#Holy Night Flamel | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ocegion · 3 years

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I made this post some weeks ago and @sal-si-puedes was of the opinon that I should actually write it... So here it is. A bit late, but here it is.

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Nicolò walked through the dark as quietly as humanly possible, slow steps coming to a halt every time he thought he heard the slightest noise. He held his breathing in for nearly longer than his lungs could take, and his wide-open eyes resembled an owl. His heart was racing, but despite all of it, a slight smile was slowly making its way to his face.

His destiny was already within sight. Just a handful more steps and he’d be at the door.

He was alone, and if everything went according to plan, which it would, then no one else but Yusuf would ever know he’d been there in the first place. Andromache, for sure, couldn’t know; she was adamant that a minimum of a century had to pass before they even considered returning anywhere they’d been. So far neither of them had had any reason to doubt she knew what she was talking about.

This surely was no problem, though. No risk at all. All he needed was some discretion. Nicolò hummed happily to himself, already starting to look through his travel bag for the heavy metal keys. He only hoped the lock hadn’t rusted away too much.

Then, just as he was about to try and find the keyhole in the dark-

‘Who goes there? What do you want?’

Nicolò would start inwardly cursing everything within a few seconds, but for the time being all he could do was blink rapidly as the light coming from the just-opened next door blinded him and rendered him powerless to do anything but stand there like a goddamn idiot. He felt his throat dry up.

‘What are you doing here at these hours of the night? I swear, if you’re some filthy thief, you’re going to regret- oh.’

Nicolò remained silent. He stared into the face in front of him and, just as predicted, started to inwardly curse everything, himself first and foremost. The man blinked repeatedly at him.

‘Mister Nicolas, is that you?’

A surprised yelp came from the house, and a kind-looking woman, appearing about fifty-something years of age, rushed out the door, settling herself behind her husband, but poking out her head to curiously, meticulously examine Nicolò. Nicolò still said nothing, but he strongly suspected that his face said it all, if the muscles he felt pulling at his cheeks were any indication. He should, by all means, vanish into thin air to the best of his ability, but apparently, even after all these years, he was turned into an utter, useless fool the moment he was taken by surprise.

The woman yelled again - not so loud, Nicolò would have begged had his mouth not been so dry - and covered her mouth with her hands. A few more lights could be seen appearing in nearby windows, and Nicolò felt a knot forming in his throat, slowly suffocating him.

‘Mister Nicolas, it is you!’ she exclaimed, coming out of her poorly-deviced shelter and approaching him. She reached a hand out to his face, but when Nicolò instinctively leaned back, her hand fell. ‘How is it possible? Holy Mary, you haven’t aged a single day.’

He now managed to make some sound, although he didn’t quite get more than a few words stringer together. Luckily, arguably, he was interrupted before the silence became overbearing.

‘Could it be…?’ The man began, full of awe, but with a hint of fear, ‘Did you finally do it, Mister Flamel? Did you achieve the philosopher’s stone? Is that what this magic is?’

‘It’s not magic, it’s alchemy. Completely different things. Alchemy actually exists’ was what he finally blurted out, and yes, he most definitely was going to whip himself for that later on, because should that really be your priority right now? He had spent quite a few years learning all he could in the name of knowledge, but he really should be focusing on not making the mess he was already in even messier.

Too late. The couple in front of him, his neighbors from over two decades ago, were looking at him in utter wonder. A few more people, coming out of their houses to investigate the commotion, were whispering among themselves.

Under normal circumstances, he would be ashamed to admit he panicked, but he honestly didn’t believe he had any other choice. He shoved the key into the door, thanked God that it only took a bit of force to turn it, and slammed the door shut as soon as he was in.

He hid his face in his hands and groaned.

Andromache was going to make him wish he could die.

The muttering on the street not only didn’t die down, but it took strength as the minutes passed. Nicolò bit the inside of his lip, trying with all his might to figure something out. When he didn’t immediately come up with a solution, he just sighed and headed for the stairs. He might as well do what he had come to do.

Everything remained exactly as they’d left it years ago, with a thick layer of dust covering every available surface and spider webs making it hard to make out the ceiling even with the light of the candle he lit. He hadn’t been sure whether he’d remember exactly how to navigate the house, but it was easy finding their old bedroom. He coughed a little when the intense closed-off smell hit him, and he briefly considered opening the window, but he cringed and stopped himself from it the moment he heard the people on the street. Better not risk it.

