Weeping Monk - Blog Posts

Okay I need some help, I am trying to find websites to watch some of my shows like Medici and teen wolf and stuff like that but I can’t find any can you guys please help

Wip Thursday! (even though it was suppost to be wednesday!)

Thanks for the tag, @lancedoncrimsonwings! And actualy i'm gonna share a whole chapter from my first fic, which also was a Lancewain, Weeping monk x Green knight fic. (yes, i've been obsessed on them for years, no judment allowed)

I'm tagging @holy3cake again because fanfic appretiation is everything, and @warlocklawyer666 @the-tav3rn-0wner for the game!

It's a pretty average fic, not well-structured and I still didn't know how to write a story properly. I deleted it from Ao3 because I was ashamed of it and of writing fics, and my chronic anxiety only made the situation worse. Today I'm proud to be a fic freak and I admit that to anyone who asks, and of course I laugh and am proud of my origins in this world. And in fact I'm considering reposting it as a "personal monument" on Ao3 again.

The following post is 5,329 words long. Read if you fell like it and please do so without judgment. The personalities aren't entirely accurate, there are medical errors that when I reread them made me wonder if I really knew how broken bones worked, and the narrative switches characters halfway through and then back again.

Chapter 1: Not firendly, but a start.

Three hours.

Had been exactly three hours since Lancelot betrayed the church. Three hours since he killed the trinity and saved a fae child. Three hours since he was brutally bruised to save the life of a reckless boy who hated him. Everyone hated him. This was something he was sure.

It had been three long hours since he abandoned everything he was raised to fight for and believe in since the moment he were considered useful to the church. But… abandoning everything because of a single moment with the Green Knight? No. This was not what happened. In fact, that was so far from what had in on his mind.

Lancelot was not emotional or foolish enough to let his world fall apart just for the sake of a moment. But it was not even for the moment, it was just a sentence. Either way, that was not why he fell. That was not why he let himself fall.

He did this because the Green Knight didn't smell like lies. He was not bad like the horrible demons, that he called his church brothers, that he's living whit since he has ten years old. No. He was good and kind. Even though the former monk was lost, he still considered him as a brother, because of course they are all brothers, but it did not smell like a lie when it came out of his mouth.

The boy, Percival, or Squirrel, as he preferred to be called, were just a small and more inconsequential image of someone he knew as a child at his vision. Maybe a little like the Knight, but much more like someone else.

Lancelot could not let all the atrocities that happened to him happen to another child. The idea that this could ever happen had always made him queasy.

Even though he was denying it, he really did not want, never wanted in fact, to hurt the boy or any other child. But especially never him. He was special, and he knew it from the moment he saw him for the first time. It was impossible to look at him and imagine his body on the brink of death without hurting himself by doing it, and feeling such a bitter taste in his mouth that it made him want to vomit.

The boy could be anything, but like other people he certainly was not.

Oh, how his brother would have loved him. This was a recurring thought in his mind during the ride.

The fight brought serious consequences. By now, the designated person should have read the letter he left. He could never come back. All that left for him was to accept what he had done and take care of the boy who was strangely quiet.

The fight was not bad just for the church. He was not feeling well either. His body was full of blood and had new wounds. But it could have been much more. It could be death. Which somehow did not seem so bad. Because now, death seemed just like an old friend who visited him often. Its cold smell of wet oak was very comforting and very strong too.

His body was aching and collapsing in on itself, but he still tried not to lean too much on the boy. Putting the full weight of your body on him felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, just as everything hurt. Both things had been going on for too long for it to become unbearable.

The guilt, uncertainty and pain finally meeting in your mind making your head pound and making everything worse.

Yeah, death definitely did not seem that bad right now.

The ribs was the most damage. It was worse, but the blood had hardened, limiting blood loss from some of the newly wounds. Due to the broken ribs, his lungs also hurt a lot. Each breath was torture, as if a thousand needles were pricking his lungs every time he tried to breath. The hot air going in and out of his nostrils made his lungs burn.

Apart from the large opening, the shoulder only appeared to be dislocated. The cut was deep, but it did not look like anything he could not fix on his own. Just a few bandages would be enough. If he did not use his arm too much he could recover easily in a few weeks, and even if he had to use it, he would still recover faster than normal people would.

He could handle it. He could handle a lot. Considering he was raised for this.

Percival was quieter than usual. Probably trying to understand what happened a few hours ago. Or maybe he just didn’t want to talk to the person responsible for killing everyone he knew and loved, including the one he admired most, the green knight.

The Green Knight. He was the greatest hope of all the fae and an image to be followed by children and teenagers. The figure who brought peace and even without a word said that they could sleep peacefully. And the monk killed him. This was definitely something he could not forget or ignore.

He had not said a word after they left the camp. His thoughts were too confused to form a sentence, and the proof of this was that the monk who had spoken for the first time asking his name. But now the monk, or Lancelot, as he would have to get used to calling him now, did not seem that different from his situation, since he also had not spoken a word since they both said their real names.

It was strange to being so long without talking to someone. Squirrel was used to being the most talkative, the person that others asked to calm down when he talked too much, something that was not very difficult for him to do usually. Squirrel always liked to talk and that was good, it was not a defect, so it did not need to be hidden or resolved.

A lot had happened in a short time. The paladins captured Gawain and tied him to a chair to be tortured, he tried to rescue him, but the knight refused the help because he knew he was on the verge of death, and also for Percival's own safety. While was running out of the camp he was caught and taken to be tortured, and almost was if the former monk hadn't saved him. Lancelot took him out of the torture chair and saved him, but got caught taking him out of the camp, then fought against the trinity so that he would come out alive, abandoning everything he knew and fighting only for him. And above that. He discovered that Lancelot, the Weeping Monk, responsible for the nightmares of many and the deaths of hundreds more, was, in fact, a fae.

Lancelot was not just a fae, he was from a folk who had left British lands centuries ago. No one knew for sure why they left. There were several legends and theories about why this happened, but nothing and no one to confirm it. All they knew was that they had left and taken their secrets with them, and had no plans to return. And if they did, it certainly would not be so soon.

Riding in silence did not seem to be a problem for Lancelot, maybe he even preferred it, but the endless silence was getting on Squirrel's nerves. He didn't want to and had no idea how to talk to the man, recently his ex-enemy, behind him. But the doubt was nagging at his head. "Why?”

Why of so many children, so many good and important people, so many who also deserved to be saved. Why among so many did he choose him? He was just one among the rest in the eyes of the paladins. At least it should be.

Of course, he did not see himself as the other brats at his age. Squirrel was more courageous and determined, ran and fought better too. He spoke without fear. If his only weapon were his voice, then he would gladly use it until the last second.

Particularly, he thought he was better than others were.

Maybe it was it. Maybe Lancelot had seen him the same way Squirrel sees himself, but it was really leaving a question mark in his head. He wanted to ask, but it was not the right time, maybe later. Or maybe he would figure it out on his own, or the man would let it out on his own and he would not have to ask. Anyway, the silence still was uncomfortable and annoying.

Lancelot on the other hand, was just a little uncomfortable with the situation. He never had a fae so close to his nostrils since he was a child and lived with others just like him. The silence was good. He was used to the silence from always traveling alone. It also helped him focus on any noise other than his creaking bones.

One of the good parts of riding alone was know exactly where to spend the night or not. Places that went unnoticed or that no one would imagine anyone could stay in. It was perfect, and his favourites too. No one but Goliath for company. But now he would have to get used to not staying or traveling alone.

Lancelot always trusted his horse, and his horse always trusted him. It didn't take much to direct it, even when its owner was injured. He grabs Goliath's reins and easily guides it off the trail. Within a few minutes of riding, they arrive in a small, narrow, deserted valley.

Squirrel becomes hysterical as soon as the horse begins to move off the trail, resembling a frightened animal.

What if he had saved him only to disembowel him alone and with his own hands? The thought echoes in his mind, making him more tense and frightened, though Lancelot seems too weak for that. But still: "Just because a wolf is calm doesn't mean he's trustworthy. Some dogs are trained to attack only with their owners' permission, or when they are close enough to their victims."

Perhaps he just wanted to gain his trust and of others one, so he could kill them and burn the camp while they slept. Yes, it made sense. The best of the paladins sure were smart enough to do so.

But if this was indeed his plan, why would he kill the trinity for it? Why save him instead of the Green Knight? Wouldn't it make more sense? Or maybe he knew he was close friends with the famous Wolf-Blood Witch, or as the fae knew her, The Fae Queen.

But it was not likely. Unless the paladins also had an interest in Squirrel. Which was not the case.

Lancelot noticed that Squirrel posture had become tenser. He was hysterical and not too hard to notice. Of course it would not be that easy. He didn't think the boy would forgive all the atrocities he committed to him and his people just because he saved him from being tortured. In fact, he didn't think anyone would.

He learned since an early age that the story of 'all fae are brothers, even the lost ones' was just a phrase for the other fae peoples. The Ashes, on the other hand, had taken it very seriously for centuries. Long before they left Britain they believed and followed it strongly. 'A brother is always a brother no matter what happened, and that should not be discussed.' That's what the elders always said.

The Knight said the liar phrase to him. But there was so much truth in his eyes, already bruised from torture, that it didn't seem like a lie. It seemed like such a clear truth that it made him believe that it had come from the depths of his painful broken soul. Not as something to save his own skin from death, but something to say that whenever he wanted to come back, he would have a home and a people waiting for him. And the fact that he hadn't told his secret when he could have only strengthened the thought.

Not all fae were brothers, and he knew it. But it seemed that to the Knight they really were all brothers. Seeing him with his whole body bruised on the verge of death made his heart bleed.

