silver goblet

anonymous asked:

Whys she looking through his sea chest? 👀

I know, right??

Nosy Swan!

You know what? I’ve just woke up and i’ve still got sleep in the corner of my eyes but fuck it! I’m gonna drabble it!


She digs the stray sock out from underneath the bed that had somehow worked its way towards the centre and tosses it into the hamper wit its companion.  She rises to her feet again and places the two stray books on the cabinet back on the shelf. 

Living here, she knew she’d take pride in it. It was her home she refused to treat it like one of her old apartments in Phoenix; this wasn’t some stopping pit she knew she’d barely take care of because she knew she’d bare;y be in it long enough to get attached. This was her forever home. And she was going to treat it as such.

She picked up the spyglass that perched on the windowsill and smiled, remembering the way Killian had eyed the waves two mornings before.

“Morning love. The waves are rather choppy this morning, i’d say harsh winds and a bit of rain might be on their way.” 

She moved across the room and opened his large chest to put it away, taking care of his small collection of worldly possessions. Emma was hit with the scent of Oak and leather as the lid creaked open.

She couldn’t help but be curious. This box was all him; his life collected in small artefacts in this chest and she wanted to know him more than she did- she always did.

She placed the spyglass to the side and began to take a peek. 

She smiled fondly at the old yellowed book filled with charts. Something told her this was Liam’s as she knew his cabin had been filled with charts just like this, yet he felt this one in particular was to be kept close. 

Her fingers brushed over the leather back of a familiar signet that lay next to it. 

A decorative dagger in a velvet box, two silver goblets wrapped in a chiffon cloth, a folded square of chick embroidered fabric - all these items looking so delicate and antique, with centuries of stories to tell.

A medium sized compartment sat near the bottom, plain and partially open. Emma lifted the lid to find it filled with gold doubloons. 

My pirate. She chuckled softly to herself, knowing this was probably nowhere near his complete loot, but knowing it was enough to keep them going for the year. 

A small black box sat on top of the coins. Emma could tell it was new; modern in design with no aged fading or damage. it held no otherworldly mystery to it. This box screamed ‘Land without magic’. She retrieved it from its hiding place and popped it open, gasping in shock as she saw the diamond ring that nestled inside.

Emma felt her heart race and her cheeks grow hot. she plucked it from its holding and held it; gazing at it with awe. It was a simple ring but beautiful non the less… but emma wasn’t focussed on what it looked like, it was what it meant. 

Killian wanted to marry her. 

And staring at this ring, she knew with absolute certainty that she would say yes.

She sat back against the footing of the bed and continued to play with the piece of jewellery, smiled widening as she dreamt. 

She was going to be Mrs Emma Jones. 

She was going to wear a white dress and say ‘I do’ with her family and friends around her. She was going to dance until her feet hurt with the love of her life, and drink champagne til she was dizzy. She was going to come home to the house they shared together and wake up together, as husband and wife. Her husband. The pirate. The hero. The lost girl was going to live, in her big white picket fence house, with her husband and her son, her family. Her happy ending.

“Emma, you home?”

Her heart stuttered its rhythm at his voice. She placed the lid on the chest back down and stuck the ring in the front of her jeans pocket. Thoughts about finding it while snooping flew out o her head - in that moment she didn’t care, she’d own up to it. She just wanted to get to him, too excited for the question she wanted him to ask, and too eager to begin the future that sat waiting in the pocket of her jeans.

She bounced down the steps and launched herself into his arms, happy to welcome her future husband home. 

Breathless

“Ugh,” You grunted as you scowled in the mirror, adjusting the rigid corset tied around your middle, “I don’t know if this is right.”

“Huh?” Dis turned to you, her dark hair shone with a sprinkle of grey but still lush as it hung down in perfect braids across her back, “Oh, Y/N, I told you, it’s supposed to look like that…though it could be a bit tighter.”

“Tighter?” You whined and set your hands on your already constricted waist, “I don’t—Oh!”

