#Holy Lies above the Sky | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 27 days

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1968 [Chapter 1: Ares, God Of War]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.7k

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Let’s begin with a definition.

Disaster is a noun derived from Ancient Greek: dus, a prefix meaning “bad,” and aster, or “star.” In the time when humans worshipped Zeus and Hera, Hephaestus and Aphrodite, it was believed that tragedies resulted from the inauspicious positioning of celestial bodies: a volcano erupts because of Jupiter, a returning comet brings with it a flood. There is a certain helplessness inherent in this mythology. There is predestined suffering that lies in wait until all the jewels of the sky have malignantly aligned.

Have you ever met someone who made you ache to change the stars?

~~~~~~~~~~

Gunshots explode through the lobby of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida; you feel the wind of the bullets as they clip by, fragmented metallic rage. Aemond is on the marble floor, blood pouring down his face, blood all over the white shirt beneath his navy blue suit jacket when you rip it open, tearing a button loose. He’s reaching for you through the jostling and the screams, leaving crimson handprints on your mint green dress. And you think: He just won the Florida primary. He’s not supposed to die. He’s supposed to be the president.

“What happened?” Aemond murmurs, his right eye dazed and only half-open; the left has vanished beneath a cloudburst of gore. Perhaps ten yards away, people have caught the assailant and pinned him against one of the vast Venetian windows until the police arrive. They’re roaring at him in red-faced fury, their closed fists strike his ribs and his cheekbones, their knuckles paint him scarlet and indigo.

“You’re alright, you’re alright.” You brace both palms over the maroon stain spreading rapidly across Aemond’s chest and press down as hard as you can. Your fingers are drenched in seconds, warm fading life. He’s bleeding to death. You shriek through the turmoil: “Criston?!”

“Is he okay?” Aemond asks faintly. He means the baby; you’re six months pregnant with his first child, his greatest treasure, his Atlantis, his Holy Grail. Aemond has already decided that it’s a boy. Sometimes you fear what will happen if he’s wrong.

“Yes, honey, the baby’s fine, don’t worry. Criston!”

Aegon is here instead, sweating out rum and ruin like he always is, hair too long, veins full of pills, colliding with you and pawing at his dying brother with untrustworthy hands. “Aemond?!”

You shove Aegon away, splattering him with blood. “Get back, he needs air!”

“Where’s he shot?! Let me see—”

“I told you to get back!”

“Goddammit, you don’t own him! He’s mine too!”

Criston has fought his way through the maelstrom and is dragging Aegon away by the collar of his frayed olive green army jacket, stolen from Daeron when he visited home after basic training, a uniform of embittered revolution worn by a man who’s never fought for anything. “Aegon, make sure someone’s called for an ambulance, then meet the paramedics at the door and help them find us.”

“But—”

“Go!” Criston roars, and Aegon scrambles to his feet and is lost within the crowd. You can hear Otto bellowing at journalists and hotel employees to make space for the fallen senator; there are flashes of cameras and prayers shouted aloud. Above your head are crystal chandeliers and a vaulted ceiling hand-painted by 75 Italian artists in the 1920s; swimming in your skull are visions of Jackie Kennedy in the pink suit filthy with her husband’s brains. It’s just before midnight on Tuesday, May 28th. Upstairs in their oceanfront Imperial Suites, nannies will be shaking awake the absent adults of the Targaryen dynasty, who retired with the children before Aemond made his victory speech in the hotel ballroom: Alicent, Helaena, Fosco, Mimi.

Criston’s hands—larger, stronger—replace yours over the gushing wound in Aemond’s chest. What did the bullet hit? His lung, his heart? He’s not speaking anymore, his right eye is closed. His bloodied hands rest open and empty on the floor. “Criston, he’s dying,” you sob.

“No he’s not. We’re not going to let him.”

“What’s the closest hospital?”

“Good Samaritan is just across the bridge on the mainland.” It’s Criston’s job to know these things, though he had been thinking of you when he plotted his meticulous notes in his day planner: in case you eat a bad cheeseburger, or trip on the stairs, or catch the flu and start burning up with fever. Aemond worries about the baby. Aegon has five children, Helaena has three, and Aemond will feel that he has been robbed of something if he does not swiftly procure a family of his own. He needs you on the campaign trail, but still, he worries.

Across the lobby, the police have arrived to arrest the aspiring assassin. He puts up a fight when they try to handcuff him and earns a nightstick to the gut, an elbow to the nose. He is choking on his own blood. Perhaps he is drowning in it. Good, you think.

“Don’t kill him!” Otto booms at the officers. “I want him alive for trial! I want him to ride the lighting up in Raiford, you keep that son of a bitch alive!”

“Aemond?” You thread your fingers through his soaked hair. What happened to his left eye? Is it somewhere underneath all that carnage, or is it gone? “Please wake up. Please stay with me. We need you. The baby and I need you.”

“He’s going to live,” Criston promises, both hands still clamped over the bullet wound to slow the hemorrhaging.

“Aemond, please…” How can he be the president with only one eye?

An old woman in a yellow striped skirt suit is lumbering close with a homemade prayer rope clenched in her fist. “A komboskini for the senator!” For his last rites. For his soul.

“He doesn’t need it!” Criston says. “He’s not dying! No one is dying tonight!”

Still, you take the komboskini from the lady, each of the 100 knots a prayer unspoken. She is a devotee of Aemond, and you must show her gratitude. “Efcharistó, aderfí. O Theós na se evlogeí.” They are some of the few Greek words you’ve mastered; you’ve used them often since Aemond announced that he was running for president. Thank you, sister. God bless you.

The paramedics arrive, splitting the crowd like a laceration, white uniforms and a stretcher to ferry Aemond away. People are wailing, cursing, swearing vengeance. Aegon has returned and is peering down at Aemond with those large, glassy, muddled eyes, afraid to ask. “Is he…is he still…?”

“He has a pulse,” Criston replies. He helps the paramedics drag Aemond onto the stretcher and strap him to it. Your husband’s shirt is now drenched in red like garnet, like cinnabar, like the poppies that commemorate the boys butchered in World War I, like the wasted blood being spilled in Vietnam, men reduced to memory. “Good Samaritan?” Criston confirms with the paramedics.

“Yes sir,” the most senior one agrees. And then to you, with great deference, with compassion that transcends what somebody can harbor for strangers: “Ma’am, there’s a place for you if you want it.”

“I do,” you say, tear-streaked face, hands bathed in blood. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

The ambulance is idling outside the main entranceway of the hotel. Criston grasps your hand to steady you as you step up into the back, and you take a seat on the red leather bench beside the stretcher. The paramedics are placing IVs, holding an oxygen mask to Aemond’s face, muttering urgently into their radio, abbreviations and code words you can’t understand, a secret language of organic calamities. High above the stars are crystalline and radiant in a clear sky. In your own chest—unshredded by metal, unpierced by rage—your intact heart is pounding.

The lead paramedic turns to you again and says: “We can fit one more person.”

It’s your decision. You are the senator’s wife; you were supposed to be the next first lady of the United States. You look through the ambulance’s open doors. Aegon stares back expectantly, his hair falling in his face, his arms thrown wide, petulant, combative, useless, drunk. “Criston.”

“Bitch!” Aegon hisses at you as Criston climbs into the vehicle. The doors slam shut, the engine rumbles, the siren squeals as the ambulance races westbound on Breakers Row towards County Road, which connects with Flagler Memorial Bridge and the mainland.

Through the rear window you watch Aegon as he stands in the white-gold hotel luminescence, becoming smaller and smaller until he vanishes, and all you can see are streetlights, and all you can smell is blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

Every story needs its cast of characters. Here are the major players in the summer of 1968.

President Lyndon Baines Johnson is in the White House watching the clocks tick towards November 5th, when his successor will be ordained. He has chosen not to seek reelection. Since his ascension upon Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, Johnson’s domestic focus has been unprecedented civil rights legislation and his War On Poverty, yet what has infected the media like blood poisoning is the war in Vietnam. On the television are napalm bombs incinerating Vietnamese peasants, caskets draped with American flags, riots being beaten down by police, college students torching draft cards and chanting “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” Now the president is sick in body, in spirit, in heart, and this is not a metaphor: he suffered a near-fatal cardiac arrest in 1955 and another shortly after John F. Kennedy was murdered in Dallas, Texas. He will die almost exactly four years after leaving office. Had he sought another term, he would have been unlikely to survive it. The public eye is something like a snake bite; it sinks its fangs in and you hope the venom burns clean before it can curse you with clots or hemorrhages or paralysis, before it can drown you in the dark waters of infamy.

In the void left by President Johnson’s surrender, four factions have emerged within the Democratic Party. The old guard—the same labor unions, congressmen, and local political machines who have steered the platform since the days of Franklin D. Roosvelt’s New Deal—has flocked to current Vice President Hubert Humphrey. Humphrey is competent yet uninspiring, a mid-fifties Midwesterner who flinches at the unpolished fury of antiwar protests and sedately lectures Black Power activists on the dangers of “reverse racism.” He is not a threat. He is a sheep in sheep’s clothing, and this is the time for wolves.

Senator Eugene McCarthy of Minnesota is unapologetically opposed to the Vietnam War, a moral crusader, a reluctant warrior, a man who wears his lack of taste for the presidency like a badge of honor. He feels compelled to run, but he does not crave it. He thinks this makes him a saint; but Joan of Arc was burned at the stake and Saint Lawrence was roasted alive. Like Halloween candy plunked into a child’s neon orange plastic pumpkin, McCarthy has collected his own coalition, college students and posh urbanites who believe themselves to be the future of the Democratic Party. In 2016, people will conjure McCarthy’s ghost when drawing comparisons to a controversial left-wing senator from Vermont named Bernie Sanders.

If McCarthy is the future and Humphrey is the past, then former governor of Alabama George Wallace is downright archaic. He is the candidate of choice for Southern white supremacists, averse to Republicans since Lincoln and still reverent of Depression-era New Deal programs that kept them from starving to death. Wallace is best known for his promise of “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” and pledges to end the chaos that has besieged America through strict law and order. Provided he loses the Democratic primary, Wallace plans to run in the general election as an Independent, hoping to peel away enough support from the major party candidates to force the House of Representatives to declare the winner and then leverage his votes to negotiate an end to federal desegregation efforts in the South. His devoted wife Lurleen just died of uterine cancer, a diagnosis which Wallace kept hidden from her for years; doctors are in the habit of informing husbands of their wives’ ailments and giving them carte blanche control over the treatment plan, which unfortunately in Lurleen’s case was nothing. She was 41 years old.

In his short-lived castle of red corridors like the marrow rivers of bones, President Johnson hides from the hippies who jeer and spit; Humphrey frowns at them, McCarthy tries to appease them, Wallace says the only four-letter words they don’t know are “w-o-r-k” and “s-o-a-p.” But Aemond climbs down from podiums to meet them like old friends. He is young, only 36. He has a brother serving in the swamps of Vietnam. He is focused, determined, insatiable; he devours every scrap of news that is printed about him and writes his speeches by hand. As the self-admitted runt of the Targaryen family, Aemond knows what it is like to be underestimated. He wants a better America, and he wants to be the president, and he wants these things in equal, relentless measure, each fueling the other until these ambitions become inseparable. He has grown up hearing slurs against Greeks and consequently has no tolerance for discrimination, which he contends is antithetical to the American Dream. He attends civil rights marches in labyrinthian cities, antiwar protests on college campuses, union meetings in coal mining towns of West Virginia and Kentucky and Wyoming, music festivals crowded with long unwashed hair and braless women, fundraisers flush with the deep pockets of the Northeastern elite. Aemond’s coalition grows each day, bleeding away strength from his rivals like a Medieval surgeon. Their flesh turns cold and anemic, while Aemond’s heart pumps scalding torrents of blood.

If Aemond wins the Democratic primary at the convention in August, his opponent will almost certainly be the Republican frontrunner Richard Nixon of California. Nixon wants the White House just as badly, and he’s much smarter than he looks. He was Eisenhower’s vice president for eight years in the 1950s and lost to the ill-fated John F. Kennedy in 1960 by a whisker; some say he did not lose at all, but instead was cheated out of 100,000 votes by Kennedy’s mafia connections in Chicago. But with the Democrats divided and their incumbent president floundering, Nixon’s timing has never been better. He was once a poor boy with two dead brothers who earned a scholarship to Duke Law. Now he will become whoever he needs to be to win the presidency of the United States.

1968 is the year of wolves. The fangs are sharp, and the bellies ache with hunger.