He thought about it when he was alone in his tent. And then a memory came to his mind. The memory that he had a people who loved him and would welcome him if he returned home. A people who were waiting for him to come home even after so many years. A subject so long buried in his mind, but that the Green Knight brought up again. Like the first ray of sunshine after winter.

He should have come back. He should have gone back a long time ago, when he first got the opportunity. But the constant thought of what might happen to him if the paladins caught him running away held him back every time he had the chance.

It was wrong. His people taught him that a brother was a brother no matter what. So he was supposed to be a brother, but he was not. Was not because his fear was always greater than his desire to return.

But he could go back to being a brother now. The knight could no longer be saved, but the kid could. Besides, he always refused to hurt children. He couldn't help the Knight, but the Knight wanted to help him and that was enough.

The least he could do now was to return the boy nicknamed Squirrel back to his people. Or what was left of it. And even though he didn't trust him, Lancelot had still taken him as his responsibility, even if the child didn't know it yet. But he still had to reassure him. A nervous, scared child was definitely the last thing he needed right now.

"It's getting dark. I'm just making sure no one is going to find us at night. I'm still hurting and you still need to sleep.” He says to Squirrel in an awful attempt to reassure him.

"You don't have to explain something so obvious to me. I'm not dumb.” He says in a slightly rude tone, trying to disguise the distrust and fear in his voice.

"I don't think you’re dumb, but your posture became tenser when I led Goliath off the trail." He explains to the youngest, who again looked like an animal frightened by the new information that every movement made was perceived.

"Hmm." That was the only thing he could say.

"I'm not going to disembowel you overnight if that's what you was thinking." He adds, seeing the child's posture relax a little. He really was bad at it. And the little bat was still worried, less, but still worried.

They pass through the small narrow valley, entering the vegetation next to it. Sleeping in the valley would be too easy for anyone to notice. Instead, they go to a clump of trees that was farther into the vegetation, not much, but a little far from the valley. It was good for spending the night without anyone cutting their heads off.

"Goliath, please get down." Lancelot gently orders the horse to stop.

When the horse does as it’s told, Squirrel quickly gets off the horse and walks a bit away from Lancelot, who leaves with a little more difficulty. As soon as he sets his feet on the ground, Lancelot begins to take off Goliath's saddle, feeling the boy's suspicious gaze on his back.

"It’s not completely darkened yet." He observes. "Go get some wood to make a bonfire. But don't go too far, stay close by where I can feel you.” He orders the boy, knowing well how scary it could be coming out of his mouth.

"And why should I obey you as your horse does?" The boy asks. It was a question with an obvious answer. But still, it was a scared and nervous child, he would have to take that into consideration.

"Because even though you don't like or trust me, I'm still your only and best chance of survive." He sees the child grit his teeth and asks for it once more. “Go quickly.”

With a loud sigh and a slightly quieter voice, almost sounding like a whisper, he asks to the tallest. "Can I get wood to make a pyre?" His gaze lowered a little too, it was a sentimental question.

"What is a pyre?" But of course a traitor like Lancelot wouldn't know what a pyre is. He would have to explain it to him.

"A pyre is like a bonfire. We do it when someone dies so that the soul passes to the green and doesn't get stuck here on earth. It is also for the occult to take your soul in peace with them, without you having a problem like an unresolved dilemma. That's a pyre. "

He surprisingly understood the quick and slightly scrambled explanation. It was a ritual for the souls of the dead people. The father would have called it witchcraft or satanic ritual. But he was no longer with his father and had to remember that.

"Look..." He starts by turning his gaze to the ground and then to the boy, trying to put the explanation into words. "You can't make a pyre today, too much smoke would attract people to us. But you can do that tomorrow when we're farther away from the camp and closer to your home.” He was hesitant, but he was also being sincere. He was once a child who wanted to perform a ritual for his dead familiars, but unlike Squirrel he had no freedom of choice. And Lancelot didn't want to repeat the experience he had with another child.

"Alright then, we do it tomorrow.” He agrees turning to run and grab some sticks.

After he left. Lancelot analysed his dislocated shoulder. The edges of the opening were covered in dried blood, but the bleeding wasn't too bad. It was controlled. He could solve it himself. It has always done so in fact. He turns to where Goliath's things are and picks up some bandages he was carrying with him.

He wraps a few bands around his ribs and shoulder and squeezes them tightly, just enough to stop the bleeding. As soon as he's done, he puts his arm on the trunk of a tree and forces it back into original place. Letting out only a few small low moans of pain.

It was better to have only a sore shoulder than a dislocated one. He could do things with his arm if it was only sore. With the pain he could use a bow and hunt for something to eat, since he would need both arms to do so. It was not something he couldn't handle.

Settling his shoulder, he puts more bands around it and his chest, holding it tighter in place, just to make sure nothing would move out of place again. The pain was just another old friend he had hugged for a long time, he could do anything whit it, even if it squeezed him tightly.

He picks up the bow and two of the arrows that were on Goliath's bank and goes only a few feet ahead when he sees two adult rabbits a little way away from each other. He put the two arrows into the bow, positioning his arms carefully so that nothing happens to his shoulder or ribs, putting his sore arm on the bow and the best to pull the arrows, using the bow horizontally.

As soon as he fired the first one, the second one would run. With that in mind, he takes a deep breath and releases the first arrow at the same speed as it releases the air from inside his aching lungs, and then traps it again. As the second one starts running, he shoots the second arrow, quickly letting out his breath again. Both rabbits shot in the eye.

"Wow!" Said Squirrel, seeing everything behind him. "Do you shoot two arrows at once?!" He asks him still with surprise on his face.

"I learned when I was younger." He says, picking up the rabbits and taking out the arrows stuck in their eyes.

"That's awesome!" He looks at the wood and then at Lancelot. "Is this enough? There's not a lot of fallen branches here. And the trees looks pretty strong. "

"Yes, that's enough. We just going to roast the rabbits with the fire. It's not very windy around here at dawn. Don't worry about it. He reassures the child. You can leave it there. "

Squirrel looked hesitant but excited. It was rare to see a child scared and excited at the same time. Especially in conditions like that, or when he's around. But again, he was not like other people, and that much was clear.

He was so anxious that he could not speak on his own. Lancelot would have to ask him, or it would get stuck in his throat.

"What is it?"

"I know how to slaughter a rabbit. I can prepare the rabbits and you can make the fire.” He proposes. “Anyway, making fire seems to be your specialty.” But of course he wouldn't say something so innocently without pricking it.

Lancelot thinks for a moment before answering.

"All right." He says, taking a dagger from one of his pants pockets and throwing it to the boy. Completely ignoring the provocation made.

Squirrel picks up the dagger, even though he almost dropped it. Lancelot hands the two rabbits and goes towards the sticks, picking them up from the ground and arranging them to make the fire.

Meanwhile, Squirrel begins to slaughter the first rabbit. First separating the paws from the arms and legs, ripping off the head and tail after. Then make a shallow, straight cut on the animal's back to remove the fur and skin, and then remove the excess apparent fat. Then making a deep cut in the belly to remove the organs, but keeping them in a cloth bag for the case it be needed. Repeating the same process with the second one.

He turns around to deliver the finished rabbits to Lancelot. He is surprised to see him making the fire with his hands. Not only that, but he seemed to be playing with him, as if he were a fussy little friend.

What struck him most was that the fire did not burn his hands. He passed it from side to side and twirled it in both hands, but the fire did not affect him. It looked like a life creature that chose who would and would not burn.

He was so engrossed in the movement that he only realized Lancelot was staring at him when the fire stopped moving.

"Is everything okay?" He asks and Squirrel nod in response. "Are you done?"

"Yes, I'm done. But you seem too entertained to finish your task.” He plays and gets closer to him, and Lancelot huffs amused in response.

"How you’re doing it?"

"Fire does not affect the Ashes Folk people. We can guide it instead.” He pauses. Maybe his words had run out, or maybe that should have been the end of the sentence. But the boy seemed to want to hear more, so he tries to think of something to say. "It's like a fussy little friend playing in our hands." And apparently fails. Letting the fire go on the small pile of wood right after to try to avoid saying anything again.

"It's beautiful. But how do you do that? And why aren't you burned? "

"I can't answer you that."

"Why not?"

He stops staring at him for a few seconds. "God, why can't this boy stop asking questions? And why does he want me to speak if he clearly hates me? Just stop talking to me! It's not that hard.” Lancelot thinks with a bit of anger. But he would still have to answer the boy's endless questions, so he would have to struggle to think of something.

"No one of the Ashes Folk is allowed to speak certain things to people of other folks. In fact, not even to speak to some other peoples are we allowed after we leave Britannia. But I don't think I can tell you that either.” Lancelot tries to explain, speaking with a little difficulty and looking into the fire.

"It’s all right. Gawain told me that the Ash Folk had taken their secrets with them when they left these lands. And that they would probably never return, and their secrets would be buried with them in their graves for the rest of eternity. "

"Your friend was right. We don't really have the planning to go back. But who knows, maybe it will change. "

"Why do you think that's will change now? I mean, it's been so long since you've been gone. "

Lancelot thinks for a moment before forcing himself to speak again. Looking between Squirrel and the fire.

"When we get out of here." He hesitates. "There were people who welcomed us and helped us in the other lands. The only one we've had an alliance with for decades." He try to explains, still thinking of the right way to continue counting without telling something wrong. "We were helped once when we were in a bad situation. They said we didn't have to, but we insisted on reciprocating. There were people here who helped us to escape, and others there who welcomed us and helped keep us alive."

He stopped again, and Squirrel began to wonder why he stopped and hesitated so much when he spoke. It seemed like a bad habit. Or maybe he just thought too much before speaking. But that was not a matter for now. Now he wanted to hear everything Lancelot had to say about his people, since it had been so long since there had been anyone to tell their history.