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Hospitality customs by flight

Earth: Earth flight favors the old traditions, and will invite visitors to stay three days and three nights, offering them bread and salt to symbolize friendship, and denote the protection of the lair’s leader for as long as they stay. To harm a guest under one’s roof is a grave misdeed in an Earth lair, and can get the offender exiled. For the guest to offer violence to anyone under that roof is an equal crime, and they will find themselves unwelcome in any Earth lair, for so long as the long memories of Earth dragons recall their crime.

Nature: Nature flights tend to be either welcoming and eager to share their bounty, or hostile and unwilling to allow outsiders into their lair, depending on how close they lie to the ever-changing and contested border with Plague. If they welcome you effusively because “You’re just in time to be the guest of honor at the harvest festival!” leave before the drums start beating and everyone dons their mask.

Light: While they graciously welcome any distinguished visiting scholars or aristocratic guests, more common visitors may find themselves shunted to the side, and snubbed from the guest lists for high teas, scholarly lectures, and manuscript viewings. Snobbishness is the unfortunate flaw of Light’s high society. However, even a common dragon may win their favor by demonstrating an excellent knowledge, be it of proper manners and customs, or the subject of their choice, and find doors opening for them. When given, their hospitality is lavish and impressive.

Shadow: Shadow lairs are infamous for pranks on their guests, usually under the guise of providing over the top hospitality, such as bursting in on a peacefully bathing guest to offer them a bathtime snack or perfumed oils for the water. The guests are fully expected to give as good as they get. Those who play along with good humor often find themselves “subjected” to the finest and most generous of hospitality when they least expect it, but the ones too inflexible and haughty to be anything but insulted rarely come back for a second visit. 

Plague: These dragons are often seen as rude and stingy hosts, because they will not offer their guests anything, neither food, nor drink, nor sometimes even a place to sleep. However, this is custom. Plague is a land of scarce resources, and no native Plague dragon would dream of being entitled to a scant store of food or fresh water, or even a bed where there may not have been the materials to make a spare one. They do not take what their host doesn’t have to spare, eating their own supplies and curling up on their own bedrolls. To bring one’s host a gift, or be offered one, is a rare and potent gesture of friendship, and clans will go to war in the aid of one who was generous to them.

Arcane: A quaint custom of Arcane hospitality is the riddle game. Guests are “gifted” with riddles and koans, and given the honor of presenting the first answer, after which their host clan will discuss their answer, and present possible answers of their own. Arcane dragons believe that their answers to the questions (some of which have been passed down and puzzled over in the clan for generations) tell them everything they need to know about the dragon, who will find that the food, room, and entertainment offered to them will all be based around what was gleaned from their answers, although no one but Arcane dragons has any idea what criteria are used.

Wind: Wind dragons are the most friendly and welcoming of all flights, and almost any passing traveler will be gleefully invited in. However, they’ll likely find themselves paying for their lodgings in stories, as Wind dragons are insatiable when it comes to travel tales. If a certain dragon is well known for always having a good store of fresh and interesting tales, clans where they pass through will compete with each other to provide the best hospitality in order to tempt them into staying with them the next time they pass through. 

Water: Every visitor to a Water lair is greeted with grave hospitality. Their hosts are well aware that an unassuming visitor could be a great hero or villain to come, or one doomed to die on the morrow. It’s considered in incredibly poor taste to read a visitor’s fortune before they are ready to leave, lest you see misfortune befalling them. When they depart, visitors are given a charm made of shells meant to ensure safe travel and protect them from the dangers of the deeps.

Fire: Guests are greeted with a traditional invocation bidding them welcome to hearth (the center and heart of every Fire lair) and home, and by extension everything the lair has to offer. The phrasing varies from lair to lair, where some may pledge that they will never go hungry or cold while the clan is there to welcome them, others pledging their sharp claws and strong armor to guard them, depending on what is most important to that clan. A guest must spend a night tending to the hearth, feeding the fire and making sure it doesn’t go out, but that’s no hardship. Rather, it makes it easy for anyone who wants to catch up to find them after the day’s work is finished, and they are plied with soft cushions, smoky tea and fine food, and sweet incense to throw into the fire. 