~~~~~~~~~~

A local deli has opened early and sent sandwiches to Good Samaritan Medical Center for the family and friends of the senator from New Jersey: ham and Swiss, cucumber and cream cheese, tuna salad, egg salad, pimento cheese, BLTs, Cubans. The lobby is filling up with bouquets of flowers and handwritten notes. You pace and count the knots of the komboskini over and over again as you wait; Aemond has been in surgery for hours. The nurses periodically bring you Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, scalding watered-down sweetness to distract you from the fact that some surgeon is currently rooting around inside your husband’s ribcage.

Alicent—a convert to the Greek Orthodox faith just as you are, though far more zealous, far more sincere if you dared to admit it—is pleading for God to save her son as she clasps her own prayer rope. Helaena is seated beside her, eerily calm. Helaena’s husband Fosco is wandering around boredly and inflicting small talk upon the nurses, ogling out the third-story windows, playing with his red Duncan yo-yo. Otto is making a series of calls using one of the phones at the nurses’ station. Criston is there too, leaning over the countertop and speaking with Otto in low conspiratorial whispers.

Aegon is sitting alone and glaring at you. He takes a rattling bottle of pills—prescriptions that doctors are too afraid not to write for him when he asks—out of a pocket on the front of his green army jacket, spotted like a leopard with your bloody handprints. He opens the amber-colored, cylindrical container and pours two, no, three tiny white tablets into his palm. He tosses them into his mouth and washes them down with a swallow of his own mediocre hot chocolate, still glaring. You ignore him.

“How could this have happened?” Mimi says again from where she’s slumped in her chair. Aegon’s wife has a Snow White sort of beauty, but with a perpetual ruddiness in her nose and cheeks from the gin she sips constantly. You suppose it would make anyone a drunk, being married to a man like that. Her maiden name was Marina Marceline Leroux, but everyone has always called her Mimi, even the press on the rare occasions when she makes an appearance. Her children—Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, and little Cosmo, only five years old—are all back at the Breakers Hotel with the nannies, the same as Helaena’s. Mimi blubbers to nobody in particular: “How…? Who…? Who would want to hurt Aemond…?”

Someone needs to sober her up. You fetch a BLT off the platter of sandwiches and offer it to her. “Here. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry. Who on earth could be hungry at a time like this? I’m absolutely nauseated, I’ll never want food again—”

“Mimi, eat the sandwich.”

“Fine, fine,” she slurs morosely, then takes an unenthusiastic bite. She listens to you, all the women do. They listen to you, and you listen to Aemond, and the circle is closed and complete.

Criston is walking over now. You turn to him, needing good news, bad news, any news. “It was a Wallace supporter,” Criston says. From his seat, Aegon is watching Criston with his slow drugged gaze, listening intently. “Some bell pepper farmer from up by Jacksonville.”

“He’s been taken to the local jail for holding?” you ask, and then add: “Alive?”

“Yeah, and he already has a record. Assault and battery. His brother-in-law is apparently a Grand Dragon in the Klan.”

“What the hell is a Grand Dragon?”

“Well, it’s higher than a Goblin, but not as illustrious as an Imperial Wizard, does that answer your question?”

“Perfectly.” You smile at Criston, a pained, wry smile. He returns it and places a palm over your belly. You are still wearing the mint green dress Aemond picked out for you this morning, before he won the Florida primary, before he was shot twice by the disciple of a political adversary and laid at death’s doorstep. You are still covered in your husband’s blood.

“You’re feeling alright?” Then Criston smirks, knowing how ridiculous he must sound. “You know. All things considered.”

“We’re both fine. The baby’s moving around, I can feel it.”

“You can feel him, you mean,” Criston teases, knowing Aemond’s preoccupation with his unborn son; but you can’t bring yourself to appreciate the joke.

Aegon says to you suddenly: “How the fuck did you let this happen?”

“What?” you answer, stunned.

Aegon stands and approaches, lurching, raging. “You always have to be right beside him, in the photographs, in the headlines, in the soundbites, but you let some psychopath run up and shoot him? Twice?!”

“I thought he just wanted to shake Aemond’s hand, or maybe get a quote for an article—”

“You didn’t notice the gun?!”

“Aegon, sit down,” Criston orders.

“It happened in seconds,” you say. “You think you would have done better? You and your Valium, and your Librium, and your Percodan? You think your reaction time would have been so superior to mine?”

“Please,” Alicent moans, mopping tears from her pink cheeks with a handkerchief. “Please, don’t fight, not now…”

“We are all friends here,” Fosco adds in his thick Italian accent, yo-yoing by a window.

“You want to be the first lady so bad but you can’t handle it!” Aegon shouts, his voice echoing through the lobby. “You’re not some prodigy, you don’t have all the answers, you’re just a girl who stitched yourself to Aemond and then you let him get shot, he’s being operated on right now, maybe he’s even dying, and you still act like you’re so fucking perfect—”

“You’re mad because you know that everybody here is thinking the same thing,” you tell Aegon, cold and cruel. “That if someone had to get killed tonight it should have been you.”

Aegon’s mouth drops open; he stares at you with that slippery, opaque, stoned woundedness, pathetic, infuriating, illogically childish. Everyone else pretends they haven’t heard you. Alicent sniffles into her handkerchief. Fosco begins humming I Want To Hold Your Hand. Mimi chews sluggishly on her BLT. From the nurses’ station, Otto says, holding the phone to his chest: “It’s George Wallace. He’s calling for Aemond’s wife.” Then he waits to see if you’ll agree to take it.

Of course you will. You have to. You are acting in your husband’s stead. You go to the nurses’ station and grab the handset when Otto passes it to you. “This is Mrs. Targaryen.”

“Ma’am, I just wanted to offer you my sincerest condolences.” He has a pronounced drawl, born and raised in what he has praised as the Great Anglo-Saxon Southland. You animal, you think. You braindead bigot. “I do hope the senator makes a hasty recovery. I sure would like to beat him at the ballot box, but I have no stomach for anarchy. An act like this is repugnant to me, as it should be to any red-blooded American.”

“It was one of yours, do you know that?” you say, dripping venom. “One of your hateful ghouls.”

“I have no such knowledge. But if the shooter does turn out to be a supporter of my campaign, I disavow him utterly. He deserves a nice long sit in Old Sparky and then to meet his maker.”

“You inspire men to commit violence, and then you renounce them when they spill blood. I’m still wearing my husband’s. It’s on my hands, it’s on my dress, and I will not absolve you of blame. You are a gardener of discord. You grow it like roses or wheat. You tend to it until it blooms.” Otto is studying you, bushy eyebrows raised. “If you’d truly like to repent, perhaps dropping out of the Democratic primary would be a good start. And then you could find something useful to do, like drowning yourself.”

From whatever office he’s currently lounging comfortably in, his shoes kicked up on the desk, Wallace chuckles. “Aemond is very fortunate to have as ardent a defender as you, my dear.”

“Yes, a devoted wife is such a treasure. It’s a shame you killed yours.”

“Ma’am, once again, I just wanted to express how terribly sorry I am for your family’s hardship. I would never wish for an incident like this—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be emboldening white supremacists then!” You slam the phone as you hang up.

Otto looks at you. He says: “Did it go well?”

The heavy double doors leading to the operating theater swing open, and a surgeon steps through them, still drying his hands with a dark blue towel. He has changed his scrubs and washed his skin, but you notice a spot he missed: a fleck of half-dried blood up by his temple. That’s Aemond, you think. That’s a piece of him.

Everyone rushes to gather around the doctor, even Mimi; she lists like a ship taking on water as she walks, gnawing at all that remains of her BLT, just a sliver of white toast crust.

“The senator is alive,” the doctor says, and Alicent cries out in relief. Criston rests a palm on her shoulder. “But we could not save the eye.”

“He’s half-blind?” you ask. There’s never been a half-blind president. There’s never been a Greek one either. And the only reason this is stuck in your mind is because you know it will consume Aemond’s.

The doctor nods. “We had to remove it. The bullet that struck Senator Targaryen in the head, fortunately, was more of a graze. It ricocheted off his skull and didn’t cause any trauma to the brain, but his eye was…” He hesitates, trying to find a more polite word than shredded, macerated, pulverized. “Destroyed.”

“You stopped the bleeding?” Aegon says, astonished. “He’s okay? He’s really okay?”

“The second bullet pierced the thoracic cavity and was lodged less than an inch from his heart. He was very lucky. We repaired the damage to the best of our ability, and I am optimistic that the senator will make a full recovery. He’s resting comfortably now, but he should be awake soon.”

“Oh, thank God,” Alicent says, glistening dark eyes raised to heaven. The salient points gathered, Fosco wanders off again, his yo-yo dangling from its string.

Otto asks: “When can he resume campaigning?”

The doctor is caught off-guard; it takes him a moment to answer. “That will depend on the senator’s stamina as he regains his strength. If he chooses to stay in the race at all.”

Otto scoffs. “Of course he’ll stay in. This is what he lives for. You really can’t give me a ballpark figure?”

The doctor is determinately impassive. “I would estimate a month or two before he can withstand the rigors of the campaign trail again.”

“California is June 4th,” Otto recalls, counting off dates on his fingers. “Illinois is the 11th, New York is the 18th…”

“Look, there are people outside!” Fosco announces excitedly as he peers through one of the windows. “Hello! Hello everybody!”

“Fosco, you idiot, stop waving,” Otto snaps. “Go sit down.”

“But they are cheering.”

“Not for you.”

Fosco, somewhat deflated, grabs an egg salad sandwich off the platter and plops into a chair to eat it. He’s dressed in a green plaid sport coat and tight white trousers, very chic, very European. You’ve never been able to imagine Fosco and Helaena being passionately romantic with each other. They’re both a bit too doll-like for that, closer to Barbie and Ken than flesh and blood, blank stares and vague ambitions.

“Someone should talk to them,” Alicent says softly. She means the crowd that is forming in front of the hospital: journalists, cops, local politicians, mutilated veterans, college kids, farmers, fishermen, women and children, the future and the past. Everyone turns to look at you.

“I’ll do it,” you volunteer. You will, you must. Aemond could have chosen a hundred similarly suited women to be his wife, but he chose you, and when he did your vows became a blood oath.

Criston accompanies you downstairs to where the crowd has gathered just outside the front entrance of Good Samaritan Medical Center. The night air is warm and humid, the stars bright. You had thought of so many things to tell these people as you’d stood in the elevator as it descended, but now your mind is empty, fearful. There are photographers with blinding camera flashes and apostles waiting with famished eyes. From the depths of injustice and poverty and war, they have come to pay their respects to the man they believe is destined to save not just themselves but their world. What should I say? What would Aemond want me to say?

“I am very pleased to share with you all that Senator Targaryen is out of surgery and regaining his strength.”

There are cheers and applause and prayers; you are still clutching the komboskini that the old woman gave you in the lobby of the Breakers Hotel. You see more prayer ropes in this flock, and rosaries too, Bibles and dog tags, copies of The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Joanne Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

“We would like to thank you for your heartfelt support. Aemond and I are so very grateful, and he is looking forward to being back on the campaign trail soon.”

More clapping and whistling, and then the crowd waits. You aren’t sure what they want to hear as you stand in the glow of the hospital luminance; your hands are trembling wildly, so you clasp them together as you hold the komboskini. Criston glances over at you, concerned. You settle on the truth.

“The man who tried to kill my husband tonight is a supporter of former Alabama governor George Wallace and an avowed white supremacist. Any ideology that advocates for violence and prejudice is a threat to our bodies, our nation, and our souls. We will not surrender to it, not even when our lives are in jeopardy. We will not concede that hope for a better world is lost. We will press ever onward with the knowledge that God is on our side, and that the future of this country is worth fighting for.”

You are bathed in flashbulb lightning; your ears ring with the thunder of the applause. You are shaking hands now, nodding, beaming, Criston following you like a shadow as you move through the congregation. You stop to listen to a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who wants to give you marriage advice: never get bossy, don��t become selfish, remember that you are his safe harbor in the storms of life. It is your job to gift her your momentary veneration. You have beauty, but she has wisdom; or at least, that is the bargain that has been struck, that is the presumption everyone agrees upon. She must have some advantage over you, otherwise the decades she has spent in service of her parents and husband and children have been wasted, she has carved away pieces of herself to feed hungry mouths until she vanished like the doomed nymph Echo. In return, she tries not to envy you too much, not to dismiss you as foolish or frivolous or lustful. Sometimes you think that women are filled with such vicious, relentless self-loathing that it feels good to direct it at someone else for a while, to pick apart another body, to tally up the deficits of her spirit.