"If you, under any circumstances, needed help to escape, and a place to stay when you did. We would help, even after all. Without any doubt. "

"Why?" Asks the child, looking directly into Lancelot's eyes with immense hope carved on his face.

The eldest looks away at the ground, unable to look into the boy's face. "Because all fae are brothers. Hatred leads nowhere, resentment much less. Growing up is also about learning to forgive. Carrying a debt of grudge and hatred for centuries wouldn't change anything. It would only make everything worse."

He is silent for a second before speaking what been told to him so many times by the elders when he was a child. "All fae are brothers no matter what and that shouldn't be discussed. No matter the actions, we still all being brothers at the end of the day. Whether you like it or not. "

"It's a very beautiful thing to say. Even more when it came from a traitor mouth. Although I don't think those are your words.” Happiness appear briefly on his face.

He was a child tormented by the war he grew up in, but he was still a child. A hopeful child who did not let circumstances stop him from being happy, even if only for a few moments. And that was special. It was beautiful.

The smell of well-done meat began to waft through Lancelot's nose, warning him that the meat was ready to be eaten. He pulls the two rabbits out of the fire and hands one to Squirrel, who begins clumsily devouring it as soon as he catches it.

He looks at the rabbit in his hands and begins to eat as well, taking it piece by piece and eating slowly and politely. Very different from Squirrel who was almost embarrassed to see the way Lancelot was eating.

It was strange to start a meal without praying in thanksgiving first. That was how the paladins taught him. Whenever he went to eat something, he should thank God for letting him have food in his sinful hands, because he didn't deserve it. But he wasn't with the paladins. Although that's not the reason he didn't.

He knew very well that fae had no need to give thanks before eating, since everything would be repaid after death. He didn't pray because he didn't want to offend the boy in front of him. It was still hard for him to believe that he was beginning to develop a zeal and a small instinct for protection for a fae child. But he'd have to get used to it going forward. In the same way that he would have to get used to not praying before eating, and to the endless questions that would be asked for him.

"When you're done eating, go to sleep." He asks the child more than he commands.

"What about you?"

"I'm not sleepy, don't worry about me."

"Don't think I'm worried about you. Because I'm not.” Again a lie. This was looking more like a bad habit than a form of protection. And that was too bad for a kid like him.

They eat and finish the rest of the meal in silence. Squirrel finishes first and, despite not liking it, obeys what he was to do asked for. As soon as he finishes eating, he lies down in a place near some trees and sleeps.

Lancelot leaned back against a tree and lay awake for the rest of the night, thinking about what he would do the next day. Now he was a fugitive, and he was with a child who, though brave, was extremely reckless with his actions. The fae people had probably gone away to other lands. But a 'probably' is not a 'for sure', so maybe they hadn't boarded yet.

And if they had, as he himself knew, he would always have folk to call people and a place to call home who were waiting for him. Even if the boy didn't like it and wanted to go back to the others, they could locate or track them down and return him to their people. This was not a very difficult task. Not for people who had years of practice.

And looking at the boy, he didn't seem so annoying when he was sleeping. Maybe he could get used to him by his side for a while. While clinging to it would be a mistake, it wouldn't hurt for just a few moments.

But one thing was for sure. His smell was unbearable. Probably because he'd spent a lot of time with him and had never spent so much time with a fae so close before.

He would have to get used to it urgently if he wanted to be with others. He wanted to, but the probability of dying as soon as he arrived was very high, almost like a fact.

But he shouldn't think about it now. He already had a lot of problems, he didn't need to create more. Even though it really was very likely.

Pushing away the bad thoughts, he lifts his head to look at the stars dancing in the navy blue sky above his head. The night was beautiful. If he used a little of his imagination, he could smell a salty sea and beautiful whale sharks swimming among the constellations that shone brightly.

Always as beautiful as it could be. If he found some small white flowers, he could put them in Goliath's mane. Your steed would certainly look a lot prettier with them. Not that it needed to, because Goliath was beautiful by nature.

✨Last line Tag✨

Thank you for the tag, @lancedoncrimsonwings! And I'm too lazy to tag anyone so if for some reason you're reading this and want to participate, feel free to do so.

Share the last sentence of your last wip. I'm going to put two because I don't want to and I can't decide. Also, all the two povs are Lancelot, the Weeping Monk. (My beloved)

"Come on, tell me you hate me." The son of a bitch speaks against his ear as he touches him. The monk presses his hand to his neck so hard that he leaves crescent moons marks of his nails on the knight's wrist.

This one is not the last sentence, but is my favourite and i wanted to share It. It's from a completely new one shot that I made in two dawns because I was feeling horny after two glasses of wine. The one shot is called "I still hate you" btw and i think this is pretty straightforward. (Ok i'll stop yapping now)

He would beg god like a dog if he didn't feel so rejected and cursed by him right now.

Yes, that one hurt me and this time it is the last sentence of the first chapter after the... I lost count edition.

tag your traumatized man comfort character

So i was feeling strangely horny this days and i did what any normal person would do. Called on my boyfriend? No. I wrote a completely new one shot of Gawain and Lancelot having sex without much lore instead of finishing the fic I'm writing.

One of them is a virgin.

And.

It's not.

Gawain.

Ma'am... Never mind. Keep going.

I do this with my favorite character, aka Weeping Monk. Sorry sweetie but i'm unable to resist.

the concept of cuteness aggression is so funny. awww you're adorable I need to hurt you

FINALLY I HAVE TIME TO ANSWER! Sorry i toke three days to answer, i would have answered you yesterday but now i have school on saturday too 😭

Anyways. Damn right i do, lots of them actually 'cause i think about them having tattoos way more than it's considered normal.

1. The Tattoo Stile

I thought of the water color style (at least i think it's called like that, Please correct me If I'm wrong) and for that i have the only and simple reason of: IT FUCKING LOOKS LIKE FIRE SMOKE.

This is the style (open to better quality image):

It's a really short topic really, but since it's short i'm gonna add the place and the reason why i think it should be there.

1.2 The place and the reason.

I also thought that Lancelot would do a tattoo on his back, and i have a good reason for that one.

Hear me out, Lancelot's back is absolutely destroied, and i'm not exagerating, it is for a fact. His back is full of wip scars, and they all very much irregular and painful to look at, so i belive that he having a tattoo on his back is something as a tentative of making it pretty and less painfull or saying like "I survived, and i turned my scars and pain into something beautyfull again."

And come on, back tattoos are sexy and hot as fuck.

My head canon cause i really wanna talk about it.

So, me and my friend, who i unfortunely have also turned into a lancewain fan and i made him watch cursed so he could understand me, created a au where Lancelot's folk came from actual dragons.

In this au the ash folk have horns, wings and a tail, but Lancelot doesn't have these 'cause the red paladins cut it all out to make him look more human. Since i created it i thought "dragon tattoo on the back, dragon tattoo on the back, dragon tattoo on the back" (i promise to turn this into another fic when i finish the first one)

The design is basicaly this:

Your headcanons

Well, enough with my stories, let's talk on yours. Here i have three ideas but i didn't found my inspiration design online so i have to actually drawn them. It will take a while, so i'm just doing another post later.

I remember two very specifc things about your Lancelot.

Snakes

He's favourite season is autumn

i didn't found the fire or autumn inspiration desing, so i'll post them later, when i jave them drawned down, but i did fund the snake ones! I didn't found one good enough to his back tough (i mean i did found ONE good enough), but that's alright, let's just use his thights.

I mean, damn man he have some really good thights! Plus we need more man with tattos in "womanly" places.

There's also in some other places, and yes they all black, why? Cause he's an Ashman. Black and red are his colors. Blue to, but that's for the fire tattoo.

Well, even it i can't find the design i wanted, i still gonna explain it to you.

1.2 fey fire

I did thought about a fey fire tattoo, like, uh do i explain it... in my vision, it's still the watercolor stile, but blue and green water. It'd start on his fingers and go all way up to half of his forearm.

There's the back and hip saxy version where it beings on his back (same colors) and spread along it to his shoulder blades and then down his hips, plus, it could also come to his nape and collar bone. It'd make his back look like the scars are just on fire and give him a damn sexy look.

1.3 Autumn leaves

This actually is nothing that big, but i thought, this is a Lancelot and Gawain tatto, and they propably act like two idiots in love. Lancelot is a romantic man, maybe he would do it.

I don't remeber the name of the plants that apear in the skyfolk cheeks, but you know what i am talking about.

The Autumn leaves tattoo is basically this plant faling down Lancelot's shoulders and back, and chest if you want to.

I think that's it all, sorry for leaving you waiting Tavo, i would have loved answering this earlier, BUT CELLPHONES ARE BANNED FROM SCHOOLS IN MY COUNTRY. Sorry I'm still mad at this stupid new law.

@lancedoncrimsonwings

Kinda wanna write a "Lancelot and Gawain get a tattoo" thing. And of course I wanna draw the designs they'd get.

But now I need to actually decide what they'd get. I feel like Gawain's would be a stag in a linework heavy intricate Celtic knotwork inspired design...

What the heck would Lancelot's be?!

@beginning-writer I feel like you'll have ideas halp

Listen i know i haven't posted anything about Lancelot in a good while but HEAR ME OUT. Lancelot, the weeping monk, as an Ares/Mars devotee.

First of all, some posts ago i wrote about maybe giving Lancelot greek-roman hellenism as his born religion. AND ARES IS JUST THE PERFECT CHOICE. And yes, this is his new religion cause, first, i am hellenistic, so this is a religion i can talk with a bit of property without commiting big mistakes and making shit, and second because France was submessive to Rome for a very long time.

Ok, now listen to the parallels.

Ares is the god of war and bloodshed, and very are scared of him cause he doesn't hide his bloody nature. Guess what happen' to Lancelot?

