The Nightmare King Learning Of A Universe Where A Band Of Adventurers "destroy" Them, And Just Grabbing

so when virginia woolf writes paragraph long sentences it’s “revolutionary” and “starts a literary movement” but when I do it I’m “grammatically incorrect” and “need to revise this paper”

lol Alistair and Rhys out swinging swords at ghosts and looking like a couple of nutters to the untrained eye. Do you still have the fic or maybe it was an ask about chonklet deluxe being held by a horrifying wraith and screaming like the damned?

A little bit! And it was initially an ask. This fic is brand spanking new because I forgot how cool of an idea that shitpost actually was if I took it seriously. Please be warned that this fic is gory and involves child endangerment, a bastardization of mythological creatures and just general violence. Also here on ao3.

Rural Lancashire, 1590

Dusk draped heavily over the world as the last light of day darkened into a thick grey. Arthur had ducked out the door to catch the midwife as she crossed his property on foot. If he was quick, he could often walk her as far as the edge of the village and consult her on whatever it was Alfred had done now. Teething, his first words, the seizures that had gripped him last spring, croup, the rare occasion Alfred was ever colicky. She was a steely woman with hair to match and indulged him at least, giving the best advice she had after decades of bringing children into the world. He'd hardly paid attention to the labours of women, and children so often died that there was rarely time to pay them any heed as they went from the cradle to the casket so quickly.

He had turned back to make his usual beeline for the house, pushing past and between the square hedges and sprawling kitchen garden. Some of the stronger-smelling herbs must have been finally in season; there was a reek Arthur couldn't quite identify. He had hardly cleared the fence when he heard Alfred's usual cry, demanding attention. The baby was a social thing, as personable as Rhys or Brighid and twice as bold about his want of company. He didn't like waking alone, wrapped up cozy in the cradle or otherwise.

Another sound, shrill and high. This one sent a spike of anxiety through Arthur's spine. He paused for the shortest moment. Then he was moving. That was not the cry of a baby who was lonely or wanted to be picked up. That was a terrified howl from his boy. He shot into the house, through the atrium, up the stairs, and into the nursery. Heaving, he flung open the heavy oak door. The smell was there again. The figure of a woman stood in relief against the low fire, Alfred cradled in her arms and screaming. For a stupid, foolish moment, he hoped it was the scullery girl he had told to mind the baby should he begin crying. But the smell. He took a step forward. At a new angle, he could see rotten eyes staring at his son, a cheek missing to decay and teeth gleaming through the gap.

"Baby." Came the garbled sound from long-dead vocal cords.

"You do not belong in this realm," Arthur said, cooly gesturing for her to hand him the child. His guts churned, bile in his throat. The revenants were often as confused as they were disgusting, pulling themselves out of whatever corner they had died and remained undiscovered. "Give me the child."

The Revenant turned to him. "Mine."

"You do not belong in this realm," Arthur said again, gesturing to Alfred again. He was losing patience with fear, the ceaseless screaming from Alfred turning into a hopeless, frightened sob. She tilted her head, and it fell limply to her shoulder, tendons snapping on the other side. She lifted one hand to push it back onto her neck, and he saw her hand for a moment in the light. Her fingers were torn freshly away. Oh, good Christ, this one had crawled out of her grave as they sometimes did when there was an infant's ceaseless crying above them. But Alfred had never stepped foot in the churchyard, and it was nearly a mile and a half away in the village.

"Rhys!" Arthur screamed, praying to god his brother was in the house and not out in the lambing pens.

The woman transferred Alfred almost tenderly to one arm and lunged at him, hand outstretched and her rotting jaw open. It couldn't close and Arthur couldn't hit her; Alfred was a heavy child and would fall to the floor as a leaden weight, and his soft little body would smash. Arthur was cold. Alfred was still crying.

"Give me my fucking son." He lunged, snatching at her arm. A layer of grey slime came away, and he retched even as he got fingers wrapped into the swaddling nearest Alfred's feet. He was suddenly wrestling a corpse, each of them struggling to get their hands on the blanket. One of Alfred's arms had slipped free, and he flailed, a fresh rolling scream emitting from his tiny scarlet face. Arthur had never seen him so flushed. He tried to shove her away and kick at the rotting creature, but more of something wet disintegrated from her legs. His hand was suddenly slick with gore and a piece of her fell to the floor with a putrid plop, unseen under the half-rotten chemise she had been buried in. She almost looked to grin at him and pulled Alfred closer.

"Let go!" He commanded, trying to get a purchase, but his hands were too slippery. He lunged after her as she retreated towards the door. "Let him go!"