“Aemond is so lucky to have you,” the woman says. You can barely hear her over the roar of the crowd.

And you smile as you dutifully reply: “I think it’s the other way around.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There is a television mounted on the wall in Aemond’s room. The news coverage, the volume turned way down low, oscillates between his own near-assassination and the stalled peace talks in Paris. Representatives of the United States and North Vietnam cannot agree, and so each day more body bags are flown home to return the bones of the nation’s sons and fathers to Missouri, Alabama, Idaho, Maine, Wisconsin, Maryland, Arizona, California, New Jersey, everywhere else. Someone has to end it. Aemond will end it.

“I dreamed I won Florida,” your husband mumbles, and that’s how you know he’s awake, here in a hospital bed and wearing IVs like strings of Christmas lights around a pine tree.

“You did,” you tell him, gently smoothing back his hair from his forehead. His left eye—where his left eye used to be—is bandaged; his words are soft and labored. “Humphrey was second. Wallace got third. But you won. And you’re going to be okay.”

“McCarthy?”

“It seems you’re devouring his coalition.”

Aemond’s lips slowly curl into a grin, triumphant. “It is God’s will.” And this is what he always says. It is God’s will that he survives, it is God’s will that he wins the presidency, it is God’s will that you give him sons.

“Yes,” you agree, lifting his right hand to kiss his knuckles. Then you press the komboskini you’re still carrying into his weak grasp. It means more to Aemond than it does to you. “Yes it is.”

Aemond sinks into unconsciousness again, morphine and dreams that blur with reality. There will be pain soon, and plenty of it, but he is free from that impending truth for now. You rise from your chair to tell the rest of the family that Aemond is beginning to wake up. Alicent and Criston will want to speak with him.

When you open the door, Aegon is standing there: an eavesdropper, a trespasser. He glares at you with his large wet ocean-blue eyes, hazy with pills, glinting with resentment. Reluctantly, you step aside to let him in. Aegon wobbles as he passes you and has to grab onto the doorframe to steady himself, scrabbling like a trapped animal.

“You’re a disaster,” you say, caustic like acid, biting, repulsed.

Aegon whirls and jabs his index finger against your chest, bloodstained mint green wool bouclé by Chanel. “You’re a vessel. You’re a cow. And one day he’ll be done with you.”

You feel something hitting you like a bullet, cracking ribs, piercing lungs, tearing muscles and ligaments. Your lips have parted, but you can’t fathom words. Aegon has said many things to you—bitter things, belittling things, things in mixed company, things when you’re alone—but never this. For the first time since you met him two years ago, he has won one of your sparring matches. He has the upper hand. He has wounded you.

Aegon can see this, certainly. But he doesn’t seem pleased with himself. He looks a little shellshocked, like he can’t quite believe he said the words, like maybe if given the chance again he wouldn’t take it. But the moment is over now, and you can’t get time back, it is a thread that unspools until every inch is gone, spent, tangled in a thousand webs.

Aegon staggers into the hospital room. You flee from it. Out in the lobby the phone at the nurses’ station is ringing again. They’ll all be calling now to give their requisite sympathies. Humphrey counsels prudence, McCarthy prays for peace, LBJ offers the empathy of someone who has felt the cold gaze of Death in his own doorway, Nixon praises Aemond’s resilience and quotes the ancient philosopher Seneca: “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.”

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader

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storiesoflilies · 2 months

Text

of angels and curses

warnings: light smut? i don’t know, it’s a lil spicy.

a/n: these interludes will have no addition to the main plot in any way. i suppose they are more of a drabble, anyways it’s just me in my feels. enjoy :) Ko-Fi.

next part — chapter 4

interlude (i)

they lay together intertwined in his garden of bluebells, looking up at the tapestry of starlight galaxies above them. she knew she was dreaming, but it felt so real – he felt so real.

“if i could cast a spell on you, i would,” gojo said, like it was the most simple thing in the world.

how could he not be real? the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed, the way their shoulders touched, and the way he looked at the celestial sky all felt real.

“really? what for?” she asked softly, as delicate as the rain that fell from the heavens that cried whenever angels died.

his eyes twinkled with starlight and silver as he replied, “so you won’t ever forget me.”

she giggled naively, “why, i could never forget you.”

“yes you could,” he quickly said, his words tumbling and rolling like stones from an avalanche. “you would. you know i already love you, but you won’t let me because of him.”

“but i’m here now, doesn’t that count for something?”

“no it doesn’t, because you already think he’s beautiful and he loves you,” he murmured, pointing at a star shooting across the sky, a momentary distraction.

“but i’m here with you now, i’m already yours,” she said, stroking away the blades of grass that clung to his snowy hair.

he shook his head, “you never were. you’re like a little stream running away to join the sea, and i’ve tried so hard to follow you all this time.”

he was so different under the light of moon and stars. here was her champion, reduced to bare bones and flesh, his soul raw and exposed for her to feast on.

“i don’t want to know what you feel anymore, or i’ll start to love you less,” his voice cracked, like ice crashing against stone.

“oh, don’t say that. don’t ever say that,”

he rolled over on top of her, his hands clasping both sides of her head, kissing her face fervently, full of reverence. it felt wrong, this wasn’t holy, underneath the eyes of heaven and the universe.

“i won’t, i won’t,” he whispered, his blue eyes like deep infinite pools that she saw her whole life play out within. “just give me a chance.”

but it would be a lie, and she knew it; so did he. she didn’t think he cared. he was just a fool in the big grand scheme of the universe, but in that moment he was hers, and she couldn’t help but love him the way he wanted to be loved.

“please don’t lie to me, don’t,” he begged, but his voice had become as sharp as thorns and razors, and his fingers dug crescent moons into her arms.

and her heart broke for him, because all she wanted to do was run away from him. it was easier to think he never loved her really, because all any of it had ever been was lies and a facade. he kissed her lips suddenly, trying to be gentle, but he was made of ice and she of the sun. it hurt him more than it did her, and he gasped loudly.

“you can’t leave me, i’ll haunt you, I’ll follow you,” he vowed, his lips all swollen and wet brushing against hers as he spoke, and forbidden desire pooled between them. “is he really worth this?”

his hand travelled in waves and swirls down to her navel, dancing just above the dip in between her thighs, while his other held the back of her head, fingers intertwined into her hair.

“i won’t leave, you can be my beautiful sea now,” she breathed shakily, as his cold lips worshipped her neck.

all lies. she didn’t belong here with him, because he was worth everything she could give. he settled his face between the dip of her neck and shoulder, breathing hard and heavy, and rumbled, “darling, i’m an ocean.”

she shivered as his white hair tickled her chin, and he said, “you’ll hear the sound of my waves, and you’ll know.”

his fingers ghosted over that forbidden spot, and she fought back against the moan that threatened to escape her mouth. he looked at her with those infinite eyes, desire and anger pooling in them, and she knew then she had to be careful against the storm.

“you’ll know that you can never get away from me, from this,” he whispered, his stray hand traveling back up to cup her face.

she said nothing, and they stared at each other like first loves dancing together in between the weaves of fate. time was cruel, and maybe in another life they would have been each other’s dreams. but for now, she would take her chances and turn around and run away.

and run.

run towards him instead, because his love was real.

“why don’t you shine down on me?” he murmured, capturing her lips again, his tongue swiping across them, begging for entrance.

and she let him in, just this once, their tongues twisting and turning together in a fast waltz. he fisted his fingers in her hair and gripped her waist like she was going to melt away from him. in another lifetime, this would have been so right; the way he held her as he started to move into her, the way she wrapped her arms around his neck, and she wouldn’t be pretending it wasn’t gojo making her feel this good.

he finally broke away from her, their foreheads touching, and said, “you can’t, can you? you’ve already spent all your light on him.”

she could only nod, and he sighed in defeat. here was the strongest of them all, a titan brought low, broken and bent, because he could never possibly hope to compete against him.

“you won’t remember this,” he said, bowing his head as the tears fell like a tragedy down his smooth skin. “you won’t remember me.”

“i will,” she stated firmly, comfortingly. this, she would promise.

“no, you won’t,” he sobbed. she’d broken him forever.

and his garden of bluebells disappeared with the wind, as the echoes of his heartbreak cried out to her soul.

-•-

taglist: @kkhaosxx @better-imagination-9 @gabrielle2013 @angelheavensblog @cyberang3lic @justmarlen3 @pinknipszz @moonwingeys @luzzbuzz @hornabbyyy @mitsuyasblackwifey @chosolover736 @spookyjyestha @elisqq @sillyrings978 @littlekittensoftpaws93 @starryluv4 @99k4manii @maid4nanno @chososrealwife @iloveitwhentheyrunnn @kamoslut @rubyrose2014

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i-literally-cant-with-this · 5 months

Text

C/W ::: Sorta sleepy oral M->F, cum // piss on face, piss play (??) heed the warning, please. And planning // prep for more piss play. Over use of italics as usual. What. I like them, ok?

F!reader married to Dilf!Bkg (in his early 40's), v. established marriage // 7 years, 1 kid at Mitsuki's house for the weekend,

Katsuki wakes up first. The sky is bright as he peeks out of his sleepy eyes. He lays there for a few minutes, just staring at the outline of your curves under the light pink sheet. It's already hot. Probably 85 outside by now despite it being only 8 or so in the morning. He hasn't looked at the clock yet. He can't seem to take his eyes off of you.

You shuffle in your half-asleep state and roll onto your back. He smiles at you when you open your eyes to see if he's still there. But in your heart, you knew he would be.

"Good morning," he whispers to you and moves over to kiss your shoulder up to your neck. It's slow and lazy. The kind of affection that didn't know the rush of everyday necessity.

"Hey, you. What are you still doing here? I thought you'd be long gone by now. You think you'd be getting breakfast after the dessert I gave you last night?" You tuck your chin and giggle as the 2 day growth on his face tickles your bare chest. His hair is wild against your face as you try to push him away.

"Oh my god, you perv! Are you trying to shove my head down to your cunt again? Jesus fuck. I go down on you last night and you think it's all I'm good for? You think you deserve it? You're somethin' else, ya brat." He grabs your hand and holds it above you, against your pillow and scoots over so he's between your legs.

He hooked his arms under your knees and raised them up to your chest, his hands rest on the mattress next to your hips. "Mm, I gotta pee real quick. Lemme up. I'll be right back."

"You weren't even that good at it, ya loser." You spit back. He stopped and looked you dead in the eye, "That's not what you were sayin' last night. You goddamn liar. You wouldn't shut the fuck up, 'Oh Kats, don't stop Kats, holy shit Kats. You're God's gift to women, Ka-'…"

You slapped his flexed bicep, laughing. "I would never say such lies. I would never wish you on anyone. Man or woman. You're terrible. You're a terrible, horrible, filthy person."

You tried, and failed.

"Yeah? Gotta piss, eh. Well, you should've thought about that before you sassed off to me, fuckin' brat. Now, lemme see if you can keep that smart ass mouth of yours shut while I give it to you again." He leaned down and started to lap at your clit. You inhaled sharply, unable to get anything out of your mouth but a desperate whine. "K-Kats, really. I - h- oh fuck, th- fuck that's good. You're stupid good at eatin' pussy. And I promise I'll come back to you after I use the little girls room. Ge-get up, p- pl- … Kats, you're gonna make me cum and it's not gonna stop at that. It's not gonna be pretty."

He wouldn't let up on your clit. And it was so fucking hard for you to make him. It felt so good, very first thing in the morning. His fingers found their way inside of your hot and dripping pussy, sliding in and out easily. He knew just where to hit you and when. He knew exactly what buttons to push. He knew your body almost as well as you did and it was so good.

Katsuki looked up at you, his eyes hooded and his mouth slick with your juices, "You're so fuckin' cute when you whine for me to stop. However … not gonna ... stop. Not until I can feel your cum dripping down my chin and your legs are shaking aroun' my ears."

You laughed and dropped your head back onto your pillow. "I'm warning you. You have been warned, you stubborn shit." Resting your forearm over your eyes and anchoring your other hand in the hair just above his undercut, you gave in to him. And relaxed, while trying not to relax everything too much.

And, so you did. You quit your bitching and relaxed into his mouth on your cunt. It was warm. His tongue running between your folds wasn't much in contrast to how the rest of you felt; it was wet and hot, too. But when he doubled down, sucking on your little bud of nerves and delving his fingers into you, it was nearly more than you could handle. His nose sliding over your clit when his mouth wasn't on it. You could feel yourself quickly approaching that crossroad.