He went to the table by the bed, the sheets destroyed by moths and who knew what else. A cloud of dust jumped to his face as soon as he opened the drawer, but his eyes landed on what he was looking for and his lips formed a triumphant smile.

He reached in, swept his thumb across the surface, and a faint red glow appeared where he’d cleaned the dust. Even in the dim light, the ruby shone like it had light of his own. Nicolò felt warmth spreading through his chest and cheeks, and brought the gemstone to his lips to place a quick kiss on it before gingerly securing it on his bag.

He had given it to Yusuf on the day that marked the tenth year since they first shared their love, nearly two centuries ago now. They had been in India, and although Nicolò usually didn’t pay much attention to such kind of thing, he’d seen the stone in a pendant and felt the overwhelming urge to give Yusuf something worthy of his beauty.

He’d never forget the tender smile on his lover’s lips when he saw it, or the infinitely loving look in his eyes as he allowed Nicolò to place the silver chain around his neck.

‘It is the red of the blood we once drew from one another, and that we now ache to spill to protect each other’ he’d muttered before sealing his lips against his own. As usual, he’d been able to put words to what was a mere unformed thought in the back of Nicolò’s mind.

The necklace itself had been worn away with the decades, but Yusuf had kept the ruby everywhere he went. He said it made him feel like Nicolò was always by his side, even if they rarely ever parted for more than a handful hours.

Dear God, how he loved that man.

And then, of course, they’d had to leave it behind. Twenty five years ago, their little family had stayed some time in Paris, laying low and resting from the last war they’d mixed themselves into. Nicolas Flamel had peacefully spent his days in the city researching alchemy, his latest passion, along with his wife Perenelle. He’d conveniently lived in the same house as his sister Adrienne and her husband Joseph, a bit of a strange arrangement, but nothing that raised too many eyebrows. It had been a quiet, pleasant few years.

Until, of course, Quynh had decided to get involved in the overthrowing of some corrupt local nobleman, and the next thing any of them knew was that that they had participated in an assassination and they had to vanish from the city with nothing but what they were wearing.

He’d left his favorite sword behind. Nicolò yearningly looked at it, dull with lack of use, resting on the room corner. He had hoped to get it back too, but it was too big to carry and be able to sneak out, which was what he was going to have to do.

He had the ruby, though, which was what mattered. Yusuf had spent the last two and a half decades bemoaning its loss. They were spending a couple days in a small town just a couple hours of riding away from Paris, and Nicolò had thought he could ride there, grab the gem, and ride back all before the sunrise woke Yusuf up.

He, technically, hadn’t been wrong. He had plenty of time before the first light. He just hadn’t planned for this mess.

He quietly made his way downstairs after one last wistful look at his sword and a couple more belongings. Maybe in another few decades. He approached the door, sighing with relief when he heard no commotion outside. Maybe they’d all gone to bed. As soon as he opened the door, however, he was met with even more of his old neighbors, all turning their heads just in time to see him slam the door shut once again.

He groaned, louder than before.

He started considering the possibility of just spending the rest of eternity running from Andromache.

He climbed up the stairs again, but instead of entering his and Yusuf’s old room, he made his way into the one on the opposite side of the hallway. His eyes briefly went over Andromache and Quynh’s belongings, but he went to the window, silently opening it. He gauged the distance between himself and the roof in front of him. Surely, if he made a good jump, he could grab the ledge and prop himself up. It wouldn’t be the first time he did something like that.

He placed his foot on the windowsill, tested it, counted to three, and-

‘There he is!’

Nicolò, for the most part, kept profanity off his mouth. His sisters and husband had a dirty enough mouth without him adding to it. God, however, would understand that this warranted the loudest, angriest curse his lungs could muster, he hoped as he lost his footing and plummeted towards the ground.

He didn’t die, he didn’t think so, but he did lose consciousness for a couple seconds, because the next thing he knew was that he was hissing as he felt his bones snapping back together. He held a hand to his head where it’d landed. He was mildly aware that there were people gathering around him, the light of the torches making him wish his concussion would pass even faster. The first thing he did when he had command of his own body, however, was to take the ruby out and sigh in relief when he saw it was untouched. He’d never forgive himself if his foolishness had led to its shattering.

He saw a foot stepping into his line of sight, and with a tired sigh, raised his eyes to meet those of another of his old neighbors.