Yes, Ares is the god of bloodshed and a scary man at first, but he could love and protect you like no else if letted him. We can say the same about Lancelot.

He's a great father and protector of women, just like our monk boy.

I wasn't even going to do this joke, but he was a lover, guess who else was one?- ok, sorry.

Ares is saw as a scary man, addicted to war and considered and weapon for those who don't know him (saying this based on a real expirience) , and so is Lancelot, saw as a scary weapon.

His sacred animal is a dog. A fucking dog. Excuse me, but the "Daniel Sharman is a doberman" post says everything.

He's also a great lover and the best warrior.

Ares is red, therefore, having Ares as a new red reference would help him with his discomfort with the color red because of the red paladins.

Ares loving his devotee for never denying who he is and overcoming his traumas. Giving him his bless in battles and Lancelot all happy for having agod who matches him and love and accept him as the weird litte problematic thing he is.

I'll make a longer post later but for now it's decided, Lancelot is now an Ares/Mars and Hestia/Vesta devotee.

@lancedoncrimsonwings

Weeping Monk helping me carry things at the grocery store. The perfect problem and the fact the he would just stay silent and carry them for me is perfect.

Now you excuse me i need to draw this.

You are faced with some random problem and the only person who can help you is the main character from the last piece of media you consumed (you can also do favorite character if there are multiple main characters). You can stay in this universe or be in the universe of the character, whichever you prefer, but the problem remains the same and the only person who can directly help you is the main character. That character can call on the help of those they know in their media, but when it comes down to it, they are the only person really helping you. How do you react to this situation?

Spin to find out your problem:

Me: spending time looking at references on Pinterest

My brain: We want to see Lancelot in this

Me: But what about the other hundreds of unfinished drawings?

My brain: Now!

Me: Okay, okay, Fine! I'll do it now!

Just a poor drawing, without a face or a hand, and disproportionate. But enough for today.

@lancedoncrimsonwings

I said it yesterday and I'm saying it again. DANIEL SHARMAN IS A DOBERMAN. And that makes Isaac Lahey a Doberman too.

Look look look

It

Is

The

Same

Thing!

They are the same!

Daniel Sharman is a Doberman and you can't convince me otherwise.

I

See

No

Diference

Daniel Sharman is a Doberman and you can't convince me otherwise.

I

See

No

Diference

WIP Wednesday Saturday tag

Damn i completaly forgot to post this thing, school is eating me out alive. Anyways, thank you @lancedoncrimsonwings.

Things went by very quickly, months passed and it was already February. It was still damn winter, but everyone always tried to convince him that it wasn't that bad. And in the midst of the cold, the fey obtained resources and a willpower that Lancelot particularly envied and asked so that they could have a Lupercalia festivity. He remembers the three days of lupercalia where they held feasts for healing and fertility and drank with the fauns. It was also when lovers declared themselves to each other in a way he never forgot.

At the birth of Aphrodite or Venus, Goddess of love and beauty, she is created from sea foam and walked through the sand to find the other Olympians, consequently her symbol is a shell. Centuries ago, it was realized that when sand is exposed to a certain temperature, it crystallizes, and as Ashes have fire in their blood, handling this would not be as difficult just as with other metals.

Every Lupercalia celebration, couples or lovers go to the beaches, light a fire and look for the shell that most reminds them of their partner, and then return to their loved one's side. Then they gathered a handful of sand in their hands with the shell in the middle and heated it until the sand melted into a crystal. They made flowers with the crystal, usually the favorites of their loved ones, each one was unique due to the way it was made and the shell inside it, the shells were exchanged and then they spent the night celebrating and loving each other. On the next day, the previous year's flower was buried in the gardens or temples of goddesses related to love or fertility. They were called love-forges.

Many women appeared pregnant after the celebration. And in fact that's how he gained a younger brother.

When Lancelot was a child, he remembered seeing his father and two mothers making these flowers for each other and exchanging them among themselves, and then they decorated the house with them until the following year, where they buried them in the garden of the goddesses.

Now Lancelot is almost thirty years old and has never made a love-forge for anyone. He thought he would never do it until a jerk with green eyes came into his life last autumn.

Now the monk suddenly finds himself waking up at dawn and voluntarily going out in the cold to go to the nearest beach and walk along the sea coast looking for the shell that most reminded him of his best friend. But how could a single shell remind him of someone like Gawain? It wasn't possible. Gawain would never be someone who could be described in a single, small shell.

After a good few minutes of walking along the coast, Lancelot's eyes fall on something small, bright green that almost immediately reminds him of his best friend, and suspiciously to his stupid heart, desired lover.

A small, flat, chubby shell, with a spiral shape as captivating as his green eyes. Its color was a vibrant light green, the base was greener than its center, which was turning white, the marks caused by the spirals looked golden, and it was so beautiful in the moonlight that it made his heart beat faster. How could something so small remind him of such an important person? The shell did not remembered him any other than Gawain. It was only as perfect as him.

Lancelot takes the shell between his hands and returns to the sand, taking a small handful between his hands. His heart was racing too fast to be considered normal, but at least it kept him warm. He places the small shell in the middle, burying it with more sand and blowing fire several times, melting the sand until it forms a malleable crystal. His hands work to create the petals, round and large, leaving the shell in the middle.

He delicately made each petal, each one held something he liked about his friend, or a moment of them together. The smell of his hair, the captivating eyes holding him as he talks, the hands helping him put his clothes back on when his ribs were broken, the way their lips almost touch when they whisper secrets to each other, the stolen clothes and teasing at breakfast. Everything that reminded him of him as each round petal was placed delicately and slowly on a gardenia, a flower that signified secret love. He finishes the flower as in tradition, a kiss on the petals on the shell.

"What is that?" Suddenly Gawain's voice sounds behind him, scaring him and making him look over his shoulder to where the other man is looking at him. Gods, was he so distracted that he didn't hear or feel Gawain nearby?

“Just a flower. It was a tradition of my people and I wanted to do it now that I, well, came back.” He responds, the heart accelerating the closer Gawain comes, until he sits next to him, but much closer than is friendly permitted.

He turns his face away from the flower to look at Gawain, their lips almost touching for a moment and both men take a few seconds to compose themselves and stop looking at each other's lips. “Does it always end with a kiss like that?” Gawain whispered, sliding his eyes to the crystal gardenia in his friend's hand. "Yes." The other responds without turns.

The green-eyed man extends his hand, touching Lancelot's and holding the gardenia with him, and speeding up both their hearts even more. “May I?” He asks, and Lancelot nods, sure that he's talking about the flower, but is surprised when suddenly his best friend's lips are on his. It's just a peck, a press of lips, but it makes the blue-eyed man's brain stop and it takes a few seconds before he responds to the kiss with a press of lips of his own.

Gawain's lips were as soft as he imagined, and Lancelot knows that his marks are glowing with the amount of happiness and passion he feels in that moment. The kiss seems to last forever, even though it was only a few long seconds. They break the kiss, both looking at each other and again the other man is the first to speak. “We should get back to the tent, before you freeze from lack of heat.” The man nods and they both get up with each other's help, but Lancelot is surprised again when Gawain pulls him to his chest and whispers in his ear. “I’ll cuddle you all night so you don’t get cold.” Lancelot feels his marks glowing brighter, his cheeks heat up and he probably looks like a tomato judging by the way his love laughed triumphantly and walked away, while he stood still for a while before following him back to the camp with the flower in his hands.

That man was still going to give him a heart attack.

Here is the inspiration for the shell and what a gardenia looks like:

This was inspired by me and the person i like showing that we like each other through origami of our favorite flowers. My heart skipped a beat when they said that they have each of the lilies I gave them in a different house. And since Lancelot has no idea how to show love I decided to put this on him too.

Happy valentines day, also late.

I just got home from school. Here's a doodle i made até human rights class.

Lancelot!Weeping Monk Gawain!Green Knight

Inspired by a head-canon that me and partner made which Lancelot sleeps in underwear and no pants, and Gawain sleeps in pants and no shirt.

@lancedoncrimsonwings @dinogod

Saw this on Pinterest and remembered the Weeping Mink.

@lancedoncrimsonwings

Squirrel: Almost giving his dads a heart attack

Weeping Mink (angrily praying): Vesta, Goddess of sacred fire, family and househood. Give me strength not to kill that pest of a boy today.

*Throw Lancelot homosexually thinking about Gawain at you and run.*

It’d been a month since NightPearl had adopted Lancelot as it’s mother. He didn't mind at all, in fact he found the little dragon adorable. It would sneak anywhere it could find, and its favorite place was his lap. The only problem was when it brought a dead rabbit in the tent and he had to throw it away, but other than that it was perfect.

On days like today, when he was lying on his back, NightPearl would come and sprawl on his chest, enjoying every fraction of Lancelot's natural warmth that it could get, while Lancelot caressed its long body and just listened to Squirrel’s nonsense or listened to Gawain's voice. He never really paid attention to what Gawain said, it was usually something boring about what the council was thinking about him or about his wounds, instead he paid attention to his voice, which was much more engaging than what was friendly allowed.

Sometimes Pym would make a joke about how Gawain would be jealous of NightPearl for being able to snuggle into Lancelot's chest while the two of them couldn't even sleep in the same bed. The monk always rolled his eyes and said it didn't make sense, even though his stupid heart beat a little faster every time he heard that. And thank God NightPearl didn't understand what the redhead was saying or it would bite Gawain from head to toe. He and Gawain barely saw each other, nor did they speak to each other properly, since talking was not something that Lancelot was taught to do often. It was not even part of his routine.