He hummed approvingly when you melted under his touch and raised your hips to match the ebb and flow of his ministrations. He was sloppy, his slurps and soft moans only egged you on more. "What are you so - hohh shit - happy about? Nothing about this is going to end well, Katsuki." He let go of your clit with a pop and told you to quit yer bitchin', let him do what he enjoys doing and does best. "Fine. But you're changing the sheets, shit ass." You laughed at his response to that; He buried his face even further into your hot core and doubled his efforts.

"Hm-mahh, Kats, nuh-uh, nonono oh fu- holy shit! I'm g- I'm gonna fffuuuccckkk, Katsuki!"

Your cheeks turned rosy pink and you felt the sudden urge to have the fan on. "Kats - hot, I'm h-hot." He grumbled into your cunt, "Fuck, I know y'are. I know, baby. So fuckin' hot. Cum for me, c'mon."

Your body tensed up and your knees snapped shut as your orgasm hit you like a runaway semi. The hot liquid - not much of a surprise to you - caught your husband completely off guard. Despite your many, many warnings, he still didn't anticipate the release of such bodily fluids.

"Hol- … holy fucking shit, babe! Did you … did you just … piss?" He yelled. You had never been so grateful that your kid was at their grandma's house and not there to hear their dad yell at their mom about pissing the bed.

"I-I- YOU!!! I fucking told YOU!! And your dumbass just pushed and pushed and poked and sucked on me. And now? Well now, you have to change and wash the sheets." You looked at him with a smug look on your face that you had not earned but felt like he deserved to be at the receiving end of.

He laid there. Half stunned and fully hard. "Babe. I'm … you … fuck. That was so hot. I mean, I'm sorr-sorta sorry. But fuck. You just came so hard you pissed. I have never made you cum like that." He stood and walked over to where you were standing, dripping onto the hardwood floor. Cupping your pussy and rubbing it with the palm of his hand and fingertips, he leaned down to kiss you. "We're doing that again. I'll get the shit we need. You do whatever you need to do. I'll be back and serving up some drinks after a bit. Be ready for me. I love you, peeps."

"Peeps?" You tilted your head in confusion. "Oh, yeah. 'S my new nickname for ya. You like it?"

Laughing, you tiptoed the rest of the way to the bathroom to clean yourself off. "Whatever floats your boat, baby. Whatever floats your boat."

Taglist ::: @darkstarlight82 @millennialmagicalgirl // @bakubunny (Yes I know. But just in case you somehow missed it and because of the conversation we had about his little kinks the other day ; )) @thenamesmiz (if you only wanted kiri stuff lmk!) @callm3senpaii (are you still out there? Lol) @arlerts-angel

#katsuki bakugo smut #katsuki bakugo #katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katsuki smut #katsuki smut #bakugou smut #bakugo smut #bakugo katsuki mha #my hero academia #mha smut #bnha smut #tw piss

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ah-bright-wings · 1 year

Text

The Garden - A Holy Saturday Story

A night wind rustles through the garden. Acacius shifts his feet, eyes following the bounce of a tree branch, though no night creature disturbs it. The sky is empty of clouds, leaving the moon silver and naked. The faint blush of dawn touches the horizon. Acacius feels his back touch the stone behind him and he straightens himself.

“Have you noticed,” he says sideways to Longinus—who alone remains awake while the other two in their guard sleep, rotations completed—“that you can’t hear any insects?”

Longinus doesn’t respond. When Acacius turns his head, he sees the man’s face is set, eyes unfocused. He’s on his back, one hand behind his head, the other on his belly, calloused fingers curled. His thumb taps an unsteady rhythm.

“Longinus,” Acacius says, and the man finally looks over, though for a moment only.

“Hercules died,” he says.

“…Hercules.”

“He was a demigod. He died. So, the sons of gods can die.”

Acacius’ grip tightens on his spear. “You’re speaking of the Nazarene.”

“Who else could I speak of?”

It’s not a biting retort, but an earnest one. Longinus has not spoken since they left Golgotha. Now, his voice is quiet, gruff. Uneasy. The brush rustles, and Acacius’ head snaps towards it. Longinus doesn’t flinch. His eyes remain fixed upwards.

“Are his followers really stupid enough to try stealing the body?” Acacius asks when he’s certain there’s no one in the garden.

“Does their god have sons?” Longinus doesn’t seem to have heard the question. Or, he’s heard and ignored it, continuing his own thoughts. “He must. All gods do. His mother must be a great woman.”

“He’s not a demigod,” Acacius says, a sigh held behind his teeth. “And we saw his mother. She was plain. So was he. Just a man.”

“He wasn’t just a man.”

“Why not?”

Longinus’ thumb taps on the curve of his bottom rib. “You saw what I did.”

“I saw a man die on a cross.”

“And the earth shake at his death.”

“Earthquakes happen.”

“Not like this.”

“If you are so certain,” Acacius says, “perhaps you should make an offering to appease his father. The lightning could strike you any moment now. Oh yes, look, here it comes.” He lifts a hand to the clear sky above.

Longinus’ jaw shifts. He pushes himself up on his elbows so he can properly see his fellow legionnaire. There is still blood on his tunic, spattered against him by the wind when he thrust his spear through flesh. “Be careful what you mock.”

“I mock nothing. I mock no one. Is their god so powerful? Hm? He does nothing for them while Rome rules. He sends only rain while his ‘son’ hangs on a cross.” Acacius snorts and readjusts his stance. “They have one god, and he has forgotten them.”

“You’re a fool,” Longinus tells him. “Even Petronius recognized him for what he was.”

“The centurion is superstitious.”

“And you aren’t?”

“We did our duty.” Acacius is growing uneasy. Something rustles again in the brush. “So he was unusual. So, then, what? It changes nothing.”

“He prayed for our forgiveness.”

“Then he was sentimental.”

Longinus mutters a crude retort and lies down again. Acacius smiles thinly. The Nazarene had disturbed him, with his piercing eyes and silence under their whip, though he won’t admit it. The man’s eyes had been open when they pulled him down from the cross. Acacius had shut them to hide from them.

“If he truly was the son of a god,” Acacius says, after the silence has stretched out like a shadow and grown heavy, “then we’d be the ones who killed him.”

“Yes,” Longinus says quietly.

There is a warm wind stirring the trees like a breath. The earth is otherwise still around them. For hours, it has been still, as if creation is holding its breath, and just now, it has let it out again, sending puffs against Acacius’ skin and raising the soft hairs. The other two guards stir in their sleep. Longinus sits suddenly upright.

“Something is here,” he says, hand on his sword. He’s up before his words are out, kicking the others so they wake. The dawn makes itself known. The wind rises quickly. Clear is the sky, but the moon trembles as if afraid, hiding its face. A shaking begins, deeper than stone, making the trees shudder and groan, causing the roots to untwist themselves from the ground. Caius, who had laid his head on the Nazarene’s tunic, which he had won, has gone pale. He clings to his sword and shouts into the wind. His words are lost.

A man—no, it is not a man, though it is dressed in the white robes of one—comes across the grass, silent in its steps. When Acacius looks at it, terror seizes him. It’s a flash of terror, bright and terrible, illuminating all within himself that he has tried to hide. This is death! he thinks. This is death! His legs are limp beneath him. His face is crushed against the ground.

The man who is not a man places its hand on the stone. The wax seal melts away. Though the soldiers had strained themselves closing the tomb, the stone is pushed away with one hand, as easily as a boy might pick up a pebble and toss it away. It lands on its side, though it makes no sound. The being sits on it.

When Acacius comes to his right mind again, he is on his belly. His cheek is damp with dew. With his head turned sideways, he can see, two paces from him, Longinus, who is prostrate on his belly also, arms bent at the elbows so that his hands cover his head. He is shaking. Acacius hears him speaking, though it is more a babble than intelligible speech, the words forced from his lungs as he weeps.

Mercy, Acacius realizes. He begs for mercy.

There is still a terror in his own self when he raises his head to see the tomb. The being is gone. The tomb is open, stone cast aside, seal destroyed. Slowly, Acacius turns his head from side to side. The garden has come alive. In the new light, green has unfurled itself splendidly, trees putting forth their fruits and flowers like offerings so their fragrance fills the air. He sees fruit he does not know, nor has ever tasted. In the dipped branch of an olive tree, a grey dove sits.

His sword is gone. When did he drop it? He lifts himself and looks for the others, who are sprawled on the ground like dead men, though they breathe. He should check them. He should look for wounds. But something draws him towards the tomb, until he’s at the dark mouth of it, leaving the others behind, breathing in the cool, damp air.

The tomb is empty.

“My gods,” he whispers, and he is terrified. He takes a step back, then another, turning from the empty tomb and the white linen cloths folded neatly where the body should be. His sandal catches on a root. He sprawls. The ground strips the skin from his knees. Blood rolls down his right calf as he limps forward.

Father, forgive them, had said the Nazarene, with a tongue swollen from thirst.

“Run,” he tells Longinus hoarsely, grabbing the back of his tunic and hauling him upright. The others rise too. Their swords are abandoned. The Nazarene’s red garment lies crumpled on the ground. In the tomb, the graveclothes are folded.

Father, forgive them, the man had prayed.

They know not what they do.

Acacius falls again, knocking the breath from himself. No one stops. The other three run ahead, fleeing the emptiness of the tomb, and though he gasps after them, they do not hear.

There is no strength left in his limbs. As if gripped by fever, he trembles. Every story he has heard of the wrath of the gods comes to him here, crouched in the dust, made as low as beasts, while some great and holy fear passes over him. He covers his head as Longinus had done and begs for mercy.

Son of a god I do not know, he pleads, have mercy on me. Have mercy on me.

A hand touches his shoulder.

Peace, says a voice he has heard before. Be still.

Immediately, the trembling leaves him. The terror that had overshadowed him passes on, leaving him be, and he is alone in the dust, alone, breathing. A dove coos. When he opens his eyes, he sees it on the path ahead, feathers ruffling. His eyes follow it when it takes flight.

The tomb is empty. The seal is broken, and the Nazarene is gone. At last, the world has thrown off its silence, and it sings around him, crying out while he stands mute. For a moment, he is still, seeking the source of their song. From where does it come? He cannot discern it. He abandons the stillness and presses on.

It is only when he rejoins the others that he finds his skinned knees made whole.

#not art #holy saturday #triuduum #holy week reflection #last year I wrote about Mary and John #this year I wanted to try something a bit different #ended up doing a bunch of research for it when I wrote it tonight #learned a lot about roman military oaths and names and such #learned about pigeons/doves #even learned about what causes a person to have their eyes open after death #writing #anyway #happy holy week

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sovaghoul · 6 months

Text

⚠️DISCLAIMER⚠️

This post is meant all in good fun and is not intended to offend anyone's religious or spiritual sensibilities. I'd hope any Ghost fan would realize that, but you never know. I tagged this with "Scooby-Doo Satanism" for that reason. That said, if you DO want to do this in earnest, feel free. Also CW/TW for Catholicism.

So I thought to myself, "Self, Ghost sells Grucifix rosaries. There's also the "Dark Lord’s Prayer" in Ritual. And the "Holy Mother" bridge in Griftwood is kind of like a Hail Mary."

So I researched and embellished upon traditional rosary prayers and came up with this. Based upon the Meliora rosary because that's the one I have.

All prayer/lyrics credit to our Tender Father.

Begin by holding the Grucifix and reciting (or singing, if you prefer) The Depth of Satan's Eyes (Prayer A):

Into the eyes of fire

Into the gaze ablaze

Into the burning light

Of Satan's rays

Into the source of wisdom

Beyond the Bible lies

Into the endless depth

Of Satan's eyes

Next, on the first large bead, recite The Dark Lord’s Prayer (Prayer B):

Our father, who art in Hell

Unhallowed, be Thy name

Cursed be the sons and daughters

Of Thine nemesis who are to blame

Thy kingdom

Come

nemA

On each of the following large beads, recite The Holy Mother (Prayer C, 3x total):

Holy Mother

You washeth the sin from my feet

Holy Mother

You shine like the sun and the moon

And the stars in the sky

The world rests heavy on your shoulders

Holy Mother

You shine like the sun and the moon

And the stars in the sky

In the space before the next large bead, recite Year Zero (Prayer D):

He will tremble the nations

Kingdoms to fall one by one

Victim to fall for temptations

A daughter to fall for a son

The ancient Serpent Deceiver

To masses standing in awe

He will ascend to the heavens

Above the stars of god

Hell Satan, Archangelo

Hell Satan, welcome Year Zero!