‘You have all seen it. He should have died from that’ the man said, looking at him with wide, wide eyes, but talking to the crowd around them. When had it become a crowd? Shouldn’t these people be sleeping? Surely they had hard work to do in the morning. ‘Is that… Is that it? Is that the stone?’ he added, eyes wide with awe and an undeniable amount of greed.

Nicolò gritted his teeth as he stood up. He really wasn’t in the mood to have to fight anyone off the stone. He held the ruby high, clear for everyone to see. He projected a confidence he most certainly wasn’t currently feeling.

‘This stone has more powers than you can imagine. It’s kept me alive, but it can do many other things. Much worse things. Stand in my way, and you’ll discover what horrors made me leave it behind.’

God, was that him talking? He didn’t even know what he was saying. The circle around him widened as everyone took a step back, however, so at least there was that.

Nicolò took a step forward, wielding his most righteously furious look. More than a few people hesitated, eyes still fixed on the stone, but a second of meeting his eyes had them scrambling back. He wasn’t free of them, however, with the people following him from a distance until a couple streets over, where he got on his horse and rode away faster than he had in all his life.

Two hours later, he slammed open the door of the inn room he and Yusuf were renting. Andromache and Quynh, thank mercy, were currently on Persia, saving him from his leader’s fury for at least a couple months.

‘Yusuf. Wake up.’

The love of his life made a confused, half-asleep noise. Nicolò started getting their clothes and other belongings.

‘I said wake up.’

‘Nico, it’s not even morning. What’s gotten into you?’ He yawned, still not moving from the bed. He scowled. ‘Why are you wearing your riding clothes? Were you out?’

‘Just… Just get ready. We’re leaving.’

‘Nico, what have you done?’

‘Don’t ask any questions. Let’s just go. Please.’

‘My life, what the fuck have you done?’

‘I’ll tell you later, now just fucking go!’

__________

Nile blinks repeatedly, mouth hanging slightly open as she looks at Joe, who looks entirely too pleased with her reaction. She can tell he’s barely managing to fight off the urge to laugh out loud.

It still takes her a moment to collect her thoughts.

‘You’re kidding, right? You have to be kidding.’

Joe snickers. He makes a gesture to indicate her to stay put and exits the room, coming back a minute later. In his hand lies an old, worn down ruby which he gently places on Nile’s hands for her to inspect. She feels her face become a mix of incredulity and utter, insane amusement as she inspects the stone. The edges are worn down, but it still looks lovingly taken care of. She can, in fact, believe it’s a lover’s gift from nearly ten centuries ago.

'Behold, the renowned philosopher’s stone. Not much use to us, but it’s neat having it around.’

She still doesn’t quite manage to rein her expression in, which earns her a hearty laugh from Joe as the man reaches out to take the ruby back. His eyes are full of merry, but they also hold a fond warmth as he looks at the stony, gently caressing it with his thumb.

‘What’s so funny around here?’

Nile turns to look at Nicky, who just walked into the room and is casually leaning into the door frame, eyebrow raised curiously at them. Curiosity quickly turns into puzzlement when Nile just keeps staring.

‘Nicky, you’re in Harry Potter’ she finally says.

His expression immediately turns sour, like he’s licked a lemon. He presses his lips thinly together as he looks at Joe, eyes narrowed but somehow looking more devastated than pissed. Nile finally bursts into laughter, louder even than Joe.

‘Joe, you didn’t,’

‘He was livid when Harry Potter came out’ Joe explains with a carefree gesture of his hand. ‘It’s why he never liked it, even back when it was just the first book. I honestly don’t get it, it’s not like we ever let him live it down either way.’

‘The last thing I needed was a million children learning that name’ Nicky bemoans, cheeks taking a slightly red tinge. ‘It’s awful.’

‘You’re a legend, Nicky’ Nile muses, voice nearly cracking with the urge to laugh again. Joe hums good-naturedly, crossing his arms, eyes shining as he looks over at his distressed husband.

‘That he is, Nile. That he is.’

#Nicolo di Genova #Nicolò di Genova #kaysanova #my writing #this is basically a glorified shitpost

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carewyncromwell · 3 years

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“Good evening, everyone. I hope that your holiday season is appropriately merry. I am called Bartholomew, or Bat, Varney, and this is my singular favorite part of the entire year. As she is aware of this, my mundane has given me special access to her ‘Askbox,’ so that I may interact, educate, and debate with all of you about subjects involving this most wondrous time of year. I was raised in the later half of the 18th century and I’ve also lived through what my mundane calls the ‘Hogwarts Legacy’ and ‘Fantastic Beasts’ timelines, or the 19th century and early 20th century...and, courtesy of my mundane, I’ve been also given access to the fourth wall so that I can discuss things that came later, as well, as long as they involve Christmas.”

