shimmering sword


requested by anons <3
Challenge for you (well - I doubt it is but XD) If your writing could you do one for Ramsey Bolton? Have all the freedom you need^^ /  Do you have any GoT imagines coming up? x
a/n; in tnr you will get to meet ramsay…so might as well get used to him


You did not fit in this image: a glowing bright maiden overshadowed by heavy stone walls and the bleak sunlight that barely reached Winterfell. Ramsay was only able to take his eyes away from you when one of his servants called him, and if he was not still caught up in a light daze he would have gotten beyond furious. The servant shrunk under his gaze, meekly informing him about the guests that came here all the way from Highgarden. Ramsay looked back at you – you stood by your horse and a few older men, your sun kissed skin hiding behind layers and layers of tailored cloth of a beautiful dark blue dress. The cold pinched your cheeks. Ramsay grinned, though his smile was soon wiped off once he turned to the servant, “Well? What are you standing around for?” Despite the lingering excitement in his voice there was still a rough note that implied impatience. The servant hurriedly bowed with an apology, scurrying down the steps and rushing to your side.

Finally it was time to make his appearance. He stepped into view with in a confident stride and a pleasant look on his face – whether it was real or fake was entirely up to interpretation. The hilt of his sword shimmered by his side – a show of authority in case your friends decided to bite. As he reached the steps he practically glided down them, catching you gaze and refusing to let go. A smile rose to his face. A timid one graced yours as well. “Welcome to my humble abode!” He said happily, stopping to shake hands, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Greetings, Mr. Bolton. I believe you have received our letter?” One man asked.

“But of course.”

“Then may I please introduce you to your betrothed…that is if the deal goes through, of course.” The man motioned to you. As Ramsay turned to look at you again, he noted the man’s lips move in a prolonged boring speech he heard absolutely nothing of. You seemed strange. Different. You filled the empty space and made it difficult to focus on anything else. He took a step forward and with a pleased smile extended his hand. Shyly, you let him take it. Leaning in he pressed a soft kiss on your reddened knuckles, though did not let go at first – his eyes, steel and intense, and continued to watch your reaction with a curious glint.

“It is my greatest honor to marry such a beautiful woman as you.”

Requests are open!

Addewid (XVI)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Kai (Jongin)

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 3,353

Warning: Character death (minor)

Genre: Fey!AU + Series

Summary: You cannot appeal to my better nature, for I have none. I am not human, little one.”

You’ve always known you were different. You’re able to see them, after all, able to see the Others. You’ve also always ignored them. Until the day comes where you’re forced to make a choice - one that throws your world into chaos. And sends you down a path you might never return from.

Originally posted by angel-in-slow-motion

Keep reading

lysonomaar  asked:

I really enjoyed your Ilyrio Mopatis theories, but I wonder why such a rich man would send away his only son to sleep on a boat and work as a fisherman when he could just raise him and wed him to some rich family? is there a possibility he is secret Blackfyre heir and he was just brokered through Ilyrio for exchange of position in Small council?

Illyrio is hoping to gain immensely from Aegon’s rise to the Iron Throne, no denying that, and at a level that “some rich family” cannot provide. But there’s another narrative at work here between the lines, one which I think marks out Aegon as Illyrio’s son by Serra. First, we get the setup with the statue…

Beneath his window six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their slender branches bare and brown. A naked boy stood on the water, poised to duel with a bravo’s blade in hand. He was lithe and handsome, no older than sixteen, with straight blond hair that brushed his shoulders. So lifelike did he seem that it took the dwarf a long moment to realize he was made of painted marble, though his sword shimmered like true steel.

“Perhaps you chanced to glimpse the statue by my pool? Pytho Malanon carved that when I was six-and-ten. A lovely thing, though now I weep to see it.”