Lightning: Because of the high native population of ridgebacks, honored visitors will often find themselves subject to reverse thieving, in which they’ll find certain possessions of theirs stolen, and replaced with nicer version. Water fixtures, a rare commodity in the desert, are another way of honoring guests, and elaborate fountains that show off both the clan’s innovation and how much water they can afford to waste often decorate the guest quarters. In a similar vein, to be surfeited with fresh fruit, and fresh fish, is a mark of esteem, and it’s a grave insult to turn them down or worse yet leave them half uneaten (but considered generous to offer to share them, a saving grace for dragons with small appetites.)

Ice: Ice and Earth are the two flights who hold fast to the old traditions the most, and in the Southern Icefields, hospitality is held sacred. In a landscape where a deadly blizzard could blow up at any moment, any guest who comes knocking must be offered shelter, and treated with generosity and respect. They will be invited to share a cup of mulled wine with the clan leader out of a special silver goblet, each drinking from the same cup to symbolize friendship (and a leftover from long ago when clans so distrusted each other that the only way to prove the wine wasn’t poisoned was to share the cup, made of silver which was said to tarnish where poison touched it.)

khal drogo: stronger

ANON REQUEST: Hi! I read you are still taking in a few more requests, but I don’t want to overwhelm you anymore than you might be now, so I’d appreciate if you could accept my request when you’re not busy or tired 😊 I would like to request something like Khal Drogo in a duel with a man who flirted and touched Y/N. (In the end, it’d be so cool if Drogo would cut off his braid like the Dothraki do). Gahh I love your writing 😫


Riding through the night, you can hear the commotion of several khalasars in Vaes Dothraki. Khal Drogo looked at you, smiling. He nodded, and made his horse gallop and you did too. You were riding beside him and you were laughing, the wind in your hair as you went inside the city first. You rounded your horse, and waited for Drogo. You were amazed by the huge stallions by the gates that you didn’t see Drogo come up behind you.

“Khal Hol might be here,” he whispered in your ear. “Be careful.”

Khal Hol was a notorious Khal, and many people are scared of him, as his hair has never been cut. Some men has even said, that his hair is longer than Drogo’s. You nodded at Drogo, and kissed him on the cheek. “I will be,” you said. You walked with Drogo towards a temple and worshipped the Great Stallion. Afterwards, a feast erupted and tables after tables filled with numerous Khals and their khalasars. Instead of staying with Drogo you asked for leave to roam the city, to visit the markets and look for trade.

You felt comfortable walking alone and so you permitted your handmaidens to feast. You walked through the markets, amazed by the merchants. You have exchanged smiles with other Khaleesi’s and alley after alley there were small groups of loud khalasars. You walked through a narrow alley when a calloused hand wrapped around your arm.

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Family Traditions

Trigger Warning: Implied rape. 

My mother is a terrifying woman.

She has never hurt me, nor do I think she ever would, nor has she ever directly frightened me. Any fear comes from observing her with other people, people who have wronged her or me or someone else she loves in some way. It’s like a switch has flicked and she becomes a totally different person. Her voice becomes sharp and cold, it’s enough to make goosebumps prickle my skin. Her eyes become cold too; a dark void that show nothing but accuse their target of all. I’ve watched grown man crumble under her, a woman who barely scrapes 5'3" and has very little in the way of muscle. Yet there is something about the absolute rage that consumes her, that quiet, frigid anger, that makes the stutter and surrender. They give in to her will, or she shatters them.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t admire that ability. Though I’m a good three inches taller than my mother, I am equally as devoid of muscle and have none of her rage. I’m quiet and always have been meek. My mother never mocked me for this, nor did she try to change me. She has always been content to come to my aid, protect the thing most precious to her.

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The Bible and Witchcraft: Part Four

Last time we talked about Joseph and his use of oneiromancy. This time we continue with talking about Joseph and another type of divination. Strangely, this is the one occurrence of witchcraft in the Bible I have seen anti-witchcraft preachers and bloggers actually flip out over and try and explain away. I’m not sure why the earlier mentions from Parts 1-3 don’t get the same treatment.

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“Damned thing won’t come off,” Nerea grumbled as she picked at the ruby encased in the silver goblet she had stolen from a nobleman’s chambers. The goblet bore the family crest, so it would be difficult to resell it as it was. She’d have to remove the jewels and sell them individually. It was a shame she didn’t have a way to melt the silver to trade it in the market. Maybe she could use one of the pots in the castle kitchens…. 

