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mahvaladara · 3 months

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@lazysunjade part 3

🩷 What is the sweetest thing they've done for one another?

The sweetest thing Sael made for Peia is actually a glass piece. At the naked eye it looks like a simple glass globe with weird tubes inside and water. When you move the glass piece around, the water moves inside the tubes and draws lines that make drawings. Only Peia can actually see the drawings are and it makes Peia smile.

Peia brushed Sael's hair. Seems little, but no one touches his hair. Most people don't enjoy it. Dragon's don't really have hair. Their hair are very thin and flexible spikes, not that dissimilar from hedgehog spikes or horse bristles. When they shift from dragon to human form, the gigantic spikes dragons have become thin and alike horse bristles. He has particularly thick and hard hair. But dragons enjoy getting their hair brushed. Peia realizes Sael enjoyed it and started doing it often, something no one ever did other than himself. This also means a lot to him, because dragons are prideful hedonistic creatures and believe it or not, they are vain and care much about their appearance. Culturally, the hair is as important as the horns, long, beautiful well tended spikes/hair are a symbol of status and power.

🏹 Which one is more likely to think Valentine's Day is lame?

There's no 'love day' or valentines day in Astreia. For a matter of fact, dragons believe any day that 'celebrates love' is idiotic, for devotion is to be lived everyday. So Sael is the one who thinks it's lame.

Peia has decided to make the day they met their 'love day' and usually likes to surprise Sael with something sweet, as Sael has a remarkably sweet tooth.

🤎 How do they comfort each other?

They hold unto one another.

As Peia is smaller than Sael, he can easily be fully encompassed by Sael's embrace and he will hold him in silence for as long as Peia needs to feel safe again.

Peia quickly found out that works in reverse too. If he just holds unto Sael in silent understanding for long enough, the dragon just surrenders himself wholly to him.

🥡 What does a relaxing night in look like for them?

They lay in bed, usually with Peia laying on Sael's lap, while Sael reads for Peia. There's no braille or water writing in Astreia for Peia to read, but the Vyrs do sing, so he can 'sense read' them, the problem is that being isekai'd means he doesn't know the tongue and has no idea what the Vyrs are singing to him. So Sael 'translates'. In the future, maybe, Peia will be able to decipher the song of the Vyrs on his own.

🤍 What is their favorite or most admired quality in the other?

Peia adores how protective, steadfast and pragmatic Sael can be while hiding a nurturing and affectionate side.

Sael adores how kind-hearted, understanding and loving Peia can be. He feels his generous heart and gentle nature is what is needed to calm a raging vulcano.

🥂 What does a night out look like for them?

So a "night out" for them is a walk around the Sanctuary gardens, where the two of them just chat calmly under the starlight. Or Sael would take Peia to the markets to enjoy the sounds and scents of food and music.

🩶 Which one apologizes first? How do they apologize?

Sael. Peia has very rarely had reasons to apologize.

Usually Sael apologizes with gifts. Again, he's good with service acts so when he's aware he has hurt Peia, he does something for him or makes him a gift as an apology.

Peia has said he does not have to gift him every time he feels he did something wrong. A simple sorry is enough, but Sael does not believe sorry is enough. For a matter of fact, dragons have a word for thank you (Grazi), the closest to sorry or apologies is Paak'Ja which means "I'm ashamed".

🫦 What's something seemingly innocent that the other does, says or wears that turns the other on?

If Peia dares wear one of Sael robes. Sael's clothing... most of it, if it's not ceremonial, or work related, is revealing. Sael's clothes is twice Peia's size.

So... water sense... Peia can see through water sense... Sweat is water... Now picture it, a half naked, bull of a man, in a hot forge, hammering away a sword, fucosed, brow furrowed, muscles flexing, sweat glistening... Peia randomly senses the water and decides to see. "O///O Oh fuck." Sael looks at him, he looks tense. Double fuck.

🖤 What is their biggest regret in their relationship so far (or in the future, if you don't mind giving spoilers)?

Sael regrets the way he treated poor Peia when he first met him. Which resulted in him holding the little spirit upside down by a foot over a body of stale water and threatening him. He also regrets every time he looses his cool and scares Peia. He's working on it.

💋 What is their favorite place to kiss their partner? Do either enjoy 'leaving a mark'?