…which when taken together with Serra’s fate…

“A maiden? I know the way of that.” Illyrio thrust his right hand up his left sleeve and drew out a silver locket. Inside was a painted likeness of a woman with big blue eyes and pale golden hair streaked by silver. “Serra. I found her in a Lysene pillow house and brought her home to warm my bed, but in the end I wed her. Me, whose first wife had been a cousin of the Prince of Pentos. The palace gates were closed to me thereafter, but I did not care. The price was small enough, for Serra.”

“How did she die?” Tyrion knew that she was dead; no man spoke so fondly of a woman who had abandoned him.

“A Braavosi trading galley called at Pentos on her way back from the Jade Sea. The Treasure carried cloves and saffron, jet and jade, scarlet samite, green silk … and the grey death. We slew her oarsmen as they came ashore and burned the ship at anchor, but the rats crept down the oars and paddled to the quay on cold stone feet. The plague took two thousand before it ran its course.”

Magister Illyrio closed the locket. “I keep her hands in my bedchamber. Her hands that were so soft…”

…outlines a story etched in stone. From the cheesemonger’s perspective, the stone took Serra, but as if in some twisted exchange it breathed life into that statue and the result was Aegon: that young bravo Illyrio remembered looking back at him, reborn, ready to make Serra proud. Like Dany with Rhaego, but inverted, because that’s Aegon’s whole thing–he’s Dany and Jon but backwards, a scrambled Egg, everything crammed in from the outside by his handlers instead of emerging organically. And so…

“There is a gift for the boy in one of the chests. Some candied ginger. He was always fond of it.” Illyrio sounded oddly sad. “I thought I might continue on to Ghoyan Drohe with you. A farewell feast before you start downriver…”

“Good fortune,” Illyrio called after them. “Tell the boy I am sorry that I will not be with him for his wedding. I will rejoin you in Westeros. That I swear, by my sweet Serra’s hands.”

The last that Tyrion Lannister saw of Illyrio Mopatis, the magister was standing by his litter in his brocade robes, his massive shoulders slumped. As his figure dwindled in their dust, the lord of cheese looked almost small.

This is business, certainly, but it’s also personal. It always is. For hands of gold are always cold…

Red vs Blue Fic: I'll Tell You My Sins and You Can Sharpen Your Knife (1/4)

Summary: Locus understands why Kimball would want to keep him alive long enough to testify at Hargrove’s trial.

He doesn’t understand why the Reds and Blues would volunteer to protect him.

Parings: None.

Warnings: Canon-typical language, tons of drippy angst.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

When Locus takes Agent Washington to Chorus for medical treatment, he knows what it means. Agent Washington will live. And Locus will be executed for his crimes.

He had hoped for more time to make things right. But it’s an acceptable trade.

Keep reading

The Author (Happy Birthday Brian Jacques)

In honor of Brian Jacques birthday, please enjoy this short little fic about our beloved author. And the music I wrote while typing. Enjoy, my beloved and fellow Redwallers!

The elderly man sat back in a wooden whicker chair, and surveyed his kingdom through squinted eyes as the sun shone down brightly, chasing away clouds with amble attitude. 

          “My, my. No clouds? Whatever will England do?” He chuckled, pulling off dirt covered gray gloves. Sighing, content with his self-inflected exhaustion, he reached over for his cooling drink. Downing the citrus tea heavily ladened with mint, he closed his eyes to take in the sounds of his garden. Sparrows were arguing amongst themselves, and he chuckled. “What, not enough worm food? I promise, there are plenty of bugs in my garden. Hey! You there!” He sat up straighter, addressing a rabbit. The brown creature froze amongst the carrots, nose twitching, ears erect. “Don’t be poking around in there, they ain’t ripe yet.” The rabbit shot off like an arrow, away from the luscious garden. Chuckling, the old man stood up, wincing as his knees and back cracked. “Well, you’re no Dorothea Duckfontein Dillworthy, that’s for sure. She’d not only have stood her ground, but stuffed ‘em in her mouth while telling me off.”