Repeat The Dark Lord’s Prayer (B) on the next large bead.

On the space after the bead, recite Per Aspera Ad Inferi (Prayer E):

Oh Satan, devour us all

Hear our desperate call

Per aspera ad inferi (x4)

Continue along the strand widdershins (counter-clockwise), and repeat The Holy Mother (C) on the next 9 large beads (9x total).

Repeat Year Zero (D), Dark Lord’s Prayer (B) and Per Aspera Ad Inferi (E) before, on, and after each single large bead, respectively, as before (3x total).

Repeat Prayers B-E in the same manner until returning to the Bite of Passage (the Y junction leading back to the Grucifix).

Four final prayers, Stand By Him (F), Majesty (G), Con Clavi Con Dio (H), and Satan Prayer (I), end the rosary, again holding the Grucifix:

A moon shone bright above Her trial

As flames ate through Her body defiled

The Witch Hammer struck Her down

On our Sabbath, She's unbound

'Tis the night of the Witch

'Tis the night of the Witch tonight

And the Vengeance is Hers

For as long as She stands by Him

⛧

Old One, Master

All beauty lies within You

Your Infernal Majesty!

⛧

Sathanas, we are One

Out of three, Trinity

Siamo con clavi

Siamo con Dio

Siamo con il nostro Dio scuro

⛧

Believe in one god do we

Satan almighty

The uncreator of heaven and soil

And the unvisable and the visable

And in his Son

Begotten of Father

By whom all things will be unmade

Who for man and his damnation

Incarnated

Rise up from hell

From sitteth on the left hand of his Father

From thense he shall come to judge

Out of one substance

With Satan

Whose kingdom shall haveth no end

nemA

#the band ghost #grucifix rosary #satanic rosary #scooby-doo satanism #the depth of satan's eyes #year zero #griftwood #ritual #con clavi con dio #stand by him #majesty #per asper ad inferi #satan prayer #ghost lyrics #lyrics as prayer

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adracat · 10 months

Text

GWitch: As Above, So Below

Hermes Trismegistus is the syncretism of the Greek god Hermes(Roman Mercury) and the Egyptian god Thoth. His name means thrice great, an epithet shared between both figures. Their combined worship was observed in Hermopolis and spawned Hermetic philosophy; personal ascension from the constraints of physical being.

"As Above, So Below' is paraphrased from a Hermetic text known as the Emerald Tablet and gained great relevance in the occult, astrology, and alchemy-- All domains of Hermes/Mercury

Quod est superius est sicut quod inferius, et quod inferius est sicut quod est superius.

That which is above is like to that which is below, and that which is below is like to that which is above.

"As above, so it is below. That which has been, will return again. As in heaven, so on earth." - Helena Blavatsky

In the occult and witchcraft, it's taken to mean there exists a balance between the cosms. Macrocosm, the universe, and microcosm, the human body. That which happens as above, so it is below. They are one; a perfect union

Symbology

What is happening, has happened, and will happen again. As I've observed in my Cycles of GWitch analysis, this theme is very prevalent. Cycles themselves are a sign of As Above, So Below. The World Serpent and World tree are symbols of this principle, along with the sign for infinity 8, the caduceus, and circles.

One major sign is the Magician from the Rider–Waite tarot deck

The magician is signaling with his hands As Above, So Below and is haloed by the sign for infinity above. A pentagram lies to the left, depicting the tie to the mystic world. It's no accident that we have Prospera referred to as a magician with her gentle words; hinting at her significance through Mercury (god of communication and trickery) and the hermetic principle. She is the Magician. And an argument can be made that Suletta is also a magician (witch) who inadvertently influences rather than manipulates. But that line of thought is for another day

The Sabbatic goat Baphomet is another Symbol of As Above, So Below

They are a sign of a perfect union of opposites; Man/Beast, Female/Male, Dark/Light, etc. All while bearing Mercury's caduceus and mirroring the magician. Note the pentagram and torch pointed to the sky as the Magician does. As Above, So Below. The words on its arms are Solve (dissove) Coagula (coagulate). An alchemical principle that means to create something new, you must dissove what came before. The End must come before the Beginning. The Beginning must come before the End. A connected cycle.

Ragnarok is an obvious use of this concept but it also exists in Greek myth; Cronos who overthrew his father Uranus who was overthrown by his son in return. What has happened will happen again.

Notrette, the Hermetic Alchemist

This is more on the speculation side of things but considering ep23 and soft confirmation she resides in the GUND nexus and even more of a genetic genius than expected; let's assume she's the one who created Suletta, the 12th key.

In Alchemy, there exists something called the philosopher's stone. FMA fans are very familiar but in layman's terms it's the holy grail of alchemy. And one of the boons is the ability to create a clone/homunculus. Considering QZ, the ability to unnaturally extend life is similarly on the nose. The 12 keys of Basil Valentine is an alchemical text by which you can create the philosopher's stone

This is the image for the twelth and final step. Twelfth Key. Inside a laboratory an alchemist stands with tongs in his left hand, while with his right he points to a triangular crucible on a bench behind him, with two rose-like flowers growing out of it and the symbol of Mercury above it. On the left is a barrel-like furnace from the top of which flames emerge. On the right a lion devours a snake. Through an open window behind, the Sun and Moon are seen.

Mercury's symbol and 12th key are undeniably Suletta but the Snake and Lion are Shaddiq and Guel. The Moon is Nott (Notrette) and the Sun is her child Dagr (Miorine)

We are meant to associate both Notrette and Prospera as Hermetic Alchemists, and the pursuit of their craft has led to the events of GWitch and the perpetuation of numerous cycles. As Above, So Below.

I do find it intriguing that the stone is said to be not one, but two. A red stone and a white stone. It's not hard to equate our girls to both. After all, they too are a perfect union of opposites

#As above so below so below as above #sometimes this show is too subtle for its own good #anyway why would you waste the as above so below suit on lauda #g witch #suletta mercury #miorine rembran #gundam witch from mercury #g witch spoilers #analysis and speculation #prospera mercury #the witch from mercury

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oh-hell-help-me · 10 months

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Day 26: Nesting

It was hard after Bowser made a public announcement.

Surprisingly, it’s not for the reasons Luigi dreaded.

There was stares as he made on effort to go out more, yes, but they weren’t as hostile or scared as he was prepared for. In fact, some of the Kingdom’s citizens just seemed curious. Even then, it only took a few moments for them to simply carry on.

There was whispering, but most of the whisperers didn’t feel… wrong (his new sense didn’t come with an instruction manual, sadly)?

There was even the occasional confrontation, but they were over how he missed meetings at the book club (Shyly was very adamant about his attendance- when did he become a member?), or wanting to talk about The Plan. Some even sent him for Bowser over new developments.

It was… reassuring. To have his fears be just that: fears.

The problem lied in the fact that Luigi felt restless.

For three consecutive days, he had little to no sleep.

He should in all rights be fine! GREAT even!

He and Bowser settled into an official relationship, the progress of The Plan had whittled down the unemployment and homelessness rate to near-nothing, and he has a better grasp of himself than he has been a week ago!

But he still couldn’t sleep.

Of course, he hasn’t told anyone and had tried everything from warm milk (he stopped trying at three cups), to exercise (which didn’t tire him out), to counting sheep (he didn’t see much point after 152).

So he did the next best thing: skulking about the castle garden.

It was raining again, but it thankfully wasn’t the kind of night for lightning. Even then, getting wet doesn’t bother him as it did before he… changed.

He can count that as a perk, right?

So there he was, sitting on the castle wall (not as a 'shadow', for once) when something in the distant sky was spotted.

He had thought it was a cloud, or maybe a Paratroopa having a joyride (which is unsettlingly common).

Then he realized it was coming closer.

Luigi couldn’t say what made him freeze, but the sight of the rapidly approaching object had stuck him to that garden wall.

It's white and... orange? And seems to almost be as big as him-

It soars above his head, turning into tight, fast circles as it descends and-

It's a stork? Carrying... a soaking cloth bundle?

“…Huh?”

The bird doesn't answer, not even as it hefts the bundle into Luigi's startled arms- "Um-" and takes off with a flourish of dripping wings.

He would hate to admit it, but it takes a solid minute of standing there, watching the stork leave, before he realizes that the bundle feels solid.

He parts the cloth and looks inside.

Oh, it's an egg.

... HOLY SHIT IT LEFT AN EGG!!!

And of course Luigi is panicking!

Eggs should be warm, right?

He- tries to feel its temperature, but nearly slaps himself because he KNOWS he's cold-

And the egg has been traveling in a wet, wind-swept rag.

He sprints back to the castle, nearly slipping in the hallways as he tunnel visions for something- anythingplease-

He arrives at the Royal Wing, and hope never felt so good as when he turns to Junior's Room.

(Later, he'll realize that it's strangely empty for a reason.)

No one had taken apart the nest yet since it was still Storm Season, and he can only thank the Royal Koopas' pragmatism for having it relatively packed with soft warm blankets.

It doesn't stop Luigi from nearly putting it into disarray as he nearly buries the egg into it, nor lining the outside with an old heating blanket that he never quite trusted due to its high temperatures but-

It might as well be perfect for this.

When he's done, he could only sit at the nest's edge, trembling.

He hates that he doesn't know what to do.

Bowser woke up in a jolt by the worst Pulses he's ever felt.

It wasn't even Luigi's surprise or anxiety, something that is normal even though it was still horrible to feel. It was pure, unadulterated fear-

And it's still coming in overwhelming waves.

He's out of his bed in seconds, only pausing after yanking his door open to see Junior standing there- shivering and just as shaken as he is.

"Dad- something's wrong!"

It's all he needs to scoop up his son and hug him tightly, even as he hurried down the hall in frantic abandon- nearly bulldozing night patrols as he checks his room, the library, the kitchen, the meeting rooms, the garden-

He's not here-

"-ad!"

He couldn't find him, what if he-

"Dad!"

-was kidnapped again and why didn't he keep him closer-

"DAD!" He feels tiny hands smack his arm, having the Koopa look down, realize that he's hugging his son a bit harder than usual, and quickly relax his grip.

"I- Junior, I'm-"

"Not that! I can handle it!" Junior looks at him indignant. "Do you feel that?"

Bowser pauses long enough in confusion to realize that his son is right- the waves seem to be lessening. Almost down to ripples of indecision, shock, and other emotions that at least tell him that Luigi is very much still around.

And somewhat close, now that they can feel the direction where the Pulses are coming from.

Hefting Junior higher onto his shoulder, he heads down a few halls, taking a few familiar turns that eventually lead to... the Royal Wing?

He unwittingly slows down as he gets closer to the center point- closer to Junior's room.

How the hell did either of them miss him?

He opens the door-

And there the human was, already turning around to the sound of the door, next to their little nest-

"...Is that an egg?"

Luigi only answers him with a whimper.

#bowuigi #KAIJUNE Prompt #HAPPY PRIDE MONTH #also why not egg?#Luigi cursing narratively #now I sleep

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throughtrialbyfire · 2 months

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WIP Whenevers-day!

welcome to a very very late wip wednesday! thank you to the lovely @viss-and-pinegar @wispstalk @totally-not-deacon @skyrim-forever and @thequeenofthewinter for tagging me! i'm tagging @mareenavee @kookaburra1701 @dirty-bosmer and @gilgamish !! feel free to join in if you arent tagged and want to! i'm bringing an excerpt of chapter 27 from "Cycle of the Serpent" today, where athenath encounters daedric prince meridia <3

The Vigilants reeled back, the Dunmer's spell rising to her hand, shrieking light in her palm as she attempted to shoot the beacon down. Her spell only gashed the air with electricity, the beacon unmoved, the statue unmarked. Athenath stepped back, the world spinning beneath his feet as they grabbed their own blade. Stones turned to mud, the skies fractaled into fuzzy shapes of sunlight. Senses dulled, Athenath swam for consciousness, groping at the air for something to hold onto and finding nothing but the ground that turned to distant, dull sensations. Blinking hard, their stomach threatened to spill out. The words of the Vigilants reverberated in their head, the warning he'd just ignored and Mara damn them, the warnings of years and years before, the stories of the Mythic Dawn cult and the rumors of Daedra worshippers and the hells that it brought- When Athenath blinked away the blurring edges of his vision, he looked up. No longer pressing palms into the ground, he stood, watching as what could have been a tiny sun twisted in angles before them. Every edge circled in rainbow refractions, crystalline and gleaming, every center brighter than Magnus' own hole in the heavens which he fled through. The light before him spoke, bitterness treading every word carelessly. "It is time for my splendor to return to Skyrim," her voice broke through the ringing in Athenath's ears. The world had gone eerily silent, and more, he couldn't feel anything around him as the voice spoke again, "but the token of my truth lies buried in the ruins of my once great temple, now tainted by a profane darkness skittering within. The Necromancer Malkoran defiles my shrine with vile corruptions, trapping lost souls left in the wake of this war to do his bidding. Worse still, he uses the power stored within my own token to fuel his foul deeds."