The world around Lancelot has never been so calm, and so boring. He was used to leaving very early, around six in the morning, half past six if he was feeling particularly lazy, and going to track the fey by tracks and scents. At ten o'clock he would return to camp and make an oral report of everything achieved, go to the fields to train for two hours, then go for lunch, have lunch, and leave again. After lunch he would go to the already tracked tribes, this time with a group of paladins, and would decimate and burn whatever they found. At sixteen hours he would escape from the rest of the paladins and take a secret bath to remove the excess dirt and blood that bothered his senses and skin. At seventeen o'clock he would be back at church and praying something particularly long, if it were Saturday he would pray a rosary, if it were Sunday he would be at mass. After mass, or pray, there is dinner, but if it were Saturday he would be fasting. Ten or nine o'clock at night he should already be in bed, because it's a few hours before Salt's torture sessions start and he would at least get a good rest if he slept earlier.

There is nothing in his routine about talking to anyone, except about reports and prayer, but only because it was part of his job and he should always seek God daily.

But now, with the fey, his entire meticulously memorized routine were thrown into the fifth of hells. Now his routine consisted of: Waking up, being forced by Gawain to eat breakfast followed by a lecture on why it’s important to eat every meal, then listening to Squirrel tell a story, lunch, Polly, actually now Pym, coming to check on his injuries. And now Pym stayed and told him about something that happened while she was with the Raiders or some new gossip at camp, which is strangely interesting. Squirrel arrives again, tells ‘em about his day. Gawain arrives with dinner for everyone, they talk and Lancelot is grateful for not being included, gods know how much he hates interacting while eating. Dinner ends, Pym and Squirrel go somewhere else, Gawain stays and cleans his injuries. They don't say anything, just stand there in the only alone moment they have. Gawain slowly cleans his broken skin with a wet cloth, his body closer than he had ever let any man or woman get close to him, he could hear his breathing behind him, The drops of water running down his back make him shiver, and he could feel Gawain's intense gaze on him the entire time. His careful hands went all over the length of his back before slowly pulling away. Gawain pulls away and tells Lancelot that it is ten o'clock, his usual bedtime. Lancelot turns and covers himself with the sheet that Squirrel stole for him on the first day, but that doesn't stop him from faintly hearing the other man change his clothes on the other side of the tent. The boots being thrown away, the shirt being taken off and discarded, the belt being left aside, the pants coming down his legs, as well as the new pants being put on, but no sound of the shirt being put on, Gawain did not sleep with his shirt on, and finally the sound of him laying down on the mattress and covering himself. He listens to every movement every night. Not that he was a pervert, he just had no option.

Now, NightPearl always comes and snuggles up to him, which makes his heart progressively slow down. God, what kind of demon did he come to live with to leave him like this? He would embarrass himself by the end of the year at this rate. Damn Gawain for having sounds so- NO! He couldn't think that! They are just tentmates, nothing more. Lancelot would curse Venus and Cupid before going to sleep, they are two motherfuckers for doing this to him.

 And on his worst days, Lancelot would have an unwanted dream about those sounds. But the gods know he would rather cut his own tongue out than say that to anyone.

for data: Venus=Aphrodite; Cupid=Eros.

@lancedoncrimsonwings @dinogod

Yeah, the first thing i do when i open a custom character game it's do my favorite characters/new obsession, what so?

@lancedoncrimsonwings @dinogod

Also, I'm bored, so use this post to tag someone to share something about their favourite characters.

Pretty sure Lancelot is the type of boyfriend who would just steal their partner's clothes.

One random day Gawain wakes up and sees Lancelot wearing a colorful shirt and immediately realizes it's his shirt. Lancelot doesn't say anything, and Gawain doesn't say anything because he was trying to suppress his smile cause he think it's cute how his boyfriend steal his clothes.

"New shirt?" Gawain asks, still trying to supress the smile, and falling miserably. Lancelot gives him a glare, but doesn't reply his tease.

"Did you like the smell?" He tries again, giving up on hiding his smile and leaning against the wall.

"Smells like trash." The ash replies. But it was a lie, or pure sarcasm. He loved Gawain's scent and the knight could have an idea of that since his shirt was stolen.

Gawain rolls his eyes and comes closer to Lancelot "Sure It does." The man anwsers, kissing the ash cheek, and then his jaw, and finally his mouth.

@lancedoncrimsonwings i think you deserve to read some casual - which I don't usually post very much.

@dinogod ✨Gays of the round table✨

More baby dragon cause, why can't this get out of my head when i alredy wrote it?!?!

Lancelot had been holding the little dragon on his lap for a few hours. The little animal made himself comfortable in his extra warm lap and he didn't have the heart to take him away. In the first few minutes, after the little creature invaded the tent, scaring everyone and making itself comfortable in his lap, Merlin tried to take the dragon off Lancelot's lap and received a hiss in response. And then Nimue did the same, and Morgana the widow of death herself tried, they called Gawain to try, everyone received a fierce hiss and a sharpening of the body that guaranteed the little thing wasn't going off of him anytime soon.

“Why?-” Gawain begins, but before the word is finished. “Don’t you understand that it is not going to leave his lap?” Yeva, who only leaves her space on rare or dangerous occasions, interrupts him. Surprising everyone and making them look at her. She speaks in a stern tone, perhaps a little rude if you listened properly, still giving away her advanced age.

“I didn’t expect younger ones to understand this, but an old man like you, with hundreds of years old, Merlin, should already know.” The elder moonwing enters the place, seeing the little dragon on Lancelot's lap, she approaches. The dragon looks at her with his big curious eyes, still defensive, and Lancelot looks at her as he would look at anyone other than Squirrel , with a neutral and bitterly serious face.

Yeva lifts her eyes from the dragon to look at Lancelot, her one good eye looking into Lancelot's blue eyes and the black marks that painted his face and under eyes. They seemed lighter now, an indication that he was happy, or at least lighter than usual. She hadn't visited Ashman in his entire stay here, despite being curious about him or how he came to end up in these lands.

She quickly understood what happened. The little dragon lost its mother, or lost from its mother. The bodies of these creatures are usually overly warm, and for their young, cozy. Exactly what the baby found in the Ashman, who also had a higher body temperature than that of any human or fey due to the fire coursing through his veins. The animal thought that Lancelot was its mother and the man didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't care.

“You’re the mother.” Yeva said simply.

"I know." Lancelot responds, turning his eyes to the adorable little creature that was biting his finger, trying to show affection.

Nobody in the room understood anything. Except the two of them, and maybe Merlin. “What’s the name?” A thinner, more energetic voice asked out of nowhere. Squirrel had sneaked into the room and startled some with his sudden speech. Lancelot's expression changes when he sees Squirrel, from neutral to slightly affectionate, his face lighter and his marks becoming clearer with the sweet affection that everyone knew he had for the boy.

“NightPearl.” He responds, and the dragon looks at Lancelot, as if recognizing that he has received a name. Squirrel smiles and comes closer, despite Nimue trying to stop him from doing so. This time, the dragon doesn't hiss, it just turns its little head, analyzing its new brother.

Lancelot looks at Yeva for a moment, and they know they'll need to have a talk after everyone goes to sleep and they're alone. Which seems scary when she seems even crazier than him. But nothing that made him want to say no. The dragon still tries to bite his hand, squirming in his lap and making Lancelot smile.

“You’re smiling!” Squirrel points out, his face lit up seeing Lancelot smiling in ‘public’ for the first time and a big smile on his face.

“Yes, I am.”

@lancedoncrimsonwings that was your fault for influencing me with, uh... cute reptiles! That. You infected me with a love for reptiles, it's your fault that Lancelot and dragons can't get out of my head.

WIP Wednesday Thursday

Can we please ignore the fact i took two days to respond? In my defense I was stuck in a loop listening to Sabrina Carpenter's album, Epic Musical and Chappell Roan. AND finishing my fanfic's first chapter to finally post it on ao3.

Said that, thank you for the tag @lancedoncrimsonwings! This isn't something canon in my lore, it's just a cute bunny plot that came to me when I was learning to draw dragons. 'Cause latins myths, dragons are related to fire, and in my lore, the Ashfolk have bodies with a high body temperature, which can become even hotter depending on their emotions or state of health. Well, enjoy!

There was nothing special that day, it was just the basic, boring even, he dared to say. Lancelot was sitting, putting his shirt back on after finishing his daily check to see if any wounds were infected. Nothing special. Except that the girl examining him this time wasn't Polly, but a freckled red-haired girl who reached his chin. Pym was her name.

The poor girl was so scared that she didn't even speak.

He would lie down as soon as she left, probably just lie down and stare at the ceiling until he dozed off, even though he was sleepless. The redhead was about to walk out the door and Lancelot was about to lie down when they both heard high-pitched screams outside, and through the gap, Lancelot managed to catch a glimpse of something fast and strangely agile running clumsily between the people's feet, and Merlin, Nimue and Morgana trying to catch the thing. The three of them failed.

It didn't take long for the thing to sneak past everyone's feet and reach the tent they were in, and pass through the entire floor scaring every soul in that place out of their bodies. At a glance, the man thinks that what was running was a really large lizard or an iguana. He was almost right.

The monk takes his feet off the floor and Pym climbs onto the table and hides behind him. It seems that the unknown thing scared her more than he did. Unfortunately, none of this stopped the giant lizard from climbing up the table and climbing up Lancelot's leg. Both of them froze. The creature froze on Lancelot's leg, looking into his eyes, and Lancelot froze as soon as he felt the thing crawling up his leg.

The room fell silent. The monk realizes that what has wrapped itself around his leg is actually a baby dragon, and the dragon discovers that the man's body is actually very warm, and they both look eye to eye. Paralyzed.

The dragon had pearly white scales, large curious violet eyes, and sparkling wings. The claws weren't big enough to really hurt yet, but they were like little blunt needles hanging on his leg. It was… cute. As if a piece of the moon had given it life.

