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Sunday Respite - A Druid’s Arsenal

Druids suffer when it comes time to divvy up loot and salvaged equipment throughout the party. They often cannot wield metal weapons nor armours, the tenants of their faith explicitly restricting them from doing so. Instead, they must only lay hands upon whatever the earth gifts them.

Sometimes that is just a stick. Maybe, if you’re lucky, a pointy stick.

Let’s change that now, shall we?

Here are five pieces of equipment for the walking wrath of a winter’s storm, the living breath of the wild, and the legends that take the responsibilities of the world. A Herculean task indeed, for they bare the entirety of it upon their shoulders and may well be the last few keeping it from shattering upon the ground.

I love me a good Druid.


A casual passer-by would never discern this gnarled branch of wood as anything above the leaf-litter it hides within. A wise-hearted man of the world may be able to identify the true potential held within if they search close enough. They will see a boiling, primal strength stored amongst its coiled fibers; a seething hatred that predates most venerable civilisations and folk who reside within. It carries itself through the air like an ogre’s club, promising unrivaled impact with every hurl of the shoulder, roaring with every swing. Often, however, the weapon remains undiscovered and lies for years on-end without recognition. That is until a wandering child takes up the club and plays with it for a while, miming the sword-swings and parries of a mighty knight or storied warrior of old, until that is they accidentally topple an oak tree with a single strike to the trunk.

Blackboar Cloak

This item of apparel is a hooded cloak constructed from the hide and head of a huge boar with fur as dark as coal dust. The head is hollow and jawless, sitting atop the wearer’s scalp as if they indeed were a boar on human legs. Its trailing fur is coarse and warm, nearly entirely resistant to arrows and bolts, bouncing them away like glancing blades of dry grass off of a stone wall. Whenever the possessor has the capability to transform themselves into other creatures, they find that their new forms possess the strength of the boar itself. Many foes think twice of attacking a party when they see that they possess a house cat that can push merchant-carts clean off of roads and break a man’s knee backwards at the joint with a single brutish kick.

Spear of Sanctuary

This lancing pike, nearly 7-foot in height, is decorated at the head by a collection of half-a-dozen brightly-coloured feathers and leaves that never rot or discolour.  The spearhead is a wicked, snaking stone that is saber-sharp on its bladed edges. It can easily puncture through steel plate if directed well enough. More interestingly, this spear, when held aloft and proudly, allows all those within a few yards to be utterly unharmed by natural weathers. Blizzard winds and snowstorms will pass over like a blanket of cotton, hail and flash-flood rains will bounce away and around as if they were afeared to land at your feet, and oppressive sunlight and searing heat will simmer down to a cool day of gentle temperature and calm.

Palm of the Patriarch

An ancient Druid and wise leader of his people was faced with war. He had several allies, but possessed little to no preparation for outright hostile conflicts. Noticing this, one of these allied civilised regions offered an entire arsenal of fine steel and wicked silver; swords with strength and craft of enough quality to surely sever a mountain from its peak. However, the Druid’s devotion to his deity made it impossible to willingly wield metal. His allies merely smiled and revealed the second shipment they had brought; a single chest. Inside were dozens of red-leather hand-wraps that looped around the palms of the wearer. It was explained that whatever weapon was wielded within a hand that was dressed in one of these, regardless of the manner of its manufacture, would become something else; a stone just as fine and sharp as steel, yet not. The Druid accepted the gifts and paid with a thankful smile and warm embrace of his allies. He would stand beside them when war finally came to their lands.

Wrath Bolt

This crossbow bolt is large and heavilly damaged. It’s shaft is crooked and queer, nearly as awkward to aim with as it would be with a writhing ferret instead. It’s chipped flint head is loosely attached with frayed string and wire. The entire body of the object is unattractive to a worrying degree. Once fired it will collide with the target and merely splinter upon impact; the head breaking into dust and the shaft thudding into the obstacle. Then, a few moments later, a great disturbance will echo around as the trees themselves shake and quiver, the skies cry with a thousand songs, and the ground rattles in fear as every living creature within a mile around will halt whatever they were attending to and focus solely on destroying the target. A thousand gulls, a hundred rabbits, a dozen deer, three-hundred wasps, a few-thousand ants, and every squirrel, hedgehog, badger, beaver, otter, and wolf will chase the recipient until his feet collapse away from under him through sheer terror, just before a colossal wave of roaring ferocity rolls over their carcass like an avalanche of tooth and claw.