‘I must say, as much as I still don’t understand about my mundane and this communication method of hers, discussing Christmas traditions of the future is incredibly appealing.’

“For more such Christmas content, my mundane says you may consult the ‘Bat Comments on Christmas!’ tag...and naturally, she encourages you to send in those Christmas-related owls my way.

“Today’s topic of discussion is one of Christmas’s most central traditions -- caroling.

“Now of course, holiday songs are as old as holidays themselves, so there was naturally plenty of music centering around Christ and his birth from the start -- generally hymns, which were written in Latin and meant to be sung in church, whether on Christmas or not. But since Christmas was always split into both secular and non-secular traditions, there were also less formal songs that people sang outside of church as well. The first written carols of this sort that we know of originated during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I -- in fact, one of the most popular Christmas songs we know of today, ‘What Child is This?’, uses the tune of the song ‘Greensleeves,’ which was written at that time.

“Christmas caroling on people’s doorsteps -- much like Halloween’s ‘trick-or-treating’ tradition -- was inspired by a custom from older winter holidays where poor people would go door to door in wintertime, singing vaguely threatening songs to beg the houses’ rich owners for food, lodging, and/or money. As time went on, that tradition was called ‘wassailing,’ after a hot spiced beverage called wassail, which I suppose would be comparable to eggnog today. Caroling became more mainstream once people took to writing the songs down and printing copies in the 16th and 17th century -- even though there was a significant span of time in England when caroling was banned, thanks to the efforts of Oliver Cromwell and the Puritan-led Parliament. Even with the ban, though, the singing of carols persisted. Christmas caroling in organized groups really took off with Christmas’s rebirth in the 19th century. Thanks in part to a rather popular novel by Charles Dickens -- which was, appropriately enough, called A Christmas Carol -- the holiday that was once a bawdy outdoor festival was rebranded as a time for togetherness, love, peace, and giving to the needy...and caroling cheery songs door-to-door with others for pay fit perfectly with that theme. More song books were published, compiling many traditional Christmas songs together specifically for caroling.

“Now then...shall we discuss some individual Christmas songs? I suppose I can always start with a few of my favorites, from over the years...and, perhaps, you all can contribute others for me to discuss as well, if you so desire.

“‘Hark! How All the Welkin Rings’ is a song I learned in my childhood from my mother. The version I grew up with was originally written in 1739 under the name ‘a Hymn for Christmas-Day,’ by Charles Welsey -- over the years, the lyrics and melody were modified and transformed into what you all may know as ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’

“‘The World Turned Upside Down,’ as I’ve mentioned previously, centers around the time that Christmas was banned in England. Interestingly one could easily compare its structure to that of traditional sea shanties, as it’s a rather repetitive cluster of notes that always ends with an identical line that everyone can sing along to, even if they don’t know the rest of the words.

“‘Joy to the World’ is based largely off of psalm 98 of the Christian Bible. Its first musical variation was published in 1719, though the tune used today is from an slightly more recent version from 1848. From what I understand, the popularity of that second version has only increased exponentially, over time.

“‘O Holy Night’ was originally written in French in the mid-1800′s as ‘Cantique de Noël.’ It was based off a poem called ‘Midnight, Christians.’ It’s also a favorite of my esteemed friends, Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel.

“‘The Santa Claus Express’ sadly did not take off the way other Christmas songs have, from what I gather, but it without fail always reminds me of my close associate Grim. @cursebreakerfarrier Trains have been closely associated with Christmas at least since the 1860s when the first wooden toy trains were made, but they only became more popular with the invention of the first electric toy trains at the very beginning of the 20th century. It’s little wonder that since then model train sets became popular gifts and that -- likewise -- trains now spark a lot of nostalgia for both childhood and Christmas in a lot of people. I suppose that’s why one of my mundanes’ favorite Christmas-themed moving pictures, The Polar Express, focuses around a train that travels to the North Pole.