The little thing starts moving again, slowly and cautiously. Climbing up Lancelot's leg until he climbed his torso through his shirt. The curious little dragon pulls the collar of Lancelot's shirt and tries to see what's inside, and falls in his shirt. Lancelot let out a snort of laughter and lifted his shirt for the dragon come out of there. That's when Merlin, Nimue and Morgana came in, and found the dragon climbing up the monk's arm and rubbing itself affectionately against him. Purring and rubbing its little head against the curve of the junction of his nose and eye, and Lancelot was… Smiling?!

This was something new, but not unwelcome. Everyone stands still and open-mouthed at the interaction, but no one interferes. The dragon makes itself comfortable in Lancelot's warm, cozy lap, still purring and rubbing against Lancelot's hand.

Lancelot for his part, warms his body a little more to welcome the presence of the little dragon, and continues to smile at the corners of his lips and caress the little animal.

Looks like he won't need to nap today after all.

First of all, thanks for the tag @lancedoncrimsonwings! So this is a bunny plot I've been having for a long time, so it's time to put it on paper! But this will need a little context first.

France were considered a Latin country because of its language, nowadays it is no longer, but what does that mean? I looked for old French and the religion before Christianity, and discovered that they have heritage from three peoples: Celtic (Gauls), Germanic (Franks), and Latin (Romans). So that gives me three options for ancient religions for Lancelot: Celtic mythology (which would be the same as Gawain), Germanic/Norse mythology, and Greco-Roman mythology. But let's be honest, I really want to mix 'em and make the ash folk worship Hestia, Vesta in Roman, goddess of primordial and sacred fire; Belive that it's okay to die in battle because he'll go to Valhalla if that happens; And that he should be careful with nature at all costs because this is a manifestation of the gods. Gawain have Celtic mythology as his religion and worships many gods, but most importantly he worships Dune, as with all fey folks, because she is the mother Goddess of Celtic mythology.

Having explained that, what follows may be short and is much lighter than what I usually write.

It took some time for Lancelot to get used to the lack of restrictions of religion, or to the fact that he had no religion at all now. He became bored with everyday life very quickly now that he didn't have the christianity routine to follow. Finding himself sleeping without even being tired during the day quite oftenly, eating without praying first anymore, and willingly not fasting on sundays or doing frequent prayers.

He missed talking to God when he needed to, he never responded, but it was good to talk and let everything out. Deceiving himself that he was listening hurt, but it was also the only time he could let it out and allow himself to feel.

The months passed and they managed to settle in an abandoned place, they called it New Nemos, a very uncreative name for a place with so many heads. He still shared the house with Gawain and Squirrel, but something was out of place. Lancelot felt strange every time he passed through the entrance or the small living room, something had been bothering him since they arrived, and they had only been here for three days.

He felt a dull discomfort throughout his body and in his heart, a tightness in his throat that made him frown. He didn't realize what it was until he sat down to read and try to forget and accommodate, it was only then that something came to him. A smell of smoke, but there was no fire anywhere in the house, he checked- oh… It's only then that his brain ring the bells.

Lancelot was no longer a christian, but before he was forced into christianity, he and his folk worshiped Vesta, the goddess of fire, and it was tradition to light a sacred fire in the hearth whenever they moved or built something new as a symbol of the goddess and her protection. The discomfort he felt and the smell of smoke was Vestia asking him to light the hearth  like he used to do before.

Lancelot goes to the hearth and lights it with fey fire that he made from his own bare hands. "Better now?" He asks, looking at the hearth, and an almost imperceptible smile appears at the corner of his lips, his marks turn bright red, his eyes shine slightly when he sees the fire move and sway upwards, as if it were smiling and talking to him.

Maybe Vesta wanted him back. Maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought. His heart fills and the discomfort disappears, a sigh leaving his nostrils. Perhaps his gods still considered him their child.

I got better. I'm gonna post a new chapter? No. I'm going to do more random scenarios with a head-canon that's not mine.

So found out i was not really sick, i was passing through emotional fever. Which is when you are not physically sick, but when you receive some horrible stimulus - like fear; sadness; anger; anxiety; etc. - excessively, and your brain gets sick. What affects your body and makes you feel symptoms such as fever, headache and etc. I stayed like that for about three days and now i'm better. What am i gonna do? More scenarios whit Tova's head-canon.

Galahad’s pov.

Galahad always knew who his father was, the horrible weeping monk, his mother made sure of making that clear to him, even if he didn't really know why. When he heard that his father was a horrible man, he thought it was because he was an ugly person. It was far from his head about the things his father did.

He didn't know about the atrocities his father committed until two springs ago, when he asked his mother and grandfather to let him spend some time at his house, and his mother went completely crazy. She started saying how bad the idea was and tried to persuade him to stay with her, when she saw that it wasn't working she threw everything she could. Mom was desperate, she seemed possessed by something, and began to scream in tears that he was a horrible man who killed and tortured his own kind and that Galahad should not go to his house, or he would suffer until he left there.

He got terrified and ran to his room to escape his overprotective mother's tears. He couldn't believe it, he thought the horrible man his father was was just because he didn't look good, not that.

Now, two springs later, he was brought into the fey resistance when he lost from his mother, and was living with his father; a boy the same age as him, but much more energetic and who wouldn't shut up, he liked him, the name his was Squirrel, but his father called him Percival when he did something wrong; And another man, older than his father, he is dark-skinned, and with a bit of fat under his big muscles. Galahad thinks he swears excessively and drinks too much, but he is very nice and admirable. His name is Gawain, he is the hero fey, the green knight. But the only green thing about him is his eyes.

It has been three lunar cycles since they all began living under the same roof, and Galahad had taken note of a few things. Squirrel has a very light hand, so I have to keep my things well; Gawain is gluttonous and shows a lot of physical affection towards my father, but they are not lovers; And my father is nothing like i believed.

His father wasn't an ugly man, in fact really pretty, and he looked much more like him than with his mother. He had few tear marks, but Galahad didn't have any either, so it didn't matter much. His hair was still auburn, so he probably wasn't even in his thirties, which meant he became a father at a very young age. His real name was Lancelot, which in their fey mother-language meant “To Protect/Serve” or “Earth’s fire.”

Lancelot did not deny that he committed horrible things against his own kind that he would never forgive himself or expect to be forgiven. Gawain kept saying that if the gods forgive him, he should forgive himself, but that doesn't mean much into Ash culture. The gods are not always right, they make mistakes, like we do.

He learned many things about his father, and things he likes to do with him. Very often people question whether his father is really his father, he doesn't know the conditions under which he was conceived, but he’s sure he is Lancelot's son. They have the same blue eyes, the same golden streaks among the red in their hair, except that his father's hair is darker due to age, the same body type, the same smile. The only things he inherited from his mother were his facial shape and skin tone. But other people didn't know that, so their dialogue most of the time went like this:

“Who’s your parents?” Someone asks

“My father’s Lancelot.” I respond, and the confusion rises in their faces

“... Like… in the weeping monk?” 

“Former weeping monk.” I promptly defend. That wasn't my father's title, so I don't see why people should insist on using it.

“Are you-”

“Yes.”

“But you two-”

“We’re gonna look more alike when I grow.”

“You have-”

“I’m gonna get my marks when my first rituals are done.”

“...”

“Stop questioning it. He is my father.”

“... okay. Sorry.”

They were always the same questions. They didn't even need to go beyond two words for me to know what they were going to say. Sometimes I even joked that no, he wasn't my father and I was just a child that he kidnapped and started taking care of, and then denied it. But it didn't matter what anyone else thought or said, Lancelot is my father. And he had a feeling he was starting to really like it.

His mother didn't have time to braid his hair every night before bed, he didn’t balme her, she was a single mom. His father on the other hand. Today he did a simple braid, the kind that didn't squeeze his head, his hair was always curly in the morning. He might not be the best dad, but he was trying. And now he has a brother! He was noisy, but still, he loved him. He loved his new family in every detail. Well, maybe not the murderous part, but that’s aside.

Ashfolk red-heads are my love now. So sorry, but i'll keep stelling this very often. @lancedoncrimsonwings

Random scenario cause yes

First, this is not my head-canon but Tavo's. I kind of had this- possibly incomplete - scenario for a good few days after I saw the head-canons' post, so I did this small thing.

Gawain was watching Lancelot train Squirrel in the morning as he regularly did, but something was different this morning. Another child was there, learning from Lancelot too, but he wasn't talking much yet, or maybe it was just Squirrel who wouldn't shut up.

As Lancelot distanced himself from the boys and gave them a break to drink water, he approached the knight and he finally saw the chance to ask something stuck in his mind.

“Who's the new kid? I don't think I've ever seen him around. Is he a new rescue?” he asks. Lancelot looked at him with furrowed eyebrows as he took a sip of water, which left Gawain confused. It was a valid question since it was not possible to remember every face in the camp, especially the newcomers. "What?"

The ashman continues to look at him with furrowed eyebrows, analyzing the knight's face as if looking for a joke, but finds nothing but confusion. “You… could say that.” He responds, still staring at the other man's face.

Gawain is even more confused by this and furrows his eyebrows as well. "How’s that?"

“Gawain… That child is my son, Galahad.”

Gawain's eyes widened upon hearing Lancelot's confession. He tilts his head to the side to see the child better. His eyes traveling between the so-called son of Lancelot and Lancelot, comparing the two. And they had basically nothing in common.

“That boy, small and pale, with red hair and no marks on his face, is your son?" The skyman asks in disbelief, still exchanging his gaze between the former monk and the child in the distance. 

Lancelot licks his lips and sighs at hearing the questioning. "Yes. Galahad, small and less pale than me, with fire hair and no tear marks yet, is my son.”

“Are you sure you’re the father?” Gawain says immediately after Lancelot finishes speaking, eyes fixed on Galahad who was now finally speaking after Squirrel paused his talk for a moment.

