#healing the land and Wyrd
Text
Heart of the Night Court
This meta is a continuation of theories in forbidden secrets, blooming dreams, and bright as the dawn, as it narrows in on Illyria, Ramiel, and their connection to Wyrd. Please avoid if you do not want to read hofas spoilers.
Facing Ramiel
The northern region of the Night Court is where Ramiel, one of the three sacred sister peaks, is located. It is considered the heart of Illyria and the Night Court.
Ramiel. The sacred mountain.
The heart of not only Illyria, but the entirety of the Night Court.
None were permitted on its barren, rocky slopes—save for the Illyrians, and only once a year at that. During the Blood Rite.
Cassian soared toward it, unable to resist Ramiel’s ancient summons. Different—the mountain was so different from the barren, terrible presence of the lone peak in the center of Prythian. Ramiel had always felt alive, somehow. Awake and watchful. (acofas)
[...] Ramiel rose higher still, a shard of stone piercing the gray sky. Beautiful and lonely. Eternal and ageless. (acofas)
Cassian describes Ramiel as alive, awake, and watchful, and so very beautiful as she rises from the earth. Likewise, Feyre emphasizes that Elain is alive and somehow infinitely more beautiful as she rises from the ground after she is Made in the Cauldron. Her legs are even bare, which remind me of the barren terrain, and her sheer nightgown might even be a hint for thin places, as @offtorivendell observed. Elain’s strength has also always been different than her sisters, just like Ramiel among her sacred sister peaks.
And as if it had been tipped by invisible hands, the Cauldron turned on its side. More water than seemed possible dumped out in a cascade. Black, smoke-coated water.
And Elain, as if she’d been thrown by a wave, washed onto the stones facedown.
Her legs were so pale—so delicate. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen them bare.
The queens pushed forward. Alive, she had to be alive, had to have wanted to live–
Elain sucked in a breath, her fine-boned back rising, her wet nightgown nearly sheer. And as she rose from the ground onto her elbows, the gag in place, as she twisted to look at me—
Nesta began roaring again.
Pale skin started to glow. Her face had somehow become more beautiful—infinitely beautiful, and her ears … Elain’s ears were now pointed beneath her sodden hair. (acomaf)
As each spring dawns on the world, Ramiel is crowned with three stars, and the Illyrians—who we learned may have been the Asteri’s soldiers and therefore may carry on rituals that would have benefited them—honor bloodshed on her land rather than new life.
No wonder that first ruler of the Night Court had made this his insignia. Along with the three stars that only appeared for a brief window each year, framing the uppermost peak of Ramiel like a crown. It was during that window when the Rite occurred. Which had come first: the insignia or the Rite, Cassian didn’t know. Had never really cared to find out.
The conifer forests and ravines that dotted the landscape flowing to Ramiel’s foot gleamed under the fresh snow. Empty and clean. No sign of the bloodshed that would occur come the start of spring. (acofas)
Some even seem to take great pleasure in the killing that is permitted during this rite, and Ramiel, which we know is alive and watching, is forced to witness it every year. Azriel calls it a week of pointless bloodshed, but we know now that is likely untrue. @silverlinedeyes, @offtorivendell and I believe the Asteri may have created or warped an existing rite to suit their needs. @silverlinedeyes pointed out that this spring rite reminds her of the Great Rite, and that made something click for me: perhaps the Blood Rite is the Night Court's Great Rite. Is the secondlight from slain warriors absorbed by the land? And do those few who reach the stone, which I suspect might be the Maiden in this rite, provide firstlight to the cache hidden in Ramiel’s heart? Is it any wonder the winds around her howl, and her land is often frozen and inhospitable?
The mountain neared, mighty and endless, so wide that he might as well have been a mayfly in the wind. Cassian soared toward Ramiel’s southern face, rising high enough to catch a glimpse of the shining black stone jutting from its top.
Who had put that stone atop the peak, he didn’t know, either. Legend said it had existed before the Night Court formed, before the Illyrians migrated from the Myrmidons, before humans even walked the earth. Even with the fresh snow crusting Ramiel, none had touched the pillar of stone. (acofas)
The shining black stone on Ramiel’s face is able to heal and transport those who touch it. In acosf, it knew where Nesta’s friends were needed most and sent them to the River House. It is also on the southern face of the mountain, which in the northern hemisphere, is the part of the mountain that receives the most sunlight. Cassian tells us that he doesn’t know who put it there, but legend says it was before humans even walked the earth. While it is very likely that the Asteri warped it (into a tool to sustain them, like the gates in Lunathion as @merymoonbeam so cleverly pointed out), I believe it may have also originally been linked to the Cauldron.
In hofas, we discover that Ramiel used to bear the Cauldron on her land:
“The Cauldron,” Nesta said hours later, pointing to yet another carving on the wall. It indeed showed a giant cauldron, perched atop what seemed to be a barren mountain peak with three stars above it.
Azriel halted, angling his head. “That’s Ramiel.” At Bryce’s questioning look, he explained, “A mountain sacred to the Illyrians.”
Bryce nodded to the carving. “What’s the big deal about a cauldron?”
[...]
“All life came and comes from it,” Azriel said with something like reverence. “The Mother poured it into this world, and from it, life blossomed.” (hofas)
[…]
The snows around Ramiel parted, revealing a massive bowl of iron at the foot of the monolith. Even through the vision, its presence leaked into the world, a heavy, ominous thing.
“The Cauldron,” Nesta said, dread lacing her voice.
[…]
“The Cauldron was of our world, our heritage. But upon arriving here, the Daglan captured it and used their powers to warp it. To turn it from what it had been into something deadlier. No longer just a tool of creation, but of destruction. And the horrors it produced…those, too, my parents would turn to their advantage.” (hofas)
I wonder if long ago, before the Asteri desecrated them, the stone and Cauldron together resembled this depiction of Wyrd:
The Under-King lounged on a throne beneath a behemoth statue of a figure holding a black metal bowl between her upraised hands. Symbols were carved all over the bowl, continuing down her fingers, her arms, her body. Ithan could only assume it was meant to represent Urd. No other temples ever depicted the goddess, no one even dared—most people claimed that fate was impossible to portray in any one form. But it seemed that the dead, unlike the living, had a vision of her. And those symbols running from the bowl onto her skin…they were like tattoos.
[…]
“And she,” the Under-King went on, gesturing to that unusual depiction of Urd towering above him, “was not a goddess, but a force that governed worlds. A cauldron of life, brimming with the language of creation. Urd, they call her here—a bastardized version of her true name. Wyrd, we called her in that old world.” (hofas)
This depiction is interesting because it mirrors, almost exactly, the figurine Nesta assumes is the Mother in the House of Wind:
It was a fire. Not her father’s neck. Her gaze shifted to the carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel, half-hidden in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess—perhaps even the Mother herself. Nesta hadn’t let herself dwell on why she’d felt the need to set the rose there. Why she hadn’t just thrown it in a drawer.
Another log cracked, and Nesta flinched. But she remained sitting there. Staring at that carved rose. (acosf)
For some reason, she needed to set Elain’s rose, half-hidden in shadow, next to this depiction of what appears to be Wyrd. In hosab, the Under-King also described Wyrd as a mother to all, which is why I theorized that she is actually a triple goddess: Mother, Cauldron, Fate. They are three parts, or faces, of the same force. The three sacred sister peaks and three blessed Archeron sisters are intentionally linked to her. Perhaps the moon in the female’s hands isn’t just a moon, but a world too. Immediately after this scene, the House of Wind shows Nesta her heart in the lovely darkness of the mountain, which she calls the heart of the world, of existence. Of self.
Heart racing, Nesta lifted the lantern in one hand and gazed at the darkness, untouched by the light from the library high, high above. The heart of the world, of existence. Of self.
The heart of the House.
“This…” Her fingers tightened on the lantern. “This darkness is your heart.” [...] Let the darkness sweep in. Embraced it. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered into it. “You are my friend, and my home. Thank you for sharing this with me.” (acosf)
Nesta embraces the heart of the House of Wind, which naturally makes me recall the heart of the Prison asking Bryce to open her heart to it…it might sing again. Awaken. There was a beating, vibrant heart locked away, far beneath them. We’re not sure exactly how Avallen might have affected the Prison island, and I suspect there is more to come with that plot thread. While I had always hoped the Valkyries might re-establish themselves as an intercourt army in the Middle, which does not have ties to any court in particular, I can also appreciate the possibility that they might ultimately settle on the Prison island instead. It would be incredible to see Pegasi return and for the Valkyries to learn how to fly on them.
This plot is related to the core thread driving us forward, and it is something that can occur in a book that is centered on Elain and Azriel. Together, they have the vision and gifts needed to map the secrets of the land, starting with the sacred sister peaks, which I believe will ultimately help them restore Wyrd. This would fit all of the seeds Sarah has planted for the third sister’s arc with Azriel, Nuala, and Cerridwen. It would also be powerful for a character who has been underestimated and ridiculed for gardening to heal the land and the very source that created it.
As I said prior to hofas, this exploration will inevitably bring them to the very heart of Ramiel. As a bearer of Wyrd, the source of life, Ramiel may even be the heart of the world, not just the Night Court. Will they discover that she was once very different? Did she change, as her sisters did, when the Asteri burrowed into her heart? Or was it because the Cauldron, Wyrd’s physical form, was warped into a tool of destruction by the Asteri and later removed from her land? Were the Illyrians created to guard the Cauldron since it was the Asteri’s most precious weapon? And is that why, as @cassianfanclub wondered, the Asteri were so desperate to reach the stone at the top, where the Cauldron was once depicted? Enalius may have prevented it from falling into their hands as he defended the Pass, which would’ve been a critical turning point in a rebellion. Unlike the rite they currently use to honor him, Enalius’s defense was in the service of life, which is what made Nesta’s sacrifice so inspiring. Her sacrifice is now depicted in the heart of the Court of Dreams, which is dedicated to building a better world.
Descending into Ramiel
We learn that Ramiel may be hiding secrets from Eris, of all characters:
Eris shrugged, and Nesta knew Cassian monitored his every breath. “There are three of them, you know. Sister peaks. This one, the mountain called the Prison, and the one the Illyrian brutes call Ramiel. All bald, barren mountains at odds with those around them.”
“We don’t know why they exist, but do you not find it strange that two out of the three have underground palaces carved into them?”
[…]
Eris gave him a mocking smile, but continued, “Unsurprisingly, the Illyrians were never curious enough to see what secrets lie beneath Ramiel. If it, too, was carved up like the others by ancient hands.”
“I thought Amarantha made the court Under the Mountain herself,” Nesta said.
“Oh, she decorated it and made us act like a sorry imitation of your Court of Nightmares, but the tunnels and halls were carved long before. By who, we don’t know.” (acosf)
He tells us that the three sacred peaks are sisters. Sacred is another word for blessed. And two out of three of them have been at least somewhat explored, but the third? Still mysterious. No one was curious enough to see what lied beneath her beautiful face, at her heart. This is such a lovely parallel for the three blessed sisters, and seems like a clear hint for the third one in particular.
In hofas, we receive confirmation that these secrets might be connected to the Asteri, who are known as Daglan in Prythian lore:
“They fought the Daglan and won, she went on. Using the Daglan’s own weapons, they destroyed them. Yet my parents did not think to learn the Daglan’s other secrets—they were too weary, too eager to leave the past behind.” (hofas)
-
Vesperus backed up a half step, hissing at the gleaming weapon. “We hid pockets of our power throughout the lands, in case the vermin should cause … problems. It seems our wisdom did not fail us.”
“There are no such places,” Azriel countered coldly.
“Are there not?” Vesperus grinned broadly, showing all of her too-white teeth. “Have you looked beneath every sacred mountain? At their very roots? The magic draws all sorts of creatures. I can sense them even now, slithering about, gnawing on the magic. My magic. They’re as much vermin as the rest of you.” (hofas)
Bryce concludes, after Vesperus is able to draw the power from her secret cache below, that there is a firstlight core in the root, or heart, of the mountain. We see what happens in Avallen when the land is forced to contain magic where its ley lines overlap, rather than allowing it to flow as it should: it binds the magic of the land and causes it to wither like a plant with root rot. And that seems to explain why the sacred peaks are so odd: barren yet thrumming with power.
I have theorized that the caches of power may need to be released leading up to the restoration of Wyrd, and I suspect there may be clues—especially within Ramiel—about how the Asteri warped and bound her to the land. If Elain is as tied to the land as we suspect, this could also strengthen whatever magic she possesses.
In the cavern illustrations Bryce views in hofas, we see what might lie beneath Ramiel, maybe even the entire Night Court:
Scenes of a blessed land, a thriving civilization. One relief had been so similar to the frieze of the Fae male forging the sword at the Crescent City Ballet that Bryce had nearly gasped. The last carving before the river had been one of transition: a Fae King and Queen seated on thrones, a mountain—different from the one with the palace atop it—behind them with three stars rising above it. A different kingdom, then. Some ancient High Lord and Lady, Nesta had suggested before approaching the river.
She hadn’t commented on the lower half of the carving, which depicted a Helscape beneath their thrones, some kind of underworld. Humanoid figures writhed in pain amid what looked like icicles and snapping, scaly beasts—either past enemies conquered or an indication of what failure to bow to the rulers would bring upon the defiant.
The suffering stretched throughout, lingering even underneath that archipelago and its mountaintop palace. Even here, in paradise, death and evil remained. A common motif in Midgardian art, too, usually with the caption: Et in Avallen ego.
Even in Avallen, there am I.
A whispered promise from Death. Another version of memento mori. A reminder that death was always, always waiting. Even in the blessed Fae isle of Avallen. (hofas)
This might merely be a hint for the Asteri secrets that remain buried in the earth. But I agree with others (including @offtorivendell, @ladynightcourt3, @cassianfanclub, and @silverlinedeyes) who have wondered if this Helscape is in fact a hint that Prythian, and the Night Court in particular, is tied to Hel. We learned that the worlds in the Maasverse are tied together through ley lines, and the veil between worlds is thin where these ley lines overlap—like the lines in a star.
That may be the true meaning of star symbols throughout the Maasverse, and the one specifically found in the Prison that is connected to the Starborn: as I theorized pre-hosab, it is a compass rose, and it seems to be linked to other places in the grander tapestry of the universe. There is power in the space where the lines meet; these lines represent ley lines. Certain people (Asteri, Starborn, etc.) are able to use that power to travel, communicate, or even light up entire worlds. Depending on how those lines are woven in certain areas, they might even be able to draw you to one place more than another. That may explain why the Prison seems more connected to Midgard. So, could Ramiel be more connected to Hel, and the Middle to…Erilea?
I wonder if Elain, Azriel, Nuala, and Cerridwen’s exploration in the heart of Ramiel might lead them to Wyrd’s Temple in Hel, except @silverlinedeyes, @offtorivendell, and I think she goes by yet another name there: Chaos. It’s possible they could use black salt or another substance to achieve this, as @offtorivendell and @cassianfanclub have discussed, especially with Elain’s sight. I am personally hoping for a physical trip to Hel and Ramiel might possess a doorway, or rift, as @offtorivendell has theorized.
The black boat that Aidas led Bryce and Hunt into was a cross between the one that had brought them into Avallen and the ones that carried bodies to the Bone Quarter. But in lieu of a stag’s head, it was a stag’s skull at the prow, greenish flame dancing in its eyes as it sailed through the cave. The eerie green light illuminated black rock carved into pillars and buildings, walkways and temples. Ancient. And empty. Bryce had never seen a place so void of life. So … still. Even the Bone Quarter had a sense of being lived in, albeit by the dead. But here, nothing stirred.
[…]
“It’s like a city of the dead,” Hunt murmured, draping a wing around Bryce.
Aidas turned from where he stood at the prow, holding in his hands a long pole that he’d used to guide them. “That’s because it is.” He gestured with a pale hand to the buildings and temples and avenues. “This is where our beloved dead come to rest, with all the comforts of life around them.”
[…]
Before Aidas could answer, the boat approached a small quay leading to what appeared to be a temple. A figure emerged from between the pillars of the temple and descended its front steps. Golden-haired, golden-skinned.
[…]
“The Temple of Chaos is a sacred place,” Apollion said sharply. “We shall never defile it with violence.” The words rumbled like thunder again.
This sounds familiar, doesn’t it? It sounds an awful lot like other beliefs in the Maasverse:
Bryce asked, because some small part of her had to know after what she’d seen of the Mask, “When you die, where do your souls go?” Did they even believe in the concept of a soul? Maybe she should have led with that.
But Azriel said softly, “They return to the Mother, where they rest in joy within her heart until she finds another purpose for us. Another life or world to live in.” (hofas)
-
“We’ll collect the dead tomorrow,” Manon said, her voice low. “And burn them at moonrise.” As both Crochans and Ironteeth did. A full moon tomorrow—the Mother’s Womb. A good moon to be burned. To be returned to the Three-Faced Goddess, and reborn within that womb. (koa)
Wyrd (Chaos) is the heart of the world, of existence. Of self. And that is where people rest in joy until they are reborn. Could this be where the spirits are migrating on Starfall?
We know the Princes of Hel are intergalactic helpers, so a trip to Hel or an encounter with a Prince (Bryaxis? Thanatos? Even Balthazar, if he isn’t Elain? 😉 still my favorite crack theory) might give us insight into their role in Prythian. It could also involve Azriel’s peculiar magic that makes him, like Ramiel, so different from even his Illyrian brothers. Let's be honest, he’s always had a Prince of Hel vibe—down to his reverence for Wyrd (Mother, Cauldron, Fate/Chaos)—that I would love to see come to fruition.
Beyond Azriel himself, I also think we will learn the origins of the Illyrians in the heart of Ramiel. Were they connected to Hel before the Asteri made them their soldiers, like @silverlinedeyes and @offtorivendell theorized? Or were they an experiment like the blessed sisters? Did the Asteri put humans (hence the ears) into the Cauldron after it was imbued with their void magic and create beings of night and pain who could combat enemies, including demons? This might be another reason why the three most powerful Illyrians are a match in power for the three blessed sisters.
Together, they balance opposing forces as @silverlinedeyes previously theorized. They seem to represent the forces of Void and Chaos, and their power can be combined in the space between to achieve impossible feats (eg, physically healing the Cauldron and the rip in the world). All three sisters seem to be chosen bearers, or conduits, for Wyrd (Chaos), so I wouldn’t be surprised if we see another example of this in a different way for Azriel and Elain, and/or a scene where they are all linked magically.
My lips tugged toward a smile. But Rhys stared at all of us, somehow assembled here in the sun-drenched open grasses without being given the order. Our family—our court. The Court of Dreams.
[…]
He surveyed them all again—and held out his hand to Cassian. Cassian took it, and held out his other hand for Mor. Then Mor extended her other to Azriel. Azriel to Amren. Amren to Nesta. Nesta to Elain. And Elain to me. Until we were all linked, all bound together. (acowar)
Since Ramiel is connected to Wyrd (Chaos), and there may be a doorway to her temple in Hel, this journey will likely also uncover secrets about her. Will her story come from illustrations in stone, members of Hel, or…my personal favorite, Wyrd herself? I believe that is one of the many reasons she gifted Elain with such powers, including sight: so she could tell her story to someone who could see differently. Someone who could see the creator within the darkness, just as Elain saw the dark cottage as a shelter rather than a prison. This gift may provide them the information they need to uncover the Asteri’s secrets and unravel their magic from the sacred peaks and Wyrd, which could lead them to at least two other places: (1) Midgard, where the Book of Breathings is now kept by Bryce, and (2) Cretea, where the Cauldron is currently hidden. Could Azriel even pay back Bryce for stealing his precious dagger? It would only be fitting.
Ramiel Springs Eternal
I was so cold I might never be warm again. Even during winter in the mortal realm, I’d managed to find some kernel of heat, but after nearly emptying my cache of magic that afternoon, even roaring heart fire couldn’t thaw the chill around my bones. Did spring ever come to this blasted place? (acomaf)
Illyria is known for being bitterly cold, to the point where Feyre wonders if spring would ever arrive there. Sarah has consistently described Elain as blooming life amid death and winter, and this imagery starts to become really apparent in Illyria:
Mor let out a snort that made the Illyrians stiffen. But she shifted, revealing Elain behind her. Elain was just blinking, wide-eyed, at the camp. The army.
Devlon let out a grunt at the sight of her. But Elain wrapped her own blue cloak around herself, averting her eyes from all those towering, muscled warriors, the army camp bustling toward the horizon…She was a rose bloom in a mud field. Filled with galloping horses. (acowar)
Compared to Nesta, a newly forged sword, Elain is a blooming flower even in an Illyrian army camp, which is essentially saying she is a bloom of life and color in the middle of winter. This imagery is so fitting because she commits her time to creating and restoring gardens wherever she goes. She brings life and joy and beauty into the world. Even her scent is a promise of spring:
Her sister’s delicate scent of jasmine and honey lingered in the red-stoned hall like a promise of spring, a sparkling river that she followed to the open doors of the chamber. […] Her sister turned toward her, glowing with health. Elain’s smile was as bright as the setting sun beyond the windows. (acosf)
We also know she is also capable of hearing sound, specifically hearts, through stone. In their conversation about heartbeats, Lucien even wonders if she is speaking to him:
She looked away—toward the windows. “I can hear your heart,” she said quietly.