Athenath looked around, weightless in the heavens that swamped his form, nothing below and nothing above. The mountains, distant and faint, twitched in their vision. They swallowed harshly and tried to stifle the shaking in their voice as he said, "I'm- um- where-" As though not hearing him, she continued, "worse still, he uses the power stored within my own token to fuel his foul deeds. I have brought you and your companions here, mortal, to be my champion. You will enter my temple, retrieve my artifact, and destroy the defiler. Guide my light through the temple to open the inner sanctum and destroy the defiler." "That's a lot more than what I signed up for." The words fell out of his lips before he could stop them. Unfazed, Meridia gave a low exhale, as though holding back a much more exhausted sigh. "A single candle can banish the darkness of the entire Void. If not you, then someone else. My beacon is sure to attract a worthy soul. But if you are wise, you will heed my bidding." "But what do I even-" "You have your instructions, mortal."

Athenath paused, the deafening quiet filling their senses with nausea. He looked around, but all they saw for miles were the tops of trees, the sea, the sky, not a sign of their friends nor the Vigilants, just the swamping of their vision with a world that grew more and more alien the more time they spent here, wherever here was. "What's this-" they swallowed dryly, "what artifact?" "Mortals call it Dawnbreaker, for it was forged in a holy light that breaks upon my foes, burning away corruption and false life. You will enter my shrine, destroy Malkoran, and retrieve this mighty blade." The gleaming, twisting fractals of light entranced him, the warmth spilling over their form, whatever form they took up here. He didn't even check to see if he was himself, deciding against looking down. They inhaled, filling their lungs with the crisp air, smelling nothing, feeling nothing. "Okay." A satisfied hum left Meridia's voice. "Malkoran has forced the doors shut. But this is my temple, and it responds to my decree. I will send down a ray of light. Guide this light through my temple and its doors will open." Athenath stumbled. The world fell away and reformed under them, a new world, the same one, what did it matter? It swayed under his feet, the skies congealed, sticky and melting, the clouds brandished heavy lights into their weary eyes, the ground still swung as though he were a fish caught in a net and being tossed aboard a ship.

As Nirn came back to him one piece at a time, he blinked hard against the pounding in their head. A faint, high humming thrilled the air, nerves spiking the hair on the back of their necks. Athenath looked up from where they'd bent over on the ground, knees aching from the stone beneath him. Wyndrelis stood mere inches from him, Restoration magic readied with one hand, Destruction with the other. "Are you alright?" Emeros called out, catching their attention. Athenath snapped his bleary gaze to him, the pounding in their head subsiding. "Yeah, I'm good," they managed out through dry swallowings of air, attempting to steady themself back to the world around him. Stumbling to his feet, Athenath ignored the ranting of one of the Vigilants, eyes finding the statue, the stairs down the mountain, head full of the words Meridia spoke to him. Emeros sent a cautious look their way, expression calming as he shot a glance where Athenath had been looking, then back to the Altmer.

#skyrim fic #tesblr #tes v #skyrim fanfiction #tes fic #bishop.txt #oc ; athenath #cycle of the serpent #my writing #oc ; emeros #oc ; wyndrelis #wip wednesday #daedric prince meridia #meridia #tes meridia #skyrim #tes v skyrim

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evolutionsvoid · 6 months

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The Four Humors and Godly Fluids are crucial elements to this world, ingrained in every bit of the land and civilization. They can be found on every continent, and almost in every household. They are in the land, sea and sky, as Phlegm soaked waves crash upon shores and bolts of Blood lightening blast from the sky. Within life itself, they can be found, though some species bear them more than others. As man has grown and the worship of these fluids have spread, a face needed to be attributed to them, as all revered forces need symbols and bearers. Thus came the sacred beasts, special creatures picked by the church and its countless followers to embody the fluids and inspire their creations. From their search came these picks, species that perfectly aligned themselves to these humors, and are now one in the same with them.

Blood - Leech - Any who have visited the holy churches or sought bleeding for their ailments know that leeches and Blood are bound together. Holy leeches are used frequently to suck out foul Blood from ill followers, or to feed upon fluid offerings to the church. Leech vessels are revered objects with these bloody temples, and many masks and designs bear the six eyes of these wondrous creatures. No healer is complete without a leech jar, and traveling vessels visit faraway villages to spread this holy healing Blood. The Storm Leech is a famous example, which extends its long proboscis upwards to feed upon energy that lances from the turbulent skies above. Those who agitate these creatures will know that they wield this bloody lightening proficiently.

Phlegm - Snail - Slow and calm, the snail is the revered beast of Phlegm, exhibiting the key traits of mindfulness and pondering. Others point to their shell, comparing it to a skull or brain, where the snail's true self lies within. Their calming mucus is laced with Phlegm, and the potency of its peace and healing is proved when these beasts dance upon a blade's edge without harm. Liniment snails are a popular healing item, small enough to be carried in one's pocket. Though they spend most of their time retracted in their shell, a simple squeeze summons them to unfurl and they are rubbed upon wounds to encourage healing. On the flip side, the Mind Stealer is a snail who exhibits a hunger for the brain organa, feeding upon the very source of Phlegm. They release a spray of mind numbing Phlegm and then hook their tendrils into the skull of drowsy prey. Their radula burrows through the skull to get the precious organa within, another morbid piece of proof that they are tied to this humor.

Black Bile - Termite - The studious and efficient, every part of the termite exemplifies what Black Bile is all about. Their great spires of incredible architecture, their flawless system of tasks and roles, moving as a single being made of many. It is said that the carvings and winding etchings of termite colonies is the first recording of knowledge in the world, as much can be divined from their intricate patterns. The carving of Black Bile crystals and imbuing them with information is partly inspired by these insects, and one can easily see how the Scholars have modeled themselves entirely off these colonies. The Lancer termites even wield Black Bile shards, forming them and firing them at intruders. Termites also deal with fungus, which is a life form that is also tied to this fluid. There is an endless debate on if fungi or termites should be the embodiment of Black Bile, as some folk point to their spleen-like shape, black weeping fluid and strange properties of earth and mind as proof. Regardless, these colonies raise and feed upon this fungus, and are sometimes even infested by it, to a point where some say they are one in the same.

Yellow Bile - Jellyfish - The relation is obvious when one sees the voracious nature of the jellyfish and its preference for burning weaponry. Tendrils filled with searing Yellow Bile cripples prey with pain, and then they are swallowed whole into its expansive stomach. It is a creature of hunger and fiery strength, which is why it is revered by the Yellow Bile users and warriors alike. Squads who wield yellow flame to burn away infection and the dreaded "devil bugs" often bear the symbol or likeness of the jellyfish. Small specimens of Cleaner Jellies are used by doctors and workers in foul fields to cleanse their hands of impurities and rot, while the creature gets to feed on seared off detritus. Flame Tongues are a species of jellyfish who use hooked tendril to reel in prey, before smothering them in its central stalk covered in Yellow Bile soaked folds. One whip of this burning appendage is enough to nearly burn through a limb, and thus it is a species to be avoided.

Alkahest - Shamir - A creature just as reviled as the fluid it is paired with, the shamir is feared for its hunger and for what happens to those it consumes. Compared to that of a great maggot, these things live far below where they endlessly feed upon the corpses and flesh. The shamir are unique, as their jaws shear through anything, or more so, they seem to dissolve through anything. Any organic material that makes contact with their mouth seems to give way as if it vanished, allowing them to carve through the world with ease. The many tunnels of the depths are said to be made by shamir, who devour everything but give nothing, as this species seems to excrete zero waste. Whatever is eaten is lost forever, and thus those consumed by a shamir will never be reborn. Doomsday tales speak of how the shamir will eventually devour the whole world, chewing through the lower layers til everything collapses on itself and is then swallowed by their greedy maws and the heretical touch of Alkahest. Thus, all shamir encountered are killed, that is, if anyone can be found who is brave enough to deal with them.

Ichor - Eintykara - A blessed beast of Ichor, loved for its great labors and golden creation. The Eintykara is a colonial insect that goes out into the world to gather pollen, fluid and flesh to bring back to its hive. There it is turned into a rich decadent miren that is prized by many. The substance is claimed to be the closest thing to Ichor any mortal creature can make, and it is a key ingredient in many holy recipes, including ambrosia. These insects possess no stingers, which the religious point out is a symbol of divine pacifism, though they possess sharp jaws and claws that can easily make up for it. Some are able to fire out streams of golden toxins on intruders, mirroring the toxic nature of Ichor. These insects are kept by the Church of Divine Wealth, with entire wings and temples dedicated to their massive hives. There, their miren and corpse wax can be harvested and used, all under the watchful eye of the Golden Keepers and the Mellified Knights. The Thriae are a species of Eintykara that are known for their large size and human-like appearance. Their collections of pollen and materials that they cling to their bodies aids in this look. Their miren is renowned for its hallucinogenic properties, which is said to impart prophecies and visions upon those who consume it. Thus, members of this species are valued as prophets, with some claiming that they may have gained this power due to being a human/eintykara hybrid. One may wonder how such an act would be possible, but others would simply point to the suggestive shapes of Eintykara hives and give a knowing smile.

Tears - Butterfly - A beast of beauty and horror, which is fitting for this non-humor fluid. Butterflies share the fragility and emotion of Tears, seen in their delicate wings and gorgeous colors. However, beneath this visage lies are a darkness, much like the sadness that can swallow a soul. A proboscis that can feed on nectar and juices is also capable of sapping away fluids of live prey. Falling from their wings are frigid scales, that chill those exposed to it. As small and singular specimens, butterflies are seen as symbols of mourning and of grief flying out of a body upon blue wings. But when they grow in either size or numbers, they can be deadly. Merciful Angels are a species that are often spotted after a battle, descending upon the dead or dying as they lie bleeding in the muck. With their wings and human appearance, those fading away see a friendly spirit coming to their aid. The chill that falls from their wings sap away warmth, pain and emotion, causing those beneath them to slowly fall into a peaceful slumber. Those dying may believe these angels come to take away their hurting and sorrows, when in truth they are succumbing to their frigid wings, as this species use them to immobilize weakened prey. Soon the proboscis will unfurl, and finish off these unwary victims so they may drain them in peace.

Milk - Clam - The visage of the clam and its brethren show its ties to fertility, and thus its bond to Milk. Though a non-humor fluid, it is the liquid produced by and tied to all sexes, and the clam is prime example. From its meaty siphons or fleshy folds, it secretes this milky white fluid to spread its young or to draw in prey. Their plentiful nature and place in the food chain makes folk claim that their Milk aids in the fertility of the environment itself, which is why some farmers crush up their shells to add to their soil. The flesh of clams are valued as an aphrodisiac, with folk feasting upon very specific parts. Rarely, the Milk of a clam may congeal into a pearl, a gorgeous stone found within their folds. While other solidified fluids may be feared, pearls are loved due to the belief that their presence encourages fertility. For those wishing for offspring, it is said that jewelry with pearls is the perfect gift to make it happen. Shell Snakes are a species that can be found combing the coastal sands for food, using their large siphons to suck up tiny prey. Their ejections of white fluid bring smaller critters up to feed, and thus they are consumed. This species is hunted for their meat, to the point where their populations have plummeted, forcing hunters to go after more dangerous game.

Amber - Peripatus - While Amber is a non-humor fluid more tied to plants, there are some beasts who have shown an affinity to it. The peripatus are the creatures closest tied to Amber, which can be seen in their unique hunting style. They produce a sticky resin that can be fired in streams, aiming to coat prey. Once it is released from the body, it hardens quite fast, trapping victims within hardened Amber chunks. From there, the worm may collect these pieces and devour them at its leisure, or perhaps save them for later. This resin is used to make nests, markers and other structures, creating beautiful Amber art. It is said that the peripatus and the weeping trees were the inspiration for the ambering process, where living beings are sealed and preserved within Amber pods. This is typically done to prisoners, as it is an extremely cruel punishment, where they are trapped in an ageless Amber, never to decay and thus cannot rejoin the cycle of rebirth. Morbid as it is, it is a favorite trophy of many warlords and corrupt leaders. The Wandering Root is a peripatus that looks more plant than beast, with bark-like scales and weeping resin patches. It is believed that this species exactly is why these creature were given their status with Amber.

