#*silas

[softszn]

please welcome, baby silas! 👶🏽🍼

[soupmoss]

i drew this earlier in like 7 mins

[eatsbooks]

Would you please do a crying Eris drabble?

i need you to know that i woke from a dead sleep at 4am and was so haunted by this idea that h2g tears kept slipping from my eyes and i had to stay up just to get it down. cws for vomiting, death/grief, and body horror (kinda) — find it on ao3

Alongside the forest, Eris walks.

A simple procession on a brisk, breezeless morning. His hounds he left to their kennels, having no need of their noses. He feels their absence keenly. It would have been easier with them, but then that is part of the leaving, too.

The river he follows is long, wending past the Forest House and out nearly to their southern border. He used to race along it as a youngling, goading water sprites, sparking off embers at pixies. All of his brothers after him did the same.

Lucien was clever to run it along the opposite bank. Their mother forbade them to cross it, too wide across for comfort, and his brothers had all been young enough still to heed her, glad for the short while they could play along it at all. But Lucien, like Eris, knew a secret: the river thinned where the forest grew dense around its mouth, just enough to make a youngling feel brave. When he ran it along the opposite bank, his feet were sure where those giving chase were not.

It takes Eris hours to reach the end.

His tongue chafes with thirst, and the sweat trickling down his spine brings fresh torment to the burns on either side of it. Though perhaps that is blood. He is not especially damp anywhere else, even for the weakness made of his body the eve before.

The reminder that time has continued since it all happened, and will continue on yet, nearly collapses him.

Eris keeps walking.

He will never be able to say for certain how he knows that the clearing he comes upon is the one. There is no stench of blood on the air, coppery and violent, familiar in itself as it is of their bodies. No overt trace of conflict mars the land. Any snapped branches have swept away or mended themselves, and any fallen trees are covered in lichen and moss, such that they could have been that way at the conception of the land. Even the small shrine the forest constructed seems a thing of natural order, meant always to be this way.

But of course it is not. It is not meant to be this way, and it will never be the way it was again.

Entering the clearing feels no different from stepping into a tomb. The stagnant mourning sweeps the breath from him, and he feels the rageful beast stir in its place, lip pulling back, canines glinting.

Then his gaze falls upon an oak sapling sprouting proud from a verdant, body-sized patch of ground, and that brief reprieve flees him. His lungs stutter. He swallows against them.

Marius carried Silas home. Or so Eris was told afterwards. He had not been conscious to see it for himself, the terrible way his brother clung to the body of his twin, both of them covered in gore, both of them empty of life. He wishes he had been, if only to watch Marius unleash himself on their father in his demand for a bloodprice to soften the loss of Silas, though that battle was forfeit before it began.

Too much blood had spilled here to find its match.

As he must, Eris walks beyond the sapling and over to the shrine: a bowed latticework of branches and foliage, curved around like hands. The forest parts its palms for him as he nears.

There is nothing in his stomach to expel, so he heaves only bile onto the ground. It stings the back of his throat and up into his nose. He spits, but the sensation remains.

The land tried to make Ronan presentable. It arranged him on his back so that his empty gaze could marvel always on the canopy overhead, and it drank down his lifeblood so that none remained to mar his skin, and it kept the insects away, and the animals, and the creatures so that his pallid flesh would not be eaten. There was nothing it could do for the yawning gape of his chest or the split of his jaw but to patch them over with moss.

Again, Eris feels his stomach heave, a cramp in it that refuses to ease. Nothing more comes up, so he lowers slowly beside his brother, moving with the caution of a youngling who does not wish to be caught peering wonderingly into a cradle.

Eris stares for a long while. He knows this only because of the dappling of sunlight arcing steadily across them both: time happening to them, inexorably. All else has fallen away, save for this brother of his and the gaping wound of him.

"Come," Eris says, pulling this biggest of their skulk into his arms and holding him close, "I have you now." He cannot bring his voice above a rasp, torn through still from his own screaming, choked around by something else besides. A final lie: "Everything will be alright."

It seems, as Eris smooths at Ronan's hair, that there is life in his brother yet. His body is moving in his embrace—heaving, as though with breath. There is noise between them, gasping, shuddering. Tears, too, trickling down his broken face and gathering in the moss like dewdrops. Blurry-eyed, Eris stares at him and wills it true.

But there is only so much the forest can do.

"Take him," Eris asks more yet of the wood. "I don't want him seen like this." Softly, cracked down the middle, "He will rest easier, here with you."

Their mother will loathe him for this, he knows—for even this, the closure of a last look, taken from her. But he knows, too, that it will ruin her more to see yet another of her sons damaged beyond hope.

It is better for her to remember him whole.

The forest opens its arms without expectation or urgency. It alone knows what an agony it is for Eris to lay his brother down into them, to accept, with such astounding finality, a truth that he has never been able to before: there is nothing more that can be done. It waits patiently as Eris runs his dazed fingers through Ronan's hair, the clumps of filth in it impossible to unknot; for him to recall himself from his shock and magic away the grime, the rends from the clothes, until Ronan almost looks only to be in repose; for him to plait a lock of Ronan’s cleaned hair, sever it off, pocket it away. It waits.