He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing, and drained his tea, even as it burned his mouth.
“When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?”
He wasn’t sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, “No, lady. I cannot.”
Her too-thin shoulders seemed to curve inward. “No one ever does. No one ever looked—not really.” A bramble of words. (acowar)
Was Elain actually speaking to one of the sister peaks, or even Wyrd, during some of this conversation? Her response to Lucien even seems to echo the song of the land: no one had ever truly looked, not really. No one knew what secrets they carried in their heart. This is such a lonely existence. As Elain and Azriel heal the land, I believe they will also heal their own wounds. Feel seen and heard. Understood.
Elain was also wearing a blue cloak in the Illyrian camp. Could that be a hint of her future work with others who wear something similar, like the priestesses who worship Wyrd? She answered her sister’s prayer during the war rather than Wyrd and has led her own sister in prayer before. Is she more priestess—more healer—than warrior, and is that the different sort of strength needed to garden on a larger scale? @willowmeres and I were discussing this the other night: perhaps like Gwydion and TT (which I theorized singing to each other across space), Elain’s rose necklace was called to the library when the priestesses were singing about Wyrd. And because like calls to like, the necklace answered and drew Azriel to the library instead of the Palace of Thread and Jewels. Like her sisters before her, Elain might receive help from priestesses as she hones her vision and gifts. I would scream if this turns out to be true because that necklace is pure Chaos (pun definitely intended).
It’s also possible the priestesses could be helpful in unbinding Void from the Book of Breathings, a book of spells. I doubt this will be a simple matter, however. It might rival the unraveling of Erawan, which required massive raw healing magic. Will the Asteri’s void magic manifest on another plane as Elain battles it with raw healing magic, shining bright as the dawn? Could a dawn ritual help ground her during this battle? And will Azriel, the sisters, the brothers, even priestesses with their healing stones, need to create a living chain to defeat Void and fully restore Wyrd (Chaos) in the end? Will we finally get a glimpse of her, unbound?
Maybe with the help of Azriel and others, Elain will even restore Wyrd—blossoming life—to Ramiel’s sunniest face, the heart of the world, of existence. Of self. And true spring will finally come to her sacred land.
#ramiel#the third sacred sister peak#mysterious as the third blessed sister#healing the land and Wyrd#elain archeron#azriel shadowsinger#elriel#wyrd#mother cauldron fate#a temple in Hel#nuala and cerridwen#archeron sisters#illyrian brothers#court of dreams#priestesses
176 notes
·
View notes
Text
This is gonna be a long walk. But I’ll get there. I promise.
In a lot of Chronicles of Darkness games, there are “minor templates” for players to take for their characters. These are basically lesser types of supernatural beings— undeniably marked by magic, but not transformed by it like the main templates are. So instead of being a werewolf, you might be a Wolf-Blooded, i.e., not the monster your stronger cousins are, but still recognizably having a connection to that world.
Again, a bunch of games have these. Mage has Sleepwalkers (and Proximi), Vampire has ghouls, Geist has the Absent, Demon has stigmatics, etc.
In Changeling: The Lost, there are the Fae-Touched. We’ll get to them in a bit. First, more on Lost.
In Lost, like many stories about faeries, oaths and vows are very important. They are, in the form of magical Contracts, the source of many fae powers. Changeling have a neat ability to make any spoken promise binding, invoking the force of the Wyrd to force even minor vows to be taken seriously. And many changelings are taken by the True Fae by getting ensnared in some kind of oath.
See, if you didn’t know, Changeling: The Lost is about humans taken to the home of the True Fae, and then transformed into changelings as the True Fae torment them. The game is very much about the way trauma changes a person, and how even recovering from trauma still doesn’t bring you back to the way you were— you’re healed, but you’re not the same.
And much like trauma changes a person, it isolates them too. Lost represents this in the fiction with fetches— the faerie-forged simulacra left behind in the stolen person’s wake, acting the roles of parent, sibling, friend, and so on while the original person is actually suffering with no escape.
But the Fae-Touched won’t stand for that.
Because while Changeling: The Lost recognizes that many promises aren’t serious, that when people swear, “I’ll always be there for you,” they don’t always live up to that, it also recognizes that some promises are different.
The Fae-Touched are the mortals who remember the words they swore, and will not ignore them. They can tell, in their dreams, through the nagging impulses they get in their waking moments, that the person they promised to help needs them now more than ever. They are lead by the Wyrd into the land of faerie to live up to that promise, and they follow it gladly.
A Fae-Touched is the father who knows the smiling fetch who claims to be his daughter isn’t the real thing, and that somewhere the girl he swore to protect is in mortal danger— and so he delves into a world of dreams and nightmares to bring her back.
A Fae-Touched is the woman who fights off briar wolves in a mad, twisting forest so she can find her wife, because when she said “I will never abandon you,” she meant it.
A Fae-Touched is the young man staring down a Lord of the True Fae and refusing to yield. He and his brother went through hell together years ago when their parents died, and they promised one another then that they’d always stand by each other, and some monster in a crown can’t change that.
Not every changeling is helped by a Fae-Touched, and not all of the Fae-Touched succeed. Sometimes you have to claw your own way back home. But God, what a beautiful concept.
I know that Changeling: The Lost is very dark, and the reason I love the Fae-Touched isn’t really because they’re the light to that darkness— I think that simplifies it too much.
I like the Fae-Touched not because they take away the darkness, but because they remind me we don’t always have to face the darkness alone.
Sometimes, when you think there’s no point going on, when you think it will just be the pain and the fear again and again and again… it’s not true. Because sometimes, maybe even more often than we think, there’s someone out there who knows you need help. And they ready themselves, they set out into the darkness, saying only,
“This is gonna be a long walk. But I’ll get there. I promise.”
108 notes
·
View notes
Text
ACOTAR 5: A Frozen and Moana Retelling
By @wingedblooms and @silverlinedeyes
Note: this is mainly a joke based on @wingedblooms amazing Ramiel meta and we were cracking up at the idea, but Sarah has toddlers so I CAN SEE IT lmao
Cast of Characters
Te Fiti/Arendelle: Wyrd whose soul is in Prythian (the heart of which is in Ramiel)
Ta’ka/the eternal winter: the barren parts of Prythian
The Heart of Te Fiti: the Cauldron
Elsa/Maui: The Asteri (I think? TBD honestly)
Anna and Kristoff/Moana and Maui: Elain and Azriel
Love: well, love (or Elain’s life giving or healing powers)
A Plot Summary
A long time ago in a land far far away (Prythian) Wyrd birthed the land. To give life to the land, her spirit was entrapped in the cauldron, and that cauldron was hidden in the heart of Prythian: Ramiel.
One day, the land was invaded by evil beings called Daglan, though we now know they were Asteri. And the Asteri stole the spirit of Wyrd for themselves and corrupted it.
This corruption caused a plague to ripple through the land, killing mountain after mountain (like how death killed island after island in Moana—see where we’re going here?)
This set off an eternal winter (“you kind of set off an eternal winter”) in Illyria that could only be prevented by the Blood Rite feeding life and magic back into the land to temporarily bring back spring, only for the land to fall into a deep winter again that it seemed could not be broken until the Rite was done anew.
Never fear though! Elain and Azriel are going to go on a journey to figure out what is wrong with the land. They might even have to go to Hel or maybe the Middle (either one would be Lalotai—the land of monsters) and back to find answers.
They will have to face whatever evil lurks within the land, leeching it of life, and whatever evil has corrupted the cauldron.
And ultimately, they will discover that love (or maybe, you know, Elain’s lifesinging magic or healing magic) can thaw a frozen “heart” and remove the corruption from the cauldron (a la Yrene in ToD and KoA using healing powers to remove the Valg parasite?), restoring the heart of Prythian—i.e. the Caudron and Wyrd’s spirit—to the land and cause spring to bloom again.
Oh and how could I forget—Elain and Az will discover true love (true mates?!) for each other along the way.
THE END.
#you’re welcome 🤣🤣
#acotar5#elriel#Ramiel#Elain#azriel#only love can thaw a frozen heart#restore the heart of te fiti ie Ramiel#Moana#frozen#retellings#we crack ourselves up#you’re welcome
28 notes
·
View notes
Text
December prayers
hail Forsetti. mediator, peacemaker, presiding one! i pray that there be justice soon for those who've been treated unjustly. i pray for the war criminals to be stopped.
hail Eir. healer, doctor, nurse, therapist! i pray to you that there be healing for those who have survived this genocide. may they once more have access to medicine and rest.
hail Freyr. farmer-king, peaceful and battle-bold! i pray there be peace, that the bloodshed come to a stop. i pray the land and the people heal, and that indigenous peoples be given their lands back.
hail Frigg. hearth-lady, dear one, mother-friend, all-knowing! i pray that the displaced find home in their lands once more. i weep with you, for the parents who have mourned children. may all the victims find refuge.
hail Odin. father of victory, enemy of the wolf, god of prisoners! i pray for the freedom of the unjustly kidnapped and imprisioned. i beg that you give wisdom and power to those fighting fascism. may those waging horror be stilled.
hail Loki. change-creator, mischief-maker, shapeshifter! i pray that hypocrisy be uncovered and made clear. i ask that you turn the minds of those who would justify terrible wrongdoing. i pray for human society to drastically change for the better.
hail to the Nornir. weavers of wyrd, composers of chance, you who embroider history. i pray for an end to capitalism and war, to bigotry and bloodthirst. i beg that the horrors be over soon. i beg for frith to be.
(i wrote this set of prayers thinking of Palestine and Lebanon and North America, but this unfortunately could be used for multiple other things going on around the world. feel free to use or to share with credit.)
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Secret History of Witchwalking.
The history of Witchwalking is as old as movement itself.
Like many other examples of occult knowledge, it is a legacy that often conceals itself within the various cultures and people who have engaged in its practice.
It is a tradition that sometimes emerges under different names and guises depending upon the societal climate and religious views of those in power. In many cases Witchwalking has remained hidden, becoming a ritual safest practiced at night or alone and far from the authorities wary of its power and benefits.
You may know Witchwalking as travelling the path of Songlines or Dreamwalking. You may know it as a North American initiation rite demanding the neophyte undertake an arduous journey through dangerous terrain.
Or, you may be aware of this practice as a marathon shamanic-type dance assisted by drumming and entheogens.
Witchwalking even survives within early Christian writings, thinly disguised as a meditative desert walk of 40 days and nights, as well as today in the stations of the cross. Another contemporary incarnation within Christian spirituality is the Camino pilgrimage.
The Latin phrase 'solvitur ambulando' means 'it is solved by walking’.
When we look with a keener eye we will find that Witchwalking is embedded into all of the world’s esoteric practices and rituals in one form or other.
Witchwalking continues to evolve even in today’s contemporary societies in the form of forest walks, ritual hikes to sacred places and even within the techniques of esoteric modern dance and musical therapy.
There are many reasons why someone is called to this path, be it for healing ourselves or others, or to gain insight from the deeper aspects of our minds. For more serious practitioners it is a way to contact ancestors and spirits of the land and to return from these trance states with advice and new knowledge.
But there is also a necessity at the roots of this practice. In many of the archaic, matriarchal cultures, from Catal Huyuk to the Hathor cult of ancient Egypt, there are embedded midwifery skills within the Witchwalking practices. The Moura Encantada, the female shape-shifters of Southern Europe, for example, were said to travel between megalithic sites, creating new life and spinning the sun. These motifs of ‘spinning’ and 'new life’ epitomise the coded and almost forgotten wise-women who assisted with childbirth and who were believed to draw souls from the spiritual realm and into new bodies. These were the same women who were almost erased from history by the later patriarchal religions and persecuted through inquisitions and demonization.
The writer, Ali Isaac, has drawn attention to specific mentions of walking ceremonies and processional paths within ancient Irish history and mythology.
Interesting, and possibly connected to Ali's Tara research, I have written about rites and ceremony related to pregnancy and birth before in this article for Ancient Origins.
https://www.ancient-origins.net/opinion-guest-authors/are-stone-circles-ancient-pregnancy-calendars-006774
There is inevitably a lot of speculation and guesswork in my own post but I found this paper on ancient Aboriginal birth practices a hugely insightful resource.
https://www.researchgate.net/publication/215781043_Traditional_Aboriginal_birthing_practices_in_Australia_Past_and_present
Another Witchwalking connection is ‘Well-Wyrding,’ which is a practice where women would visit a holy well or sacred spring on certain nights and divine prophecy based upon the movement and sound of the water.
This type of pagan spirit-contact at holy wells was so widespread in Europe that there was even a law in 1178 created to ban women from going out alone in order to receive these prophecies.
An ancient link between holy wells and wisdom occurs in the Irish Dindsenchas which describes one in particular, Connla's Well, as being 'The Well of Knowledge' or 'The Well of Wisdom' because of the hazel trees which grew over it and dropped hazel nuts into the water.
In Ireland, holy wells are still very much associated with cures and healing.
Specifically related to 'witchwalking', Holy wells also continue to draw visitors who practice the tradition of patterns and rounds, which is a type of meditative walk.
The esoteric practice of shape shifting is also intimately connected with Witchwalking in non-European cultures and is at the root of totem power and witches familiars.
Today, these techniques and spells, the wisdom and methods of spiritual contact are quickly being retraced and recovered. Cross-cultural comparisons are revealing that no matter how it is named or known, Witchwalking has always been a part of spiritual and ritual expression. Witchwalking in its many forms is once again revealing itself as an instructional and, ultimately, primal response to life.
Indeed, movement, change and discovery are the alchemical ingredients that lead us all down the pathways of questions.
Witchwalking takes us towards the inner parts of ourselves which has always known the answers we seek, if we are courageous enough to go and find them.
(C.) David Halpin.
Image: Andrea Kowch.
#witch #witchcraft #hedgewitch #irishwitch #irishpagan #pagan #yoga #folklore #mythology #wicca #animism #midwife #midwifery #megalith #holywell #celt #fairies #faeries #thegoodpeople #indigenous #healing #camino #meditation #goddess
#witchcraft#folk magic#traditional withcraft#witch community#witches#occult#folk magic art#folk witchcraft#shamanism
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
Lullaby for an Ætheling lyrics update:
Sleep now, my child, lay down your head,
tomorrow you set out across sea and land.
I know you're worried and I know you're scared,
but maybe you'll find your destiny there.
Don't cry, my child, you're never alone,
you know you were never meant for the throne.
I had hoped that meant you would live in peace,
but your father has spoken and so shall it be.
Chorus:
Now rest, my son, do not despair,
save your strength for what can be changed.
Some things are lost and some are spared,
so do not fight Fate, wyrd biþ ful aræd.
Look at you, child, you've grown so strong,
all your six winters did not seem that long.
Soon you will be a man, handsome and wise,
if only I could see it with my own eyes.
Don't cry for me, son, I am not afraid,
I pray that I see you again someday,
but now the Lord's calling me, I am prepared,
your brother awaits me at the Pearly Gates.
Chorus
Twelve years have passed, now you go to war,
you laid down your quill and took up the sword.
Out of five brothers only two are left,
God, all I ask is that they are spared.
Despair not, my son, there is still light,
today you were wed, tomorrow you fight.
You will not lose yourself out on the field,
the land and your soul will one day be healed.
Chorus
I have deliberately avoided any names, so that anyone can make their own interpretation, but in case anyone's interested, here's what the lyrics refer to:
They are meant to be from the perspective of Osburh, wife of Æthelwulf of Wessex and, as far as we know, the mother of all six of his children. The song is addressed to her youngest, who would one day become king Alfred the Great.
"Ætheling" can roughly be translated as "noble-born". In Alfred's time, the title was given to the brothers and sons of the ruling king.
First stanza refers to Alfred's journey to Rome at four years old, where he was sent by his father to be blessed by the Pope.
Second stanza is meant to be sung by Osburh on her deathbed. We do not know her date of death, but we know that Æthelwulf remarried in 856 when Alfred was 7 years old. The brother awaiting at the Pearly Gates is Æthelstan of Kent, Æthelwulf's firstborn son, who died in 852.
Third stanza refers to Alfred and Æthelred's participation in the siege of Nottingham of 868. By this point, two more of Osburh's sons, as well as her husband, were dead, and the crown had passed to Æthelred, the second youngest. The two had come to assist their brother-in-law, Burhred of Mercia, against the Danes. To further ensure Wessex' continued support of Mercia, Alfred was married to a mercian noblewoman Ealhswith the very same year.
I plan to write at least 3 more stanzas, concerning the events of Æthelred's death and Alfred's coronation, the defeat at Chippenham and the battle of Eddington.
The melody is coming along nicely, but I need to still give it some polishing, mostly so it doesn't end up sounding like literally every sad moravian folk song ever.
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Outlast 2: Deliverance CH 13
Also on A03
Status: Incomplete
Rated: M - Dead Dove Do Not Eat This takes place in the Outlast 2 universe after all, Blood and Gore, Child abuse, Sexual abuse of children & adults, Child killings, religious trauma, Torture and abuse both physical and mental.
Read from beginning: Ch: 1 Death
Previous chap: Ch: 12 Wyrd
Next chap: None (coming the ???)
_____________________________________
~Ch: 13 Blight~
Winter came and went, the snow had stopped falling to reveal fresh growth in the forest. The fields full of newly sprouting crops covered the land with green. Blake was eased when he saw it developing so well. Knowing he wouldn't need to buy more cans. His only stress of late was that Val had gone missing around late February. Staying gone until late march before popping up again. He shrugged it off as her checking in at home. Having stayed mainly in Temple Gate at this point for a few months. She's practically moved in, why doesn't she move everyone else? They don't want to? Assuming that was the reason without being able to directly ask. He still didn't want John to be aware that Val was discovered.
Not long after her return, John came forward with a request from Val. “People are getting sick again. We need more medicine and some pain killers.”
“Painkillers? What do they have?”
“We think it's what they had before. Nasty cough, hard breathing, the cold never lets up in the mines.”
“Why the pain killers though?”
“... Val didn't say.” Shifting his shoulders.
“Didn't say or wont tell me?”
“Won't, but I know it's very important.”
“You know it won't help any sickness, right? If someone actually broke a leg they need a doctor.”
“I know, it's for something else. I promise it's very important.”
“Okay.” He sighed. “I'll give one bottle, that's it, unless she tells me what it's for.”
“Thank you, that's all we'll need.”
Blake passed on the bottles. Expecting after a week to hear about the Voltaire's recovery from their ills. John however was missing with Mathew speaking for him instead at the meeting. “Dads sick.” The look Blake shot him had him reaffirm. “He's actually really sick. He's been coughing his lungs out and his necks really swollen. Was too tired to get out of bed this morning.”
Doesn't look like a lie. And so, he dismissed it.
It started off small, easily dismissed by everyone. A day later, A few coughing were thought to have colds. At worst a case of the flu and needing bed rest. A few stayed home from work to rest with others staying to care for family members. A few, became a lot the next day. Many were staying home either sick or caring for others. Waving it off as the flu couldn't be done anymore. People were turning anxious, paranoid of its cause. Many turned their eyes to the freshly integrated healed. Blake felt the tension in groups drifting apart. The healed and the townies before gathered only with themselves to whisper about the other half. Blake called another meeting in almost an emergency fashion. Trying to avoid a panic if he mentioned an outbreak was happening. Afraid to find out what it could be.
John still hadn't returned and others were missing. Confirmed by Mathew. “Liam had trouble this morning and three of Marta's guard. They were all moved for better care.”
Being one of the first ill, Blake had to know. “Your father seen any improvement?”
“No, he's gotten worse. I had to bring him to the infirmary this morning. Others gaining a cough like him are getting just as bad. Something serious is going around.”
Blake wanted to be sure and followed up with a visit. Shocked to see how bad John was in bed. Wheezing worse than him after running for his life. Neck swollen twice past its normal size. His hacking horribly dry that it pained Blake's own throat. Many others left bedridden were in various lesser stages of John's. Aside from John the others were all younger, around Blake's age. Worried further by Mathew passing on another request from Val. “They need more medicine.”
“Have they gotten any better?”
“Doesn't sound like it from what my dad said.”
John wasn't the first. “... I'll give more, but if it doesn't improve then this is something more serious.”
Mathew hung his head low. “Will we have to force a quarantine?”
“Yes.” Blake's answer scared the boy. Quick to reassure him. “Hopefully not long. We have the doctor who can test for things. Our medicine may not work, but another we don't have, could. Keep an eye on anymore cases like this popping up. Keep a written record of any symptoms you notice. I'll take John into town and hopefully we'll find out things soon and get an order on medicine moving.”
Scrubbing down before leaving he ran to gather up a small team to help transport the poor man to town. Making masks out of tightly wrapped gauze Blake, John, Mathew and Jacob crammed into the truck. The doctor saw them right away with Blake standing nearby in the room. Watching the doctor check John over with a mask and gloves. Looking down the back of John's throat his face scrunched up. “Eesh, a lot of gray at the back.”