Pwdre Ser - Glow Worm - Worms just as mysterious as the star jelly itself, the Glow Worms hang in the skies and air unnaturally. Spinning vast networks or cocoons of glowing slime, their lights draw in eyes and prey alike. There is debate if these creatures came from the cosmos like the fluid they represent, or if they are mortal worms of this planet that were changed by the Pwdre Ser itself. They are found wherever this celestial fluid has fallen to the earth, and they only come out at night. Much research is still needed to understand these glow worms, and to know what this fluid is capable of. Some claim that the slime they spin catches the starlight itself, and thus traps it in these mesmerizing globs. Star Nest Worms weave a swirling glowing cocoon of slime, which draws in insects and flying prey. Those that touch it are trapped, and later consumed by the worm. Its vortex shape brings to mind the galaxies above, further showing its alien nature. Some who have gotten close to one of these nests claim it is more than sticky slime that dooms prey. Folk say that there is a strange pulling force that draws things into its center, like the worm and its snotty home is somehow altering the gravity around it. Surely exaggeration, yet there is no denying that strange things happen whenever Pwdre Ser is around...

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"Sacred Beasts of the Fluids"

As any good fantasy world would tell you, any element needs a corresponding animal. Everybody likes their fire and phoenixes and such, so what beastie goes with bile? Well now we know! And look! It appears there are some other fluids in the world that are outside the holy four and the godly ones! What are these strange fluids about? (And this isn't even all of them yet!)

And thanks to @a-book-of-creatures for telling me about mythical bees to use for Ichor!

#animal #monster #creature #fall of ichor #art #drawing #the four humors #bug #insect #blood

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medusapelagia · 5 months

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Z - Zombie

Z is for Zeros (@spaceofentropy) Thank you for sharing your monsters' secrets with me 💜

I hope you will enjoy your present 🎁!

Rating: Mature Relationship: Steve /Billy WT: Zombie Billy Hargrove, mention of body horror Words: 920

Billy opens his eyes and all he can see is a pitch-black darkness. He tries to move but he feels trapped.

He takes a deep breath and the air is warm and smells like earth. What the fuck is going on?

He can't see his clothes but he can feel that they are far too uncomfortable to be clothing he would have chosen for himself.

He pats himself, it feels like a suit. Was he at a wedding? Maybe he drank far too much and blacked out, it would not be a first, but that doesn't explain why he is trapped somewhere. Maybe someone closed him in a trunk to make a prank? But it should be a really big trunk if he is not curled up in it. It almost feels like "A coffin."

The epiphany strikes him like thunder.

He is closed in a fucking coffin!

Billy's breath becomes erratic while he starts to punch above his head until he feels the wood crack and the dirt fall on his face.

He spits and keeps punching his way toward freedom until the fresh air caresses his hands and then he pushes himself out of the hole he digged

Billy lies on his side for a few moments, taking some deep breaths and gripping the green grass like it was his lifeline.

Who the fuck thought that burying him alive was a nice prank?

Whoever they are, they are going to deeply regret it.

The sky above him is dark and full of stars, the moon is hiding behind the clouds but there is enough light to let him see that he is in the graveyard, in front of him his own tombstone.

"What the fuck?!"

His memories are confused, he remembers a monster, and his mum, and a girl, and everything is so mixed up that he can't really point out what happened.

The blond boy looks at himself, he is wearing a black suit, a white shirt, and a fucking red tie; he removes his tie that feels like it's suffocating him and throw it away, then he opens his shirt one button at a time until he sees it: a huge hole in his abdomen that is closing on his own.

Billy's trembling hand touches it, disgusted.

"Billy? Holy fucking shit! El was right!"

The blond boy turns and sees Harrington staring at him with a torch in his hand and a shovel in the other.

"That's not the appropriate tool to kill a monster, Harrington."

"Fuck you Hargrove, I know a lot of things about tools for killing monsters and this one was to help you get out, but it seems to me you already did a great job. All we have to do now it's cover it up." he states, getting closer.

"How come that you are not freaking out? I am freaking out! I died! Or at least I think I did."

Steve nods, shoving some dirt on Billy's tomb "You did. The mindflayer pierced you like you were a tissue paper, but El called and told me that she saw you, that you were coming back, and that you needed help, so I came."

Billy nods, and after a moment of hesitation asks "Max?"

"I didn't tell her anything, I wanted to check before. You know, with this monster thing one can never be too cautious."

Billy nods, still staring at Harrington “What now?”

“Now we get home.”

Billy snorts “I don’t think I can go home, pretty boy.”

“Not your home, dickhead, mine.”

“Are you offering me to get to your place?”

“Unless you prefer to rest here under the stars.” Steve replies sarcastically.

Billy follows Steve to his car and into his house, it’s big and cold as he remembers it “Still no parents around.”

“What can I say? I’m a lucky guy.”

Steve shows Billy his room “You can sleep here or in one of the guest rooms.”

“Aren’t you scared that I’ll kill you to eat your brain or something like that?”

Steve laughs out loud “My brain? Man I don’t think you’ll get a lot of nutrition from it, maybe from Henderson’s, but you are stuck with me.”

“You are not scared.”

“The last time I was scared there was a monster coming through the walls and I got back to help Nancy and Jon so, no, nothing scares me.” the chestnut boy thinks for a moment “Oh, no actually there is one thing that scares me.”

“And what is that?”

“I’m scared that something bad will happen to the people I love, and that’s exactly why you are here with me and not wandering around Hawkins.”

“What if I kill you during the night?” Billy insists.

“El will know it, and you know how terrifying she can be. Now sleep, or don’t, I don’t care, but tomorrow it’s my first day at Family Video and I will not be late.”

“What if I leave the house and kill someone else?”

“Do you want to? Do you feel the need to kill someone?”

“No?”

“Good.”

“How can you be so fucking calm.”

“I’m so fucking calm because I live in the middle of nowhere, the only place you can go by foot is the damn woods and you know what? Hopper still patrols the woods, so sleep, or don’t but stop trying to make everything even harder! Tomorrow we will team up and we will find a solution, but right now I need to rest, and you do too.”

Billy sighs, how long has passed since the last time he rested peacefully?

Years for sure.

He doesn’t get on Steve’s bed or in one of the guest rooms, he simply takes a blanket and rests on the floor where he has his back against the wall and can still see both the door and Harrington.

He will not rest, not tonight, but maybe, hiding in Harrington’s house, he will finally have some peace.

#ficlet #stranger things fanfic #steve x billy #harringrove #Christmas presents 2023 #medusapelagia

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talonabraxas · 3 days

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The Secret of the Golden Flower Talon Abraxas

1. HEAVENLY CONSCIOUSNESS OF THE HEART

Master Lu Tzu said: That which exists through itself is called Meaning. (Tao). Meaning has neither name nor force. It is the one essence, the one primordial spirit. Essence and life cannot be seen. It is contained in the Light of Heaven. The light of Heaven cannot be seen. It is contained in the two eyes. Today I will be your guide and will first reveal to you the secret of the Golden Flower of the Great One, and, starting from that, I will explain the rest in detail.

The Great One is the term given to that which has nothing above it. The secret of the magic of life consists in using action in order to achieve non-action. One must not wish to leave out the steps between and penetrate directly. The maxim handed down to us is to take in hand the work on the essence. In doing this it is important not to follow the wrong road.

The Golden Flower is the Light. What color has the light? One uses the Golden Flower as an image. It is the true power of the transcendent Great One. The phrase, "The lead of the water-region has but one taste," refers to it. The work on the circulation of the Light depends entirely on the backward-flowing movement, so that the thoughts are gathered together (the place of Heavenly Consciousness, the Heavenly Heart). The Heavenly Heart lies between sun and moon (i.e., the two eyes).

The Book of the Yellow Castle says: In the field of the square inch of the house of the square foot, life can be regulated. The house of the square foot is the face. The field of the square inch in the face: What could that be other than the Heavenly Heart? In the middle of the square inch dwells the splendor. In the purple hall of the city of jade dwells the god of utmost emptiness and life. The Confucians call it the center of emptiness; the Buddhists, the terrace of life; the Taoists, the ancestral land, or the yellow castle, or the dark pass, or the space of former Heaven. The Heavenly Heart is like the dwelling place, the Light is the master. Therefore when the Light circulates, the powers of the whole body arrange themselves before its throne, just as when a holy king has taken possession of the capital and has laid down the fundamental rules of order, all the states approach with tribute, or, just as when the master is quiet and calm, men-servants and maids obey his orders of their own accord, and each does his work.

Therefore you only have to make the Light circulate: that is the deepest and most wonderful secret. The Light is easy to move, but difficult to fix. If it is allowed to go long enough in a circle, then it crystallizes itself: that is the natural spirit -body. This crystallized spirit is formed beyond the nine Heavens. It is the condition of which it is said in the Book of the Seal of the Heart: Silently in the morning thou fliest upward.

In carrying out this fundamental truth you need to seek for no other methods, but must only concentrate your thoughts on it. The book Leng Yen says: By collecting the thoughts one can fly and will be born in Heaven. Heaven is not the wide blue sky, but the place where the body is made in the house of the creative. If one keeps this up for a long time, there develops quite naturally in addition to the body, yet another spirit-body.

The Golden Flower is the Elixir of Life (literally, golden ball, golden pill). All changes of spiritual consciousness depend upon the Heart. Here is a secret charm, which, although it works very accurately, is yet so fluent that it needs extreme intelligence and clarity, and complete absorption and calm. People without this highest degree of intelligence and understanding do not find the way to apply the charm; People without this utmost capacity for concentration and calm cannot keep fast hold of it.

Secret of the Golden Flower:

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archiveofthelibrarian · 5 months

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Manwion had hair of silver, which at night, reflected the starry sky yet glistened gold when Laurelin waxed. His long silver waves was adored by all, Quendi and Ainur alike, rivaled only by the gold-silver hair of Artanis which was said to have captured the very essence of the Two Trees.

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Love and Glass

Prologue

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Inspired by my conversation with @animatorweirdo as anon here.

I have conflicted feelings about this. One one hand, I love the idea and can't get it out of my head. On the other, my execution of this is questionable. So I am throwing it into the void of internet.

I tried to mimick the style in which Tolkien wrote to convey this idea's whimsical and dreamy feel in my head. Alhtough I am not sure I have succeded. Again, this is not beta read, so feel free to point out any mistakes. I

Masterpost for the fic can be found here.

DISCLAİMER: I do not own anything you recognize. This is a fanwork for entertainment purposes and should be regarded as such.

Word count: 432

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Long ago, before the rising of the Sun and the Moon, all newborn elves would be brought before the Valar so that they may receive a blessing from those who crafted Arda.

With time, there grew a great love for elflings in the hearts of the Valar. And though they all loved the elves, there was no greater love than the one Manwë and Varda bore.

Their love was so great, that they wished to love a child of their own, and though they knew it was against the vision of Eru, they set out to work.

With the help of Aulë the smith, Manwë and Varda took their love, poured it into Aulë's work, and then shaped and molded it into their desire.

Finally, a child resembling an elfling came to be from the work of the Valar. Though he looked as any elfling would, he had no free will or fire of his own.

Eru, who saw the great love Manwë and Varda bore for this creation for their's, allowed him to live and have a fire of his own.

But this wayward behavior of Manwë and Varda could not go unpunished, so he allowed the child no name of his own, save for Manwion, meaning son of Manwë, so that he may know when he is called.

Blinded by their love for the little child they would call their own, Manwë and Varda paid no mind to it.

But everyone else did.

The rest of the Valar pitied him, the Maiar shed tears him and the Quendi looked at him oddly, for the Quendi valued their names above all their possessions.

But Manwion understood none of this, for he was a being of innocence and wonder. He could not understand any darkness or malice.

But that did not matter in a world pure and untainted.

What none of the dwellers of Aman, save for Fëanáro, understood was that nothing in this world could last forever.

Soon, Melkor was released from the Halls after his three ages long imprisonment and he started his plan for revenge.

No one noticed as he sowed lies and discord among the Noldor. No one until he stole the holy light and the precious prince.

Melkor, who was renamed into Morgoth, destroyed the Two Trees with the help of the spider Ungoliant and kidnapped Manwion.

As the Valar and the Vanyar wept for their loss, the Noldor took action. With their spirits ignited by Fëanáro's passionate speech, they started their journey to the eastern lands of Beleriand.