Placing his straw hat upon his barren crown, the man strode through his garden, vegetables and flowers alike growing greatly under his kind and loving care. Basket in tow, he began to pick the labors of his efforts. Some potatoes and carrots for the evening stew, with some mushrooms and peas to be thrown in. Pausing, he stared at his brown shoes. Hmm…I need some spices. Onions, too, maybe? I think my stomach can still handle them. His storm colored eyes glanced towards the flowers, and he gave a thoughtful thrown, approaching the flower bed with careful steps, minding the sleeping dog nearby. 

       “Excuse you,” He said softly, approaching bright blue flowers. “I do believe that you’ve gotten a bit wild and grown all over the place, way out of your sectioned spot, I believe.” The cornflowers he addressed responded saucily, dancing in the breeze that picked up. Imagining a flushed but rather strong willed lady mouse, he laughed, waking the dog. “Apologies,” He said to his companion. “I believe she becomes sassier with age. Well, I suppose I’ll have to trim this section of the garden. Hmm…looks like I need to trim the columbines too.” His eyes caught a flash of red, and he looked softly towards the rose bushes swaying. “Ahh, rose.” He said softly, sorrowfully. He approached, reaching out to caress a blossom, as if he were comforting a child. Pulling back, he let out a curse as his fingers slipped, gripping hold of the ever sharp thorns. Pulling back and examining his palm, he looked at the embedded thorns. “Well now, how…” 

His words trailed off, mists swirling around him. He could hear the entrancing sound of Celtic music thrumming in his ears and pounding in his heart. He could feel the blood dripping from his palm as he spun around. Behind him stood a giant abbey of brilliant red brick, Virginia creepers crawling amongst her sides. The tolls of the twin bells sounded and around him like misty ghosts, characters appeared, all laughing and running towards the sound. It smelled as if a feast had been prepared. A sound of thunder and lightening. He stood near a mouse maiden who was clenching her fists like him, blood dripping where thorns had embedded themselves. He saw a warrior spirit rising from her. He saw dancing around her a ship tossing on grey stormy waters. He saw her tied to the mast within in the storm, facing the odds head on while crews of pirates laughed under her. He saw a giant black water cave filled with treasure and evil. Sharks and chains seemed to be in her future. Yet somehow she was at the Abbey, with all of that behind her? He reached out to ask her, but she whirled away, dancing with the sword. It shimmered like snow freshly fallen after a blizzard. The red pommel danced like her eyes as she parried and thrust at her foes. She wore a tunic of bright red and had silver and gold bracelets on her wrists. She was dancing in front of fire, now flipping over it. A group of hares and otters danced around her, and there seemed to be three male mice for different talents and stature fighting for her attention. However, she seemed the most at peace sitting next to a large Badger Lord, just calmly discussing scrolls and maps. Brian tried to call out for her attention. Surely, he had to learn her name at least! The music was hitting a frenzy in his ears now. As he stepped forward, he was stopped by a friendly paw. He looked over his shoulder at Martin, who merely smiled and shrugged. 

         “Martin, who is that mouse? What is her name?” Brian asked in bewilderment, trying to glance once again at the dancing mouse maiden. 

          “Old friend,” Martin laughed, watching the party as well. “She’ll reveal her name in time. You simply must write her story.” He then shoved playfully at Brian. “Now! Go! Write!” And with that, the mouse snapped his fingers. 

  Waking up with a start, Brian sat up with a jolt. He was back in his whicker chair, not a clue as to how he had gotten there. The rose clutched tightly in his palm, he shivered as he felt cold drops descending down. His faithful friend sat next to him, wagging his tail. 

    “Well, it appears that it is once again time to start back up at the typewriter.” Brian said in a haze, looking around him with a mystified smile. “He’s appeared again, you know, old chum, and you won’t believe who he introduced me to this time. Come, I’ll tell you all about her.” 

anonymous asked:

2. “It reminded me of you.” For the Starmora prompts thing

Gamora sighs for the fifth time in a row, watching as Rocket’s ears twitch in front of her;. The mission was supposed to be a simple one. Get in and get out. Drax and Peter went to gather the artifact some neo-Kree group had stolen from a Shar’i museum that was said to once hold the Cosmic Seed. Whatever the hell that was.