“Whats that mean?”
“Dead tissue build up, but I think I know what this is now. Your people caught Diphtheria. A bit surprising since this is usually covered by child vaccines. It's a serious infection that causes nasty breathing problems, swollen neck, dead tissue and eventual buildup of toxins in the body.”
“How do we treat it?”
“Almost easy, you got half of it right now, keep the ill on antibiotics. It won't cure, but long as they keep taking them the spreading stops. For the other half, an actual cure, we'll need to order antitoxin. Figure out how many cases you got, because if they're as bad as he is you'll need multiple doses.”
“How long will it take to deliver?”
“On express delivery? Could take three months.”
“Three months?!”
“Maybe six. Antitoxin isn't really demanded on the market like antibiotics. Ain't too easy sneaking a stash away. Seeing a specific medication like that disappear would throw up alarms to the government. Heh, It's easier to commit tax fraud.”
“Can you put in an order TO the government?!”
“And have those assholes come questioning me at my office? No thanks, I ain't lookin' for a vacation in a cell. They'll wanna see why there's a sudden outbreak here and that'll also lead back to your town.”
“Ugh, what if I spread it around? Government can see for themselves then if people visit other doctors.” Feeling awful for tossing up the idea.
“You wanna spread a plague?!”
“Well, what happens if they don't get the antitoxin?”
“Eeh, they might live after 10 days, but they'll suffer a lot of organ damage, brain damage and uh, death.” He sighed. “Guess the idea isn't so bad.” Mumbling to himself the next bit. “Maybe I'll get paid by some relief program for this.” Clapping his hands together. “OKAY! Diphtheria's one of the easiest to spread. Drag him through public and let him hack his lungs out. I suggest around morn parkway, red brick avenue, and sunrise drive. They're the fancy rich neighborhoods. Those people can afford a rush to the doctors and we'll have an order in, in a few days. Then maybe a day more, or less for arrival. Rich people can't afford to die, they got money to make!”
Uncomfortable, although somewhat appreciative, by the doctors gung-ho attitude to do this. “Uh, yeah, thanks for the suggestion.” Feeling worse as he paraded John around the town all while he hacked and wheezed. Receiving all sorts of glares from the rich people judging them. He kept it up all day before they returned to Temple Gate. Knowing what people had was serious, he made announcements on the fly down the streets. He didn't want people shoving themselves into the hall for a gathering. Meanwhile he had Mathew move ill to the quarantine. Put on immediate treatment of antibiotics along with the medical staff. Meeting up with him when he was sure the town was warned.
“Mathew I need you to go see Val. Tell her what's going on and that it's very important to move the Voltaire to quarantine. They won't last in the mines without regular care. When we get the antitoxin they'll have to stay for regular treatment afterwards until they're cured. This isn't a small case of pneumonia like last time.”
“Move them to quarantine? I don't know if she'll do that. She hates this place!”
“None of us have much of a choice.”
“I'll try, sir.”
Temple Gate was slammed back by the illness spreading over the day. Tensions were rising in the few snippets of conversations he overheard. “We knew this would happen.” “Those scalled are infecting us.” “Our souls are becoming diseased like theirs.” “We need to reject them.” “Who cares what he said.” “They caused this.” “Cast them out.”
Fuck. What do I say? What he had said already was being tossed to the side.
Undermined by someone else catching attention on the streets. “Our prophet cast them out to protect us. None of you listened and look. You're paying the price of disobedience. Pray, pray to him for forgiveness and ask that a sign be given. Have faith that he will answer us to smite those scall-”
“Farlow!” Blake shouted, silencing his street side gathering.
“What do you want?”
“This is just an illness. It wasn't caused by any shit excuse Knoth made to hide his disgusting sexual abuse.”
He scoffed. “What else could it be? You took them back in and we were soon ravaged by disease. Those filthy lepers were cast out for a reason! If we are to save the rest still healthy you must turn to God. Follow his teach-”
“Knoth's words didn't come from God!”
“What do I expect from a fallen angel? Devil, you drag us down lower each day.”
He rolled his eyes. “No, I'm not that. You done?”
“The lord's work is never done. If you don't attend to it, then I will.” He looked to a few on his right. “Are you ready?” A wide set smile on his face that tensed up the others. “Things will only be right when he is gone. You know this.” Hand pointing from them to Blake.
Each man at his side looked to Blake. One reached for something in a side pocket. Blake tensed in knowing it wasn't a pleasant surprise. A choking hold the air held was cut down by a towering shadow's appearance. Farlows men went pale under her glaring eyes. His own smile dropped into a submissive look away. Watching her from out of the corner of his eye.
“Are you smart, or are you dead men?” It was all the warning she had to give.
They separated themselves from Farlow, who stayed to challenge Marta with a silent glare.
“Well?”
“... May God forgive you.” Trotting off out of view.
“Hmph, fool.”
“Thanks.” Blake sighed out the next. “Have any good news?”
She shook her head. “More of the healed are being harassed. Me and the guard have been separating arguers all day.”
He rubbed his head, unsure of what to say.
“Hate to say, but more of my guard is falling to the sickness. By tonight they'll have to enter quarantine, If not sooner.”
“Alright. Stay on patrol as much as you can.” Their meeting kept short to return to their duties.
Blake handed out what meds they could until they were out. Left waiting for when the antitoxin would come in. Mathew came back with more bad news by Val refusing to move her clan into quarantine. Blake let out a chain of curses. Dammit Val, why not?! “Tell her-”
Interrupted by Mathew stating how dead serious Val was on the matter. “They won't be moved anywhere near Temple Gate. No negotiating.”
“Fuck, fine, okay.” Having no choice but to let Val handle her cases. Driving back and forth to the town for the next couple of days. Picking up more supplies of antibiotics with the hopes that the antitoxin would be there as well. The disease spreading rapidly had slammed to a complete stop from the antibiotics. Soon as someone coughed they were sent to quarantine. The healthy remaining were doing their best to run Temple Gate on a skeleton crew.
Blake was repeatedly hit with a barrage of questions. “Can you do something?” “Does God not help his angels?” “Why isn't the medicine helping like before?” “Did the scalled cause this?” “Should we cast them out?” “Are we diseased of the soul?” “How long do the ill have?” “Should we prepare a fire burial?” “When will you reap them?” His answers fell on deaf ears as their faith in him waned. The rest he had no solid answers for. “Shouldn't the angel of death know?”
His nightmares were asking the same questions. Lynn sitting on a throne of rocks with her organs stretched from her carved body to tangle with the tree branches. Time flashing between day and night. Her body looked more intact one moment then half rotten the next with flies swarming out her openings. “Have you told them they're dying? Why haven't you started on the coffins?” She smiled unnaturally wide. A mouth of teeth stained by blood letting insects swarm in between. “You prefer to watch don't you? You looked at her body and wanted to see more.” Her voice deepened to another's he didn't want to hear. “I can help. It's natural. Just let me-”
He jolted up from bed to cover his mouth. Ready to vomit if he hadn't swallowed it down. “Ugh, shit.” He breathed out. His skin prickled at the last words repeating in his mind. Remembering them, yet he wasn't sure where from. They came from him, but not during his time at St. Sybil. Further into his thoughts he tensed to not go any deeper. Facing a wall of not only warning, but a physical threat to turn back. Heeding it he focused on what the day may bring. Fresh morning turned sour as soon as he stepped out the hall. Marta was separating a bunch of complainers. looking as interested as anybody would listening to children argue over something stupid.
Holding back he wanted to hear everything first before interfering. Expecting Marta to solve the issue without him anyway. It was the same old complaints he'd gotten the past few days. Looping over and over it was getting nowhere with Marta. Stepping forward to get in the mix he started up his list of explanations. Reasoning falling on deaf ears all the other times he expected the same here. “I'm trying. I've talked to the doctor and we-” A screech of pain caught everyone's attention. Blake ran in the direction and Marta ran ahead before he got far. Finding the source of the sound within a group of men. One held his bloody face, gouged across, with two palms. Another held their own broken nose that bled as much. Three more around them unable to offer much in the way of help.
Marta reached them first. “What happened?”
One of the uninjured answered. “Fuckin' one of the scalled.” Glancing away. “We was mindin' our business when one of 'em crossed us. Started rantin' some gibberish an' we told 'em to go away. Wouldn't let up.”
Blake was listening at first then tuned out the longer their side was explained.
Glances switched between him, Marta and the ground. “We walked away from 'em and they followed us.” Crossing his arms his fingers tapped over one. “We just had enough. Shoved 'em away and they freaked out on us. Almost took Greg's eye an' knocked Dole's nose sideways. Guess they realized the fuck up an' ran off.” Shifting himself in a sway that made Blake sea sick.
Marta had looked away from him toward the ground. A separating set of tracks had her scrunch her face up. Mumbling verses under her breath she faced them. “You see their face?”
“No, they were covered like every other scalled.”
“Mm.” A knowing glance given to Blake. “In all black I assume?”
“Ye-”
Blake interrupted. “This is a bunch of horseshit. You all started this.”
“What, you kiddin' me?! It was those diseased rats that-”
“You can work overtime on the farms and wait until your last to get dinner. That goes for all of you.”
“Fuck off you-” They crowded him and only got back when Marta jabbed them in the chest.
“You want a broken nose like him?” Jabbing him a few times. “Get to the farms and you better be there when I get there.” Sending them off ahead of her to speak alone with Blake.
“You think she started it?” Knowing exactly who it was they had the bad luck of crossing.
“Nay, it was them. This has been happening and it's gettin' worse by the day. Attacking healed just for passin' their homes. Haven't had one of them fight back. Too afraid to is my guess on the assumption poor behavior will get them cast out again.”
“I don't know what I can do to fix this. We need the medicine, but the medicine might not be here in the next few days.”
“Should we separate them?” Clarifying. “Around the hospital?”
“I don't want to do that. What if it becomes the old place part two?”
“Can be temporary 'till the medicine gets here. Otherwise you might need to start using that jail instead of the farms.”
“We might not have a big enough jail.”
“Uh, angel.” A woman's voice grabbed Blake and Marta's attention. A few healed had come forward off a bigger group lagging back. She was covered in light gray fabrics that didn't entirely cover her. Most her arms showing were covered in white gauze. Exposed fingers scared all over matching the skin he could see of her face. Still tinted a red from the thinner layers of skin starting to grow back after so long. Voice on the raspy side after suffering her illness. “We heard you talking, sorry.” Voice kept quiet to avoid offense.
Blake mimicked her volume to not scare them off. “Yes?”
“We wouldn't mind a closed space of our own. If we stay in charge of it … And we could be armed.”
“How armed? I can't give you crossbows.”
“Nothin' like that. We were hopin' mostly for blades. Easy to carry and easy to hide on us. It'll give us a bite to defend ourselves when we need to.”
“I don't want to arm you and make the fights worse.”
“Don't have much else, with how we are after the disease. Some can't run, others can't fight either, but a blade could at least buy them time for help to reach 'em.”
Marta threw in her two cents. “It's gettin' worse, least give them some chance.”
He hummed. “Alright, pick up what you thinks best. I'll find more to give you. … You want to make a space? Is that best? The assumptions about you may never get better.”
“Those that care are already treatin' us fine. As for the rest, we don't care much for what they say. They're the ones who chanted for us to be sent to the rotten quarantine in the first place. If we're armed, they're words won't matter if they try sending us again. As for our new space. This time it'll be us making it to keep others out. A home we can run to, lock up tight, and defend long as we need.”
“Sounds more like a fort than a space.”
“That's the idea.”
“Where are you planning on making it?”
“Where most of us are livin' round the hospital.”
“I don't think I can support blocking off the hospital.”
“We ain't stopping people from coming and going unless we really have to. If it gets that dire there will be bigger issues to see to first.” Mentioning a sort of compromise. “For guarding the stock of medicine we wont stock up on food. If we lock down we'll have to leave eventually then.”
“... Alright. I need to plan this out land wise. Come back later around dinner. I might have something planned we can look over or we can at least discuss it better then.”
“Thank you, angel.”
“You don't gotta ...” About to mention the angel thing, but let it go. “What's your name?”
“Asher.”
“You want to lead on this?”
“The fort build?”
“All of it. The fort, the healed.”
“Like a lord?”
“Sure, wouldn't hurt to have another. Mathews in charge of the hospital, but not the healed really. Someone from the healed should get a voice to speak up at the meetings for them.”
“Would love to, angel. Never lead anythin' before though.”
“That's fine, you'll match everyone else.” Speaking then to Marta. “After you check on the farms can you check what builders we have that aren't sick.”
“Last I checked we had a small group. Liam always drew up the plans though for these big builds.”
“Ah, a wall cant be too hard to build.”
She gave him a sort of side eye then looked away.
“I'll figure it out,” He huffed. “I'll make something out of rocks and Popsicle sticks first.”
“Mmhm. We still visiting the doctor today?”
“Yes, visit the farms, see builders, then we'll go. Should be afternoon by then.”
Blake spent his few hours running around to count the sick. Ordering the worsening cases to go into quarantine. Breaking up fights throughout the day had made him sore. Checking the farms he stood by Marta watching a group of punished trouble makers. James was able to keep up with all the extra hands on top of the regular turned skeleton crew. Making sure James could handle them without Marta watching, they left for the doctors.
Come on, come on, come on! Fearing the doctor would say no as he entered the office.
The secretary seeing him flashed a big grin. “Ay, your meds finally here. Doctors got a bunch of it set up for ya. He wants you to see him first though.”
“Oh, thank God.” Blake took a deep breath. Rushing back to see the doctor.
“Ah, my favorite patient. I assume you got the good news. I wanted to show you how to administer it before you get it.” Gesturing them to head inside one of the exam rooms.
“Administer it?”
“Yes, these don't come in pill form.” Showing two glass bottles in hand. “This one is the antitoxin and this one is a booster the government gave out.” Pointing to one then the other. Setting the anti toxin down to grab a syringe. Pointing to a certain measurement. “This is how much you need to give for a dosage of the antitoxin. This is very important, depending on the case, One shot per week until they start getting better. That should happen after about three weeks for the worst cases.” Taking a dosage from the booster. Showing where the level stopped in the syringe. “This is for the booster. I suggest getting your doses now.” gesturing to Blake and Marta. “Left you a case with the antitoxin.”
“Thanks.” Blake got ready to take his shot. And Marta getting hers before hauling the crates carefully back home. Blake showed medical staff the dosages along with proper instruction to not share needles between patients. Going elsewhere to give vaccines to those healthy still. Exhausted by the end of the day he met with Mathew again to go have another talk with Val. “Since these aren't pills, I can't chance them making it safely to the mines. If they break we can't get more like the antibiotics. They have to come to quarantine for treatment.
“She doesn't want that. What if we meet at the ration drop off?”
“They got sick first, didn't they? How bad are their cases?”
“As bad as dads.”
“Then they'll need multiple doses over the next four weeks, can they make the multiple journeys back and forth?”
Mathew looked to the floor. “I don't think they can even make one trip.”
“Go tell her to bring them, she has to. I'm willing to help bring them down if that's a problem.”
He sucked in a tense breath, rubbing his head. “Yes, sir.”
The message he got back the next day wasn't anymore cooperative. “She refuses and it's getting hard to talk with her. She wants the medicine delivered and nothing else.”
Goddammit Val! “Tell her, or don't that, that's not happening.” Dropping it there to handle treatment of those listening. Concocting some idea all day about how to handle them. He didn't want to leave them for dead and he'd have to work fast to make sure that didn't happen. A day passed without Blake knowing what to do. Another unhelpful message passed on by Mathew. Who didn't want to repeat what Val said. Giving up on that path he figured the only thing to do was to overstep Val's authority entirely.
He called an emergency meeting of a few select lords. John and Liam were sick and Mathew was purposefully left out due to the topic at hand. “We're going to capture the Voltaire for treatment.”
“With what?” James scoffed. “A quarter of the guard are too ill for that. If they don't want treatment, leave 'em up there.”
“We're going and I'm not arguing on this. Tomorrow we're leaving early morning to the mines, including you James. I don't think they'll be in any condition to fight.”
“What about Val?”
“I'll handle her. Meet here, early morning to suit up and go.” Dismissing everyone. Putting the rest of the plan into motion he talked to Marta on the side. “Seen Val in Temple Gate or has she gone?”
“She's been coming here, then leaving shortly after. Mathews not good at keeping the meetings subtle like John. Meeting her around the farm fields every morning.”
“That could work in our favor. ... Change of plans, without telling him who, have James snag Val for early morning work after her meeting. She'll be distracted long enough for us to reach the mines before her.”
“She's gonna be pissed when she finds out.”
“I know, maybe by some miracle she'll just agree to go along before then.” Separating from Marta to go normally about their day. Worrying until early next morning when he met up with the guard, short three people. Slipping into one of the hefty armored uniforms he picked up a catcher's loop. Sneaking everyone out of Temple Gate before the sun rose. Rowing a boat across the misted lake he watched Temple Gate fade behind them. Stepping onto the shore across the way to continue on foot. Wheezing already at the start of the mountain slope. Wanting to rush the three hour travel there. A moment taken when they met the mouth of the cave. A darkened opening covered by drooping roots out growing their surrounding dirt. Suddenly feeling ill at his last memory of this place. Escaping with Lynn before her grizzly death. Knowing very well that her dying spot wasn't too far from here. Was her body still strung in the trees? Or long rotten by now to become food for crows? Swallowing, he avoided dwelling on the thought traveling too depressingly deep.
Marta certainly noticed his pale complexion. “You alright?”
“Yeah, come on.” He breathed out. Approaching the cave to peek inside its darkening length. He shined a flashlight into it. Seeing nothing much else but mine walls.
“Want me first?” She offered.
“Yeah, but be careful.” Watching her step in before he did. Turning back to the others for a quick instruction. “Stay close and put a hand on the shoulder of the one in front of you. If you're grabbed from the back, we'll know right away.” Doing as they were told down the deep dark cave. Blake could see his own breath with how cold it was getting. The lack of fire making this place feel like a freezer. Fucking hell. It'd be goddamn warmer to sleep outside. Shivering without extra layers for the cold. Winding down the tunnels with multiple piles of rubble still covered in old blood. Stench of rot clinging to them hinted at the buried tunnels being tombs. Watching Marta navigate through the shrinking tunnels was beginning to worry him. Any smaller and she wouldn't be able to continue crouching low enough.
Marta stopped at a widening area. “Mm.”
“What?”
Looking at him over her shoulder. “No ones here.” Stepping forward to let everyone into the cave clearing. A large, half collapsed, room that was covered by spreading cobwebs.
“Stay close, but look around.” Walking further in their was nothing much else. “Fuck, maybe Mathew made her too paranoid and she moved?”
“Doubt it. They've been gone a long while it looks.” Pointing to the various remains of a camp. Shifting her stick through a pile of ashes where a fire used to be made. Old footprints blown away from the breeze coming down the main shaft. Old bloody bandages disintegrating from age. Bones of small animals left in a web covered pile. Spiders infesting all the crevices they could across the rocks.
“Any idea where they could have moved to?”
“Another cave I'd bet. Problem is the mines went all throughout these mountains with various openings. After that storm though, I don't know how many lasted.” Pointing her staff to a massive pile of rubble at the back.”
“Fuck it, we don't have time for this.”
“You're giving up?”
“No, we're heading back and we're going to follow Val.”
“You want to grab the Voltaire then?”
“Yes.”
“While Val's there?”
Blake froze, being in such a rush he didn't stop to think that he'd have to face Val after following her. “Uh … Maybe not today. We'll follow her then return the next.”
“Maybe we should bring Mathew?” Feeding him an idea. “A diplomat to help keep everyone calm. They'll still try to fight the whole way otherwise.”
“Yeah, yes, let's do that.” Starting their three hour travel back to Temple Gate. The group tired from their stressful mission ending in failure.
“Want a small team to go instead of all of us?” Marta hid a suggestion in a question.
“Yeah.” he nodded.
Marta pointed her staff toward two guards. “You two follow us. Rest of you, go get some sleep to head out early tomorrow.” Walking up until they could see the fields from a distance.
“See her?”
“Mm.” scanning across the horizon. “Yes.”
“Okay, have James let her go. you get them following. I'm going to talk with Mathew one last time to try convincing Val.”
“Good luck.”
He raced over back to quarantine, where he pulled Mathew aside. Urgently whispering his plea. “You have to convince her. This is the last chance I'm going to offer her.”
“I can't convince her! She refuses anything you or I try to offer. She's started shutting me down before I can get a word out if she doesn't like what she hears.”
“Just give it one more try.”
“I-” he heard his father start hacking from the other room. Rushing away from Blake to his side. “You okay?”
“A bit.” coughing some more. “Ugh, feel like a slug.”
“After a few more weeks you'll be doing better.”
“Shit, how's everyone else doing?”
“Better with the medicine.”