The dead bodies of the Trees stand in Ezellohar still but no one knows what happened to their joyful, pure prince Manwion.

Not even the Dark Lord himself.

#silmarillion #silmarillion x reader #silm #silm x reader #silm fic #tolkien fanfiction #Manwë #manwë súlimo #varda #varda elentari #modern girl in middle earth #gn reader #modern person in middle earth #melkor #morgoth #the valar #love and glass #love and glass prologue

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wrathoftiamat · 11 months

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SESSION ONE: The One Where The Party Is (Mostly) Naked In The River

Cy, Elio, & Jupiter are introduced and each make their way to the town of Greenrest where they inevitably collide. We are introduced to each character and aspects of their past and current goals and a threat looming in front of them.

Cylanestriel Blackwood is an elven vengeance paladin who has been a member of the Keepers of the Secret Hoard for seven years after her death and subsequent resurrection. When she first arrived, the dogma of the cult centered around the veneration of dracoliches. In the last few years, with the return of a cultist named Drea Silrajin and her upheaval of the cult, their focus has shifted to prepare for the return of Tiamat. Since her arrival, Cy has ascended in the ranks to the position of Dragonsoul, a military rank under the Wyrmspeakers, the most powerful in the cult. It was her job to break in and train new recruits. Most of the cult is underground, woven through lava tunnels and magically carved barracks For the first time, Cy has been allowed on the surface of the caldera. The air is crisp, the sky is clear. Drea stands above the cultists gathered on the rim of the caldera, amplifying her voice while giving instructions on how the keepers are beginning to mobilize, their efforts to recruit dragons and raids to find treasure for Tiamat's hoard. She finishes with the words, "We will be the only, the holy remembered." Cy has been summoned to Drea's quarters. Along the way, Rezmir, a black dragonborn and one of the wyrmspeakers, gives Cy a butch nod. When Cy arrives, the door of Drea's chambers are cracked open, and she catches a glimpse of Drea looking weary, sunken into her chair. Her little red pseudodragon Nelvik settles onto her shoulders. When Cy politely knocks, she sees Drea reassemble her presentation. Drea wishes to send Cy out into the world on a mission. Cy is eager, yet polite. She has been tasked to go to Greenrest and find Bahamut's Holy Avenger, to claim it for Tiamat's hoard. Cy accidentally reveals she once lived there, and later, instinctively lied about who she was with, to protect the one secret she felt was her own. Halfway through the conversation, Morena Eclissi barges in, evidently late for the meeting. She and Drea share tense eye contact before Morena sits and joins the conversation. Drea reveals that Morena will also be coming to Greenrest, only days after Cy. While Cy has been tasked to retrieve the Holy Avenger and return to the cult, Morena and Rezmir have been tasked with heading an invasion and finding a civilian who has been unraveling secrets about the keepers. When Cy is excused, she lingers, eavesdropping on Drea and Morena. She listens to them briefly flirt, before Drea explains that Morena is to cause as much clamor and attention as possible. Cy leaves when they start to flirt again and realizes there's no more information to be gained. [FULL TRANSCRIPT]

Before she leaves, Cy retrieves less ornate armor that will not betray her allegiance. She travels on horse to Greenrest, the very same path she took when she left all those years ago. It's the first time she's been alone in years and she still feels like she's being watched. She didn't expect to lie about her time in Greenrest, it's the one secret she was able to protect when she was indoctrinated by the keepers. It is hard to reconcile that with her zeal for Drea's vision.

Elio Eclissi is a dragon-blessed young man, the scion of Bahamut. Recently, he had returned home for the first time in a couple of years to visit his family before completing his Paladin training. When he arrived home, he discovered that his twin sister, Morena, cursed by Tiamat, was nowhere to be found and his parents had no interest in finding her. We meet him dressed in fine, ceremonial armor in a carriage with his father on his way to the temple of Bahamut to swear his oath. Benicio, his father, was rushing the ceremony along, so Elio could compete in the Melee of the Pious. It's an important day, however, the disappearance of his sister, and his parent's indifference, is weighing on him. His carriage is stopped in the street by Fizban, who telepathically communicates with him about his doubts. He tells Elio to choose his own path. Elio wants to go find his sister. Fizban gives him a single golden-scaled gauntlet and tells him to find its owner. He offers to distract Elio's father, Benicio so he can slip away, and asks Elio to do his grocery shopping. Elio slips away into the crowded streets of Waterdeep and finds himself at the shop of Ava, a tiefling blacksmith with fused circular horns. She has often tailored his armor and forged his sword. She looks at the gauntlet and tells him that it was crafted during the last Dragon moot; it was Dwarvish, and he could likely find more information in Greenrest. She gave Elio her cloak to help him disguise his appearance, it's rather large on him and the hood blocks his vision when pulled up. He then does Fizban's shopping and goes to his flat in the city, uses a key to drop them off, sees Fizban's dragonchess board and plays an opening move. He procures a horse, a large white percheron named Odette and sets out onto the road alone for the first time in his life.

Seven years ago, a half-elf, Jupiter King's name was not Jupiter and he was not free. He was an indentured servant, sworn into contract and swimming in debt in a traveling carnival. He was one of their finest aerialists. Tonight, the circus had a bevy of important guests. His boss, a summer eladrin named Caprice cornered him and pressures him to perform a truly incredible act, with only twenty minutes until curtain. Jupiter originally mouths off, but then reluctantly agrees to 'get it together'. When Caprice leaves, Jupiter flips him off. Foxglove, a shifter, attempts to comfort him by giving him an awkward shoulder pat and more information on the mysterious, important guests. The night proceeds with the circus' best foot forward, performances full of air and sophistication, except for a displacer beast too many. Eventually, it is Jupiter's turn to perform. HIs specialty is in aerial silks and trapeze. He starts with a silk routine, set to ethereal music to appeal to the visiting fey. It is full of sudden drops, twists, and turns. At one point he makes eye contact with a small dragon, settled on a pillow. She has opalescent scales, large luna moth wings, and they're watching Jupiter intensely. When he gives them one of his performance smiles, she appears to be delighted. When his performance is through, Jupiter begins to do maintenance backstage. Caprice is furious. He berates Jupiter for upstaging his other acts. Jupiter is sweltering from the heat of Caprice's rage, who punishes him by making him collect trash on the grounds like he did when he was a child. Foxglove cuts in and gets Caprice to back off for now, but his rage is far from quelled. Armed with a broom, Jupiter heads out as the crowd disperses, accidentally bumping into a taller man with locs in platinum armor. Jupiter is unaware that this is Bahamut. Jupiter furiously doing chores. As he goes to take the last bit of garbage out, he sees a small group gathered farther away from the tent at the edge of the light. This group includes the same man he bumped into, the faerie dragon, and an archfey. He immediately tries to eavesdrop. The faerie dragon Dasha gossips with the Archfey, who has glittering silver fish scales across his body. Both Dasha and Bahamut catch him listening, though Dasha is the one to speak. She is captivated by him and impressed that he is self-trained. She gives him their name and he introduces himself as Enivyre. Dasha asks to have his name. He's not doing much with his name. He gives it to Dasha. In return, she tells him that soon someone will change his life and hit him like a bolt of lightning, and that some time in the future, the name Silvergleam will be important to him. She gives him a gift, evidently, a regift of something Bahamut gave her. A vial of glowing liquid that functions as a lantern of revealing. When Jupiter looks up, Dasha is gone. When he comments on this, the fish Archfey is also gone. Only Bahamut is left. He converses briefly with Jupiter, telling him he enjoyed the show before walking off. Two weeks later, with the help of a paladin named Cassiopeia, Jupiter escapes. Now, Jupiter King is an inquisitive rogue running odd jobs for Rian Nightshade, a spy in an organization that operates in Waterdeep. She has a job for him. Rian instructs him to find Jenna Silvergleam in Greenrest. Jupiter, with some friendly banter and complaining, leaves towards Greenrest. While he goes south, Cassi is heading north. When they depart from each other, they ask for Ilmater, her deity, to watch over each of them. [FULL TRANSCRIPTS]

Greenrest is a small mountain town nestled around a central keep. There's a river winding its way around the far side of town, a small church, businesses and homes litter the street. There appears to be some sort of festival in swing.

Elio is the first to arrive, a knight on his white horse, however, his cloak is covered in dirt and he looks haggard. He is not used to living on the road. A villager approaches him and offers him a circlet of autumnal foliage which he accepts. He learns that they are celebrating the harvest. As he enters town he is pointed towards the leaders of the town:

Governor Nighthill, a regal looking human man. Estéban, a dwarven man, the castellan of the keep who appears to be who's holding the town together. Ellie, An "oddly helpful half-elf".

Elio asks them if they have any information on where he could find a blacksmith who could tell him more about the gauntlet he has. He shows the gauntlet and Estéban is stunned. It is his gauntlet that he lost during the last Dragonmoot. Elio informs him that he was given it by Fizban and is happy to return it to its owner. He is directed towards the keep where he is able to find a place to sleep in the barracks. Elio immediately leaves his things on his bed, including his extremely expensive, gaudy ceremonial armor, and takes his dirty self, clothes, and a bar of soap down to the river to wash himself and his clothes.

Cy rides into town after him and similarly, finds a place for herself at the keep. She sees Elio in the water and doesn't immediately recognize him, but is interested by his massive executioner's sword on the riverbank. She says hello to him and he ends up inviting her, not in any flirtatious way, if she wants to join him in washing her clothes. She accepts. Upon Elio introducing himself, Cy immediately realizes who he is and begins to gauge who he is. She begins asking him questions about himself, realizing her perceptions of who he is based on his sister's viewpoints aren't entirely the person she sees. She begins to empathize with him, but is also beginning to plan on if she can hand him over to the Keepers, specifically Morena.

Meanwhile, Jupiter also enters town. He opts to go under the name Ceres and attempts to ask Estéban and Ellie if they know Jenna Silvergleam. They both seem to but are not sure of her current whereabouts. He also gets directed to the keep and ends up sharing a bunk with, who he doesn't know is Elio. Jupiter sees the extravagant armor on the bed and takes a moment to snoop through Elio's belongings. He doesn't take anything, simply leaves a note telling Elio not to leave his stuff out unless he wants someone to take it. WHen he leaves the keep he notices Elio and Cy by the river, in their underwear, now sparring with their greatswords.

They have very different fighting styles. Elio is controlled and like he's unsure of his own strength, still coming into it. He swings a massive sword but his attacks are still careful and not meant to seriously injure; he's coming at her with the blunt edge. He's much stronger than he looks. Cy hits fast and savage; she still strikes with the flat of her blade but is less concerned about injuring him. Her sword is slimmer and she relies on getting under his guard. Despite this, Elio is overpowering her, that is, until Cy blurts out that she saw Morena on the road on her way here.

This abruptly ends their sparring as Elio is stunned, and shows Cy a picture of Morena inside his locket, trying to ensure they're talking about the same person. They are. Elio is too naive to clue into this coincidence. He is so overwhelmed and thankful, he asks Cy if he can hug her. She accepts; this is the first time she has been hugged in seven years.

Once again, Jupiter has been watching this entire exchange, from half-naked washing their clothes, to half-naked sparring, to half-naked hugging. He is perplexed. Elio eventually sees Jupiter watching and invites him to come down and talk to them. Jupiter is slightly off put, but does, and tells both of them to call him King. They introduce themselves and Jupiter mentions that he is in town looking for someone, but doesn't specify who. Cy says that she's looking for an ornate sword. Elio suggests, since they're looking for things in town and he's waiting to see if his sister arrives, that they could help each other out and keep each other company. They agree to meet later to have pastries.

While Elio waits with pastries, Jupiter continues to poke around town and finds little information. Cy visits the house she used to share when she lived in Greenrest. She almost doesn't recognize it, it's a completely different structure. With some investigation, she realizes the foundations of her home are still there, just blackened and charred from a fire. In those ruins she also finds a rusted, dirty, yet ornate sword with a dragon-wing shaped hilt. The blade is stuck in the scabbard. Later, Elio deduces that it's a magical effect, not mundane rust. Apparently Fizban had passed through the town a few weeks previously, mumbling about fresh produce, and left the sword behind.

The party sleeps through the night. Jupiter wakes early to once again circle town, unable to keep himself from wandering. He notices as the sun rises, a dragon rapidly approaching on the horizon. He turns and fires an arrow at the keep's bell to alert everyone. As the bell rings, we end the session.

#campaign: recaps #tyranny of dragons #i do not think i am going to tag this with every single character. that would be. many.

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