Peia loves to kiss Sael's ears. It was an accident, when Peia realized just how sensitive those three ears are. Ticklish too and Peia absolutely adores kissing them.

Sael likes kissing Peia's neck, right on the curve, that sweet curve of the neck, right where the neck meets the shoulder and then trail down to a soft warm little collarbone.

❤️‍🔥 Which one is more adventurous in the bedroom? Which one has more experience?

Sael. Poor Peia sometimes doesn't even know how to catch up with him. He just gets thrown around "Wait, I don't think I can bend my leg like that!" "Bohl, of course you can!"

🧸 BONUS! Include one of your favorite moments between them!

#ts4 #the sims 4 #peia #sael'myr #character development #lazysunjade

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medusdeeznuts · 2 months

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Hey I’m Medusa, my pronouns are it/hymn/maw/sin/vyr/hx/rot, I’m 24, I’m a big ol dyke, I’m trans, disabled, yada yada

Autistic like a Jigsaw Apprentice

I like ASOIAF, Saw, NITW, TLT, Fantasy High, and horror

I draw furries :( my art is here: @pvppy-gutz

#my post #about me #pinned

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pvppy-gutz · 2 months

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Hi there!

I’m Medusa! I’m a white-indigenous disabled artist from NYC :3 I’m 24, fat, a lesbian, trans, and my pronouns are it/hymn/sin/vyr/hx

I’m a primarily furry/anthro artist and I’ve been drawing furries since 2017. I use Procreate usually

This is a side blog! I follow back from my main -> @medusdeeznuts

Do not repost or use my art for AI! Do not trace my art without permission and credit

#my post #about me #pinned

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rfkjnnrejfkjngrfkjnrgj · 4 years

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GETEN!!!!! i drew him really fast but he came out SUPER well....what a good start to my art blog 2.0

#bnha #mha #geten #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #vyr draws

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wyldhunt · 3 years

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anatomy ref practice with my new trooper arkavan

#star wars #star wars the old republic #togruta #star wars oc #swtor oc #trooper #art #my art #arkavan vyr #my ocs #YES this is risqué but hey i forgot to draw his nips so i think it evens out #this was like. two hours of extra work away from becoming one of those wartime recruitment pin ups like #''the alliance commander wants YOU ! join up today !''

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hi-crawler · 1 year

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i dont even know what blog to put this on. tiny hive. take them.

#vyr draws #destiny #destiny game #oryx #savathun #oryx the taken king #destiny hive

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envy-gummy · 1 year

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merry christmas or whatever

#vyr draws #fma #fmab #envy the jealous #envy #fma envy

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vuullets · 1 year

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i think wrath should

A) be allowed to keep his alchemy after losing his limbs

and

B) pull a lady nagant

#fma #fullmetal alchemist #fma03 #fma 03 #fma 2003 #03 wrath #wrath 03 #wrath the furious #wrath #wrath curtis #vyr draws #what the FUCK do i tag my boy as

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boethiahsboytoy · 1 year

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Me after realizing I haven't thought about Vyrthaal ONCE in the last two weeks:

#i'm miraak and you're watching disney channel #im drawing merri rn and thinking abt various vyrthaals in general.#i think i want 2 have malacath!vyr a part of the modern falmer pantheon.#*gestures vaguely at my falmer timeline* like why not i guess #craftsman 🤝 chaurus mother: important deities for the falmer

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transmasc-culture-is · 3 years

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Pronoun check #2 for Skulls (I'm becoming a pronoun collector) vy/vym/vyr/vyrs/vymself and xy/xym/xyr/xyrs/xymself. I like dnd and drawing

'Mate, this is fancy,' I say as we walk through the door and into a hallway. It's tiled. Everything is white and there are actual paintings on the walls.

'Thanks?' Skulls replies, a slight lilt in vyr tone suggesting vy has no idea how to reply. Most of the time I try not to bring up how much richer xy is than me, because that would be awkward for both of us.

source: i was born for this by alice oseman

#not transmasc culture #helping out a trans person!#vy/xy #gender validation #thanks for including a topic! sorry for not making an original one i'm lacking the spoons to write it rn

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likecastle · 3 years

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Witcher Femslash February - Swords

Day twenty-one of @bamf-jaskier’s Witcher Femslash February isn’t technically about swords, but it does involve a dagger! This is more of the Yenfri partners-in-crime AU that nobody asked for! Previous ficlets here:

Apart, Burned, Battle, Wound, Visions, Together, The Lodge, Adore, Frenemies, Transform, Blind, Nilfgaard, Graves, Disguise, Water, Lightning, Music, Beauty, Hands, Aretuza

No real warnings for this one, I don’t think.