Blake crushed the small uplift. “Except for the Voltaire. Val refuses to cooperate on getting them treatment. We can’t hike the bottles up there and risk breaking them. She refuses to bring them here and making multiple trips for us or them to be treated is not possible. I'm out of options if Mathew can't convince her this time to cooperate, then they're going to die up there.”
“What?! Wait, Let me go this time. I've dealt with her stubbornness a lot more than my boy.”
Mathew argued against that. “You're too sick to go.”
“It's just talking to Val.” going into a coughing fit he slowed. “Even if she is a pain.”
“Okay.” Blake agreed. “You have to convince her, John. This is her last chance, and make sure she knows that too. Maybe she'll agree then.”
“Yes sir.”
Fearing the day of the raid he held back. Given the news by the scouting guards where the new Voltaire cave was. Finding that it was actually further south from the new quarantine zone. Still being a six hour journey there and back. When the day after tomorrow came, Marta kept watch for Val and John to meet by the fields. Running to gather the guard and James for a repeat of distracting Val until they returned. Snagged for farming duty before she could slip away after meeting John. Blake went off to get the final message from him. It wasn't good based on his expression.
“So that's it then?” Blake confirmed.
“... Can I try again?” His voice softened to defeat.
“That was it, no more talking, we can't wait any longer. But I won't let them die either. I'm going over Val and you have a choice to make. I know Val's been in Temple Gate. I know where the Voltaire moved to. I will be heading out with the guard to capture them for treatment. Either you wait in jail until me and my group returns or you come with us to act as diplomat.”
“NO!” John panicked. “YOU CAN'T DO THAT! I CAN'T DO THAT!” Suffering an absolute breakdown as a coughing fit took over. “If she finds out, she'll kill us!” He wheezed between fits. “ALL of us! She'll burn this place to the ground! YOU CAN'T!”
Blake was almost startled back. Swallowing down what nerves crept up from his gut. This has to be done. “Those are your choices. If you stay, I'll have to take Mathew. It's going to happen even if the both of you refuse. With one of you however, we hope to keep everyone calm and safe.”
John repeated on the verge of tears. “You can't, you can't, you can't!”
“If I don't they'll all die! Is that better?! Val's forced my hand!”
“Let me talk to her! Let me-”
“NO! I'm not giving you the chance to warn her we're coming. Are you coming with us? Or do I have to jail you to stay quiet and ask Mathew instead?”
Holding back another fit. “No! I'll go, I'll go! Please-” Sniffling away the tears to pull himself together. Wheezing another plea. “Please, this is going to go horribly wrong! Please don't!” Fresh tears collected.
“I'll make sure no one gets hurt.” Assisting John in walking out to the lake where they met the guard.
“You don't understand! You don't understand! You don't-” He mumbled repeatedly as they crossed the lake. Mumbling various other panicked warnings not to continue. Landing on the other side they followed up an overgrown trail toward the new Voltaire home. John mentally breaking down the closer they got. Seeing the new cave entrance, Blake went to John's side for a calming talk. Rubbing one of John's shoulders to help pull him together.
“Vals not here, okay? I made sure she's distracted. I don't want anybody hurt. We're doing this to make sure they get treated and cared for. After you, Marta's going in to make sure everybody's calm. To keep everyone safe on the way back they'll have to be tied. When we finally do get back we're setting them in the jail instead of quarantine. Only because I don't know how they'll react or if Val will try to make them break quarantine. Take some deep breaths and go talk to them. You have a minute to let them know what's going to happen. Any longer and I'll assume they're trying to take a back exit.”
He sniffed and wheezed until he could speak again. “O-okay, just give me a minute.” Rubbing his face before walking up into the cave.
Blake tapped his foot the longer John took. Wind blowing through the trees above, his eyes darted to a few falling pine needles. Mistaken as movement from a person hiding in the tree line. He glanced back to see the town off in the distance across the misty lake. Switching to check on his team standing by. Their attention caught between the cave and on falling needles. Marta was locked onto the mouth of the cave. He ignored the shifting sounds around him to focus on Marta's reaction. If someone approached from anywhere, she would know. It felt like time had stopped on the outside. Facing the entrance he was fidgeting on whether to go in or not. Stiffening when Marta perked at an approach inside the cave.
“Okay.” John stepped from the inside. “Uh- most will follow, but Ayzel. You've met him before. Don't turn your back on him and I would keep him extra tied.” He warned before stepping out of the way.
“Thank you.” Helping John sit down on a log.
Waiting for Marta to duck into the cave before he followed right behind. Guards walking closely front to back with hands on shoulders. Passing by the start of tunnels that could have an ambush waiting. Passing by they saw all were collapsed like the last mining tunnel. Lacking its distinct smell of death this time. Air turned cold enough to see their breath again. Made worse by the wind blowing in he double checked if their was frost on his arms. Marta slowed toward the middle of the main tunnel. Squeezing by a cluster of annoying roots on the wall. Slowing onward before the tunnel grew wider ahead. Holding out a palm to make Blake stay back. At the end she was jumped by the one warned of. Slashing at her with a broken blade. She slammed the air out of him with a punch to the ribs. Knocking him down with a slam of her cane to his face. Grabbing his neck to pin him down fully.
“Fuck off bitchh!” He spat at her. Slurring words while over pronouncing others past his crooked jaw. “I'll rip out every organ you hhave! Keep your hhead ash a trophy!” Raging against her grip. She held him without much struggle until the rest of the guard swarmed in to tie him. Binding him so much he'd need to be carried the whole way back. “Fucking Temple Gate bastards! Wretched whhore maggots!” Continuing his verbal assault from the ground.
Blake ignored the shouting to study the home of the Voltaire. It was Homey-er then he expected an old mining cave to be. Upside down carts turned into tables with logs for benches. A small carved out area for a fire pit covered by a red metal barrel holding the huge pot he gave. Its surroundings a makeshift kitchen holding the other cooking pots and boxes of rations next to a flat rock covered in old blood for butchering. Beds holding all the sick members were made of twigs, bones and various furs for cover other than the blankets given. Noticing Val's artistry using twigs to assemble small bits of artwork. A goat, made of them, sitting on one of the tables. Birds and a few small dolls made in a similar fashion stuck on the walls. Nothing like the last huge satanic idols she made in the other caves.
The Voltaire themselves appeared as sick as Blake expected them to be. Most laying down or sitting up in bed looking exhausted from hacking all the time. Coughing regularly kept silence from filling the room. Pained by their wheezing of each breath he planned how to hike them down the mountain side. “Take him outside.” Blake ordered for Ayzel, who shouted all sorts of insults. “Okay, to clarify what John had to rush through.” He started toward the remaining. “We're taking you to Temple Gate for treatment of your illness. Regular pills alone can't cure it and you'll need multiple doses depending on how sick you are. When you're cured you can come right back here. Before then, you'll be forced to stay in quarantine there between one to three weeks, depending.” gesturing for the guard to start gathering people.
Without a fuss they were gathered for their hands to be tied and seated outside before the walk back would begin. Blake walked out with a squeeze by the annoying root cluster. Joining Marta's side who watched over it all. Standing by her side he held himself from fidgeting under all the stares. Judging by how they locked only on him, they knew who he was. Shifting his gaze to keep from staring he watched how his guard worked. Weather any were showing old grudges in their treatment toward the once enemies. None of them were rougher then they needed to be. Standing by in waiting for the next step as things wrapped up. Turning to John fidgeting on a log he tensed up each time someone went in to fetch another. Tensing at each walk out then relaxing. When the guards stopped bringing people out, he still glanced at the cave. Rubbing his face he looked away briefly to let out a long breath fogging the cold air. Blake looked away to the cave. A move that had him see John tense up again. Disturbed their house enough I guess. Raking a hand through his hair he stepped forward to give the final order to leave. Quieted by Marta's staff smacking into his chest.
He looked at her and she whispered. “Two are missing.”
Whispering back. “How do you know?”
“Twenty-seven rations, but only twenty-five.” Cane waved in gesture to the seated.
“Extras? Or ...” Thinking the worst.
“Look at him.” Tipping her head to John. Looks shot toward the cave whenever someone so much as walked close to it. “He's hidin' something.” Heading back for the cave followed by Blake.
He gave one glance back to John and saw how wide eyed tense he got. Reaching the room they followed its edges in search of anything they missed. Without anything there Marta took to checking under furniture. Chucking a mine cart to the side created a loud clank.
“Ay!” stopping her thrashing of the place. “Don't mess up their home! They'll want to return here later.”
She grumbled something then loosely set the mine cart back where it was. Passing to check the next more gingerly, then under the beds.
He mumbled after they scoured the place. “Well, I'm not seeing anything. Let's go.”
Her hum sounded agreeing, but still held suspicion. Hesitant to leave after being asked to. Midway out she looked to the collection of roots. Pausing to study them up and down then looking around down the rest of the tunnel. When Blake looked around with her, he caught on to what she was thinking. Except for this one patch, the tunnel was smoothly rootless. She stepped to the side to knock her cane between the roots. A thunking hollowed sound rumbled out from the knock.
“A door?” He mumbled. Grabbing a bunch of roots to yank free with her. Scraping off a layer of wet clay next to show a slab of wood underneath. “What's behind here?” Feeling around it for a handle of sorts to pull. When he couldn't find anything. “Can you knock it down?” Standing aside as she readied her cane. One bash shoved it free from its frame. Immediately they heard a sound that stilled both their hearts. A baby's cry that was quickly stifled. They looked to one another for reassurance that what they heard was real.
________________________________
aaaaaand thats the end of season 1. still working on season 2 so prob no updates for a while. :v/
1 note
·
View note
Text
So You Want To Play A Darkling
(Sketch of Vickie Reeds, the Arrayer of Distant Thunder, provided by Sylverthorne. Character by me; catch her in New Avalon.)
Previous Articles: So You Want To Play A Beast, So You Want To Play A Wizened, So You Want To Play An Elemental & So You Want To Play An Ogre
“You don’t want to know.”
It’s a simple statement. We hear it, or its famous variants - “don’t even ask about,” and “how badly do you want to know?” and “don’t even get me started,” and more - all the time, and we brush them off. Of course we want to know! We asked, didn’t we? Why would we ask if we don’t want to know? And most of the time it’s something small, or our conversation partner was exaggerating for effect, and we learn just fine.
And other times what you hear, in a low and painful voice, spoken without eye contact and without pride or glory, is something you really did not want to know. Something you should not have asked. And now it is in you, rattling about in your mind, ready to stalk your dreams and worry away at your hope and joy.
Darklings are those Lost who know the things you should not, and their peers ask careful questions indeed around the children of Darkness. There are times in every Freehold’s life when push comes to shove and someone should have the hollow lore which bleeds, breaks, and scrapes. Someone has to know.
How badly do you want to?
This article draws primarily on Changeling: the Lost, as well as Winter Masques and Swords at Dawn. Other sources, when used, will be cited. It requires Content Warnings for depictions of torture, maiming, abuse, cannibalism, forced transformation, suicidal thoughts & ideation, stalking, and murder.
A Nightmare With No Waking - Darkling Overview
Darkling is the second Seeming presented in Changeling: the Lost; it joins Ogre in being one of the two Seemings most defined by violence, and Fairest in being a Seeming that is both highly socially adept and whose mere identity distorts their social relationships both to their fellow Lost and to mortals. Darkling is a striking and highly popular Seeming, represented strongly both in the community and in published NPCs, with many excellent examples to draw from and strong bones in with folklore and urban legend.
Like their cousins the Ogres, Darklings have a relationship to violence that may not be voluntary on their part. But where Ogres learn to fight, to roar, to hit back and intimidate until they are left in peace, Darklings learn the subtle shades of fear. Darklings hide, lie, cheat, and sneak. Keenly aware of the consequences of violence, Darklings adapt to murderous abuse by outwitting and outlasting it. When they are finally driven to strike against an enemy hunting them, a Darkling does not fight: they survive. If that means becoming a murderer, a cur, a monster, so be it: their enemies can hate them from the grave.
Up From The Gutter - Homecoming As A Darkling
Darklings are among those Lost who remember Arcadia with the least clarity and certainty (even as Wyrd rises), rivaling Fairest for ‘memories’ which may just be heady blends of fear and adaptation warped into a form they can live with. For many, their Durance is a blur of instincts and ‘rules’, behaviors adapted either to survive a lethal environment or the lethal attentions of a master which went out of its way to hate them. But for all that specific events are obscured in darkness, transmuted to sensory impressions fogged with rage and terror to rival the most frenzied nightmares of Beasts, most Darklings understand that they lost something important in the Fairest of Lands. All Lost carry scars of their survival, of course; it is far from unheard of for an Ogre to emerge missing an arm, or a Wizened to claw her way out without the eyes in her head. It is not the act of scarring in itself that creates a Darkling.
The loss that makes a Darkling is one that is replaced with Nothing. Not one which is not replaced; eyes gouged from their living skulls, warmth robbed from their veins, shards of soul-stuff cleaved from the whole to be nibbled on like candied glass by things whose voices are torn paper and guttering candles. The Nothing which replaces this loss, and which turns a mortal into a Darkling rather than any other Seeming, is an active absence, a hollowness, a yawning gulf inside of them which resists being filled and creates space around itself. It is here that Darkness dwells, and it is the Nothing that makes the Darkling wretched and wrong.
The exact loss and its methods vary. In the Castle of Diamonds, so high in the sky that sunlight cannot reach, the shivering slaves of its Lady rip out their human compassion so they can emulate her hunger and escape a pathetic, frozen death; when they escape into lands that know light and warmth, the hunger remains. The master of the Labyrinth, the Warden of Rats, steals mortals to persecute his verminous prisoners and plucks their fingers out one by one when they fail to meet their quotas; when they find the hidden cracks in the walls and go screaming into the Hedge, they can still turn their spectral prosthesis into blades, just as Master taught them. A Tunnelgrub mining for crystal blood in the corpse of a great giant hears the bones whispering to her; when she takes pity on their dreams of the open sky and trades her memories of it to them, they throw her into the Hedge with a new-found case of agoraphobia. Whatever the case, the Nothing - the Darkness - becomes part of the Darkling’s Wyrd, bound forever into their essence.
A Darkling’s Durance may have been wild or industrious; they may have served as librarians, murderers, spies, guards, or even cleaning staff, or they may have performed an initial escape early on only to transform when they got lost in the Arcadian wilderness. What they all have in common is danger. For almost every second of their captivity, the Darkling was under threat; from a Master which hated them and would harm them if it noticed the Darkling, from fellow slaves desperate for food or warmth or life’s blood, from haunted forests and ancient curses, from things seeking to swallow the Darkling’s shadow. Darklings learned to live in constant fear, to hide, lie, and cheat, and, if violence was inevitable, to be the first to resort to it.
These two truths form the first and greatest obstacles to a Darkling’s escape: first they must convince themselves that the mortal world, which is now strange and frightening to them, is still safer than their captivity, and second they must convince themselves that they deserve to go back. Darklings struggle with self-image problems that would stagger most of their friends if the children of night ever expressed them; many, staring at their inhuman shadows or at the collections of diseased, blunted knives that are now their fingers, think of themselves as monsters to be put down rather than victims who deserve compassion and healing. For those who cannot overcome this self-doubt, the darkness of Arcadia waits to swallow them whole. But if they can focus through the pain, the doubt, the horror, Darklings are well-suited to finding the hidden paths into the Hedge, past guards and demons and terror, and slipping oh-so-quietly back into the Iron Lands where they were once born.
Darklings are often drawn home by memories now alien to their new environment; warmth, love, laughter, and light factor heavily into a Darkling’s recollections of the Iron Lands. Despite their otherwise obsessive interest in their physical, environmental safety, it’s people the Darkling comes home to protect - to kill for, if necessary. Of course, all too many collapse to the soil of Earth and, once they find their breath, conclude that the people they love are better off without such a monster in their life. It is during the resulting patterns of stalking and distant observation that the local Freehold generally finds the youngblood Darkling and attempts to coax them into meeting their peers.
Mountebanks and Murderers - Darkling Kiths
Though the listed weakness of Darklings as a Seeming is both fairly obvious and straightforward - they suffer a penalty to all attempts to work magic during the day, which worsens in direct sunlight - this is not the curse which stalks their life and wends its way through their relationships with all of their peers. No; Darklings are unique amongst Seemings in that their magical strength is their magical weakness. Darklings have an incredible talent for stealth, deception, robbery, murder, stalking, and disguise; a Darkling twisting the truth is as skilled as a Fairest. These tools, refined in Arcadia, are among the first the Darkling reaches for when confronted with stress or with trouble, and they are all too keenly aware that these things are, not to put too fine a point on it, wrong. At the end of every day the Darkling has to look at herself in the mirror and see a person who thinks to lie before she thinks to tell the truth, who knows where the old injuries that weaken her friends and would let her kill them are, who forgets sometimes why we knock on front doors or pay for goods and services.
It’s exhausting. It isn’t just the self-recrimination, though that rough beast stalks almost every Darkling under Earth’s starry skies. It’s that humans and post-humans are naturally predisposed to enjoy things we’re good at, and what Darklings are good at are con jobs, cheating, betraying trust, and bloody murder.
It doesn’t help that Freeholds tend to know it too. Though all Lost have trust problems, it’s Darklings who get the worst reputation for wriggling their way out of Pledges or for being liars and thieves. Their peers can often tread lightly around them, further increasing feelings of frustrating alienation from their own communities. Sometimes, but not all the time, strong community leaders make efforts to bridge this gap and create cultures of acceptance, but in the absence of such mighty compassion Darklings can often feel as if they’ve been forced into a second, smaller community which has unspoken rules it must obey. Given how strongly that situation can remind them of their Durance, there are many Darklings the world over who are more than a little prickly, more than a little standoffish, whose hair-trigger tempers are concealed beneath a silent facade that acts like a spider’s trapdoor. The bursts of violence that can result only worsen the problem.
How do Darklings cope with being liars and killers? Poorly, in the main. Some lean in, drifting towards Summer and Autumn where a reputation for violence can service them well. Such Darklings learn to tell the truth tactically, almost as a method of deception in itself; they become scouts, Hedge Rangers, spies, and sorcerers. While this reduces the day-to-day stress of simply Being A Darkling, it does tend to arrest the Darkling’s recovery. Though there are very good reasons for them to learn and practice the skills they gained in their Durance, building an identity around these ultimately maladaptive coping mechanisms means not confronting the problems that created them in the first place.
Other Darklings, often those who wind up in Spring or Winter, go the opposite route: they go out of their way to prove they’re trustworthy, lovable, and no threat at all. They throw themselves into social events and social roles and go out of their way to make themselves available; some go so far as to start taking strictly diurnal schedules so others can contact them more easily and as a show of great trust and strength. Such efforts often work! People come to trust and approach these Darklings, and they flourish in the social roles they seek out, but beneath the sunny smiles and bright words is often a Lost riding the edge of a fucking killing spree. The cost of this approach is quite often a constant feeling of doubt and threat, of unsafety, and rather than attaining healing such Darklings succeed in making themselves unhappy on purpose.
All too often, regardless of the initial approach they attempt to take, a given Darkling can only really start to heal when driven to do so by an outside source. Having a friend close enough to call them out on their shit and actually get listened to is an important milestone in a Darkling’s journey, especially when their fellows can all-too-easily mistake stability for recovery when the two are not the same.
Darkling Kiths embody fears; they are the things waiting in the dark, the secrets you try to avoid, the anxieties behind your flickering smiles. Though some relationship exists between a Darkling’s Kith and their fae labors, the dangers into which the Darkling was placed and the adaptations they made to survive those dangers are equally important - if not more so. All other things being equal, Darklings are somewhat more likely to manifests Kiths and therefore Miens which reflect more ‘modern’ stories than other Seemings are; Bloody Mary, the Candyman, and Jason Vorhees are as germane to their nature as red caps, Baba Yaga, and goblins are, maybe even more so, for the fears of the modern era yet live.
Thoughts on individual Darkling Kiths follow:
Antiquarian - Antiquarians are spoken of in Winter Masques as embodying the fear of old age, and they can fit this mold fine enough as witches, unsettling librarians, or the dead-eyed tender of a dive bar you realize you should not be in, but given their powerful ability to know things (embodied in 9-again on Academics and Investigation and in the power to spend Glamour to know answers to questions even when they don’t) that’s hardly the full breadth of this Kith’s potential. Antiquarians can easily be the smiling police detective who has entered your life for reasons you do not understand, the sinister school psychiatrist using her authority to make your life hell, or even the intimidating priest you know will some day ask you to do something...ungodly. This is strong and thematic Kith, easily worth considering for any concept that revolves around knowledge or investigation; pair it with Cleareyes via Dual Kith for a nearly psychic level of perception.
Gravewight - Does your chronicle revolve around ghosts? Then close the book and go play Geist, which actually works for them. For all intents and purposes neither this Kith nor Contracts of Shade and Spirit actually exist.
