Blood Can Flow As Fast As Tears, But It Flows Elsewhere, And The Echo Of Its Touch Washes Off Laras Shoes

Blood can flow as fast as tears, but it flows elsewhere, and the echo of its touch washes off Lara’s shoes instantly. For Lara, the daughter of the White Mariner and the Queen of Winter, is the stuff of fairy tales, and in her blood sings the promise of eternity itself. Time and decay cannot touch her; her children will be kings of kings, for all time and forever.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24038296/

Again, I recommend reading this fanfiction by @revoevokukil if you crave more Aen Elle content and, like me, think they deserve a deeper characterisation. Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal is one of the best examples... and here, you will find a complex woman that tries to find her way in the maze of fate she's caught in. Goosebumps when I read the words above!

Two words about the picture - I chose a Python as a representation for Orouboros, because well... Only they can swallow themselves whole. And please click for a non-foggy version.

Superstitions. Sunrise.

Pizza Delivery: D&D Style

On the River Styx

‘There is no destiny,’ his own voice. ‘There is none. None. It does not exist. The only thing that everyone is destined for is death.’

 …

 ‘How… How will it happen?’ he finally asked, cold and emotionless.

 ‘I’ll take you by the hand,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘I’ll take you by the hand and lead you through the meadow. Into the cold, wet fog.’

 ‘And then? What is there, beyond the fog?’

 ‘Nothing,’ she smiled. ‘There is nothing more.’

- A. Sapkowski Sword of Destiny

She wakes to the chill of night, feverish with fear.

Mist cradles her soul, hobbling her limbs on the doorstep between this life and the other one. Frozen in the woods of her dreams, she hears a word – a dear and painful word, a word that used to mean something – hammering against the inside of her skull. However much she wishes though, she cannot utter it; a sudden and irresistible forgetfulness washes over her, scattering the beguiling images in a swipe of a careful hand across her mind. The mist swirls beautifully. It shapes itself into wild horses, unicorns, and apple blossoms blowing in the wind that is coming in from the sea. And the forest in which she had stood but a moment ago crumbles and morphs, delicately, like when salt is sprinkled onto freshly painted canvas. The touch coaxes her with a promise of a peaceful, dreamless sleep, and a part of her listens obediently. She must heal, eventually.

Yet, the pain used to mean something. It had had her entire world wrapped up in it, and worlds did not end at the sound of her footsteps – they embraced her. She can feel the unease in her blood: there are things she can never forget, wounds she reopens just to feel cradled by their significance again. Thus, Ciri clings to the remnants of this feeling through fear, which runs potent and hot under her skin, for she does not want to forget. The painterly touch against her mind halts at these thoughts, second-guessing its course for the briefest of moments, and Ciri hears a woman crying out with a voice that is her own, though not.

She jerks upright.

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pocahontas + hairporn