Merry Christmas, Mr. Graves (Part Two)- Percival Graves

Originally posted by ellegoesfashion


Pairing: Percival Graves/OC

Request: I combined a few festive holiday requests into one for this!

Warnings: Merry Christmas, here’s some fluff!


The Christmas party was being held in one of MCUSA’s gigantic meeting rooms, normally meant for holding conferences, class sessions, or meetings with representatives from other wizarding governments. Queenie linked her arm with mine as we walked, chattering away cheerfully in my ear. She looked absolutely beautiful in her soft baby pink colored party dress, with little shimmery sequins sewn into the collar.

As soon as we’d stepped foot into the party, it was all I could do to keep my jaw dropping to the floor.

“It looks like Christmas at Ilvermorny.” Queenie was gushing, and I nodded my head in agreement.

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A Royal Mess

Imagine being Erebor’s Royal Maid and walking in on Thorin naked.


Another day of chores as monotonous as the one before and the one to come after. When you had thought of returning to the Mountain, you had never expected to do so as a maid. Though what could you expect. Before you had been nothing but a servant and Erebor had enough smiths as it were, so you were not of much use to the Forge.

The only grace was the dwarf you served: the king. Thorin was an admirable king and his character was much the same behind closed doors. He was kind to you, kinder than any you had worked for before. He had his days when his mood was darkened and you bore them quietly and patiently. It was not so bad being a royal maid, even if it was quite dull.

You knocked at the door of the king’s chambers and received no answer. Likely he was still in council which meant you could do your work swiftly and be on your way. You pushed inside, fresh linens stacked in your arms and crossed to the grand bed which stood against the far wall. You stripped it, though not easily, as the blankets were nearly heavier than you, and then pulled on the clean sheets.

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Preference #26 Renaissance (How You Meet)

A/N: As I’ve watched Reign and Once Upon A Time for inspiration to this series, there will be similarities. I’ve used relationships from both shows and scenarios to work off of. I really enjoyed writing this so hopefully you all enjoy reading it. :) 

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The wealth of the North

@gabsarc asked:

Hi! I’m wondering, why are the Starks so frugal? I mean even House Martell, which has a lesser income, is more ostentatious. Is it just because the northerners are so frugal, or are they (and everyone else) so aware of their status that they don’t deem it necessary to flaunt it like the other great houses? 

Hi! A lot of this apparent difference has to do with the culture of the North, which is primarily due to their climate. The northerners tend to be frugal because their focus during the warm seasons is to prepare for winter, which will kill people who aren’t ready for it. (It will also kill people who are ready for it, such as the old men who’ve “lived too long”, who announce to their families that they’re “going hunting” and set off into the snows and never return, just so that other people can have more food to survive.) And even the warm seasons aren’t that warm compared to the south – summer snows are not unusual, for example. Where the south has winters (even years-long, though note snow is infrequent south of King’s Landing), the North has deathly mini-Ice Ages, where 10-foot blizzards and winds that freeze your nose and ears off are not uncommon.

And so, “Winter is coming”, say the Stark words. Also, “the north is hard and cold, and has no mercy,” as Ned told Catelyn when she first came to Winterfell, a soft southerner dealing with the culture shock of the austere north. And so the usual northern clothing is made of wool, and leather, with heavy wool or fur cloaks. And all the more so, the crown of the Kings of Winter: “of gold and silver and gemstones, it had none; bronze and iron were the metals of winter, dark and strong to fight against the cold.”

(Now, not only does Dorne almost never get snow, but in general they have a mediterranean or desert climate – so they grow dates and peppers and grapes and citrus fruit, and wear layers of silks and other light clothing. Their buildings are open, with courtyards and fountains. And that’s all because their focus is to survive the sun’s heat, but it appears ostentatious in comparison.)