Pixie x



Happy birthday to me (for yesterday) and anyone else who celebrated their birthday in this general allotment of time.

For Every Broken Dream

Chapter One (read on ao3) {4557 words}
At seventeen, James Potter’s only option is to work in service at the large Evans estate as a farmer. He can’t mess this up- he needs it more than ever. Shame things are never as easy as we want them to be.

Amidst a heavy blanket of snow there stands a shivering James Potter. His shoes are weak and frayed, multiple holes give the bone-chilling muddy snow access to his already numbed toes. He shivers, it’s unforgivably cold and the chill bites at his skin but still he marches on.

He fights against the harsh winter elements and pulls his tattered jacket closer around his shaking body. Then he stares up, mouth half open in amazement, at the house sitting on the hills.

The Evans manor looms over the horizon. It’s almost threatening.  

It’s the largest house he has ever laid eyes on; extravagant and massive. Bright lights shine out of every window and hot smoke curls out of the dozens of chimneys, boastful and mocking.

It’s taunting him.

The closer and closer he gets to it the more… breathtaking it becomes.

It’s elegant and his saving grace, providing him with shelter, warmth, food and coin. And yet he has a terrible feeling that in some ways it will be like a prison. That it will, ultimately, also be his downfall.

He lets out a deep, shaky breath.

He needs the money, he needs to escape the madness, he needs… hope . And this opportunity rose out of the ashes like a God-send; he’d be a fool to pass it up. He could not mess this up. 

This was everything to him.

Working for the Evans family, that’s his life now.

“Potter, I presume?” An old woman with striking blue eyes looks him up and down.

He feels her stare, at the state of his mud-splattered trousers and at the drenched jacket. He has half a mind to tell her that he can’t exactly control the weather now, can he? If it was sunny he’d be in a better appearance.

“Yes ma’am.”

But he remembers why he’s here. He remembers how important this is to him. That he can’t mess this up.

He looks at the woman straight and hard, like how he’s been told. Respectful, yielding. He’s in the working world now.

He gives her a clumsy bow, long legs buckle as his back bends. His cap slides off his head almost like it’s flying and lands, gracefully, into the puddle by his feet.  

It’s the woman’s look of wild alarm as he grabs for it and squeezes out as much excess water as he can before placing it back over his windswept hair. But it’s also the precarious shadow of someone in one of the large windows, watching as the woman addresses herself as McGonagall, the housekeeper.

James feels somewhat on edge, like he’s in a lions den.

It’s when McGonagall turns away from the house and he follows after begrudgingly that he can still feel that stare on his back.

He gulps; uncertainty and fear cripples him. But he marches on.

Past the house, up the gravel pathway, and into the never-ending wood where the trees are so numerous and dense that in summer time you probably wouldn’t even be able to see the sky through it.

It’s about a ten minute walk before he’s met with the farmer’s fields.

There’s a thick scattering of frost, but he can make out the allotments filled with seeds and growing vegetables, apple trees and bushes surrounding the large farm that’s to the side. A quaint looking, but relatively decent-sized, cottage smiles at him from across the lane. Animal noises and sounds fill the air, it’s almost refreshing.

A plump and excited looking man stands waiting for them, a dog wags his bottle brush like tail non-stop by his feet.

“Mr Slughorn,” McGonagall states when they finally halt to a stop. “This is the boy.”

Slughorn takes James’ hands and he’s swept up into the most uncomfortable and yet pleasant hug imaginable. Calloused and rough hands then shake him, gigantic smiles and well-spoken wishes fill the air, that James is most welcome and that they’re now family.

The big dog lets out a happy woof, far too excited now by the prospect of making a new friend, and runs towards the newcomer. Dirty paws jump at him and then James is on the floor, laughing for what seems the first time in years as a smelly, wet tongue licks his face.

Despite everything, James finds himself grinning. 