And when at last its heir cedes the body of his kin to its keeping, it wishes its vines might be fingers, that it could wipe the sorrow from his cheeks. The best it can give him is another oak, just beside the sappling, this one grown full and strong with the might of the offering.

Often, in the time that comes after, Eris makes the long, wending walk along the river, following the opposite bank until he reaches a clearing, where he is the closest to his fallen brothers that he will ever be again.

The forest walks alongside him, itself shrouded and grieving his pain, every time.

[spicefestival]

leave someone at the altar: ✔

[wileyfern]

Some snowy fun

[soupmoss]

anyway i drew stuff of my sims save file before the 'pression got me. it has lore...

[soupmoss]

hug your fairy girlfriend

[eatsbooks]

adonia: what's your oc's biggest fuck up?

silas: have there been any horrible consequences to well-intentioned choices your oc made? how did they cope with that? (I know emile hasn't done SHIT for good intentions so I won't even ask)

iphigenia: what fills your oc with envy? alternatively who does your oc envy and why? (in tamgenia verse please)

kirsi: who hates your oc? why?

hey ana banana love of my life and fire of my loins remember one year ago when you sent me this from an ask game i could not possibly find anymore well i am finally answering<3

adonia — adonia adonia adonia....... probably accidentallly getting pregnant with marius' child instead of emile's. i'm steadily becoming more and more partial towards this outcome, mostly for how it creates a helion-loa-beron dynamic between the brothers. also for how it becomes the catalyst for at least one of their deaths—best(?) case emile's, worst case adonia's. alt: how it strains her and marius' relationship if emile never clocks it and he raises marius' kid as his own, which is to say with a flippant and terrible cruelty learned from his father and warped in his own mind. a bad time all around

silas — most well-intentioned choices silas made were on behalf of marius, and this mostly looked like shielding him from external threats. beron, knowing they were both prone to accepting punishments in place of each other, would periodically alternate how he punished them—sometimes he would punish one for what they themselves claimed they had done, but sometimes he would choose to punish the other for what one claimed he had done. this was both to keep them on their toes and because it was a far worse punishment for one to see the other punished when they were truly the ones at fault. (this was often how beron could tell which twin was actually culpable if they weren't both involved. if he punished the innocent twin without that twin nobly accepting it on behalf of their brother, the perpetrator would be much more visibly distressed. would often even do something to intercede and take punishment back unto themselves. big win for beron!) anyway i think a situation like this, wherein silas confessed to [insert transgression] under the assumption beron would punish him and instead had marius whipped within an inch of his life, falls into this category. he copes by trying to kill eris about it :•)

iphigenia — ykw i could go with the easy route of other spring ladies making her envious, but we have been there and also ☝️ done that. we'll do it again too but for now ... imagine beron in tamgenia verse arranging some sort of event where he can flaunt and dote on his new favorite sex slave in front of her. because it was never about her and never has been. it was only the insult of her being taken that lingers for him. so look, now, how immediately he was able to replace her, and how treasured his new pet is. imagine, if you will, iphigenia seeing this and feeling a fresh, acidic wave of nausea overcome her as she realizes she is indeed envious of this female. even safe now. even perfectly in love. there is still a terrible shameful little part of her that feels so thoroughly abandoned by beron, who was meant to be her high lord, who was meant to be as a manner of father, a manner of god, and who hurt her so terribly that she feels heartsick to see how gentle his touch is on another, who misses the bodily pleasure of earning that from him, who is envious, just for that time, of this female boasting his claim. just like beron wanted. (but then of course tamlin is in front of her, blurred through her tears, and he knows her, and he knows beron's games, and he understands something of the conflict she feels now—doesn't he feel it when it comes to rhysandlucienfeyre?—and his presence alone reminds her that she is beron's no longer. she is his<3)

kirsi — ooooo there are definitely some winter lords who hate kirsi and some of whom that even go so far as to make attempts on her life (i love murder in winter being incredibly taboo due to them having the lowest birth rate of the courts) because she presides over such a covetable province. the borderlands with the middle and with autumn are the perfect arenas for untested lords to display their mettle to the high lord and rise in esteem, and here it is held by A Female, one with no male at her side, then one with a fucking vanserra at her side. of course, the one who will be able to woo her easiest with his cock, who will melt her heart and shape it into his bidding. if they were in her place, they would be susceptible to no such interference. never mind that kallias was the one who betrothed her to carmine in the first place. other than that there are the usual autumn court suspects—beron has an impersonal hatred for her as the daughter of an incredibly fierce strategist who kept him penned for centuries, then as the female who upholds it; emile is emile; adonia doesn't much care for her arctic, sanctimonious demeanor, like winter is not a backwards and desolate court; the many many former paramours of carmine want her out of the way; etc etc