But truly, the Starks aren’t that frugal? For example, the harvest feast:

Dancer was draped in bardings of snowy white wool emblazoned with the grey direwolf of House Stark, while Bran wore grey breeches and white doublet, his sleeves and collar trimmed with vair. Over his heart was his wolf’s-head brooch of silver and polished jet. […] Beyond the wide oak-and-iron doors, eight long rows of trestle tables filled Winterfell’s Great Hall, four on each side of the center aisle. Men crowded shoulder to shoulder on the benches. “Stark!” they called as Bran trotted past, rising to their feet. “Winterfell! Winterfell!”
He was old enough to know that it was not truly him they shouted for—it was the harvest they cheered, it was Robb and his victories, it was his lord father and his grandfather and all the Starks going back eight thousand years. Still, it made him swell with pride. […] He bid them welcome in the name of his brother, the King in the North, and asked them to thank the gods old and new for Robb’s victories and the bounty of the harvest. “May there be a hundred more,” he finished, raising his father’s silver goblet.
“A hundred more!”  Pewter tankards, clay cups, and iron-banded drinking horns clashed together. Bran’s wine was sweetened with honey and fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, but stronger than he was used to. He could feel its hot snaky fingers wriggling through his chest as he swallowed. By the time he set down the goblet, his head was swimming.
“You did well, Bran,” Ser Rodrik told him. “Lord Eddard would have been most proud.” Down the table, Maester Luwin nodded his agreement as the servers began to carry in the food.
Such food Bran had never seen; course after course after course, so much that he could not manage more than a bite or two of each dish. There were great joints of aurochs roasted with leeks, venison pies chunky with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms, mutton chops sauced in honey and cloves, savory duck, peppered boar, goose, skewers of pigeon and capon, beef-and-barley stew, cold fruit soup. Lord Wyman had brought twenty casks of fish from White Harbor packed in salt and seaweed; whitefish and winkles, crabs and mussels, clams, herring, cod, salmon, lobster and lampreys. There was black bread and honeycakes and oaten biscuits; there were turnips and pease and beets, beans and squash and huge red onions; there were baked apples and berry tarts and pears poached in strongwine. Wheels of white cheese were set at every table, above and below the salt, and flagons of hot spice wine and chilled autumn ale were passed up and down the tables.
[…] Much later, after all the sweets had been served and washed down with gallons of summerwine, the food was cleared and the tables shoved back against the walls to make room for the dancing. The music grew wilder, the drummers joined in, and Hother Umber brought forth a huge curved warhorn banded in silver. When the singer reached the part in “The Night That Ended” where the Night’s Watch rode forth to meet the Others in the Battle for the Dawn, he blew a blast that set all the dogs to barking.

–ACOK, Bran III

At this feast (which would have been the first of several in a years-long autumn, if not for the war), the Starks are “flaunting it”. Bran is dressed unusually extravagantly, and there’s food (so much food) and wine, music and dancing. But this ostentatiousness and luxury, this performance of generosity, it’s all done for a purpose. It’s not a careless, casual waste of food and wealth (compare Joffrey’s wedding) – it’s to share the Starks’ resources with that of their bannermen, to build morale, to conflate the Stark legacy with the bounty of the harvest. The wealth of the north is not in art and gold and gems and silk and shiny things – it’s in food, and the gifts of the land, furs and fish and oak and iron, friendship and camaraderie and loyalty, everything needed for survival.

And there’s the richness of Winterfell itself – ok, so it’s not ostentatiously decorated and filled with knickknacks – but it does have hot springs, and thick stone walls heated by the hot springs, to stay warm even in the depth of the coldest winter. It has the glass gardens, greenhouses that grow food and flowers that could normally never survive in the cold climate of the north, and can grow food in the middle of winter. And outside the castle is the winter town, which is 4/5 empty during the other seasons, but in winter takes in hundreds, thousands of northmen from all over, even clansmen from the mountains. That too is not frugality, it’s pure generosity… but again, saved for the winter when it’s really needed.

And all this is why “the north remembers”, why the Manderlys “know about the promise” made after “the wolves took us in and nourished us and protected us against our enemies”. It’s why the “faith of Greywater” is pledged, “hearth and heart and harvest”. It’s why, even though they don’t appear to be as wealthy or ostentatious as other great houses, everyone wants to be a Stark.

[image description: a cartoon of a silver goblet dripping wine and a noisemaker in front of an open Hebrew scroll. behind this image are many hamantaschen, and behind those is a blue background with the outlines of girls in queen costumes]

Chag Purim Sameach!