Then a sword was through her belly. Something degassed like fetid blacksmith's bellows. Arthur's senses nearly abandoned him at the smell, but his hands closed around Alfred and tugged him to his chest, and he shot back against the wall, as far from the thing as he could get.

"I know. I'm sorry." He gasped, a clean hand cradling Alfred's head. "I'm so sorry."

The creature groaned and collapsed to the floor on its knees, struggling as its guts dissolved around the blade. Rhys stood behind her, still in his lambing clothes and boots, mother's leaf-bladed sword in his hands. He lifted it, and her head fell from her shoulders. The rotting eyes followed Arthur across the room. He watched as Rhys found one of the seams of her skull with the tip, plunged the sword in, twisted like he was splitting a log, and this time, she lay still, dismembered.

"Are you all right?" Rhys said, stepping over the body to look at him. He approached close enough to pull the blanket away to look at Alfred. Arthur tried to meet his brother's eyes. "Arthur?"

He couldn't. He could only close his eyes, hold Alfred tighter and collapse down the wall. Alfred pressed as tight as he dared against his sternum, and Arthur tried to breathe. Alfred's crying had softened, terror fading to a heartbreaking relief, and Arthur kissed his head. To close. Too fucking close.

"He's fine," Rhys said; his voice was much softer this time. "You're both fine, I promise."

Quick Poll

I need to prove a point.

Like if your definition of “Spork” is this:

Reblog if your definition of “Spork” is this:

Sexuality is fluid and it changes. Maybe in the future I will feel different and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean it was just a phase. It doesn’t mean those feelings were invalid. It just means those feelings changed. That’s life.

Biggest fandom pet peeve is when people just "ball" Riz,,,he's not just ball. Or a ball. He's THE Ball. Put some respect on his name. It doesn't matter if it makes no grammatical sense. It's not an article anymore that's PART of the nickname. Does that mean you have to make Fabian sound insane? Yes. He already sounds insane have you listened to him. "Thank you The Ball," he says, "oh wow that haircut suits you better The Ball," he says, "my dearest The Ball please come over to my house again and help me find my crystal charger I already cast Enhance Ability on myself Fox's Cunning isn't enough. Save me The Ball, save me!" and you just have to deal with that. Also this one's even more personal and specific but capitalise it!! Capitalise The Ball!! It's a name, I think it should be capitalised. My autocorrect already does and I think that's really funny. Read this post lightheartedly please I don't actually care

name one native american intellectual off the top of your head, name one native american actor or actress off the top of your head, name one native american senator, one native american news anchor, or an author or a tv personality or a singer or a poet or a comedian, name a single native american teacher you’ve had, can you? probably not 

ok so now think of one native american cartoon character you know of or a sports team relating to native americans whether it’s their actual name or their team logo, or a town you live in or near with a “native” name bet a lot of these things came to you right away i bet you didn’t even have to think 

needing native representation in media, education and government are not decoy issues, the commercialization and appropriation of native cultures are not decoy issues, the lack of native representation is institutional oppression at work 

apple.news

Biden signs "historic" executive order to protect LGBTQ people — Axios

President Biden signed an executive order Wednesday to strengthen protections for people in the LGBTQ community as states attempt to pass a

This is genuinely a major good story that needs to be shared! Biden has also been active in pushing the DOJ to fight in the courts the Republican laws that have been set up against lgbt youths and their families across republican led states.

I have stretch marks.

Reblog if you do too. Just to prove that it is more normal than what people actually think.

Gorgug has tusks and Riz has fangs and they are such creatures and they are. Friends. Gorgug growls and Riz hisses and they actually both do some variation of a chirp or chitter and Gorgug's rage is a frenzy and Riz's bloodlust is a fury and it is. Good. They are not human and they do not have to be.

Also Riz claws and tail. Also you know how dogs and I think other canines but idk I'm not a mammal guy start drooling/foaming at the mouth because of overexertion or stress or anxiety? Gorgug when he's raging. This is less because he's half orc and more because he's specifically a berserker* and that subclass goes crazy. Frenzy, mindless rage, okay bitch we're snarling and drooling and animal and taking a level of exhaustion afterwards. Love that.

Solace is fantasy racist sometimes and I think they both separately had some trouble accepting themselves and their less palatable features and I probably rambled about that in a long post I can't remember rn but they do now and they are so good and I adore them.

*"For some barbarians, rage is a means to an end – that end being violence. The Path of the Berserker is a path of untrammeled fury, slick with blood. As you enter the berserker's rage, you thrill in the chaos of battle, heedless of your own health or well-being." - The Player's Handbook