Renfri has been in a strange mood all morning. She’s been stalking around Yennefer’s workshop since breakfast, touching things she knows better than to touch, apparently unable to settle down.

“If you’re going to stomp around like a spoiled princess,” Yennefer says, without looking up from the ingredients she’s preparing for a spell, “I’d prefer you did it somewhere else.”

Yennefer regrets the words even before she’s done speaking. Alluding to Renfri’s royal upbringing is one of the easiest ways to draw her ire, and it works like a charm. “Fine,” she snarls, and leaves through the door that’s enchanted to let out into the forest, slamming it behind her so hard the vials on Yennefer’s workbench shake.

Nohorn pokes his head in from the other room and says, “Any casualties?”

Yennefer shoots Renfri’s second-in-command a poisonous glance. Now she’s going to have to run after Renfri and apologize, all because she can’t stop herself for going for the throat, even when she doesn’t really mean it.

She finds Renfri by the river, crouched down to check the fish traps Nimir and Vyr set up there.

“I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me,” Renfri says, without looking up from the swirling current.

Yennefer sighs. Renfri really is such a child sometimes—though Yennefer hardly has room to talk, given her own trouble controlling her temper. Still, someone has to be the bigger woman, and she supposes this time it’s going to be her. “You weren’t really stomping around all that loudly,” she says, and, well, it’s not her best apology, but it’s a start.

Renfri, however, chuckles, and gets to her feet. “Yes, I was.”

“So are you going to tell me what’s the matter?” Yennefer hates this. She much prefers it when the two of them work in almost uncanny harmony, and they don’t have to have unseemly conversations about their feelings. She suspects Renfri prefers it that way, too, but nevertheless here they are.

“Nothing.” She closes the distance between them. “It’s stupid.”

“I’d believe that from Nohorn, but not from you.”

Renfri rolls her eyes. “It’s just . . .” She blows out a breath. “It’s been a year, and I thought I should do something to mark it somehow, so . . .” She’s holding out a parcel, Yennefer realizes, long and narrow and wrapped haphazardly in rough cloth.

Only Renfri would think to commemorate their murder of Stregobor with a present. Yennefer bites her lips to keep from smiling, not wanting to insult Renfri any further but unable to quell the warmth that unfolds in her at this brave and bloody-minded girl.

“Oh, fuck you,” Renfri says. “I told you it was stupid. I’ll take it back.”

“You will not.” Yennefer takes the parcel from Renfri, dancing back from Renfri’s half-hearted attempt to grab it away from her. When she unwraps the cloth, she finds she’s holding a dagger, its scabbard delicately engraved, and a little amethyst set into the pommel. She draws the dagger to admire its blade, narrow and gleaming bright. The grip fits beautifully in Yennefer’s palm, and the balance is impeccable even to Yennefer’s unschooled senses. On closer inspection, Yennefer realizes the pattern on the scabbard is little sprays of blossoms and small round berries, and she feels tears spring to her eyes. “No one will ever take it from me,” she says, meeting Renfri’s gaze. “It’s mine now.”

#the witcher #witcher femslash #femslash february #witcher femslash february #bamf-jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer #renfri of creyden #renfri #yennefer/renfri #yennefer x renfri #yenfri #witcher rarepair #partners in crime au #i've got 99 problems and aus are all of them #wait hold up i CANNOT BELIEVE i forgot to use my knife tag on this #i guess i'm someone who likes knives now

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payherprice · 3 years

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10.

The mountains give way to craggy foothills, through which the road wends its restless way, discontented with straight lines. Eventually it brings us around a bend to get our first look at the Rehm ocean, glittering in the afternoon sun. Impossibly blue and so very welcoming, though the road seems in no hurry to get there. It does not love the waters as I do.

After the foothills we join the coast road, which we follow north towards Caer Vyr. The going is considerably flatter here, making for a more comfortable ride, and I let myself daydream the afternoon away. As we draw closer to the ocean my senses are filled with it. The sounds and smells fly to us on the wind and my spirit seems to follow them back along that same path, drawing me into the water to play there in my mind.

