Shohar Ki Mohabbat Paane Ke Liye Dua aur Wazifa
Kya aap shohar ki mohabbat paane ke liye dua hasil karna chahte hai toh aap humare molvi hazrat sufi mahbub shah ji se rabta kare aur shohar ki mohabbat ki dua bhi le. Aur sath hi shohar ko apna banane ka wazifa bhi le. Adhik jaankari ke liye visit us @ https://quraniayat.com/shohar-ki-mohabbat-paane-ke-liye-dua-aur-wazifa/
Shohar Ki Mohabbat Paane Ke Liye Dua aur Wazifa
Kya aapke shohar aapko pyaar nahi karte hai aur aap unki mohabbat pana chahti hai toh aap humare molvi pr mohammad pr qadari ji se rabta kare aur shohar ki mohabbat paane ke liye dua hasil kare. Aur sath hi shohar ki mohabbat pane ka wazifa bhi le. Adhik Jaankari ke liye visit us @ https://quraniayat.com/shohar-ki-mohabbat-paane-ke-liye-dua-aur-wazifa/
Kya aap apne Shohar ki Mohabbat pane chahte hai? Agar haan to aapko Shohar ki Mohabbat Paane Ke Liye Dua or Wazifa ki madad le skate ho. Hamare Molvi Sufi Sultan Ji aapki madad ke liye powerful Dua or Wazifa pradan karenge. Adhik jankari ke liye sampark kare; http://amalduaforlove.com/shohar-ki-mohabbat-paane-ke-liye-dua/
A commission I put in for awhile ago and forgot until now! As you can see, Paane’s shadow is that of the drake. Overall, really pleased with how it came out as it’s a newer style/appearance and the costuming is absolutely perfect. If anyone has money to spend on a nice commission, I’d suggest looking at this artist.
WHEN SHE WAS IN THE SKY, EVERYTHING SEEMED SO VERY SMALL. Years had passed since she and her siblings had wanted for a place to call their own, though to Paane it had ever been the sky that was her place. Above the rest of the world – above any that dared challenge her. Beneath her wings, as they spread wide and took lift from the air currents that massaged their magnificent width, she could see that the lands of Blackmarsh were as mysterious from above as they were on foot. In many ways, she found something oddly romantic about that: it was a land veiled and secretive, whose true beauty could either be enjoyed piece by piece, or taken as one, solitary, macabre enigma.
Paane rather liked to solve puzzles.
Her wings beat once more and jettisoned her forth at a rate that few would have been able to comprehend. Even among her own kind was she markedly swift: so fast, in fact, that when first they had staggered free Blackrock Mountain, Grímr had given her the position of scouting ahead for any danger. Between the two of them, she knew, they did not have very much to fear, but there were many others that required aide that her speed or Grímr’s strength could not compensate for in a fight. There were the young whelps, the injured drakondis, the sickly survivors of the Grandsire’s more punishing experiments, and of course the infirm.
The Grandsire, how she missed him. For while it was a mystery which sperm fertilized which egg, and the exact magics that went into determining what would one day become Paane, or Grimr, or Agaanee, or An'rehal, or Gyth could never be repeated, what was certain was that the Grandsire had been behind it all. Nefarian, the son of Neltharion, was the grandfather to all that belonged within the Chromatic Flight. Until they were no more would they have to accept his name as that which saw them come to life, in truth.
You were a mistake, she could recall him saying constantly when something did not meet his approval. A horrible mistake that should have been destroyed before that fool brought you to me. Never had he turned such vitriol upon her, but Paane had been a success that she knew he could not have planned for. She was swift and smart and if humility could be forgotten, quite becoming in both her draconian form and that of the elf she often adopted. Her scales shimmered the same color as her eyes when she abandoned her true form: a brilliant violet, like the perfected mixture of the red flight and the blue.
There were times when left alone that she imagined she was the scion of the Great Queen herself with her magnificent wings, beautiful horns, and exquisite scales of molten red, and perhaps some rakish blue drake that knew the secret to a woman’s heart – for no matter how great Alexstrasza might have been, surely she could well enjoy herself and if ever there was a mind swift enough to exploit that sort of desire it would have to belong to one of the cunningly astute blues. Her impressive wingspan deserved a red dragon’s lineage, naturally, just as her mind could only have been forged from Malygos' seed. Once, in a bit of childish fancy, she had shared that theory with Grímr when she was yet a whelp and he tasked with looking after far more than he could.
Grímr had been a different man then – exhausted, but kind. When he heard her tale he snapped at her not from vexation, he later said, but exasperation with the very idea. “We are all of us abominations,” he exclaimed so that he might be heard over the retching of an ailing drake whose last breaths would likely be coated in expectorate, bile, and the blood that seeped past his lips. “Can you not see that?”
That question alone was the only thing she could not outrun. She beat her wings once more and this time shot into the sky, twirling about so that the penumbra that drenched the heavens parted about her and gave her a brief glimpse at the starry sky above. Could she not see it? Why should she see it? Their flight had been inglorious when they were left on their own and she had not wanted to see the truth of the things that had been done to them. For however perfected she might have been, there were those that had required care from the Grandsire’s attendants daily. She knew plain and simple that they were kept alive only to see how their flaws might be corrected in future generations, but the Grandsire had always said that it was because they were his children and he loved them dearly. As a whelp, Paane had wanted to believe that, but the drake knew better.
But that would never be the case, no matter how high she flew into the heavens.