Leechfinger - Do you like vampires, breath-stealing cats, kumiho, and other life-eaters? Then keep looking because Leechfinger sorta fucking sucks. Which is a shame, honestly; Leechfinger may well be Darkling at its most pure, representing the fundamental way in which lies and theft take shards from the lives of others which they will never get back. But its Blessing is incredibly lackluster, and while ordinarily it would be valuable for short-cutting nWoD’s long recovery times from violent confrontation...goblin fruit exist. Give this one a pass.
Mirrorskin - Embodying the fear of losing one’s identity - as well as the fear of strangers, of false faces that hide malicious intent - Mirrorskin is the single strongest Kith in its niche and so centralizing that in many ways it’s a better investment for disguise and shapeshifting than Contracts of Mirror, which are, you know, for disguise and shapeshifting. Mirrorskin is worth considering for any concept that wants to invest in infiltration, regardless of your Seeming, and easily worth even the three dots needed to snag it with an out-of-house Dual Kith.
Tunnelgrub - Burglars, snakes, goblins, and sewer mutants, Tunnelgrubs embody the fear of intrusion, robbery, and the suspicion that your safe home is anything but. Mechanically, they’re, well, they’re functional. Their Blessing lets them slip in and through spaces that would normally require powerful Contracts (Separation 3 or Elements 5, depending), and that’s definitely not nothing, but one does need to ask oneself how often you’re going to slither down someone’s chimney.
Lurkglider - Lurkgliders embody gargoyles and predators such as harpies or the Mothman, but they also have bones in with fear of, and fascination with, cat burglars, rooftop men, and so-called ‘superspies’. Their Blessing is, like Tunnelgrub, unmatched in its niche but still incredibly niche for all of that. If your group is already full of Windwings and Steepscramblers, consider Lurkglider so you can jump naked off of skyscrapers like an absolute madman; otherwise, maybe give this one a pass.
Moonborn - I want the head of whatever jackass greenlit this. Skipping over the ableist horse shit that is this Kith, which we should not but skipping over it, Moonborn is a volatile and risky Kith whose usefulness depends entirely on how your group runs Derangements, which in themselves never should have been written the way they got written in the first place. White out this section of your copy of Winter Masques and put this far from your mind.
Nightsinger - Nightsinger is another one that is Okay. Thematically it’s a bit confusing; it does not directly relate to many kinds of legendry or fear, and the ones it does relate to taste more like Wizened than Darkling. Mechanically, Nightsinger has powerful social support tools which help your group’s face land their social rolls, and if that idea is appealing to you then I’m happy to suggest Nightsinger, but given Lost’s lack of mechanical tools to follow up on the musical theming and the fact that Playmate exists I can’t wholly endorse this Kith.
Palewraith - Palewraiths are a sort of stealth replacement for Gravewight; they embody the fear of fading away, of becoming a helpless ghost, of being a secondary character in your own life. Their Blessing is...bad, and worse, it’s boring. Give it a pass.
Razorhand - Razorhands are killers, thugs, organleggers, and ghouls; they embody the fear of slashers, of violence in the dark, of having yourself carved up by something which sees you only as a resource to be exploited. Their Blessing is incompetently worded; the most common reading lets them spend 1 Glamour to turn their unarmed attacks into a 1L weapon and gives them (Knives) as a Weaponry specialty, and on those terms Razorhand is one of the premier close-combat Kiths. If Leechfinger being shit let you down, consider Razorhand as one of the most quintessentially Darkling Kiths.
Whisperwisp - Darkling Does Fairest. Whisperwisps are spies, turncoats, and double agents. Their Blessing resolves to 8-again on rolls to lie in conversation, and that’s before the thing where they can murmur in your ear from across the room. If you’re considering a social-focused Darkling concept,Whisperwisp is your first and probably only stop.
A Cause Worth Killing For - Darklings in the Courts
Though Darklings don’t necessarily immediately fit into obvious roles in a Freehold the way that Ogres and Wizened so often do, chances are that their new community is going to eventually ask them to break shit, kill people, and steal things. Thankfully even the most urban Freehold doesn’t necessarily need people killed all that often, so during the ‘off season’ a classically retained Darkling is likely to slot into mid-tier social roles in their Court; they flourish as assistants, administrators, Arrayers of Distant Thunder, Armigers, and the like. For those who finally get a handle on their shit, even more illustrious roles might follow - a Darkling with a level head makes an ideal Searce, Twilit Page, or Thane, for instance. Ironically, this makes Darklings among the more visible Seemings in the power structures of a Court, rivaling Fairest and Beasts for de jure and de facto power.
How a Darkling reacts to eventually being asked to perform underhanded deeds for her new society will become a defining moment in her journey towards healing. Some have an easier time than others. A Razorhand approached by Summer and asked to serve as a scout has the chance to bring military pride to an otherwise shameful skill set and make peace with the terrible things she’s learned to do to survive, while a young Lurkglider who attracts the attention of one of Winter’s Archers gets to see the real, tangible lives saved by the information he brings home and the enemies he tracks through the terrible Hedge. In contrast, an Antiquarian asked to find blueprints for a Spring heist or disable a security system ahead of Autumn’s assassins faces a much more difficult choice - one they have to live with every day of their life thereafter. Playing the ‘you aren’t paid to ask questions’ game with Darklings rarely ends well; the children of night are more inclined to respect the secrecy of even the most vile enterprise if you’ll just play straight with them, while lies can taint noble intentions forever in their eyes. It is difficult for their leaders to gain the trust of Darkling vassals, and oh so very easy to lose it.
Darklings are among those Lost who yearn to embrace high ideals in their Courts, though both their inclinations and their anxieties lead them to see quite a bit of a Court’s realpolitik either way. More than anything, they want honesty out of a Court they choose to embrace; if you walk your talk, a Darkling is a lot more willing to see how those cynical political needs stem from, and feed back into, the high ideals that are on the recruitment poster. Tell a would-be Darkling knight that Summer needs ammo to defend the weak, and ammo costs money, and they’ll agree - but if those bullets start getting aimed at the ones you’re supposed to protect, you don’t get to act surprised when the Darkling shoots you in the back in turn. Of course, there can be those Darklings who live down to their worst selves, but their peers often invest quite a bit of energy in hauling them out of such pits - or burying them in it. The children of night don’t have a lot of trust to go around, and errant brothers who piss on the Freehold’s goodwill don’t get tolerated for long.
Spring - Though Darklings are good at Spring’s social games, they do not often join the Emerald Court. Openly admitting to their Desires, putting their wants and needs out where others can see them, is terrifying for most Darklings. Spring’s chaotic culture also makes it difficult to predict and adapt to, and for a Darkling this combination of factors is often as appealing as having a rabid weasel stapled to the inside of their thighs. Those who do take the comparatively extreme step of joining Spring are often looking to make equally extreme changes in their lives; they may be driven by self-loathing, trying to reject the guilt they feel over a particularly violent Durance, or hoping to hide from enemies (real or imagined) behind the flash and thunder of Spring in its full flower. The Emerald Court can often be good for Darklings who do join it, though such worthies face one of the hardest tests Spring can ask of them: to accept and love themselves as they are, and not as they ‘should’ be.
Summer - It’s easy for those outside of the ranks of the raging to assume that Summer is disinterested in Darklings and that Darklings in turn are not interested in Summer, but the Iron Spear is a fairly popular destination for them. Some join up early, realizing that the feral murder they learned in Arcadia won’t fly against trained opponents, and gain discipline and brotherhood for their troubles. Others are sought out for their skills as scouts or sorcerers, and because the cautious perspective of Darklings provides invaluable additions to Summer’s battle plans. Summer can be a very stable community from which a Darkling can grow, provided they keep the trust of their brothers in arms, and the promise of being able to bring good out of the evil done to them is an appealing one.
Autumn - Ask a given non-Darkling about what Court all the Darklings end up in and chances are they’ll say Autumn. It’s an answer born, appropriately enough, of fear; Darklings can be intimidating, dreaded, mistrusted, and so of course they ‘naturally’ end up amongst the Leaden Mirror, no? The reality is rarely so cut-and-dried. Many Darklings yearn to be more than what their Keeper made them, and signing on with Autumn feels a lot like resigning themselves to evil. Those who do join are often those who believe magic is a way they can bring wonder back into the world to ‘make up’ for the horror they commit, or those whose personal terrors are so extreme that they turn to Autumn for any relief from their misery. For those Darklings that do join with Autumn, that Court is well-positioned to help them. They take well to Autumn’s essentially two-faced nature, especially with a patient mentor who can explain why it exists and that it is not, in itself, a form of deception - and, of course, when it comes to stalking, terrifying, and haunting, few are a Darkling’s equal.
Winter - The actual most popular Court for Darklings, who emerge from Arcadia already speaking the languages of caution, humility, stealth, and silence. Winter often invests quite a bit of resources in courting youngblood Darklings and persuading them of the promise of Winter; Darklings, in turn, often feel deep guilt and sorrow over what they’ve become, and the power to build a new life with no questions asked can be an incredibly attractive offer. From this initial mutual attraction can blossom wildly successful careers as Winter Courtiers. Darklings understand the ideology of stealth and the importance of information control without having to be taught it; Winter understands that being honest with its Darklings will motivate them just as much as the promise of payment and favors. The ‘trouble’, such as it is, is that at times the Coldest Court can succeed its way right out of owning a valuable operator; as their Darklings stabilize and learn to trust and love others in their guarded way, sometimes they pack up and leave. It’s never anything personal. It’s just that in becoming the sort of person with whom others feel safe sharing their Sorrows, these Darklings realize that maybe they don’t have to feel guilt over their victimization, and like frost in a sunbeam the ties that bind them to Winter melt. Those who reach this point and choose to stay are those Darklings who see value and beauty in the promise of Winter; such Courtiers quite often ramp up how active they are in their local community, becoming invested in the lives of the Flowing Pages and even members of other Courts whose lives might be bettered by the cleansing power of Sorrow and a quiet hand to hold through the dark times.
The Children Of Noose And Razor - Darkling And Changeling’s Themes
As mentioned in So You Want To Play An Ogre, Darklings are one of the two Seemings that reflect victimization by the prison-industrial complex. Where Ogres learned the language of overt violence, Darklings got by on their wits and cunning, killing in secret and smuggling goods or drugs to make money on the side. Mastering a corrupt system corrupts the Darklings in turn, and when they escape, they take that corruption with them.
More broadly, however, Darklings represent those whose violent abuse has rendered them an imperfect victim; someone who, despite being as scared of you as you are of them, is infinitely more dangerous than you are. Darklings are primed to represent the consequences of growing up amidst gang violence, being raised into a mob family, or being pressured as a young professional into criminal enterprises. The recent med school graduate who learns that her great job offer is a front for organlegging might be a Darkling if she gets out alive; so, too, might a child whose father presses a .32 into his hands and bids him to make his first kill ‘for the family’. Anywhere that violent abuse encourages its victims to hide their thoughts and feelings, and to become complicit in order to feel safe, you will find Darklings.
Such unfortunates are rarely ‘perfect’ victims, and their coping mechanisms may not be healthy or acceptable to conventional society. It is the second cruelty; having first been victimized, the people whose trauma Darklings represent are then made to feel dirty, unworthy, or even monstrous for what their pain has turned them into. One drinks to be able to sleep through her nightmares; another fucks his way through bed after bed, never quite developing meaningful relationships because he fears closeness as much as he craves it. Many have hair-trigger tempers or put up emotional walls to keep friends and family away; more than a few hurt people to feel powerful. Some of the most tragic cases involve attempted suicide. All are, too often, abandoned by the very people who should be making extra strides to help them.
Thematically, Darkling has an unusual relationship to gender - in particular, femininity- that is worth talking about. Society expects traumatized women to be delicate, virtuous things, to play the part of the perfect victim and to perform femininity in order to deserve help. This is rarely the case, and when it inevitably turns out that a woman victimized by violence is not an angel garbed in human flesh this is used as an excuse to belittle her, doubt her, or even persecute her. Survivors who, like many Darklings, turn to knives and shotguns to feel safe again find their pain used against them by a society that demands they continue to perform for it. In this sense, the trauma Darkling women experience can radically change their relationship to gender expression or even gender identity, potentially alienating them from their former communities and leaving them with the daunting task of attempting to trust and connect with new ones. That so many end up becoming angry loners is rarely because they want to be.
Though a Darkling is inclined to keep their desires and preferences secret, resist the temptation to literally make them love nothing. Just as an Ogre is not wholly defined by violence and an Elemental is not wholly defined by magic, a Darkling wholly defined by her trauma is a badly-written Darkling. What does your Darkling do to relax? What sorts of secret collections do they keep in their home and why do they love those things? What is their idea of a ‘good’ life? Do they live that life? Why or why not? Darklings get beaten down harder and deeper into the gutter than almost any other Lost, but that does not make the gutter their home; indeed, often it only deepens their lust for sunlight and song.
My Roommate, Mister Twelve-Gauge - Coping As A Darkling
Much like Ogres and Wizened, Darklings have a great concern with their physical, environmental safety. Where Wizened crave a controlled space in which to enact daily rituals that help ground them, though, Darklings need options; varied routes to get to and from favorite haunts, multiple entrances to their homes, even multiple homes if they can find a way to swing it (or at least a secure bolt-hole to run to). In the numerous cases where a Darkling can’t live in an isolated cabin with clear sightlines in every direction, they tend to favor spaces which are either temporary or can be made temporary; apartments, hotels, and squats are all commonly chosen by Darklings specifically so that they can be abandoned with a minimum of long-term attachments. As the Darkling begins to heal and considers group home ideas such as moving in with her Motley or with a girlfriend, she’s likely to continue to rent a second space on the side as income permits so that she can have solitude on demand.
A Darkling’s home reveals a lot about herself in a way she’s unlikely to in conversation. If she collects things, they’ll be on display here. If she’s into something - a specific band, videogames, history - then paraphernalia related to that thing will be all over the place. Few valuables as such are likely to be present (Darklings have a habit of stashing those in safes, deposit boxes, or even dead drops) as such, but for a Darkling whose passions run in the right direction objects of value like high-quality cooking utensils, powerful electronics, or collectors’ items might be present. The resulting clutter might seem to work against the Darkling obsession with physical safety, but it generally conceals the other feature of Darkling homes: traps. Unwelcome guests may find that tripwires connect to noisemakers which wake the Darkling from her slumber, or that an unwisely-opened door was tied to a loaded shotgun. Darklings might scatter caltrops in their hallways, rig fatal pit traps that drop people to hard basement floors, and conceal weapons throughout their home. They know it’s insane, but most do it anyway: the extra ritual needed to avoid their own traps is worth the feeling of raw security they provide. While an Ogre trusts in clear sightlines to put any intruder into their own two hands, Darklings put their faith in the secrets of their homes that they know and their enemies do not.
A given Darkling likely denies knowing about or caring for any of her neighbors. Certainly she knows her neighborhood very well, especially all routes into and out of it (the recent rise in the popularity of parkour has been a godsend for Darklings the world over), and if you can catch her off her guard the Darkling may well speak glowingly of the architecture, her favorite stores or hangouts, the local parks. Those who mistake the Darkling’s guarded heart for apathy are in for a rude awakening when they fuck with those under her protection. Darklings do not practice performative violence and they tend to be bad at giving second chances; the first warning that you’ve managed to anger one is generally when they’re feeding your hand into a garbage disposal or the DEA breaks down your front door looking for 20 kilos of cocaine you don’t remember owning but which is, would you look at that, definitely in your house. Older, calmer Darklings learn to issue threats or warnings, but even then you only really get one.
Darklings have a big obvious problem - to wit, Being Darklings - that defines the arc of their recovery, but being able to understand their bullshit and being able to solve it are two very different things to ask of them. Confronting that their coping mechanisms are, to an extent, maladaptive can be the patient work of years; trying to decide how much is healthy to hold onto and how much needs to be excised can take even longer. Darklings often seek out the company of Wizened and Ogres, with whom they share commonalities that don’t have to be spoken aloud to be understood; conversely, Darkling rivalries with Fairest can be the stuff of legends, as can the side bets on when they’re going to just fuck already everyone else can see you’re in love you idiots. Though they rarely gain the acclaim of their peers and society, Darklings make for steadfast friends who really will help you bury a body, and for many that quiet acceptance and unconditional love is the pinnacle of years of struggle to feel deserving of that love.
Example Darkling - Detective Pomander (”Melpomene”), Winter Antiquarian
Everyone in the run-down East Side knows about the Detective. No one’s exactly sure what her name is. She turns up after sketchy shit goes down, in her long coat with that smile on her face, and she asks questions. No. No, not asks questions. She makes statements; she says things about you that she shouldn’t know. She brings up connections to people you yourself might have forgotten about. She’s fucking creepy, is what she is, and by the time she’s done explaining the situation you’re telling her everything just so she’ll go away. The worst parts are when someone disappears. You think they moved away? That a gang got ‘em, or the mob they owed that drug money to? The Detective doesn’t. The Detective wants to know everything you’ve ever known about them.
Melissa Pomander - known to the Lost as Melpomene - isn’t a cop, but everyone thinks she is. Even people who know that “Detective” Pomander isn’t with the police forget sometimes; she radiates an aura of lawful authority that puts people ill at their ease and suggests in subtle ways that failure to please her will introduce you to worlds of suffering beyond your comprehension. It was this knack that first drew the attention of the Lord of the Inhospitable Chamber; it was his training that made Melpomene his replacement when he gave his life relaying vital information back to the Freehold. Detective Pomander knows people have good reason to be scared of her, but she works tirelessly on their behalf nonetheless. A bright young thing from Spring with a thing for cop roleplaying in bed says she saw the size of Melissa’s pay packets once. Detective Pomander rakes in enough cash to live in a plush mansion staffed with sexy maids. So why’s she live in a studio apartment and only get drunk enough to fuck on the nights of the new moon?
Next up: Fairest
28 notes
·
View notes
Text
Liselle Yvette (ESO)- Breton. Vestige, delver, mudcrab enthusiast. Planemeld, CWC, Northern Elsweyr. Mages guild. Blackwood. High Isle. Necrom. Paired with Abnur Tharn
Damienund Yvette (ESO) - Breton. Former Worm Cultist. He’s the reason Liselle was sacrificed and he did nothing to stop it. Blackmarsh and Murkmire Hero. Paired with Xukas.
Fae Wolfsinger (ESO)- Reachwoman. Vestige. Loves wolves. Her clan tames wolves. She has a pet Draugulf. Best friends with Abnur. Former Molag Bal worshipper. Paired with Laisren Duskbear.
Mardas Wolfsinger (ESO)- Reachman. Leader to Wolfsinger Clan. Fae's twin brother. Wolf tamer. Briarheart. Paired with Genevieve Tanier.
Laisren Duskbear (ESO) - Reachman. Werebear. More TBD
Genevieve Tanier (ESO)- Wyress. Werecat. Ostracized from her Wyrd Clan for bringing a man around and willingly accepting beast blood. Cures people of beastblood. Doesn’t heal herself. Has a son. Helps Mardas get his humanity back.
Nyla Iron-Breaker (ESO)- Nord. Drinks dumb bitch juice. Former Bandit. Vestige. She’s really dumb. Paired with Lyris Titanborn.
Kjolvor (ESO)- Problematic. Nord. Sister to Jarl of Dawnstar (OC). Pact healer. Helps in Western Skyrim. Friends with Nyla and Lyris. Paired with Svargrim.
Naarchel Oaklake (ESO)- Wood Elf. Thief. Is a bundle of anxiety because of a false murder allegation and the trauma she endured in the hands of the Iron Wheel. Slowly getting back to normal. Paired with Walks-Softly
Aurelia Proxima (ESO) - Imperial. Daughter of Noble family in Abah's Landing. Drinks Dumb Bitch Juice. Incredibly GAY. Paired with Zeira.
Rozenn Gaerose (ESO) - Breton. DB Informant. Paired with Astara.
Llilyth Alas (ESO) - Dark Elf. Former Assassin. Faked her death to get out of the organization. Works as Apothecary. Paired with Naryu.
Guinevere Ashcroft (ESO)- Orc. Blacksmith. Raised by Breton parents with sister, Morg. Paired with Skordo
Morgannash Ashcroft (ESO) - Orc. Lion Guard Captain. Vestige. Daggerfall hero. Raised by Breton parents with sister, Guin. Paired with Gabrielle.
Elvira Wendell (ESO)- Khajiit: Ohmes-raht. Has a tail. Raised by Breton parents. Covenant healer. Paired with Darien.
R’Solarie (ESO)- Khajiit. Vestige. Thief. Eye of the Queen. Stole from Khunzar-ri’s tomb prior to planemeld. His ghost ‘haunts’ her. Spoiler things. Paired with Khunzar-ri.
Vashmhirra (ESO) - Khajiit. Ohmes. Eye of the Queen. Often undercover as wood elf, which she hates. Paired with Razumdar.
Nabar at-Amjad (ESO)- Redguard. Former Meridia champion. Smited after contracting vampirism. Turned to Molag Bal. Current Molag Bal champion. Problematic af.
Lorelei (???) - Demi-Prince. Mora's offspring. Raised by Yrsa.