It’s overcast and chilly when we stop to rest by a little inlet, even so Ketil and Sif agree to join me for a swim without too much convincing. I strip to my underthings, cross the pebbly shore, and wade into the dark waters. They trail after with somewhat less enthusiasm.

The water is very cold, but I don’t care. I walk till it's too deep to walk and swim just a bit further. There I float, only my face above water, and close my eyes, feeling my body buoyed by the waves, their gentle insistence. I imagine floating like this forever, just drifting and dreaming. That would be the perfect life, wouldn't it? Weightless and free, desires ebbing and flowing with the tides.

My reveries are interrupted by the sound of Ketil and Sif. They are both swearing loudly as the frigid water grasps at their bellies. Seeing them brave the cold to join me, I feel like some beautiful thing, alluring and mysterious. They want to be warm and dry, but more than they want that, they want to be here with me. They swim out and we come together in the gentle waves and play like children, until our bodies are numb and the lethargy of a day spent in the wagon wears away.

Later, we sit by the fire, blankets draped over our shoulders. We giggle to ourselves through chattering teeth and the other caravanners look at us like we are mad. In truth I am barely aware of them. My attention, no matter which way I might try to shift it, seems to fall inexorably back to Sif. To the bare skin of her collar, the depression above the bone where rainwater would collect in a statue. I feel an intense longing to kiss that spot, but her hand is on Ketil’s upper arm and I do my best to banish the thought.

Sleep eludes me that night. I listen to the soft breathing of the others, arrayed around the embers of the fire, surrounding me, and I feel an odd loneliness. My fingers find the cool metal of the sword beside me and I draw it closer, entangling myself around it like a lover.

“Are you there?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. There is no reply, but just holding it makes me feel a bit better. Better enough to sleep a little before morning comes, bringing with it the last leg of our journey.

The road follows the contours of the coastline only approximately, sometimes meandering farther inland and out of sight of the ocean, into the seemingly boundless moorland. Enormous cloud shadows drift lazily over the stark landscape, and in the distance we catch the occasional glimpse of a shepherd grazing his flock on the moors. Over time the terrain morphs into low, gradually rolling hills that slope downward to the ocean or leave short vertical cliffs, eroded by waves into curious contours.

At long last we crest the brow of a hill, and there, arrayed before us, is the city. Myriad colorful buildings on a gentle slope, surrounded by a wall like a necklace, punctuated with guard towers like beads spaced along its length. With our destination finally in sight the sense of stalled time engendered by the day’s ride finally relents.

I lean my head out the window, taking in the sight as more and more detail becomes apparent. To the west, the edge of the city is given over to the harbour, its many fingers splayed out, stretching into the bay, where ships of all sizes crowd around them. On the east side the city is dwarfed by the great aqueducts, there to sate its enormous thirst for freshwater. Each one is many times taller than the rest of the cityscape, and little clusters of buildings cling to their sides like mushrooms to the trunk of a tree.

Caer Vyr is a convergence of power and influence. All trade routes touch it eventually. Like ley lines, they feed it. Like a heart it pumps the blood of empire.

It is no stretch of the imagination to see it as she does. Even now I can spy the merchant ships in it's harbour. The line of wagons awaiting entry at its gates, and this caravan too, soon to join them.

The city walls loom over us as we near the main gate. The gatehouse is a massive edifice. Thirty feet wide, and at least twice as tall. As we pass beneath I can see two lines of spikes protruding from the stone high above, the bottom of a pair of iron gates. Relics of an era when wealthy cities would be besieged by empires that no longer exist, all but vestigial now.

Emerging into the city we are confronted with a cacophony of sights and sounds and smells. Throngs of people move about their business, coming or going or giving their custom to the many shop fronts and open air stalls that line the road. It seems as if every sort of person imaginable is within immediate sight, from the humblest laborer, who may well have lived here their entire life, to wealthy merchants and traveling nobles in extravagant outfits from far away places.

The smells of fresh bread and roast meats drift over to us on the breeze from the varied food stalls. They mix with a sharp undertone, almost imperceptible. Dyeing vats I think, a neighborhood away or more, doing their part to supply the extravagant colors that fill my view.