And so, Gamora had been stuck behind with Rocket and a toddler-sized Groot. Well, Peter had said he was toddler-sized but nobody really knew what a toddler was.

“Why’re we waitin’ here like id'jits when they get all the fun!” Rocket snarled, lips curled up to show sharp teeth. “I feel cheated.”

“Someone had to watch Groot,” Gamora responds, “and the complex is volatile. You could have blown everyone up.” She lifted Groot up to her shoulder and felt a tug as he tangled his hands in her hair to hold on. “Why don’t we look around? I’m pretty sure there must be some stuff you need for the ship.”

“Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”

“When are you ever happy?”


“I am Groot!” The tiny squeak in the bin next to her alerted Gamora that Groot had found something. “I am Groot! I am Groot! I am Groot!” Obviously, whatever he found was either of extreme value or something sentimental. Probably a bit of both.

“What’d ya find, Groot?”

He dives back into the bin, his tiny legs wiggling as he sifts through the contents. He reaches back with a hand, wiggling his root fingers and Gamora understands. She pulls him out and he smiles at her, holding up his loot.

“I am Groot!” he squeaks.

“It’s–” Gamora’s voice cuts off as the tiny tree puts the object in her hand. She can feel tears at the edge of her eyes but she doesn’t allow them to fall. She is a warrior, a hardened assassin. She does not cry.

“I am Groot!”

“I’m sure he’ll love it, Groot,” she says reassuringly. She runs her index finger over the ridges of Groot’s cheek and pulls both him and the object to her chest.


“We’re back!”

“And we have vanquished our enemies!”

“Drax, we just stole the artifact back. Piece of cake.”

“I do not understand why that sugary confection has anything to do with our mission.”

“It’s just a… Gahhhh.” Gamora watches from the main table as Peter runs a hand through his hair.

“I am Groot!” The small tree-child runs over to Peter and holds out his arms, vines stretching. “I am Groot!”

Peter chuckles as he picks the tree up. “It’s nice to see you too, buddy.” He turns to Gamora and Rocket, who is glaring at the tabletop. “How was holding down the fort?”

Rocket’s lips curl up again. “If you make me stay here one more time, I’m gonna put a turd on your pillow.”

“Yours or Drax’s?” The Terran crosses his arms.

The raccoon shrugs. “It’ll be a surprise… this time.”

“Whatever, man.” Peter throws himself into the seat next to Gamora, being careful to put Groot down first. He turns to her. “So, how did it really go?”

“Groot was well-behaved. Rocket, on the other hand.” They could hear Rocket banging around in the background. Probably building another bomb or something equally as dangerous. Groot squeaks out his typical phrase and heads off to help his best friends. “We went to the market in town. Just for something to do.”

Peter nods. “I did a little shopping myself on the way back from the museum.” He reaches into his purse– knapsack– and pulls out a small device. “For you, my lady.”

“What is it?” Gamora asks, holding it close to her nose. Peter takes her hand and puts it down on the table.

“Well, on my planet, it’s called a pen.”

Her heart flutters and she scowls at the object. “What can you do with it?”

“Take off the top.” She does as he says and a sword quickly forms in her on the table. It’s a beautiful shimmering silver sword with a double-edged blade, a leather-wrapped grip and a flat hilt riveted with silver studs to match the blade. The center, where the hilt and grip are connected glows with the same energy she’s seen come from the Godslayer. She swipes it a few times and smiles at the perfect weight of it.

“It’s beautiful,” she breaths, unable to take her eyes from the craftsmanship.

“It reminded me of you,” Peter admits as he puts his hand over hers. The sword emits some sort of glowing warmth. “Flick the pen cap.” She does and a disk, a shield, forms in her other hand. There’s an owl midflight on it. “It an adamantium-vibranium alloy. Strongest stuff on Earth. Maybe not in the galaxy, but it does seem to rival Godslayer in that regard. It’s almost indestructible and—”

“Thank you, Peter.” Gamora’s voice is a whisper as she traces the shape on the shield. “Why the animal?”