Yrsa (???) - Skaal/Daedra. Mora's spouse/bookkeeper.
Verena Blanchet (ESO) - Breton. Vestige. AU Queen of Daggerfall Covenant. Queen like a Lion. Paired with King Emeric.
Narana al-Hareem (ESO) - Nord/Redguard. General to Emeric's army. (supposed to have short hair like Zeira, but zos wont let me in game)
Phydra Mosslake (ESO) - Wood Elf. Fighter's Guild. Paired with Mephala.
Sabina Faustus (ESO) - Imperial. Thief. Paired with Jakarn.
Kyse-Vheesi (???) - Tsaesci.
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Secret, slumbering land
This meta is a continuation of theories (forbidden secrets, blooming dreams, bright as the dawn, and heart of the night court) about Elain’s connection to Wyrd and the land. This new thread focuses on the gentle healing land and lake that the sisters visit in their stories. Maasverse spoilers below, so please proceed with caution.
It seemed like a secret, slumbering land that time had forgotten. (acosf)
Both Feyre and Nesta visit a turquoise lake nestled in the mountains. Because their description is the same, this theory operates on the assumption that it is the same place. And since things come in threes in this series, Elain may visit this magical lake in her own story. When I reread the scenes with previous visits, I was struck by the language Sarah used to describe it—secret, slumbering, forgotten—and the clues those words might hold for Elain and Wyrd, the Stone Mother.
Secret
During the first visit to this lake, Azriel teaches Feyre to fly and shares their court philosophy on training, which is connected to a legend about Nephelle (more on that later). During this scene, Azriel is bathed in blinding sunlight and his shadows are gone. His appearance is stark and clear, readable.
In the blinding sun off the turquoise water, his shadows were gone, his face stark and clear. More human than I had ever seen him.
“There’s no chance that I’ll be able to fly in the legions, is there?” I asked, kneeling beside him as he tended to my skinned palms with expert care and gentleness. The sun was brutal against his scars, hiding not one twisted, rippling splotch. (acowar)
@offtorivendell connected his appearance to the bonus chapter ages ago, and it is still one of my favorite metas. In that bonus chapter, we learn Azriel’s shadows are also prone to vanish around Elain.
Elain sucked in a soft breath that whispered over his skin. His shadows skittered back at the sound. They’d always been prone to vanish when she was around.
The golden necklace seemed ordinary—its chain unremarkable, the amulet tiny enough that it could be dismissed as an everyday charm. It was a small, flat rose fashioned of stained glass, designed so that when held to the light, the true depth of colors would become visible.
A thing of secret, lovely beauty. (Azriel’s bonus)
He tells us he doesn't need to rely on his shadows to read her, so his deep trust and vulnerability might be the only explanation for his shadows' behavior, but they can also sense power and respond to it as power themselves. For example, if someone's power is related to music, they might sing or dance in response. What power, other than the revealing light of Truth, might cause them to vanish?
But even the silence weighed too heavily, and though the shadows kept him company, as they always had, as they always would, he found himself leaving the room. Entering the foyer. Soft steps padded from under the stair archway, and there she was.
The Faelights gilded Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. She halted, her breath catching in her throat. (Azriel’s bonus)
The Faelight reveals Elain's secret, lovely beauty: she glows like the sun at dawn. What do we know about dawn? In nature, dawn restores the light and awakens the earth. In the Maasverse, it is also associated with healing magic. And when we return to the lake in Nesta’s story, we learn it was once connected to healing. Healing light is bright and warm like the dawn; it has the power to pierce the darkness and outrace Death itself. It is pure life in its rawest form.
Sarah has repeatedly connected Elain to rebirth and renewal, especially in relation to Azriel: in his presence, she's the lovely fawn, vibrant spring behind her. Standing before Death. Even the headache tonic, a lighthearted remedy, serves as potential hint for this secret, lovely beauty:
Then Azriel tipped his head back and laughed.
I’d never heard such a sound, deep and joyous. Cassian and Rhys joined him, the former grabbing the bottle from Azriel’s hand and examining it. “Brilliant,” Cassian said.
Elain smiled again, ducking her head.
Azriel mastered himself enough to say, “Thank you.” I’d never seen his hazel eyes so bright, the hues of green amid the brown and gray like veins of emerald. “This will be invaluable.” (acofas)
Elain’s gift awakens life, veins of emerald, in the earthy brown and gray within his soul, just as she does in her own garden. It is no coincidence that Elain, who is most radiant in healing hues, glows like the sun at dawn in the dead of night. And Azriel is stark and clear before her just as he is about to finally allow himself a taste of pure life, of healing. In the wake of Elain’s healing presence, we even glimpse Azriel’s emotional scars through his internal dialogue. On healing journeys, lingering scars are faced and overcome rather than avoided. Some wounds require deep trust as the healer, patient as a gardener, walks the road with them on that journey.
Slumbering
On our second visit to the lake, we learn the surrounding land is inhabited by ordinary faeries who prefer solitude. This immediately made me think about Elain, content and beautiful in her simple gardening dress, and Feyre’s comment about her clinging to Azriel for some peace and quiet. It would be fitting for them to come here in their story, to find joy and love and healing here together. And if I were to hand select a place for Rosehall, where someone like Azriel's mother could find solitude and healing, this would be it.
He knew these mountains well enough from flying over them for centuries: shepherds lived here, usually ordinary faeries who preferred the solitude of the towering green and brownish-black stones to more populated areas.
The peaks weren’t as brutal and sharp as those in Illyria, but there was a presence to them that he couldn’t quite explain. Mor had once told him that long ago, these lands had been used for healing. That people injured in body and spirit had ventured to these hills, the lake they were now two and a half days from reaching, to recover.
Perhaps that was why he’d come. Some instinct had remembered the healing, felt this land’s slumbering heart, and decided to bring Nesta here.
-
She’d never seen such a view. It seemed like a secret, slumbering land that time had forgotten. […] The mountains watched her, the river sang to her, as if guiding her onward to that lake. (acosf)
The mountains here aren't brutal and sharp, but they still have a powerful presence. Like the third sister. The mountains watched Nesta like a protective seer, and the river sang to her, as if guiding her onward to that lake, like Elain’s scent. Her scent is a sparkling river, a promise of spring, that guided Nesta to her. And what did Nesta find when she reached the source of that scent? Elain’s sharp angles, once like the Illyrian mountains after she was Made, were now replaced with softness. She glowed with health and her smile was bright as the sun. She also smells of jasmine and honey, which are soothing scents and herbs that have healing properties.
Her sister’s delicate scent of jasmine and honey lingered in the red-stoned hall like a promise of spring, a sparkling river that she followed to the open doors of the chamber. Elain stood at the wall of windows, clad in a lilac gown whose close-fitting bodice showed how well her sister had filled out since those initial days in the Night Court. Gone were the sharp angles, replaced by softness and elegant curves. […] Her sister turned toward her, glowing with health. Elain’s smile was as bright as the setting sun beyond the windows. (acosf)
In the span of a few pages, we're also told twice that this land is slumbering. Since it was once used for healing, it would make sense for healing magic to be at the core of its slumbering heart. Remember, the rawest form of healing magic is pure life and we just learned that Wyrd, the Stone Mother, was once blossoming with pure life. Elain’s wyrdcrown seems to mirror Stone Mother's creative powers in the form of sleeping buds:
She had no mental shields, no barriers. The gates to her mind…Solid iron, covered in vines of flowers—or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns. (acowar)
This imagery of Elain’s power has always reminded me of the darkness of creation and rest Yrene receives guidance from while she bathes in Silba’s Womb, which she calls the slumbering heart of the earth. In the tog series, Silba was the goddess of healing and gentle deaths and Elain shares many connections with the healers who honor her. So, it’s possible slumbering simply means the land reflects the restful and restorative healing power of those who once lived on and fed the magic of the land.
Slumbering or sleeping can also indicate dormant magic, which is something we’ve seen in both tog and cc. In tog, Dorian has raw magic and he can shape it into different things—phantom hands, shifting, healing, etc. His raw magic is sleeping in his heart before he explores it.
“You have power in you, Prince. More power than you realize.” She touched his chest, tracing a symbol there, too, and some of the court ladies gasped. But Nehemia’s eyes were locked on his. “It sleeps,” she whispered, tapping his heart. “In here. When the time comes, when it awakens, do not be afraid.” She removed her hand and gave him a sad smile. “When it is time, I will help you.”
With that, she walked away, the courtiers parting, then swallowing up her wake. He stared after the princess, wondering what her last words had meant.
And why, when she said them, something ancient and slumbering deep inside him had opened an eye. (com)
We recently learned the Asteri poisoned the waters in Midgard with a parasite to feed off of the magic of its citizens. This parasite warped their magic and it is described as dormant and tethered as a result:
The Asteri had infected the water we consumed with a parasite. They’d poisoned the lakes and streams and oceans. The parasites burrowed their way into our bodies, warping our magic. (hofas)
-
Somehow, a barrier had been removed. One that had ordered him to stand down, to obey … It was nothing but ashes now. Only dominance remained. Untethered. But filling the void of that barrier with a rising, raging force— (Ithan’s magic, hofas)
-
Tharion withdrew. Lidia shook with rage and power. Tharion could feel it shuddering around him, rising up like a behemoth from the deep. What had that antidote woken in her? What had been taken during the Drop? And what had lain dormant, all this time? His water seemed to quail at it—like it knew something he didn’t. (Lidia’s magic, hofas)
-
Warm, bright magic answered. Healing magic, rising to the surface as if it had been dormant in his blood. He had no idea how to use it, how to do anything other than will it with a simple Save him. […] He willed that lovely, bright power to keep healing Ketos, though. (Ruhn’s magic, hofas)
Similarly, the Asteri pooled and imbued their magic in Wyrd to warp her purely creative magic.
The Cauldron was of our world, our heritage. But upon arriving here, the Daglan captured it and used their powers to warp it. To turn it from what it had been into something deadlier. No longer just a tool of creation, but of destruction. And the horrors it produced…those, too, my parents would turn to their advantage. (hofas)
-
Those of us who ventured here found ways to amplify that power, thanks to the gifts of the land. We pooled our power, and imbued those gifts into the Cauldron so that it would work our will. We Made the Trove from it. And then bound the very essence of the Cauldron to the soul of this world.” (hofas)
Is it possible Elain’s sleeping buds, as a mirror of Wyrd’s original magic, represent what remains dormant, tethered?
“Or maybe it’s dormant, as the Cauldron is now asleep and safely hidden in Cretea with Drakon and Miryam. Her power could rise at any moment.”
A chill skittered down Cassian’s spine. He trusted the Seraphim prince and the half-human woman to keep the Cauldron concealed, but there would be nothing they or anyone could do to control its power if awoken. (acosf)
In the scene above, Cassian and Rhysand are discussing Nesta’s powers. We learn that they aren’t dormant, which makes sense; they seem to represent the magic that the Asteri imbued into Wyrd to become a tool of death and destruction. That magic might be feeding off of Wyrd’s creative powers like a parasite and keep her half-awake, like the Fae in Midgard and, perhaps, the healing land:
It was all so still, yet watchful, somehow. As if she were surrounded by something ancient and half-awake. As if each peak had its own moods and preferences, like whether the clouds clung to or avoided them, or trees lined their sides or left them bare. Their shapes were so odd and long that they looked as if behemoths had once lain down beside the rivers, pulled a rumpled blanket over themselves, and fallen asleep forever. (acosf)
Ancient, half-awake, behemoth. These terms are also used to describe Wyrd. The word behemoth in particular is associated with a primordial chaos monster in mythology and may be yet another potential hint that Chaos is Hel’s name for Wyrd.
The Under-King lounged on a throne beneath a behemoth statue of a figure holding a black metal bowl between her upraised hands. […] “And she,” the Under-King went on, gesturing to that unusual depiction of Urd towering above him, “was not a goddess, but a force that governed worlds. A cauldron of life, brimming with the language of creation. Urd, they call her here—a bastardized version of her true name. Wyrd, we called her in that old world.” (hofas)
-
As they walked up those steps and entered a space that was a near-mirror to temples back home—indeed, its layout was identical to the last temple Hunt had stood in: Urd’s Temple. […] “The Temple of Chaos is a sacred place,” Apollion said sharply. “We shall never defile it with violence.” The words rumbled like thunder again. (hofas)
-
But the Cauldron. As if some great sleeping beast opened an eye. The Cauldron seemed to sense us watching. Sense us there. (acowar)
@silverlinedeyes, @offtorivendell, and I believe Wyrd saw Elain as a kindred spirit and gifted her the language of creation with the hope that she could be the key to her freedom, her healing in body and spirit. Those original creative powers could include a deep connection with the earth (earth magic), divine sense (seer abilities), fluid form and movement (travel and shifting), and healing, pure life and world-building power. Elain might already be testing the boundaries of that creative magic, learning to shape it into different things (explaining her mysterious appearances).
Elain may also need to bring her sisters together to help Wyrd. They represent the three faces of the Mother together and have been marked by her from the beginning of the series. When Feyre physically healed the Cauldron with the help of Rhysand, she cupped her hands and became the first face of the Mother. Nesta became the second face of the Mother when she healed Feyre and Nyx with the Trove. And the healing lake appears to hint at Elain's role, the third face of the Mother:
Nesta cleared the hill that Cassian had mounted ahead, and a sparkling, turquoise lake spread before them. It lay slightly sunken between two peaks, as if a pair of green hands had been cupped to hold the water within them. Gray stones lined its shore. (acosf)
This is our first earthen depiction of the Stone Mother. Someone with green fingers or a green thumb is skilled at gardening. Gardeners provide gentle order to pure, blossoming life with their green hands. And we already know, thanks to Rhys and Feyre, that Elain won’t hesitate to get her hands dirty—stained green, even—for a pretty result.
When Elain's creative magic rises in her story, will it flow like a sparkling river, unfurl like a bloom, to awaken the soul of the earth? Could it soothe Azriel’s icy rage and bring true spring and healing to Ramiel, softening its sharp angles when its heart, Wyrd, is finally restored? Only time will tell.
Forgotten
The land is also described as a place time had forgotten and, as I mentioned earlier, it's where Azriel shared the story of Nephelle—the one who had been passed over, who had been forgotten—while he tended to Feyre's wounds after a fall during flying practice.
Nephelle, who had been passed over, who had been forgotten…She outraced death itself. […] And yet her too-small wingspan, that deformed wing…they did not fail her. Not once. Not for one wing beat. (acowar)
Nephelle wanted to be a warrior, but was turned away due to her small wingspan. So, she made herself indispensable as a cartographer and excelled at finding the most geographically advantageous positions for their armies. And now that hofas has been released, we know earth magic can be used to locate the best geographical locations:
…those with earth magic were sent ahead to scout lands [...] Not only the best geographical locations, but magical ones, too. They could sense the ley lines—the channels of energy running throughout the land, throughout Midgard. They told the Asteri to build their cities where several of the lines met, at natural crossroads of power, and picked those places for the Fae to settle, too. But they selected Avallen just for the Fae. To be their personal, eternal stronghold.” (hofas)
Those with earth magic are deeply connected to the land and their creative power flows freely in places where the natural magic in the land is untethered. Is it possible Nephelle excelled at finding the best locations because she possessed earth magic? And could that come into play in the next story if Elain possesses earth magic as part of her creative powers?
Despite being perceived as weak, Nephelle outraced death itself with her small wingspan to save Miryam. Her miraculous rescue inspired the Night Court's philosophy toward training:
I raised a brow. Azriel shrugged. “We—Rhys, Cass, and I—will occasionally remind each other that what we think to be our greatest weakness can sometimes be our biggest strength. And that the most unlikely person can alter the course of history.”
“The Nephelle Philosophy.” (acowar)
We saw this philosophy in action at the final battle with Hybern when Elain raced against death itself and appeared out of nowhere with Truth-Teller to protect her family. Like Nephelle, she was and still is passed over, forgotten.
Elain is pleasant to look at, her mother had once mused while Nesta sat beside her dressing table, a servant silently brushing her mother’s gold-brown hair, but she has no ambition. She does not dream beyond her garden and pretty clothes. (Nesta's memory of Mama Archeron, acosf)
-
"Go back to Feyre and your little garden." (Nesta to Elain, acosf)
-
Elain said, "Then I will find it. I might require some time to...reacquaint myself with my powers, but I could start today."
"Absolutely not," Nesta spat, fingers curling at her sides. "Absolutely not."
"Why?" Elain demanded. "Shall I tend to my little garden forever?" When Nesta flinched, Elain said, "You can't have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater."
"Then go off on adventures," Nesta said. "Go drink and fuck strangers. But stay away from the Cauldron." (Elain and Nesta's exchange, acosf)
-
Elain in black was ridiculous. Yes, she was beautiful, but the color of her long-sleeved, modest gown leeched the brightness from her face. It wore her, rather than the other way around. And he knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled her. But she hadn’t hesitated to come. When Feyre had offered to let her remain home, Elain had squared her shoulders and declared that she was a part of this court—and would do whatever was needed. So Elain had let her golden-brown hair down tonight, and pinned it back with twin combs of pearl. He’d never once in the two years he’d known her found Elain to be plain, but wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court…It sucked the life from her. (Cassian's observation, acosf)
These quotes hit differently with the release of hofas. @offtorivendell and @willowmeres seem to be on track with their theories that the warped magic of Hewn City affected Elain's creative magic. What if she reflects the magic of the land around her, and when that magic is warped or tethered, her physical appearance mirrors it? Is this another sign she will be able to use the language of creation to unearth Prythian’s secrets, forgotten by time? And maybe, like the legendary Nephelle, the things that Elain is viewed as weak for—her little garden, a symbol of her care for and connection to the land, and her appearance, a reflection of what was forgotten—actually become her family's biggest strength.
#hofas spoilers#elain archeron#maasverse theory#the language of creation#wyrd and her sacred land#the healing lake and land#secret slumbering forgotten#where Rosehall is tucked away#azriel shadowsinger#elriel#feyre archeron#nesta archeron#three faces of the mother#marked by wyrd#wyrd = cauldron mother fate#she is the stone mother#nephelle 🤝 elain#the nephelle philosophy#our greatest weakness can be our biggest strength
102 notes
·
View notes
Text
Wandered over to Hood River yesterday and came back today. Something which really stood out to me was the presence of She Who Watches, the spirit of the Columbia. I felt her make herself known in the subtle recognition that this area truly is my home and that I'll never move anywhere else in the world, because this place and I have a relationship that I've never encountered anywhere else.
This is home. Pure and simple, no matter what else is happening.
I felt a sense of healing from She Who Watches, imparted to me and also a stern reminder that what is claimed is never easily let go without a price.
She's in the waves
that lap back and forth
between Oregon and Washington.
She's deep energy
older than the names we use
to label her
Watching us, she is amused
at our brief moments
in the scale of her history
but she makes herself known to those who can know her
She who watches
watches over me
You are part of this land
You are part of this river
You are one of mine
called to me
and I won't so easily
let you go
to some alien place
that does not know
your wyrding destiny
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Goodbye and Hello - 6
Manon and Dorian said goodbye in Orynth. But for them, saying hello again is only a matter of time.
fanfic master list (includes the link to my fics on AO3)
Previous chapters:
Part One: I Wish…
Part Two: Another Day
Part Three: Those Two Words
Part Four: Breakfast in Bed
Part Five: Waiting
Part Six: Confessions (smut warning)
***
The seasons at the Ferian Gap were characterized more by the presence or absence of storms than changes in temperature. Lethal snow squalls signified winter and cloudbursts the summer, with the two separated by brief stints of pleasant and mild weather. Manon and Dorian were visiting at the tail end of fall. In just a week, they’d felt the air grow more frigid, noticed the daylight shorten, and watched the frost cover more ground each morning. The winter storms were fast approaching.
Despite the chill, there were a few sheltered valleys tucked into the steep slopes of the Fangs and Ruhnns, valleys that were still home to meadows and fields with a few late blooms clinging to life. As Manon guided Abraxos to what she’d come to think of as his meadow, she worried that it might be too late to find any flowers for him to enjoy. Luckily, it was one of the protected spots that had been spared a killing frost.
She’d kept it a surprise, but he knew the terrain, quickening his wing beats when she nudged him in its direction. Once he saw it, a few spots of brilliant color scattered among the drying grass, he released a long soft howl. Manon felt Dorian laugh against her back, and when Abraxos landed, they hastily dismounted to avoid being pulled under as he rolled on the ground.
The sun broke through the morning cold enough that they spent the entire day there, watching Abraxos roll and sleep and sigh in his meadow. Her wyvern’s bliss seemed to rub off on Manon. She marveled at it, having never thought it would be something she’d experience.
Opening up to Dorian about the Thirteen had seemed like an immense obstacle, a thing to force herself to do. Instead, it felt natural and instinctive, and something she should have done before now. Even if “before now”, she wouldn’t have had the words.
The long-worn bandage of grief had been torn free the night before with Orghana. The pain and hesitation remained, but it was noticeably muted. Most of her words had already been spoken aloud. Those that had not - the nightmares, the anger, the guilt – came a little more easily . She’d even given voice to the absolute worst feelings, telling Dorian about the dark nights she wished for nothing more than to rejoin her coven.