The caravan sticks to the wider streets, full to bursting with people and carts, as it makes its way harbourside. The going is very slow, and there are long periods where the wagons don't move at all. Sif fidgets in her seat, growing increasingly impatient, until she seems to settle on a decision.

“Come on, let's walk. I’ll show you to my favorite inn.”

When we don't immediately object, she sticks her head out the window to inform the driver. We grab our things and hop down. I notice Ketil adjusting the strap at his shoulder and looking around anxiously at the crowds, perhaps wary of finding himself adrift in this confusion. Sif tips the driver and asks him to pass along our thanks to Ramzi. She leads us away from the crowds into the narrow side streets where we are quickly swallowed up by the city.

Like shifting through time, the architecture around us varies widely by era, and in the deep corners of the city centuries old buildings sit, their columns cracked or toppled, but their windows alight with life.

Though they lack the chaos overflowing from the markets, the side streets are not truly quiet either. It's all still dense with the motions of people's lives. Washing gets hung on lines, forming makeshift banners across the residences. Dust is swept into the street to scatter. Snippets of conversation drift to us from open windows, laughter and shouting and tender words.

We follow Sif through what feels like a maze of small streets and lanes. Her every step is sure, and we eventually come to a place where the street widens and splits to encircle a tiny city green, constituting a patch of grass and a single gnarled old tree, its trunk covered in moss. Opposite the green, on one side, is an inn, three storeys tall and more than a little eclectic. I’m immediately taken with it. The original building is old stonework, well maintained, but additional floors and wings have been added to it over the years, expanding it with brick and plaster and exposed beams into something strange and brimming with character.

Ivy creeps up the left side of the building to surround the windows, and spills onto the turquoise tiles of the roof. Tall trees crowd the building from behind, where there is evidently a large garden. High up, in an attic window, birds nest.

“It's a lovely old place, isn’t it? Like a secluded little oasis.” She does a twirl as she says it and makes her way to the entrance.

“It really is.” Ketil replies. There is a slight note of anxiety in his voice and then, speaking quietly so as not to have Sif hear. “This place is a bit nicer than I was expecting. I’m not sure we can afford it.”

I share the feeling, but try to allay his concerns. “Sif knows our circumstances. It will be ok.”

As it happens the price per night is quite modest, perhaps because the roads here are too narrow for the carriages of the wealthy, or perhaps because it is so far from the city center. Whichever it may be, I'm grateful at the prospect of a soft bed.

A porter leads us upstairs and down an irregularly winding corridor with odd alcoves and secluded window seats, organic and ungoverned like the building's exterior.

The room itself is modest but very welcoming. A large picture window, framed by the ivy peaking around the edges, casts the golden evening light over everything. To one side is a fireplace flanked by overstuffed chairs, and across from it an enormous bed that could easily sleep four.

Ketil immediately goes for the bed, collapsing onto it with a sigh. I follow suit, clambering up to lie down beside him and letting myself relax into the mattress. After days of bedrolls and hard earth it's exquisite.

"This is nice, right?" I ask.

"Yeah, it is." And then after a long pause. "Sif is nice."

"She likes you."

"Yeah?"

"I don’t think she brought us here just out of friendliness."

“What about you?”

“I’ll be ok.”

I realize I misunderstood his question, but the conversation is already moving on and I'm not sure I know the answer anyway.

“Has the raven queen told you why we’re here yet?” He asks.

“No. She hasn't said much the last day or two.” I try not to let my unease show, but somehow it crawls its way up my throat anyway. "I try to talk to her, but she doesn't answer."

He takes my hand, his fingers slipping in-between mine. "I'm sure there is a good reason."

We meet up with Sif later that evening in the meal hall. A few other patrons dine nearby, conversing quietly amongst themselves. We find a table by the small windows that peer out from the ivy onto the road. A moment later a man brings us plates of food. Fresh bread, toasted and topped with crushed tomatoes and olive oil, and generous portions of roast fish.

"Now you will learn why I really love this place." Sif says, before lifting one of the slices of bread, dripping with oil and tomato juice, to her mouth and taking a bite. She closes her eyes, and gives a pleased little shimmy, evidently satisfied.

The meal is wonderful and the company is better. We talk about the different places Sif wants to show us in the city, or the work we might find here, or nothing, which somehow is the richest topic. I watch as periodically Sif and Ketil will share a shy smile and a look. Sometimes Sif will catch my eye, noticing me watching, and hold my gaze for a moment, until I look away.