As long as he tries to forget about what happened… as long as tries to forget about the large house acres away and the rich family who reside inside it, he thinks he’ll enjoy it here.

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In case you’d forgotten American imperialism in the Philippines after Spanish colonial rule dating back to the 1500s.

From Wikipedia

“In some areas, Filipinos were forced into concentration camps, called reconcentrados, which were surrounded by free-fire zones. These camps were overcrowded which led to disease and death. Between January and April 1902, 8,350 prisoners of approximately 298,000 died. Some camps incurred death rates as high as 20 percent. "One camp was two miles by one mile (3.2 by 1.6 km) in area and ‘home’ to some 8,000 Filipinos. Men were rounded up for questioning, tortured, and summarily executed.“ In Batangas Province, where General Franklin Bell was responsible for setting up a concentration camp, a correspondent described the operation as "relentless.” General Bell ordered that by December 25, 1901, the entire population of both Batangas Province and Laguna Province had to gather into small areas within the “poblacion” of their respective towns. Barrio families had to bring everything they could carry because anything left behind—including houses, gardens, carts, poultry and animals—was to be burned by the U.S. Army. Anyone found outside the concentration camps was shot. General Bell insisted that he had built these camps to “protect friendly natives from the insurgents, assure them an adequate food supply” while teaching them “proper sanitary standards.” The commandant of one of the camps referred to them as the “suburbs of Hell."”

The Great Bakeoff

Summary: It’s autumn, so you feel the need to bake some cookies. You decide Bucky should help you, but is he really a help or more of a burden?

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 721

Warning: excessive waste of food? also fluff, fluff and even more fluff

A/N: This is for @nataliarxmanxva‘s season’s change writing challenge. My prompt was: who knew baking cookies was this hard? it’s also bolded. Yeah the due date is in 2 days and I discovered I can work under time pressure!! Yeah!

Originally posted by totheendofthelinepal

Taking a sip from your hot chocolate, you let out a content sigh. For once everything was quiet in the tower. The people living in it, including you seemed to be adapting to the wet, cold autumn weather outside.

Tony was tinkering away in his lab and the whole day you hadn’t heard a single explosion, nor had an exasperated Bruce stormed the kitchen you were currently working in. Natasha was sitting next to Wanda in the common room, peacefully chatting away. Clint was sitting there too, trying to build a house out of playing carts.

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A new start, part 3

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Word Count: 1950

Warnings: Language

 Part 1, Part 2

Walking through the door of the rental, you hung your bag up on the the hook on the wall and kicked off your sandals.  Chris walked tentatively behind you looking around the living room.

“Nice place. Yours?” He mirrored your movements and slipped out of his sneakers leaving them by the door.

“Nah, just a rental while we are filming here.  I wanted something by the water.  No ocean in Tennessee.  So I try to soak it up while I can.”  He nodded pulling off his jacket and setting it across the back of one of the sofa chairs. You walked into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator.  “Beer?”

“Definitely, thanks. So you live in Tennessee?  I’ve been to Nashville a time or two.  Pretty country.”  Handing him the beer you opened your own taking a long swig.

“Yup, born and raised. I love it there.  I have a house there close to my parents and brother.  I’m within walking distance of my parents’ farm and my brother’s house.  Or golf cart distance.”  You grinned plopping down on the couch with your beer and phone in hand.  “So pizza?”  Chris smiled back at you taking a seat on the couch next to you.  Making sure he was not too close but not on the other side of the room.

“Oh yeah I’m starving!”

Not long after the pizza was delivered, the pair of you ate and chatted.  There had been discussion about turning on the television but that idea was forgotten after a while.  You were having a good time just talking.  “Oh come on, you don’t like the Patriots?  What is wrong with you?  They are a great team.”  You rolled your eyes at him as you finished your bottle of beer.

“I’m from Tennessee. If I didn’t like the Titans, my dad would probably disown me.  He has been a fan of that team since they were in Houston.  Sorry gotta go with the family.”  Chris gave you a look like it was painful to be in your presence.  It did not last long he broke out into a fit of laughter after you smirked at him.