“It’s an owl. Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom and battle strategy had an owl.” At her questioning look, Peter explained. “It’s an ancient religion. My mom loved them so I know all about them.”

Gamoma’s cheeks flush a dark green as she reaches into her pocket. “Groot and I found something for you as well, but it cannot amount to this amazing thing.”

“I’m sure it’s—” Gamora hands him a Walkman player. It’s not like his old one, the one that got destoyed by his evil megelomaniac father, but it’s still… “Gamora, how did you—?”

“Groot found it at the bottom of a scavenger’s trash bucket. He gave it to us for only a handful of units.” She traces the buttons at the top. “We couldn’t find anything to put in it.” Tears bead at the corner of Peter’s eyes before he throws the Walkman aside and wraps Gamora in a tight hug.

“Thank you.” He buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of leather and rosewater. “I can’t… I don’t know… Thank you.”

The green woman pulls him up so he’s looking into her eyes. She shrugs and rubs a thumb over his tearstained cheeks. “It reminded me of you.”

They both got each other gifts. And yes, the sword is from Percy Jackson because can you imagine Gamora with another retractable sword. One for each hip. The shield from the pencap is my idea, though. I love soft Starmora and baby Groot with music.

Send me numbers and I’ll try to write a Starmora oneshot with it!

Send me a phrase and I’ll write a story with it!

Knight of Heart

A Soldier of Soul and Emotion

“My Shield is my Passion and my Sword is my Will!”

anon, fondly remembered

Heart is an aspect about Souls and Emotions. It’s the cousin of Rage, who deals with Passion and Brawn. It’s a subtle aspect, but an easy favourite.

Knights are the Passive Fighting class. They, and the Page, are tasked with hitting things really hard. The difference is that the Page has to actively seek out their battles, while Knights are assigned it. They have to put their emotions aside and do what they’re told.

A Knight of Heart thus is tasked to use the Souls and Emotions of himself and others to fight. Knights tend to be sad people inside, with a lot of troubled emotions, so this is perfect. They can turn their feelings into powerful weaponry. They just need to make sure they don’t get lost in their own emphatic arsenal, and keep a will to fight on. They’re confused, and dropping in Determination, but they just need a little help, and they’ll help you out in turn.


  • Fight what needs to be fought.
  • Tap into souls and emotion to do so
  • Be a soldier


  • Fight out of line, or give up
  • Get locked up into a BSOD
  • Lose your will


  • [Iron Knight]: This ability blends flesh and mind. All you need to do is feel untouchable, and you will be. If you truly get yourself so wound up that the idea of a spear to the chest wouldn’t hurt you, it won’t. It’s like Breath’s [Eye of the Storm], but with a physical edge to it.
  • [Shimmer Sword]: The Heart Thing. Pluge your hand into your chest and rip out your “shiny”, and turn it into a weapon. The weapon depends on your emotion at the time. Bravery could get you a shiny sword. Anger is a huge maul. Fear would be a spear or something that keeps you at a distance. Additionally, you can either have it full power for one, precise strike, or a fraction of that, for longer usage.
  • [Eye to Eye]: Choose one opponent and engage in a soul-to-soul battle. Physical ailments cease to matter as you go against each other in a mental battle. This tends to be wonky and not literal like the Symbolism Fuck-Off Zone, with everyone changing form and powers. Your Denizen will always wrap you into one of these eventually.

   I took off the cap, and the pen grew longer and heavier in my hand. In half a second, I held a shimmering bronze sword with a double-edged blade, a leather-wrapped grip, and a flat hilt riveted with gold studs. It was the first weapon that actually felt balanced in my hands.
  “It’s name is Anaklusmos,” Chiron told me. 
  “Riptide.”  ❞