Dorian listened, reassured, and added his own insights when he could. His sorrow from losing them made her feel not so alone. He mourned the same witches she did. That he was healing from the loss of Sorscha and his father gave her a much needed boost of hope.
Now, back at their room in the Omega, Manon closed her eyes and rested her head on the edge of the bathtub. The water grew steadily warmer. She’d done little that day, certainly not enough to warrant the sigh she released as the heat penetrated her muscles.
“I was worried that Abraxos would be spoiled here,” she said. “Apparently, I was the one in danger all along.”
Dorian laughed softly. “That was my only goal this week. You didn’t stand a chance.”
They sat at either end of the huge copper tub. Steam rose off the water, filling the room with the scent of the herbs and petals floating on the surface. Instead of candles, Dorian lit the room with his magic. Flames of varying size and color hung suspended in the air. A half empty plate of pastries and a kettle of Qara’s molten chocolate drink were within easy reach.
Water lapped gently against the sides of the tub as Dorian shifted towards her. She kept her eyes closed but couldn’t stop herself from smiling.
“Manon.”
The tone of his voice was serious, no hint of seduction or teasing. Her smile faded, and she opened her eyes to find he’d moved beside her, still face to face. His expression matched his tone and she sat up, unsure of what might be coming.
“There’s something I need to say.”
An inexplicable panic rippled through her and Manon had to force herself to stay seated. With all his attention on her, Dorian noticed. He reached under the water and took her hands in his. Their faint trembling eased in his grip.
“I’ve been thinking about some things lately and…” He trailed off, his eyes unable to meet hers.
Manon’s stomach sank. Either this was very bad, or he was going to tell her something she wasn’t sure if she was ready to hear.
“That night. In the Fangs.” He gave her a heavy, knowing look. “When you asked me to stay.”
That’s putting it mildly, she thought, the tension within her changing but not dissipating. To him though, she only said, “And you went to Morath. You don’t need to-”
“I do,” he said. “I know you understand what was at stake. And I know you would have done the same thing. You did do the same thing, for your people. But that doesn’t mean that I handled it well. I don’t regret going. But I do regret how I went.”
Manon was silent. She had nothing to add. He was right. She would have, would still, sacrifice herself, or her desires, if it meant a chance to save her people. She couldn’t even argue that he’d gone in ill-prepared. Learning how to shape shift, picking up details about Morath from anyone who’d been there, training with Sorrel and the rest of the Thirteen, perfecting his magic… He’d done it all to get the last wyrd key.
And he’d been successful. What more was there to say?
“Looking back on it, I realize how selfish it was. Hiding my plans from you. Pushing you to admit you cared about me.” There was a long pause before he said, “Leaving without saying goodbye. I’m sorry, Manon.”
Again, she said nothing, just stared at him. There were no lies or ulterior motives visible on his face. He was an open book, laid out bare before her, easy to read.
When she’d discovered him with Kaltain, discussing how he might infiltrate Morath, she’d only allowed her anger to come to the fore. Letting him see how she really felt hadn’t been an option. The anger masked the hurt and betrayal, the foolishness she felt for thinking he’d never lie to her. Maybe he had seen it that night though. For as much as he was an open book to her, she was never very good at hiding her feelings from him.
A shiver ran through her and she realized the water was getting cold, a sign of how long she’d been sitting there without speaking. Immediately, a rush of warmth pulsed through it as Dorian reheated it with his magic.
“Why?” she asked. “Why do all that and then leave? Why keep it from me? I didn’t want you to go, and I had my own responsibilities. But if you’d asked me, I could have helped somehow.”
The anger she felt this time was not covering anything else up and it was a relief to release. As if these thoughts had been slowly boiling inside her, always churning under the surface. With the lid now open, they poured out of her.
“Instead, you let me think you’d given up your search. You let me think that if I asked-” She stopped short and took a shaky breath. With barely restrained emotion, she growled, “If I asked you to stay, there was a chance you would. You let me think you’d said yes.”
Dorian flinched at her words. Offering no excuse, no argument, he said, “I know. And I’m sorry.”
“Why?” she repeated, her voice choked and raw. The fire of moments ago was gone, leaving a numb ache.
“Because I wanted to stay. I wanted to say yes. Because if you had gone with me, and something happened to you…” Dorian exhaled, his breath pooling in the now freezing air. The magical flames flickered as if blown by a real breeze. “I knew that if I’d said goodbye to you that morning, I wouldn’t have been strong enough to leave.”
“You were afraid.”
“Yes,” he said with a humorless laugh. “I was terrified. Not just about going to Morath. I was afraid of how I felt about you, Manon. If you’d gone with me and I was faced with a choice between saving your life or the rest of Erilea…”
“You would have chosen Erilea,” she answered for him.
He shook his head slightly. “I wasn’t so sure of that. But I was sure that I was done running. From my country, my responsibilities.” He smiled dryly. “My intentions may have been noble and kingly. The execution was anything but. I hurt you, and I’m sorry.”
Manon didn’t know how to reply to that. He was still holding her hands, squeezing them with a fierce intensity that matched his eyes. Everything he said was the truth. She knew it because as before, if their roles had been reversed, she would have felt the same way, done the same things.
Hadn’t she already? Her sadness and grief kept her from replying to his letters, along with her duties as queen. But there was a deeper fear hidden under the sorrow that kept her from reaching out to him. One she’d never understood, had never truly been confronted with, until that day in Orynth when her sisters were no more. One she absolutely refused to think about right now.
Instead, she replayed that night over and over in her head. How he’d been surprised by her offer, how he’d made the excuse that she would never be happy in that kind of arrangement. Now, she could clearly see that the excuse had served to make his leaving easier not just on her, but him as well.
***
Dorian watched her consider everything, patient and quiet. At least, he was that way on the outside. Inside he was roiling with so many emotions he might explode.
He’d been an idiot. Childish and arrogant when he’d made her admit to having feelings for him. In any other circumstance, one in which he wasn’t leaving to possibly sacrifice his life, it might not have been a problem. He would have reveled in the knowledge that this witch cared for him. A part of him had. But he’d already made the choice of duty over desire by then. Which made his actions all the more selfish.
Distractedly, he though about Morath. About how he’d pushed Manon and her confession, her proposal, into the farthest reaches of his mind. Not only to keep him from turning back, but to keep Maeve from realizing her importance to him.
The valg queen had suspected. Which proved to be lucky for him. His lapse in control when she’d offered herself to Erawan in Manon’s form had been dismissed by Maeve. Dorian still didn’t know how he’d managed to keep a lid on his rage and magic in that moment. Obtaining the final wyrd key had been the only thing keeping him sane in those days and nights in the hell of Morath.
Now, he continued to watch Manon. She had pulled her legs up to rest her arms and chin on her knees. There was none of the lethal killer visible. No bloodthirsty witch, no powerful queen. Only a person he loved and had hurt, trying to decide if she would forgive him. He kept the water warm and would do so until their skin turned wrinkled and soggy.
But he didn’t have to wait that long.
Her eyes flicked up at him and Manon finally spoke. “You could have left a note.”
Her voice was soft, but Dorian didn’t dare let himself think she had accepted his apology. Until she shifted and began to move towards him.
Watching her warily, he released a breath as she wrapped her arms around his neck and moved into his lap. The water barely rippled, so smooth were her movements.
“I didn’t have any paper or ink,” he said, sliding his arms around her waist.
“And what’s the point of having raw magic if you can’t conjure those things?”
“That’s not how it works,” he replied, trying not to let her position atop him become a distraction. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
Manon tilted her head and smiled. “Perhaps.” She shifted again, this time locking her legs around his torso. Ducking her head, she ran her tongue up the side of his neck to nibble on his earlobe.
Dorian moaned, then whispered roughly in her ear, “I want to hear you say it.”
She sat upright to look into his eyes. “I accept your apology.”
Something deep inside him eased at her words, at the light in her eyes. Manon took his face in her hands, leaned forward, and kissed him.
He was perilously close to losing his mind as they kissed. Vaguely, he had a thought that the bathtub wasn’t the best place for this. It had been fine for some of their couplings over the past week. But not tonight. Not on their last night together.
Dorian pushed himself off the side of the metal tub. With her legs still around him, her lips still on his, he tried to stand. He broke their kiss to mumble, “Hold on.” Manon laughed quietly in his ear as she tightened her grip with both her arms and legs.
Easing his way up slowly so he didn’t fall and kill them both, Dorian stood and sat on the edge of the basin, then swung his feet around to stand. With his magic, he wicked away the water from their bodies and hair, earning an impressed hum from Manon.
“I still think you could have magicked a paper and pen,” she teased before returning to their kiss.
Carrying her to the bed, Dorian made some noise of agreement. He really couldn’t create things from thin air, but he had no desire to argue with her. His desire was focused elsewhere.
She hadn’t loosened her hold on him, so with each step, she moved against him. Each touch threatened to overwhelm him, but he managed to get them to the bed. Laying her down, invisible hands pulled her arms up over her head, stretching her out before him, while his real fingers joined his tongue and began to explore.
Manon writhed beneath him as he moved away from her mouth and traveled slowly down her body. She pushed lightly against his hold on her hands, annoyed that she couldn’t touch him. Dorian looked up from where he was lazily kissing her inner thigh and gave her a warning glance. When she bared her iron teeth at him, he grinned and began teasing her with the tip of his tongue.
Her breathy moans were almost enough to send him over the edge. When he added his fingers to the spot he was kissing, she came almost immediately. Reluctantly, he left his place between her legs and looked at her. The sight of her golden eyes glazed over, her chest rising and falling as she gasped for breath, her hair tangled under her head… Dorian had intended to draw this out, but he had little willpower when it came to her.
Lifting her hips up, he positioned himself above her, teasing her entrance until she was moaning again. When the fog of her pleasure had faded and her eyes were focused clearly on him, Dorian eased into her, lowering himself to press completely against her body. Craving her touch, he released her hands. They quickly found his hair, then his back, then lower, as she pulled him against her, rocking her hips in time with his.
Feeling the sharp points of her teeth graze his neck, Dorian groaned her name, encouraging her to keep going. With a swift movement, she scored his skin and licked at the slow trickle of blood. As she began to drink from the slight wound, he felt her muscles tense and clench around him. Breaking the seal on his skin, Manon threw her head back as she came again.
She’d admitted to him this week that she’d never tasted a human like him before. His blood lacked the watery fear and weakness of the others. Dorian played it off as a result of his raw magic, but she’d said no. While she could taste his power, there was a charge that had nothing to do with magic. His flavor was utterly unique. And one she now craved.
The thought, combined with the movements of her hips and her hands and her tongue and her everything, sent him falling over the edge with her.
***
As she watched him begin to doze off, Dorian’s apology and confession replayed through Manon’s mind.
Like a fan to a flame, his words seemed to kindle her emotions, enhancing what was already there and bringing life to new ones she couldn’t yet describe. One thing he’d said kept resurfacing in her thoughts.
“You really wanted to say yes?” she asked, so quietly, she thought maybe he wouldn’t hear her.
But his eyes, with their thick, black lashes, slowly opened. She was only beginning to keep track of the changing shades of blue revealed by different lighting. Right now, they were a deep gray-blue, made darker by desire, not just the low candlelight.
“So much that it scared me.”
Manon nodded faintly in understanding, knowing there was no insult or slight in his reply.
He took her hand, tracing her fingers with his own. “I was young when my mother began to plan for my marriage. She loved flaunting daughters of nobles around in front of me. And vice versa,” he added with a sigh.
“That sounds pleasant.” He laughed in agreement, continuing to play with her hand. The feather light touch of his fingers was beginning to drive her to distraction.
“The short story is, I’ve had a long time to think about what kind of woman I’d want to marry.” Hesitation crossed his face as he eyed her. “I wanted to marry someone who was my equal,” he finally said. “Not a woman who was only interested in the crown or the riches. And not someone who saw only the fairy tale and not me.”
“That seems reasonable,” she said.
“You’d think so,” he said. “My mother disagreed. And maybe she was right in a way. It’s obvious now that I was limiting myself in one crucial way.”
She knew few details about his healer turned spy, but she imagined the woman met all of those requirements.
“I never thought I’d find those things with a witch,” he said.
Something tightened in her gut. “What about Sorscha?” she heard herself ask.
Sadness flickered in his eyes. But just sadness. Before, in those weeks spent searching for the Crochans, she’d seen the guilt creep over his face sometimes when he’d look at her. It had taken her a while to figure out what caused it. Even after realizing it was because of the healer, she ignored it. Or, tried to. There were times when an inexplicable hurt filled her upon seeing it.
There was no guilt now. In fact, there hadn’t been this entire week.
“She is gone,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I loved her and I still miss her. But…” He smiled. “But I think there may have been a bit of a fairy tale quality to it. On both our parts. It was no less real. Just naive.”
“And I’m less breakable.” Her intent was to lighten the moment, but she regretted the words the moment they left her lips.
“No, “ he said. “You see me. You have seen me since the moment we met. The good and the bad. And you’ve never once judged me.”
She found herself nodding again. Yes, they challenged each other, disagreed and argued. But there was always a sense of acceptance underlying it all.
A sudden shyness overtook Dorian, an expression she had never witnessed on him before. Looking at her through those long lashes, he smiled and said, “I haven’t been with anyone else since I met you. There’s no one else I want. Only you, Manon. I’m not saying we should get married, and I don’t expect you to feel the same or say anything back-”
She pressed her fingers against his lips, and he stopped talking, his eyes turning wary.
“There’s been no one else for me either, and there won’t be,” Manon said. “Only you.”
He smiled against her fingertips then kissed them, relief radiating from him like heat. “We leave tomorrow, and the only way I will be able to get through saying goodbye is if you promise to write.”
Manon feigned an annoyed sigh and tried to think of an acceptable excuse. She was not a letter writer. No matter who it was to. But no excuse came. Dorian watched her struggle and bit back a laugh.
“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You will be inundated with boring letters about grain storage and building construction and all the other things that fill my days.”
His eyes glimmered. “I can’t wait.”
***
Manon threw her bags on the floor and fell onto her bed. The flight home had been uneventful but tiring. She’d ignored all the witches who’d approached her when she entered the keep, stopping only briefly to hug Glennis and tell her she’d be back to official business tomorrow. Her great-grandmother had squeezed her tightly, a smile on her face and eyes bright.
In the quiet and darkness of her room, Manon realized how much she had missed the crone. Next time, perhaps she would take Glennis with her.
A burst of cold air blew through her shabby window and Manon sat up. The breeze carried a scent she recognized. Looking around, she noticed a small wooden box sitting next to her bed.
As she opened it, other scents, these much more familiar, filled the air.
The first thing she saw was a folded piece of paper that had Read me first written on it. Smiling, she opened it.
Dear witchling,
To ensure you keep your promise to write, I’ve enclosed some paper and envelopes. They are already addressed and the headings have been written, so most of the work has been done for you. All you need to do is fill in the blank part of the page. You can write, draw, scribble. I don’t care. Just as long as you reply, I will be pleased.
I asked Qara to spare a few pastries as well. You will find them under the stationery. I can only hope Altai has delivered this quickly enough that they are still edible. Included is her recipe for the chocolate pastry. You should know. She does not give out her recipes to just anyone. And only after I told her it was for you did she relent. If you cannot find someone there to replicate it, Qara said to send for her.
I miss you already. And already I am counting the days until our next meeting.
Always yours,
Dorian
Underneath was a stack of envelopes addressed to the King of Adarlan. Each piece of paper bore his writing. To my dearest princeling.
Manon laughed and sat it all aside. As she ate one of the pastries, careful not to get chocolate on the stationery, she wondered when he’d arranged for all of this to be sent. Making her agree to write must have been his plan for a long time.
She wished there was something she could send him, a memento or gift that would hold special meaning. She didn’t need to glance around her room to know there was nothing there that would do.
But then…
A thought came to her. One that simultaneously filled her with excitement and dread. Something he would love and treasure. But something she would need to return to Blackbeak Keep to obtain.
Maybe this was a sign, she thought, licking her fingers clean. She didn’t know what she’d find there, but she needed to go. Needed to gather what might remain of her Thirteen, and what might help her new kingdom grow.
To be continued…
Thanks for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my manorian fics, let me know.
@itach-i @nestasbucket @manontrashbeak @blackhavilliard @bookishwitchling @jimetg98 @aditiiparasharr @mis-lil-red
#manorian#manon blackbeak#dorian havilliard#throne of glass#kingdom of ash#goodbye and hello#my writing#apologies for the blood but I've been reading too many vampire books lol#I know I’ve complained about *that scene* in KoA before but dammit Manon deserved more than an empty bedroll#thanks tumblr app for deleting my post when I updated the tags#really glad I put this on AO3 first#no wonder your shitty site is only worth $3M
41 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Playful Necromancer - Episode 1
A continuation from a previous post, Episode 0:
https://geekscollab.tumblr.com/post/620160900797693952/the-playful-necromancer-episode-0
A retelling of Bu’Rak’s story, told from his point of voice, by Thom Volkmarl, Apprentice Bard of Tarth.
I know, as good as anyone, that a simple walk through the forest in the wilds of EverWyrd is never as easy as one expects it to be; it will always be harder than you imagined, so I came prepared. I have brought with me tools and equipment that would grant me the advantage needed to survive in the forests, or the deserts, or even the high mountains. So, even though my pack is heavy, it isn’t large, thanks to the Wyrd.
With the breeze blowing through the trees, and spring sun shining down through the green canopy overhead, I almost feel relaxed. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to close my eyes for a minute and take a quick afternoon nap, except… Just as I’m finishing the last bit of my lehma, I hear voices being carried on the wind. Something about their conversation sparks my attention so I, very quickly, give your head a wakening-shake and listen...
“Can’t be bothered packing all this up if we’re just going to move a few miles down the road!” a man with a high-pitched voice was complaining.
“The boss says move, so we move,” said another man with a deeper, raspier voice.
“Besides,” a third man speaks, “just think of all those adventure-hungry, would-be heroes. All their gold and shiny new equipment will be ripe for the picking, right off their cold, dead, corpses.” Bandits? They must be, talking about looting the corpses of heroes like that.
“Yeah, but we just got here!” continues the high-pitch voice. “I…” But, the man was cut off by a low, rumbling growl. Damn, a dog.
It must have picked up my scent, as they are still out of sight, and I know that I’ve been discovered. Even though I don’t have enough of anything to offer the bandits, unless they enjoy dried fruit and meat, they won’t hesitate to treat me like any other hero, free loot. Knowing that I’m going to have to face them, their branded ears will bring a decent price from the Captain of the Guard who mans the trading posts between Eryn and Gall, I make the quick choice to leave my pack where it lies and face these bandits head-on. May as well get some gold for the journey, just in case.
As they step from behind a tree, the bandits all turn to face me; the stupid grins on their faces let me know they think they’ve already won this fight. None of them appears to be holding a bow, or any other ranged weapon, so at least I won’t be dodging arrows. Bandits aren’t known for their brains, I think to myself. They might think this is going to be an easy battle, but I have other plans for them.
The wolf and the bandits charge Bu’Rak. The wolf tries to bite and another takes a swing with his small bladed sword, both are unsuccessful. Bu’Rak returns the attack, landing a massive hit on the Wolf, nearly killing it in the first blow!
Since the bandits don’t have way to stab me while maintaining social distancing, the deeper, raspy-voiced fellow pulls a spotted mushroom from his bag and launches it towards my face. It’s not very pleasant.
*The Dice Challenge was failed*
I am unable to avoid the mushroom and receive a face full of the nasty red powder. It gets into my eyes and mouth, making me wretch and my eyes burn. This isn’t going to be easy, but I do notice that the plume has spread further than just myself. It has managed to spread to the closest of the bandits, including their wolf.
“Why would you throw that, you bloody fool!” One of the bandits screeches at the other, frantically trying to rub the fumes from their eyes.
The skirmish lasts for only a few moments. Me, Bu’Rak, by far the largest and most skilled in combat only managed to take a single hit, leaving me with a small flesh wound on the left shoulder. The wolf had gotten a hold of nothing more than a boot and thankfully, the bandits were easy enough to take care of. The bandits have been foiled in their sad attempt to rob me.
I almost feel guilty for taking their ears, not to mention rummaging through their things. Even though only one bandit had anything of value, I did manage to find a Lucky Coin and a Potion of Healing, nice!
Nearby, I find two herbs. The first is Ginseng, which I decide to gather and store for later. I know that this common herb has healing properties which will likely come in handy later. The second, however, is Night Moss. I know that, if handled incorrectly, Night Moss can cause a poison effect. Better leave that one alone.
With my surroundings checked for anything left behind and my pack gathered back up, my eyes once again meet the smoke rising above the trees a little ways off. There must be a larger encampment not far, one that is likely less guarded and less organized since they are packing up to move. More bandits only mean more money in my pocket once I make it to the trading post… For a minute, I consider just leaving them alone, but the prospect is too good to pass up, and if the rest of them are as witless as these, it won’t be hard to claim them, too.