The former monk gives the knight a hard look as soon as the question leaves his lips. Frankly, it wasn't the first time someone questioned his paternity in relation to Galahad, but it was still irritating every time he had this conversation.

Hearing the question coming from his best friend made his patience disappear in a blink of an eye. His next words came out harshly. “Yes, Gawain of Orkley, I am sure that I am the father. Because I was ab-” He stops mid-sentence, momentarily composing himself to change the words. “Because his mother slept only with me with the aim of getting pregnant. And it succeed.”

Gawain knew he had done something wrong when he saw Lancelot's marks suddenly turn darker, like wine. But hearing his full name and a rephrase mid-sentence was something else. He doesn't touch on the subject, though. He knows better than that and he knows that his best friend will talk to him if he wants and is ready. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to anger you by questioning Galahad’s paternity.”

“It’s fine, but do not do something like that again.” The ashman responds by calming his nerves again and drinking another sip of water.

“It’s just that you two don’t look-” He stops his sentence with his mouth open. Behind Lancelot, Galahad and Squirrel were playing, and Galahad raised his leg to the maximum doing a perfect split. Squirrel looked impressed, Gawain was scared and certainly eating his own words. “Forget it, I can see the resemblance now.”

The former monk finds it strange, but doesn't question it either. He says goodbye to the knight momentarily and returns to training the children.

Gawain had so many questions… But unfortunately that would have to wait. So he just leans against a tree and goes back to watch Lancelot train his two sons.

Gods, having to refer to Lancelot and Gawain as best friends killed me, on the other hand I put squirrel as his son too at the end as a compensation.

Again I should be resting because I'm sick, but here I am again. @lancedoncrimsonwings maybe I'll steal your head-canons more often, but you can't judge me, they're too good.

First of all, thanks for the tag!

So, i decided that, yes, i'm going to do the reformatory an definitive arc in my fanfic. So consider this a small peak in what i'm trying to do.

The faces the ashman saw were not unfamiliar to him. From inside his own cell, he could see several souls that he previously knew, but that were now nothing more than bodies cursed with life. Lancelot was tied from head to toe with chains created specially and specifically tailored to his measurements. The piece of metal that wrapped around his neck and was attached to the walls was measured, tight enough to contain him but not tight enough to kill him. His wrists were tied to the floor along with his ankles, chained with the more resistant and thickest metal they had. Their goal was to pin him to the ground, make him vulnerable and less possibility to resist or escape. The poor man felt like a caged fighting dog. In the cell in front of his was a person not yet so disfigured, a face he could still describe as one of the fey paladins he grew up with. Nyx. A star-dust folk, considered to be from the same family as moonwings, coming from the Americas. He looked at him with those big starry eyes as if Lancelot were an abused puppy… Maybe he looked like one now. The boy had beautiful long hair as dark as the night, big eyes with stars and excessively pale skin, his hands and feet were painted like constellations in the sky. He was beautiful, but there was something missing in his appearance. Two days ago, Nyx was dragged out of the cell and taken to a different place upstairs, we thought it was just another dosing session to keep him in line. We couldn't be more wrong.

Within a few minutes we all heard the agonizing sound of Nyx's scream. He didn't went to be dosed, they took him to have the remaining base of his wings ripped off. Without any kind of thing to ease the pain of poor stardust. We heard the agonizing screams and cries for help for hours, every time he begged them to stop and they just wouldn't... He smelled it. The smell of blood, of despair, of the almost death of his childhood friend. And he couldn't do anything. Those who were still allowed to be out, the complete freaks who could no longer be called themselves, like lady Arachne, helped the poor fey as much as they could. The cleanest bandages they had, water, anything that could help him sleep. Nyx was the one who was tortured and almost killed, but he looked at Lancelot as if he were a living corpse, even if the one who had been on the verge of death wasn't him... He would give his life for his if necessary, even if his life wasn't. meant nothing. Devil’s nightmare was messing not only with their head, but with the soul of both of them and everyone there. Since no one would come to his rescue, Lancelot was sure that in a short time he would be a freak like the others...

@lancedoncrimsonwings

Next: @rabbit-flaying

WIP LateDay

Idk what day it is anymore but I know it isn't Wednesday whoops.

Danke @holy3cake for the tag

No Pressure tagging @aintgonnatakethis @beginning-writer + OPEN TAG FOR ALL to share a WIP, snippet or idea

Here, have another random snippet for Horizons that I wrote last night at 1:30am. No idea if I'll even include this but for now, enjoy!

Gawain's POV;

Night had long since come when Gawain found himself sat by the fire, watching Lancelot. The man's eyes were open and stairing sightlessly into the boughs above him, sometimes screwing shut whilst he bared his teeth into a snarl. Small movements of his body and the occasional gasp and choked moan betrayed how much he was suffering, clearly utterly unable to rest for the pain.

It had been several hours of this, and Gawain had had enough. He knew Lancelot would never ask for aid, yet he also knew that in this state, the man couldn't stop Gawain helping him either.

Grey eyes dulled from exhaustion followed his movement as Gawain got to his feet and circled round the fire to Lancelot's side.

"I must go and gather some herbs. Theres a willow tree by the river, the bark is good for pain," Gawain explained quickly. "I shan't be long, alright?"

"Are you well?" Lancelot croaked, eying Gawain up and down as if searching for an injury.

"Aye, I--"Gawain began, then chuckled to himself when he saw Lancelot crane his neck towards Squirrel then wince at the movement.

"--the boy is fine, Ashman. You're suffering, let me help you."

Predictably, then came the most unconvincing "I'm fine" Gawain had ever heard in his entire life. Lancelot now looked worse than ever, skin pale against his markings, sweat and blood glinting in the firelight, shaking knuckles clenching around bloodstained fabric.

I've seen dead men that looked healthier than he.

"Uh-huh. Aye, and I'm the King of Mercia" Gawain scoffed, shaking his head at the blatant lie.

"Whatever you say, my Liege…" Lancelot replied immediately, an odd tone to his voice that was only punctuated by the breathy way in which the pain caused him to speak.

Gawain scoffed again, but it was effort to stop himself from laughing. A small part of him he darent give voice to liked the way he'd purred the words a little too much…

"I will be off, now. I told you so you'd know where I had gone." Gawain said. He tried to halt his mind's traitorous musings.

"If you needed… time alone, you only had to… ask"

Gawain was certain he had imagined the wink, that there was no way Lancelot was teasing him like this. Surely not. Gawain managed to hold it together enough to raise an eyebrow in reply, shaking his head, about to come up with what would have been a truly witty retort when Lancelot spoke up again;

"Don't forget to… polish your crown, while you're out there."

And at that Gawain's brain damn near short circuited. There was no mistaking the meaning in his tone, the slight smirk, though ruined only slightly by a pained grimace and half gasp of pain. Did Lancelot truly mean the innuendo in the words, had he really meant to flirt?

"Only if you help." Gawain thought back, eyes widening when he heard a snicker then a groan.

Arawn's cock. Had he… Had he said that aloud?

"Your wish is my command, Sire." Lancelot whispered, almost too quiet to hear. Gawain shook his head, sure now that he must be dreaming. Yes, he must have fallen asleep, or he must be in dire need of it and hearing things.

Or if the Ashman truly was flirting with him, then Lancelot was worse off than he'd imagined and clearly delirious from pain.

Either way. Willow Bark and Feverfew. Yes. They were good things to focus on.

That, and decidedly not the idea of Lancelot…polishing his crown with those too-pale lips of his, made warm and plump by…

Willow-bark and Feverfew, Willow and Feverfew, WillowandFeverfewWillowand--

Gawain repeated the list in his head like a mantra, not once turning to look back as he turned on his heel and swiftly made his way down the hill onto the moors.

So i couldn't quite sleep, so i did some Lancewain hadcanons. But noting too much.

Lancelot likes to be the little spoon cause he feels safe and protected, but he also let's Gawain be the little spoon when he has a tiring day.

Also, Lancelot sleeps in the position with his leg hooked up. And slowly curls up into a ball everytime he has a nightmare, which is pretty often, and Gawain hugs him over since the beggining of the sleep, which esses Lancelot's nightmares.

Gawain loves to hug Lancelot from behind, cause, plus teaching him that not everything that comes from behind is a threat, he can smell Lancelot's hair and rest his face on his shoulder (the Gawain's actor is just one centimeter taller than Lancelot's actor in the series so that's easy.)

Lancelot, despite still having his guard up against anything that comes from behind, can smell Gawain from miles away and know when he's coming to hug him from behind and he lets it because he likes being hugged by him. It makes him feel safe because Gawain has strong arms and hugs him tightly. Gawain doesn't know any of this.

Gawain is a almost-bear type body and I won't go into detail about that.

Gringolet and Goliath meet and even with Gringolet's violent tendencies, they get along incredibly well. This was probably the first sign Squirrel read about how he was going to get two fathers by the end of the year.

Squirrel read the signs of their relationship before they did. Like that quote "How long have they been in love?" "Shh, They don't know." "What do you mean they don't know?!"

Lancelot has a tendency to self-harm with his own body - wounds made by nails and teeth - and Gawain has to help him to heal it. Lancelot always feels guilty and looks like a kicked pup, Gawain reassures and gives him love and tight hugs.

Squirrel was terrified when he discovered that Lancelot used knives to self-harm himself and since then Lancelot stopped using knives to do this and started using his own body. Gawain didn't approve and Squirrel started keeping an eye on him but at least he didn't cut himself anymore.

Gawain taught Pym to be a real healer after he heard about what happend in the Red Spear, as he himself was a healer. Lancelot saw the way they were intimate and how he taught everything to her and thought they were dating. When Pym found out she laughed her ass out and explained that they were like siblings and had nothing like that between them, since then it became an inner joke between them.