Later, as we climb the stairs to the third floor and our waiting rooms, an awkward silence descends over us. The evening has slipped away and I feel a kind of heightening of the senses. Ketil and Sif walk side by side a few steps ahead of me, their flirting silenced, replaced by a palpable anticipation of the coming parting for the night. Sif’s door is first and we say our goodnights, and then we linger there at the threshold a moment or two longer than required. She stands just inside, a hand on the doorframe, posture relaxed. Ketil looks as if he wants to say something, but shyness or uncertainty stays his tongue. If I could give him the words I would, gladly, but I don’t have to.

“Would...you like to come in?” She asks. She tilts her head to the side, just slightly, as if to emphasize the invitation.

Ketil smiles shyly and takes a step forward, crossing that subtle distance separating ordinary with intimate. I am pleased for the two of them, and at the same time feel suddenly awkward, voyeuristic and superfluous. I make to leave, turning towards my own room down the hall but not a moment later I feel a gentle touch on my wrist. Looking back I find Sif’s eyes fixed on me, pinning me in place like a moth to a card.

“Won’t you stay?” There is a pleading to her voice. The composure has fallen away to reveal the stormy surface to a deep sea of yearning. I know the feeling behind that look, the vulnerability of wanting something that is hard to ask for. She knew Ketil would be receptive, that was clear enough, but she wants us both. Somehow that clicks into place and I wonder at not knowing it sooner.

I let her draw me back in, and her face flushes with delight. She takes us each by the hand, her eagerness like a vibration in that touch, and leads us inside.

The room is warmed and dimly lit by glowing embers in the fireplace. In that soft, orange light I watch as she kisses Ketil, tentative and probing, an explorer charting new territory. She breaks away from him and moves over to me, her hand finding my cheek. As she leans in her thumb gently brushes across my cheekbone. My lips meet hers, at once yielding and intent, and her fingers slide through my hair.

There is something almost ritualistic about how we proceed. He and I undress her together. From behind, his arms curl around her to undo the laces of her trousers, while I undo her shirt. She raises her arms and I lift it up and over. For a moment it covers her eyes like a veil, but her mouth is free, and I catch her in another kiss. When I pull away she moves with me, drawn like a lodestone, not wanting to disengage.

He slips her trousers and underthings over her hips and lets them drop to the floor before caressing his way up her bare thighs. All that remains is her strophium, securely wound around her breasts. I untuck one end and she twirls obligingly, arms over her head, like a dancer. Each rotation her eyes return to mine, her fixed point.

Sif and I are attentive and unhurried as we undress Ketil. With his shirt removed I admire his shoulders. I wrap an arm around him to caress his chest, while I kiss his neck. Sif, kneeling to free his feet from his crumpled clothes beneath, gives him a playful lick and I feel a shiver run through him, transmitted from her touch all the way to my lips on his skin.

Then it's my turn. I see something mischievous in their eyes as their attention shifts my way. I think they like having me at their mercy and strangely that calms my trepidation. Ketil undoes my belt, letting the oversized tunic fall open, and Sif draws it back, off my shoulders and down. I feel her warm breath at my neck and the tips of her fingers skimming so lightly down my back. She turns me around and her hands find their way to my breasts making me quiver. I feel ketils mouth at my lower back, kissing lazily before stripping me of the last of my clothes.

Sensations blend and shift and chip away at my sense of time and place. We fall into the bed and languidly explore one another, finding many pleasures, familiar and not. Seeking our conclusions with no urgency, not at first.

Even in the midst of our play there is a part of me that stays at a remove, studying Sif. The unburdened way she has about her in this space. The joy she takes in her body, and in ours, so unselfconscious. She is a seeker and sharer of pleasure. A hedonist. I admire her for it, and feel grateful that she should choose me to be one of her partners.

Later, after the embers have ceased to glow and all is dark, I trace my fingertips along the crest of her pelvic bone, just above her thigh. What kind of marks do fingertips leave on skin? A hundred years of gentle touches would leave no scars, no roads on the body, but memories are a kind of mark too and they will suffice.

#fantasy #witchcraft #queer fiction #original fiction #RavenQueensChosen #RQC10 #magic

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