“Fine, fine we won’t talk about football.  Or sports actually because you are probably going to tell me something awful about another baseball team.”  The pizza box sat in between you and him with you turned facing him with crossed legs. You took another piece relaxing back against the arm of the couch.  A content smile appearing.  “Are you feeling any better?  I didn’t like seeing you upset earlier.  It was really bugging me.”  Looking over to him as you set the half-eaten piece down in the box, you wiped your hands and face on a napkin.

“A little bit, yeah. Thank you.  It’s been… it’s been a really hard time.  It wasn’t something I saw coming.  But I guess not many people see this kind of thing.  Not me at least.  Maybe I was ignoring the signs, I don’t know.”  You gave a halfhearted smile.  Chris closed the box moving it to the coffee table.

“I don’t know everything that went on.  It’s not my business.  But I do know you got hurt and he is a complete moron for whatever went on.  If you ever need someone to talk to, I am here. I know we haven’t known each other that long but I consider you a friend now.  Whether you like it or not.”  He laughed finishing off the beer.  You laughed too moving to squeeze his hand a moment, in thanks.

“You are a good guy, Chris.  I guess the only person I told was my dad.  Everyone else just heard the rumors.  I didn’t want to talk about it.  It hurts.  A lot.” The rest of the story just spilled from you.  The man sitting in front of you made it easy. There was no judging or pity, just someone listening while you poured your heart out.  You got through the whole thing and realized you did not cry this time.  Maybe it was getting easier with each day.

“Like I said, he is a moron and I was right, he is a douche. [Y/N], thanks for trusting me with that.”  Chris smiled then began to clean up the mess you both had made with dinner.

“Chris, sit down I was get it.”  You laughed as you fought over the pizza box.  He won the struggle bringing it into the kitchen to toss in the garbage. Following not far behind with the couple of beer bottles, you put them in the recycle bin.

“I probably need to head out.  We have early call in the morning.”  You let a long breath go nodding to him.

“Yes we do.  I should grab a shower and get some sleep.  I will see you in the morning bright and early.” He left giving you the chance to pick up whatever was left over, shower and climb into bed not too long after. Sending a good night text to your parents, you fell asleep hoping for better dreams.

The next morning felt easier.  It was beautiful outside and you had a large Yeti of coffee in hand. Half of it was gone by the time you walked into your trailer.  The day’s script sat on the counter.  Your hair and makeup specialist took little time to get started and prep you for the morning scenes.  Which, as you flipped through the pages, happened to be the early life and would be Tommy and Connie’s first kiss.  You shrugged; it was just a kiss between the characters.  Not as though it was a real kiss.  However, your heart did a little flip when you thought about it.  No, you were fine.  You would get through the scene and be fine.  There were going to be many other times during the filming you would have to kiss him.  It would be just like any other movie.  At least that is what you convinced yourself.

Filming for the morning went smoothly as it did the day before.  Chris was professional, only laughing and flubbing one of the lines a couple times.  By the time the kiss scene came you had been relaxed enough to not worry about it.  It was supposed to be an awkward first kiss for two teenagers in the nineteen-thirties. The kiss turned into something definitely not awkward.  Feeling Chris’ lips on yours, warm and softer than you had imagined, it was different.  A spark of something there.  You were growing distracted until that moment the director called out, “Cut!”  He wanted to redo the scene.  It didn’t feel innocent enough for what they were going for. Chris looked off.  Like something was wrong.  But there wasn’t time to ask just now.  It took another three takes to get down the desired effect.  By that time you were not sure what was going on in your mind and certainly not Chris’.  He looked like he ate something rotten.  Excusing himself quickly, he ran back to his trailer.  Lunch was called, sending you back to yours.  

You did not want to admit that you liked the kiss, very much.  It was too soon.  Way too soon. It was just now two weeks since the break up and you were not ready for anything more.  Not kissing, or dating, hell not even ‘liking’ someone.  No, you were going to push it out of your mind, just finish the film and figure out life afterwards.  Lunch came and went.  The rest of the afternoon Chris seemed back to him normal self.  You tried to put it out of your mind, to focus on work.