Every time Lancelot gets too much angry he speaks with a french accent or actually starts speaking french/mother language around the house. Gawain thinks that's hot but doesn't dare say it to him.

The first time that Lancelot's anger doesn't go away, Gawain shamelessly flirts with him, thinking that this will ease him a little, as happened with his former partners, actually Lancelot pins him against the nearest surface or just grabs him by the shoulder and takes him to the room and "takes control". Gawain thinks twice before doing that again now.

Lancelot learned to cook well to survive, so he cooks for Gawain and the others as a form of affection. "Let's make food together. (I'm the only one who cooks, you look cute in the corner. You don't know how to cook. Don't mess with my food.)"

@lancedoncrimsonwings

Maybe i'll do more after i finally get some sleep.

Cursed X Epic musical

Something that makes sense in my head, but it's also too sad and accurate so i want to share with other people.

I was scrolling through my For You on Tik Tok and a video of a song from the Ithaca saga that wasn't released yet appeared. The song was Penelope's reunion with Odysseus, the last song of the whole musical. And then my Lancewain ass beats me with a: "This is totally Lancelot in every way."

Just listen. (Vídeo belongs to @_kodybread on tik tok)

This is clearly a Weeping Monk having a crisis and questioning his worth, and Gawain is there trying to assure him that despite everything he has value and is worthy of being loved, while hugging him with the greatest amount of force he can without hurting him because Lancelot does not have good mental health and despite the problems, physical contact is important to him when he is in crisis.

Lancelot is clearly crying in Gawain's lap, curled up in a shaking ball in his arms and lap, and questioning every little act of affection he and Squirrel show him cause he is an 'bloody and empty monster'. And then he releases the damned excerpt (obviously adapted from the song's lyrics):

"How could you fall in love whit me, again? If you know all i've done. The things i can not change... How could you love all the same? I know that you've been waiting... Waiting for love..."

And Gawain just hugs him tighter and lists all the reasons he loves him, and every reason he fell in love with Lancelot, the infamous Weeping Monk.

My heart is bleeding so it is my duty to make anyone who reads this post bleed too.

@lancedoncrimsonwings

Okay then, this is the drawing I did as a test for the Weeping monk's face. The drawing isn't that good because I'm not very good at drawing faces and also because it's a test drawing so I wasn't that worried about how well it would turn out or not.

The proportions are wrong; the eyes are the wrong shape and have no pupils, and the tears are worse; the mouth looks weird; I don't like the beard; he's bald; It's definitely one of the drafts I liked the least, but I'll let it go because I did it at dawn surviving on coffee.

I did dance headcanon and i am absolutely happy about it.

Yes you didn't read wrong. I was peacefully doing a ballerina drawn during one of my classes, and i remember that ballet dance was patented by the french. More specifically Louis XIV. And it's okay that ballet actually originated in Italy, but I'll politely leave that in the corner. With all due respect.

there is the unfinished drawning if you're interested:

Now, who else is french? Exacly. Lancelot du Lac. But i didn't wanted to do a cultural dance for Lancelot and the Ashfolk and leave Gawain, Squirrel, Pym, Nimue and the Skyfolk aside. They're a big, dysfunctional, but happy, family. So i decided to make a cultural dance for both of them and i'm going to explain why in this post. Which probably will be quite long.

The ashfolk and Ballet.

As i have said before, i know that ballet is not originally french, but italic. If you didn't know about this before, yes, ballet origins are italic. The dance came to France when Catherine de Medici married whit the King Henry II of France. but it was only patented by Louis XIV, the Sun King, years later, and it became popular among high society.

And i do know france have a lot more of cultural dances like: Cancan, quadrilha, gavotte, minuet and more. But reading each of them to try to fit it and not be stuck in the stereotype, i realized that, no, none of them actually mached whit Lancelot personality. And not just Lancelot. His family was incribably cristhian in the legends, and strict too, so the other dances didn't fit what i was looking for. So that's why i chosed ballet as the ashfolk cultural dance.

Lancelot/The Ashfolk and Ballet.

Now, when i talk about Lancelot in the weeping monk adaptation, the first thinga that came to my mind are his past abuse and his melancholy. Obviously how absolutely pretty he is too, but that's not the point. And whit the past abuse and scenes like: When Carden slaps him in the face because he asked for mercy for Squirrel; We see how he is constantly expected and forced to be rigid and up to standard one hundred percent of the time. Which, depending on which perid we see, matches whit how ballerinas were treated.

Most people from outside see the ballet houses - As we call from where i'm from - by the pictures and shows, but also by those overexaggerated pictures from internet where we see the ballerinas's foot and bodys badly hurted by the sneakers and the injuries caused. And a lot of people believe that ballet is like dance moms, I don't know if that's the correct name of the show, but that actually doesn't happen. I'm not saying it never happens, but it's not how you see or think. It's not just delicacy and elegance, but it's also not just demands and frequent pressure. As a former child dancer, I know that there is a lot of pressure on dancers, even children, and depending on which house you're from, you can end up having an abusive house where you are excessively demanded and overstandard.

Having explained that. Ballet is an elegant and graceful dance, but it takes time, strength and a lot of dedication. And of course, with many expectations about perfection and rigid routines and trains. Which matches Lancelot's personality perfectly. "Perfect" steps with elegance and lots of training and effort. The difference is that if Lancelot had had a ballet house, he would have ended up in an abusive one with obvious problems but which no one dares to comment on.

Lancelot doesn't talk much in the show or in the legends, and the ballet is not a play with words, but rather one where a story is told through music and movement, which is perfect for our darling who barely speaks.

Ballerinas at first don't wear pointe shoes, their feet were flat on the floor like in any other dance, but over time it was added to make the ballerinas look bigger and elegant, and Lancelot also fits into this, along with most French people.

Ballerinas' bodies are thin and yet very strong, and by the looks of Lancelot's as well. You can't look at my face and say that that man eats three meals a day healthily, that's a lie that not even the devil can forgive.

Ballet is known mainly for its elegant jumps, endless pirouettes and, as my little sister calls it and I think it's incredibly cute, "kicks in the air" - which would be the splits and opening the legs in pirouettes. Lancelot has a similar fighting style, with lots of kicks, somersaults and spins. What I particularly like to think of as an adaptation of his cultural dance to a fight. so he has at least something from home nearby every day, even if not in the best way.

Ballet pieces were formerly known for paying homage to Greek myths, love, nature and life. Which refers to the fey nature and how Lancelot became known for his love for Guinevere in the legends.

Everything mentioned is a way of explaining why Lancelot suits ballet better than the other dances I studied, even if I tried to avoid stating the obvious.

The ashfolk and ballet culture

Now listen to me carefully. Yes, bale is a very delicate dance that needs rehearsals and that wouldn't make sense in something like: Simple dance at a cultural celebration because the music was nice. But this can get solved.

For this type of occasion, I like to think that the relaxed ballet dance on lighter cultural occasions where they simply want to dance, could be in the style of Marianela Nuñez's dance in Don Quixote in 2013 in the first act, just more relaxed and with more improvised movements.

Their clothes would also be less elegant and more focused on comfort due to heightened senses. And of course, because they have a type of connection with fire, the clothes would be vibrant and with more handmade details attached to the clothes.

But when it was for the plays and presentatios they would use what we usually see in the ballet shows, but more adapted to their time and conditions.

Lancelot and ballet presentations i see him doing

Lancelot in the weeping monk have this melancholy attached to him. When you talk about the weeping monk the fist thing you'll say about him is: "He's depressed." And there is just so much presentations knowed for their melancholy and saddnes and death as their signature mark too! The most famous is Swan Lake, but i can also see him doing ballet plays like: Giselle, Sylvia and The Corsair, etc.

He would totaly do the black swan and you won't convince me the contrary; The act two of Giselle is totally him; I won't mention Corsair and Sylvia cause i cannot put into words what i'm feeling about both plays righ now, i'm still in the overcoming phase, but if you waavth it you'll get what i'm saying.

Scene time!

Squirrel was eagerly telling Lancelot about the cholheita ritual they would do next spring, telling him every detail about their dance and how Nimue, Pym and Gawain were excited about it and how incredible they would look prancing the gods in their traditional clothes.

The little one spoke like a rattlesnake without stopping to breathe, and Lancelot, as always, listened to everything without any problems with the one-sided conversation. At one point in the conversation, Squirrel changes the topic to how he would love to see other spring celebrations and other people's dances. And then came the inevitable question:

"Hey, what's your cultural dance? Do you dance?" Squirrel asks looking at him with those big curious eyes.

Lancelot wanted nothing more than to rigidly deny and end what he knew was coming in the bud, but the boy spoke so eagerly and with so much enthusiasm about the subject that he didn't have the heart to lie to him at that moment. He sighs and accepting his fate for the next few hours, responds. "Yes. In my village we danced ballet. I danced my share of times while I could."

"Ballet? like that delicate and elegant dance that makes you stretch to the maximum, full of jumps and things like that?" He asks with those eager eyes and fingers clenching in anticipation.

"Yes, that same one. I was a ballerina."

"That's so cool! You not only dance, you dance ballet!" Squirrel speaks excitedly, almost jumping from where he was sitting. Excitement was written everywhere on his body. "Oh oh, can you do that thing where you stretch your leg up there?! eh.. I forgot the name, but you know what it is."

Lancelot smiles at the boy's imminent excitement, almost enough to smell it. This was going to be a long evening.

Additions.

I thought about talking about the cultural dance I chose for the skyfolk too, but this post is already too far away so I'll leave it for another post. The dance is not very well known, but you will agree with me when you read the next post.

If you've read this far, congratulations, you're a champion. Thank you for your time and patience.

@lancedoncrimsonwings