Want to join in on the adventure and play your own fate? https://www.patreon.com/AdventurePost
#indiegamedev#games#game#gamedev#gamedesign#gamedevelopment#boardgame#boardgames#board game design#Roleplaying Game#roleplayinggame#roleplayingcombat#rpg#rpgs#tabletop#tabletop gaming#TabletopRPG#Tabletop RPG#tabletop RPGs#Adventure post#everwyrd#adventure#fantasy#fantasyart#darkfantasy#fightingfantasy#fantasycreature#miniature#miniatures#print and play
1 note
·
View note
Text
Kingdom of Ash Chapters 67-71
THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR KINGDOM OF ASH
I think some important stuff happened in these chapters...
Chapter 67 Rowan and Aelin are surveying the battlefield, they plan on moving the armies to Orynth in two days. They talk about how it would take years to heal everyone infected by Valg. Aelin wonders if Yrene could heal Erawan and Maeve but she says she couldn’t couldn’t put her near them while at the same time wondering if its a mistake to put Yrene’s safety above the entire world. They talk again about how Aelin is the one who has to close the gate then they go to Sartaq’s tent to look at the Wryd books he brought. They don’t really find anything other than a spell that can open a portal between locations but only in their world (kind of like what Fenrys can do I guess...). Chaol meets with his dad and his dad is still pissed that Chaol is going to give part of the land to the wild men of the Fangs in exchange for their help. Chaol’s dad (legit can’t remember if he has a name) says he will bargain with Chaol and then shows him a trunk full of letters that Chaol’s mom wrote to him. Chaol is happy his mother hadn’t forgotten him but also mad his dad kept the letters from him as punishment. Chaol says his dad can keep the letters and he gives the wild men land. Everyone goes heads out to go to Orynth. Half the army goes through the mountains with Aelin a back way and the other half goes on the eastern side to draw out forces from the Ferian Gap. Aelin uses some of her magic to cover herself in glowing light so that the army can see it and she can be a “beacon of glowing bright in the the shadows”
So now we arrive at Part Two Gods and Gates
Chapter 68 Dorian has flown into Morath, he goes to one of the towers and then changes from a crow into a mouse. He follows a “mental map” to try to reach Erawan’s tower. He hears some guards saying that Erawan will be in the council room so Dorian decides to go there because he wants to see the thing that had “ordered him enslaved, who had butchered Sorcscha”. Erawan comes into the council room and is followed by a hooded figure who turns out to be Maeve.
Chapter 69 Aedion and the army have reached Orynth. Its described as a city with white walls that are now stained and grayish. The arm winds through the city heading towards the “near-mythic castle built atop a jutting piece of rock” Aedion is depressed as the people watch them head to the castle because he can’t save them. They all meet with Darrow and the other lords inside the castle and Darrow insults Lysandra. They all discuss what siege preparations are under way. Aftewards Aedion goes to Lysandra and she says that deep down she thought she would one day see Aelin on the throne and that they would all make it but that now she doesn’t know if that will happen.
Chapter 70 Maeve has come to Morath because her army in Doranelle won’t fight for her now because they received Aelin’s letters. Maeve wants to align with Erawan but he doesn’t trust her. So, she opens a portal in the middle of the room and out pops one of her spiders {Insert: so the stygian spiders that are in Erilea are different from the kharankui which are the spiders from Antica and I guess the kharankui are Maeve’s handmaidens} Maeve says that Erawan can use the kharankui to host the Valg princesses. Erawan says he’ll consider the alliance and that he will let Maeve stay as a guest until he decides. Dorian has been spying on them the whole time in mouse form and he tries to run out but Maeve catches him.
Chapter 71 Dorian decides that instead of magic, he needs to use a “courtier’s route” to fight Maeve so he turns into a human. Maeve said she knew he was there because she got his scent from Aelin’s memories. She also reveals that Cyrene (the spider Dorian killed early on) was one of Maeve’s spies and that she told Maeve where Dorian and the witches were and that’s how the Matrons found the witch camp. She tries to get into Dorians mind but he blocks her. She then tries to convince Dorian to give her the Wyrd keys so that she can banish Erawan and his brothers and Dorian knows she is telling the truth because he has his lie detector sword with him. Dorian pretends to be considering Maeve’s offer (she says a ton of other stuff about the keys opening worlds and portals and stuff) and then Dorian suggest that he and Maeve ally, they could get married because what she wants is land and to be a queen and he says she could bring the spiders to their side and fight with him for Adarlan. He then lets Maeve into his mind and shows her what she wants to see so she agrees to his plan. Later, Dorian shifts into Vernon and goes to talk to Erawan. He asks Erawan why he is doing what he’s doing and Erawan says he is going to make Erilea into a new homeland for him and his brothers. Dorian asks him if he’ll really kill everyone and Erawan says only those who won’t kneel. Then Dorian asks if the former King of Adarlan asked questions and Erawan says he wasn’t that faithful of a servant and that he never bowed completely. Afterwards Dorian shifts back into a mouse and goes to Maeve’s chamber and she calls him fool for facing Erawan.
Stray Observations
-So Sarah randomly says that Aelin is riding a Muniqi horse and I don’t know why she can’t just say Aelin was on a fine horse Hasar gave her. We don’t know what a Muniqi horse is because its NEVER BEEN MENTIONED BEFORE so its like such an unnecessary detail that adds nothing to the story!
-Apparently when Dorian shifts not only does he get to keep his clothes but he also gets to keep his sword! So he shifts into a mouse, and then when Maeve catches him he shifts back into a fully clothed man and he also has his sword Damaris with him....
-In chapter 69 Aedion mentions the following: long-forgotten giants, the ancient Wolf Tribes, and the lost Fae of Terrasen...
- I had to keep flipping back to the map so many times because I really can’t gauge where any of the locations are and I don’t get why Aelin and the army have to go through the mountains to get to Orynth when it seems like it would be easier to cross the river and head east through Oakwald forest.
I kept it five this time because these chapters were hard to explain but my goal is to finish this book by the end of next week!
27 notes
·
View notes
Photo
Arima Verse Reboot 5
Dusters-Magic is a rare gift to be achieved, some will study there entire lives without ever developing a talent for it. Dusters are those who take specialized inks with ground up crystal shards that are then tattoo'd onto there skin. Some of these displays can be very complex allowing the dusters to replicate several forms of magic. The process has been carried over into weapons and clothing but to diluted effect. Some fully magic capable individuals will even have this process done to them to further strengthen there magic or make up for talents they are weak in.
Tickers- Arcano tech has developed many unique developments. Missing limbs are replaceable with mechanical constructions that run off the life energy of those grafted with them. The process of creating artificial organs and limbs is testy at best. Most more intricate procedures have a high mortality rate. Those who survive the extensive process's or even get mere prosthetic limbs have come to be known as tickers. The name being coined from early prototype models which were made of clockwork and had a distinctive ticking sound.
Etched-Once the process of Dusting Elysia became more commonplace they then began spreading the process onto items. The capabilities of these items are extremely limited in what they are capable of doing.Swords that light themselves on fire, cloths that are etched to speed up healing and stop the flow of blood among other capabilities. An individuals life force is used as the spark for these etched items. But the draw is minimal enough to never be much more worrying then breaking a sweat.
Jager- Members of the Slayers guild. Jager’s are a mix of bounty hunter, freelance mercenary and monster slayers. The Slayers guild is one of the few international associations. A common reason member’s join the guild beside seeking fame and fortune is that as you rise in the ranks of the guild. A permanent certificate of travel between the nations is granted. Those who rise even higher may even request permanent official residence in more then one land.
Wyrd/other marked- The marked are a particular sub class of magical user. The marked make pacts with creatures of the Wyld or Otherlens. The manifests they can summon range wildly. Elder marked will usually help guide the young mark initiated providing them a selection of albeit weak but extremely loyal manifests to choose from. As the marked grows in power they learn unique spells from there manifests as well as gain more powerful manifests and even see there earlier ones take on more impressive and dangerous forms.
Manifests-Manifests is a catch all term referring to creature’s beyond creation. Creature’s of the Wyld are known as Wyrd beasts. The otherlens house abominations. Beings of the Nexus are referred to as Harbingers. There is no name for the beings of Elsewere due to a lack of consistency or knowledge regarding its denizens. Dealing with manifests can be extremely dangerous and complicated. Depending on the realm the manifest hails from it can be dangerous to deal with for various reasons. Marked individuals have found ways to bind Wyrd and other creatures, but none have found a way to bind a harbinger that didn’t feel like it.
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
Elder-Futhark Runes
Runes are closely related to Norse Mythology; specifically, Odin – the King of the Gods. Odin had become jealous of the Norns and their great knowledge. The Norns are known as the fates and, most of the time, used the Well of Urd to gain their wisdom. And if there's one thing you should know about Odin is he loves wisdom. Odin had even given his eye away in order to gain knowledge, so when he learned that the runes only showed themselves to the worthy – he went to the extreme.
Odin went to a branch of Yggdrasil (pronounced: Ing-Dra-Sell) and hung himself upside down over the Well of Urd, then pierced himself with a spear. As he hung there, he called to the runes, but they did not show. As Odin dangled over the well, the other Gods would stop by and offer him help with food or water, but he refused the help. Which eventually was in his favor because on the ninth night of hanging, the runes appeared to him in the well. The runes accepted his sacrifice and revealed their true forms to him, providing him with their knowledge and secrets.
Because of Odin's actions, he was not only able to learn the meaning of the runes, but was able to learn their magickal aspect as well; such as: healing, making charms, using the symbols on weapons, making friends stronger and safe while making his enemies weaker.
This story also feeds into the theory of 'The Hanged Man' in the Rider-Waite tarot deck. This man is depicted as Odin.
In the Elder-Futhark, there are 24 runes; 25 if you count the blank rune. Each rune has a meaning and a letter associated with them. Runes have been around since 150AD and is actually a Germanic Language. These symbols were used as a form of writing before the Latin alphabet was adapted.
An example of using runes to spell the word "RUNES":
Often, you'll hear runes associated with the word "Futhark" (pronounced Foo-Thark), which is Scandinavian and is the first six letters of the runic alphabet.
Besides the Elder-Futhark, which this booklet will be using, there are three other types:
Anglo-Saxon which has 29 symbols and over the years have gained 4 more; making it a total of 33.
Marcomannic Runes which is a mixture of the Elder Futhark and Anglo-Saxon.
Younger Futhark which is a reduced form of the Elder Futhark, but only have 16 symbols. They are also curvier and missing "arms" and "legs".
There are many things you can do with runes. You can ask yes or no questions, lay them out the same way you read tarot, throw them on a table and read the ones facing up. You can also use runes for magickal purposes; for example, when creating a charm for protection, you can write Algiz to enhance the magickal properties.
Before using your runes, the first thing you need to know is runes hold energy; and this is why you need to put your energy in them. You can do this by constantly holding them when you can, carry them with you, sleep with them under your pillow.
Remember to do this if you have bought your runes. Creating your own runes already has your energy in them, but store bought runes made by machines or another person has a different form of energy in them.
It's also important to take care of your runes. Remember that wood runes can soak in water and stone runes can break so be gentle with them. To keep them together, use a pouch or a box. And no matter what material they are, always remember to cleanse them!
You can cleanse your runes by:
Laying them in the morning sun or under the moon.
Burying them in soil for a few days and dig them back up.
Let natural water run over them – not tap water, there's too many chemicals.
Pass them through smoke of incense or sage.
Blow on them
There are multiple ways to cast your runes, but before we go into this, don't forget to call in protection. It is always a good idea to call in your guides when performing any time of divination. Then when you're finished, thank whoever you asked to help and protect you. (Spirit loves to be thanked.)
First, we will start with structured readings, or casting runes like they're tarot cards. When you do this, you may run into the issue where you pull a rune and it's sitting in your hand at a weird angle. To correct this, just turn the rune at a 90-degree angle so they're in your hand or in its placement vertically. If you place your runes facing down, turn them over like a page (right to left). Then begin to read them.
Here are some examples of structured readings:
Pull 1 for the day
Lay three runes in a row for past, present, future.
Pull 5 runes and place three runes in a row for past, present, and future; one above for what influences you, and one below for what's beneath you or holding you back.
Read the runes in a Celtic-Cross layout like you would with tarot.
Next, we will go over unstructured readings AKA tossing the runes. You may cast your runes on either the floor or a table; or even into a circle. In the back of this booklet, I created a "runes map" for myself when casting, it's just to give it a little structure while still letting the runes do what they need to do.
You can cast all the runes at once or take a handful and toss them. When they land, make note of where they land and how they land. This will give you a more in-depth reading. Any runes that have falling face down can be removed from the reading – the runes don't want you to know these secrets or they're not affecting your situation or question at the moment. The runes facing up are the ones you want to be conscious of – they have meaning in your life at this moment.
When you toss your runes, here is what needs to be taken in account (view screenshot below):
The runes closest to you are related to your situation.
The runes farther away is further into your future.
Runes that are closer to each other affect one another.
Closer to the center means the sooner the event.
Runes turned to the left (3) are saying that something is being forced, or it's too aggressive – or you're living in the future.
Runes turned to the right (5) are telling you that not enough effort is being put into something. Maybe you're too passive or living in the past.
Reversed, or facing the wrong way, (7) means there's a strong influence, or a negative force involved. There's also opposition which means the symbol is reversed horizontally.
Upright means there's a strong influence as well but it's a positive force involved.
Rune face down (1) means you're not meant to know.
Overlapping (6) means the runes are related so read them as a pair.
If there are three in a row (3, 4, 5), read them as past, present, and future.
Yes or no questions can also be answered by the runes. Ask your question then pull a rune. If the rune is pulled angled, rotate at a 90-degree angle then place down on the desk. If the rune is face down, turn right to left to see what it says.
If the rune is upside down – the answer is NO
If the rune is right side up – the answer is YES
Because some runes like Gebo or Isa are the same either way you look at it, go by your best judgement. There are also runes like Kenaz where the symbol normally opens to the right (<), if it's looking to the left (>), then the answer is NO. Because of these neutral runes, you can pull 3 runes – 2 out of 3 is your answer.
How I read my runes:
I hold my runes in my hand and breathe into them three times.
As I move the runes in my hand, I have the person place their hands underneath in a cupping formation.
I then drop the runes into their hands and ask them to ask their question, setting their intention, then when they're done, I place my hands underneath theirs and they drop the runes back into my possession.
I toss the runes and begin to read.
If I don't use the map I have added to the back of the booklet, I use the same idea when casting into a circle.
If there are runes with symbols faced down, I remove them from the reading area.
When I finish, I collect the Runes and blow into them again three times. I say thank you and place them back in my bag I carry them in.
RUNES MEANINGS:
As I said before, there are 25 runes (including Wyrd (pronounced "weird" or "word") and each have a meaning and letter associated. Below you will find these runes' names, how to pronounce them, the associated letters, the God or Goddess the rune is sacred to, the upright meanings (just think opposite when reversed); and in some cases the magickal purpose of that rune. (We will not be using Wyrd, just remember it means "leave it up to fate".)
1st Rune - FEHU
Pronounced: "fay-who"
Associated Letter: F
Sacred to: Freya the Goddess of fertility and love
Meaning: fortune, money, happiness.
2nd Rune - URUZ
Pronounced: "oo-rooj"
Associated Letter: U
Sacred to: Thor the God of Thunder and Lightning
Meaning: luck, sudden changes.
Magickal Uses: enhance healing.
3rd Rune - THURISAZ
Pronounced: "thur-ri-saz"
Associated Letter(s): TH
Sacred to: Loki the God of Trickery and Shape-Shifting; Thor the God of Thunder and Lightning
Meaning: protection, faith, right time at right place.
Magickal Uses: protection and defense against adversary.
4th Rune - Ansuz
Pronounced: "aan-sooz"
Associated Letter: A
Sacred to: Odin the Ruler of Gods and the God of Wind and Spirit
Meaning: stability, order, changes, blessings.
5th Rune - RAIDHO
Pronounced: "rrye-doe"
Associated Letter: R
Sacred to: Thor the God of Thunder and Lightning
Meaning: movement, travel, end of conflict.
6th Rune - KENAZ
Pronounced: "kay-naz"
Associated Letters: C, K, Q
Sacred to: Heimdall the Underworld Watcher
Meaning: creativity, knowledge, quest, sheds light on issues.
7th Rune - GEBO
Pronounced: "gay-bo"
Associated Letter: G
Sacred to: All Gods and Goddesses as it is a gift to them.
Meaning: good fortune, gift, union.
8th Rune - WUNJO
Pronounced: "wun-yo"
Associated Letter: W and V
Sacred to: Odin the Ruler of Gods and the God of Wind and Spirit
Meaning: happiness, wishes granted, success.
9th Rune - HAGALAZ
Pronounced: "ha-ga-laz"
Associated Letter: H
Sacred to: Heimdall the Underworld Watcher and Mordgud the Keep of the Underworld's Icy Bridge
Meaning: destruction, disruption, controlled crisis.
10th Rune - Nauthiz
Pronounced: "now-theez"
Associated Letter: N
Sacred to: Norns the Weavers of Fate and Nort the Goddess of Night that Gives Birth to Day
Meaning: desire and demands, hardship coming
11th Rune - ISA
Pronounced: "e-sa"
Associated Letter: I
Sacred to: "intensity" as it intensifies any rune associated with it.
Meaning: frozen in place, standstill
12th Rune - JERA
Pronounced: "yay-rra"
Associated Letter: J and Y
Sacred to: Freya and Freyr the Bountiful Couple
Meaning: continuity, time and change, conception and success.
13th Rune - EIHWAZ
Pronounced: "eye-hwaz"
Associated Letter: Ê
Sacred to: Odin the King of the Gods who gathered the dead souls for their journey to Valhalla or the Underworld.
Meaning: death and rebirth, defense and protection, reliability and strength
14th Rune - PERTHRO
Pronounced: "perth-row"
Associated Letter: P
Sacred to: Frigg the All Mother.
Meaning: follow your intuition, luck, unknown results, revelation
15th Rune - ALGIZ
Pronounced: "all-yeese"
Associated Letter: Z
Sacred to: Heimdall the Underworld Watcher
Meaning: defense, shelter, and protection, victory and success, no news is good news.
Magickal Uses: add to charms and talismans for protection; you can also use it to protect yourself and your property.
16th Rune - SOWILO
Pronounced: "so-wee-lo"
Associated Letter: S
Sacred to: Baldur the Beautiful God of Joy and the Solar Wheel
Meaning: success and victory, positive changes are coming.
17th Rune - TIWAZ
Pronounced: "tee-waz"
Associated Letter: T
Sacred to: Tyr the God of Heavens and War
Meaning: victory, achievements, compassion, courageousness.
18th Rune - BERKANA
Pronounced: "bear-ka-na"
Associated Letter: B
Sacred to: the Earth Goddess
Meaning: new beginnings, personal transformations, birth of an idea or child.
19th Rune - EHWAZ
Pronounced: "aye-hwaz"
Associated Letter: E
Sacred to: Freyr the God of Fertility, the Summer Sun, and Erected Men
Meaning: momentum, moving locations, teamwork, loyalty.
20th Rune - MANNAZ
Pronounced: "ma-naz"
Associated Letter: M
Sacred to: Odin the All Father and Heimdall the Underworld Watcher
Meaning: devotion, willingness to change, unselfishness, find the middle ground.
21st Rune - LAGAZ
Pronounced: "la-gooz"
Associated Letter: L
Sacred to: Njord the God of Wealth at Sea
Meaning: reflect and consult the heart, follow instincts.
22nd Rune - INGWAZ
Pronounced: "ing-hwaz"
Associated Letter: Ng
Sacred to: Ing the Earth God and Freyr the God of Fertility
Meaning: harmony, unity, love, listen to yourself and live in the now.
23rd Rune - DAGAZ
Pronounced: "da-gaz"
Associated Letter: D
Sacred to: Heimdall the Underworld Watcher
Meaning: transformations, breakthroughs, new day, major changes, balance.
24th Rune - OTHALA
Pronounced: "oo-thee-la"
Associated Letter: O
Sacred to: "heritage"
Meaning: home, stability, inheritance, family.
Recommended books:
"A Practical Guide to the Runes: Their Uses in Divination and Magic" by Lisa Peschel
"Runes in Ten Minutes" by Richard T. Kaser
"Runes: The Ancient Magical Secret to Diving Your Future" by Shamira K. Leigh
"Runes: Theory & Practice" by Galina Krasskova
"The Runes Workshop: A You Know Intuition Workbook" by Jennifer Halls
Recommended sites:
http://norse-mythology.org/runes/
http://sunnyway.com/runes/
http://www.crystalinks.com/runes.html
http://www.runes.info/artindex.shtml
1 note
·
View note
Last Seen Blogs
daintylainty
Untitled
keroa
Judge Judy, Daedric Prince Of Order
vtrr22
Sem título
chaoticacademia
🌿🎧☕️