The following two months continued like that.  You focused on working and having some fun when you could.  Chris had become a close friend and the two of you talked or texted often throughout the days whether you were working or not.  A few times a week you would hang out, outside of filming. Getting to know each other like normal people.  Not just the personas of who the world thought you were.  One long weekend, while filming was on break, you went home to Tennessee while he returned to Boston.  You got the chance to spend time with your parents and go horseback riding with your brother.  Your family noticed how you would be checking your phone and laughing at messages that would come through.  None of them said a word.  They liked seeing the happy smiles and hearing your laugh again.  Whatever or whoever was causing it, they approved of.

That Sunday night after the family dinner, you sat down on the couch next to your father as he flipped through to find the Titans game.  “Who are they playing this week, dad?”  Just as you asked, he found the channel and you saw the opposing team, the Patriots.  You burst into giggles, searching your pockets for your phone.

“It’s on the kitchen counter next to the sink.  That boy better not be a Patriot’s fan.”  You froze looking over at him.  How did he know?  Hell, how did he even know you were talking to a ‘boy’?  

“Daddy, I don’t know what you are…”  He put a hand up to stop you.

“[Y/F/N] [Y/M/N], don’t even try it.  You have been laughing and grinning at that damn phone all weekend.  You like him, or her.  Don’t care either way.  At least admit it to yourself if you aren’t going to admit it to me.”  Sitting quietly there for a second, looking down at your clasped hands.  He was right, which happened often. You put your head down in your hands. The last couple of months getting to know him and the good person he was, had been wonderful. You had gained a new friend who helped you through the awful ending of your last relationship.

“Shit.  Daddy, I do like him.  What am I supposed to do?  I don’t know if I am ready to like someone.”

“Well for one, don’t cuss around your mama; you know she gets pissed at me for that.  Second, it’s too late.  You already like him.  There is nothing to do about that now.  Trying to bury it down deep won’t make it better either.  You will have to figure out if you are ready for something.  But you will never find out unless you take a step towards it.  Baby girl, you need a new start.  Who knows if this is it.  If it isn’t then fine.  If it is, then you could be meeting the love of your life.  Give yourself that chance.  You never know, this boy could think you smell like Bigfoot and you wouldn’t have to worry about any of it, anyway.  Now hush so I can watch the kick off.”  He winked at you as he patted your leg.  You rolled your eyes at him, hopping off the couch to find your phone.

Finding it just where he had said, you found there were seven new messages from Chris.  Obviously, he was going to be watching the game and was gladly giving you shit over the odds of the winner.  The rest of the night, you messaged back and forth, your heart beating hard in your chest every time one of his messages came through.  You felt like a teenager with a first crush.

“Fuck, I have it bad.” Resting your head on your knees, you tried to decide if you were going to say anything to Chris when you got back to North Carolina. Could you risk losing a friend if he did not feel the same? Or could you risk losing your heart if he did…

Part 4

@bolontiku @feelmyroarrrr  @thegirlwithnodragontattoo


Requested by anonymous

After a lot of insisting you finally convinced Zack to take you to his house instead of the train cart. He never went into detail about why he didn’t want you to see his home but now you sort of had an idea.

Zack wasn’t the richest guy, you knew that but you weren’t aware however that he lived in a trailer. That was the first surprise. The second you realized once you stepped inside. His mom, she was really sick it was obvious.

You sat and played chess with Zack’s mother as he washed dishes. You caught him sneaking nervous glances at you ever so often. What did he think? You were going to judge him for having a sick mother? Perhaps it was the soft side of him that he was scared to show? It was clear he cared about his mom a lot. That wasn’t something he had to hide from you though.

After Zack finished his small chore you two went and sat outside.
“Your mom’s great” you smiled softly after a minute of silence between the two of you.

“Thanks…” Zack replied “I love her. [Y/N] I don’t let a lot of people come around here…”.

“I know. Thanks bringing me”.


Tell it to the Marines AU - The Nanny [Part 1]

Just a little thing I thought up the other night, none of this is TittM canon in the least. (Unless @tsume-yuki says so, of course)

Ace wasn’t too sure about this.

Pops had been the one to suggest it. To take Riskua to an island deep within Whitebeard territory in the New World, a guarded place where she could birth their child in safety. A haven where several of his brothers and sisters kept children of their own, protected by the island’s guardian.

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