Spiraling as she moved higher, Paane burst free the final clouds and unfolded her wings to catch them against an approaching current. She was lifted by the force, swept up as though into the arms of an old lover, and given to float without effort for just a moment before her wings properly realigned themselves and she could sail once more through the inky blackness about her. Quite unlike the firmament beneath her, which those of Blackmarsh saw to be their only heaven when not within certain regions, the starry skies above her was a thing she had come to recognize as her friend. For when she was sent to scout under the veil of darkness had it been the stars that accompanied her: stars that with their brilliance, kept what stories she would never tell another.
Only the stars knew, for example, that she had wished death upon every infirm soul that accompanied them. She had nearly said as much to Grímr once, but the blacks' cunning returned to her and she knew he would have asked her why. The answer he would have wanted was easily understood: because they are suffering and that should be ended, but it was not the truth at all. No, what she wanted was to be free of their whinging and their complaining and the sounds they made as they croaked in the darkness. She wanted to be rid of their partially molted scales and the horrid stench that escaped their suppurating sores. They were weak, slow, inferior – broken little creatures that served no purpose but to hold them back. Perhaps she had the wings of a red dragon and the mind of a blue, but her heart was as black as they came. That, she was certain, was why the Grandsire must have loved her so.
The winds threatened to betray her, but Paane curved her wings and went along with the latest gust, which saw her turn sharply and head into the direction she had been coming from. Skirting the curtain beneath her, she drifted this way and that, never allowing herself to be controlled so much as guided by the combating currents around her. Could any of the sickly have done that? Could they have survived their first derecho? She thought not – Sinestra’s molten twat, she was rather certain of that much! When the strong winds had taken her she was not yet as strong or as smart a flyer as she was then. She was terrified: alone and without guidance save for the beating of her heart and the knowledge that if she did not save herself, no one would. The wind was fierce: it was a beast that called for her death, but she had not given it the glory of claiming one of the Grandsire’s children. No, she had learned a lesson that day.
A lesson that she carried with her into the morrow.
There was no time for panic. There was no time for struggle. To act irrationally was to be lost: to act frantically was to be killed. With so many impulses competing with her, it was a singular one that told her what she was to do: nothing. When the winds beat against her, pitching her this way and that, she but curled her wings inward and waited until finally there was a break in them and she could spread them – spread them and sail, far away and as fast as she dared. Had she been one of the weak whelps then her life would have been ended. Instead, she was made stronger for her experience.
Somewhere beneath her, she knew, there was another weak whelp that she had been given to take care of. Balian Rothe was not very much different than she in many ways: his lineage was pristine and his blood, that of kings. Even had Prestor Falomyr not found his meaty scepter deep within the queen’s pink throne, then still would he have been a king to any that knew him. It was in his stride – in his voice and in his actions. He was decisive and bold: fearless and manful. Where others might have quaked at the sight of the death god Anub’Azzar, Prestor bade Grímr fly him into the eye of the storm. Paane’s speed had been used to carry the Lady Edevyn Bayne to Tulloch where the crown’s champions received their boon, but she would have liked to experience sailing toward the crypt emperor with her king upon her back. In many ways she had hoped Balian would offer her that chance, but she knew he would not. He never could, after all – it was not in his nature.
She thought of the never-to-be-prince and could not help but feel spite. Playful as she might have been with him, it was only because she knew prodding him would serve no true purpose. He was as indecisive as the moltlings that had vexed her in her youth: as incapable of command as a drakonid with its cresting horn removed. It was true, he was a handsome creature and in his eyes she could see the boldness he would never manifest, but where lesser men and women acted he did not and when she prompted him to move, he was afraid to do so. Fear, she knew, would be his undoing.
Fear was what would ensure that her little prince would ever remain little and never be a prince in truth.
Her mistake had been in telling Grímr as much, after her first meeting with the man that would from that day forth become her charge. With Lordaeron struggling to find its feet, Grímr’s prowess with administration had seen the king’s native lands stabilize. No longer did he have the ability to solve matters as swiftly as he had with An’rehal against the Crown Knights, but then hopefully if the supposed champions of the crown were so defeated once more they would simply be left to die. Still, he was her elder brother – a father, in many ways – and she had taken her concerns to him because there was no other ear that might solve the malady that not even her sharp mind could correct.
“You are too cruel,” he had said after a long pause, “and impatient. Balian Rothe is your liege’s son – even if a bastard – and he is your charge until either he or you are no more.” The last bit might have been a caveat she could exploit, but knowing her all too well Grímr had taken her by the jaw and made it quite evident that if Balian should fall, then she would never have the means to rise high enough to do so again.
He would take away her wings.
What would she be without those?
Had anyone else threatened her in such a way, Paane’s natural recourse would have been to make them pay. In the case of Grímr though, that would have been an absurdity. The speed that she knew was no match for his power – his true power, that she doubted even the king had seen in full yet. No, his reproach would have to be abided and she would need to learn to tolerate the weaknesses she saw in her whelp of a prince, even if she doubted he would ever become a drake.
But what if he did? That was the question she constantly found herself considering when she was left to her own devices. What if, by some stroke of mad luck, Balian Rothe found his scrotum to be filled with manfulness and no longer acted the part of the princess uncertain? Might he have aspired to heights that only she could see him flown to, or continue to hide beneath her wings? That wonderful sentiment could accompany her for eons, so long as she sailed, above the clouds and away from the sights that would surely remind her of how impossible that would all be.
In the distance she could see the sun – the true sun, emerging in the horizon and knew that her time of freedom was coming to its end. With her wings folded did she dive back into the shadowy world beneath her and sail away from her home and into a world where her beautiful scales shone only in her eyes, and the hatred she knew could only be related in the whisper of her bow as another was felled in her path.
But if he could become a king, Paane thought as she sailed toward her prince, then could I not become the Great Queen as well? Then, not even Grímr could take her wings... and she would not need to protect her little molted whelp any longer.
