his, your crotch perfectly in line with his.
This small stumble causes you to falter in your fury. Shock writes itself over your face as you notice a soft blush dust the cheeks of your academic rival beneath you. From this new position, you notice the warm hue in his hazel eyes: the tint almost rust-coloured in the pale lighting.
You both glance down to the join of your bodies in synchrony before glancing back up at each other's shocked faces.
It all happens in an instant: clothes cast aside and discarded on the floor, lips gnashing, biting and marking each other beneath your rough oscillations. You're in his lap, facing away from him with his girthy cock plunging deep within your slick cunt with a brutal rapidity.
His left hand circles your throat, causing your head to lull against his left shoulder. His right hand is plunged deep between your legs and pinches, circles and grinds against your clit as he thrusts his cock deep within you.
As his right digits begin tapping your clit in rhythmic patterns, the fingers of his left hand tighten and loosen against your flesh. The stampeding ecstacy draws ever nearer, both of your voices picking up in the corners as his knob bullies and batters your cervix with deep thrusts.
As your abdomen begins to tighten it's woven band of ecstacy, Kid's huffed breath pants out with more intentional rapidity. His thighs shudder beneath you, his body giving into the carnal urge to fuck the attitude and sass out of you with each cruel thrust.
His left hand breaks away from your neck circling in front of your chest and anchoring his body against yours to chase his climax within you. His momentum staggers as you felt his cock twitch within your plush walls.
"I-I-..." Kid stutters through his warning, mewling your name in a panted whine, "...-I'm gonna-... fuck. You feel so fucking good. I'm gon-... -I'm c-cumming."
As he whines through his panted confession, your body immediately was ushered into your bliss alongside his own. Lights danced behind your eyes as your body betrayed your hatred for him and transported your senses to become overwhelmed with bliss.
You cried his name, head lying fully back and at his mercy as he continued to bully his thick cock deep within you. Ribbons of hot, sticky cum shot deep within you, the rippling backsplash causing the translucent fluid to leak from your entrance and pool down your spread legs and onto his thighs.
As you rode through your mutual bliss, Kid offers you an apology for his prior insults.
"I-... -I don't think you're a shit flute-player," he admits, his forehead meeting with the back of your neck, "I actually think you're quite talented."
"You are too," you confess, nuzzling the back of your head against his, "But you're still an asshole."
Notes: I'm not sure if cellist Kid is a vibe or not, but it was my initial thoughts. A little bit of enemies to lovers never hurt. I could also see Law as a cellist, but Kid was screaming at me. I have had a drink, and this was done in about 20 minutes. Apologies for grammar mistakes!
Tag list: @mfreedomstuff
#one piece#x reader#eustass kid#captain eustass kid#one piece eustass#kid x reader#eustass kid smut#eustass x reader#op kid x reader
78 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
ultimatecars
SUPERCARS
rossodautunno
COME ROSSO D'AUTUNNO
shangchiswife
asiya
ljfm
Love Johnny fuckin Marr
bon-kyeforce-blog
My MDE Imagines.