“‘Winter Wonderland’ is the newest of these songs, as it was written in 1934, but from what I understand, it’s become very well-beloved over time. One story I’ve heard is that its writer had been in treatment for tuberculosis when he wrote its lyrics, taking inspiration from his memory of New York City’s snow-capped Central Park. I must confess that I always enjoy ‘echoing’ each line until it comes to the chorus whenever I hear it -- you know, ‘Sleigh bells ring (sleigh bells ring) -- are you listening? (Are you listening?)’ Violet and Bertie @that-ravenpuff-witch tend to do the same thing, whenever either of them are in my earshot and the song starts playing.”

#bat comments on christmas!#christmas #bartholomew varney #roleplaying #lol recycled art #music #my favorite carols also include 'i'll be home for christmas' 'once in royal david's city' and 'ding dong merrily on high' among others #the santa claus express I found on a whim and yeah it made me giggle #it's SO 30's #and yeah I do that thing with winter wonderland constantly #that particular recording plays at disney's california adventure during the holidays so i associate it closely with work!#geezus do I miss the parks!! ;-;

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 3 years

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libera nos a malo chapter 9: At St Patrick’s Purgatory

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina Rated for Mature Audiences Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content Chapter 9/21

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libera nos a malo masterpost+

This was quickly becoming an adventure that Miranda had no intention of recounting to her pious mother. As she coaxed her boat, the patient Molly Brown, through the moonlit waters of Lough Derg, intent on excavation and theft, she was almost ashamed of herself. If her mother ever found out that she’d come to the holy site on Station Island as little better than a cat burglar, she wasn’t sure she would ever live down the shame of having disappointed Monica Rose so severely.

The bitter night wind whipped through her cloak, and she pulled the traveling blanket more closely around her shivering body, pushing all questions of morality aside for another day. She’d been hired to do a job. She’d see it through to the end—and let the priest sort it out in confession for her later.

“No perfume tonight, Topolina?” Dante Sanguini asked. The pale moonlight made his face shine with an unearthly glow, and his constant shifting in his seat bespoke his discomfort on the water.

“Not while I’m working.” Miranda’s attention was divided between her companion and keeping the little boat upright with all his squirming. “I don’t guess you could hold still until we get to the island, could you?”

“Over this lake? No. And if I liked you less I would not have agreed to pass over this cursed water in the first place. Let alone twice in one evening.”

“Sorry about that. But I think you’ll find that I kept that difficulty in mind when I set your fee for tonight.”

“Si, you were more than generous. But I will be happy to leave this place behind.”

“Agreed.”

The water was choppy, and by the time she landed the boat ashore, even her usually stalwart stomach was queasy. Dante stumbled as his feet hit dry land, and he shuddered visibly, apparently as uncomfortable on the island as he’d been on the water. Miranda flattened and folded the boat as quickly as her numb fingers would allow, and by the time she had it stowed in a tunic pocket, the vampire had recovered himself.

She braced her feet on the frozen ground to cast her disillusionment charm. An unpleasant, fuzzy feeling began in her toes and crept up her spine, where it settled at the base of her skull. It was disorienting to be unable to see her arms or legs as the charm caused her body to effectively disappear, but invisibility cloaks were as expensive as they were unreliable.

“May we proceed?” Dante asked impatiently, his voice emitting from a shapeless fog that hovered around her.

“Let’s get this over with,” Miranda replied.

In spite of the wind, there was a silence covering the island that felt accusatory to Miranda’s guilty conscience. As she trod over the dead grass, the soles of her feet pricked inside her boots. Over the tops of the barren trees, the cloister and the church gleamed in the moonlight; their modern renovations a sharp contrast to the feel of the ancient earth on which they stood. The arched sign emblazoned with St Patrick’s Purgatory reminded Miranda more of the entrance to a theme park than a hell-mouth. As they went under the sign, the stinging in her feet became impossible to ignore. Acting on some impulse she did not understand, she paused beneath the arch and pulled off her boots and socks. The earth froze to her skin, but at least the damned pricking stopped as she spread out her bare toes in the frosty dirt.

“What are you doing?” the vampiric fog demanded softly.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back.

She could sense Dante’s disapproval, but they did not waste time arguing. As they moved over the well-kept path, she stuffed her boots into her knapsack. The lake lashed at the shore behind them, and even though she knew they were invisible to any mortal inhabitants, she could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. Soon her feet were numb, but she could not bring herself to put her boots back on, as though her pain might make up for some of her sacrilegious intentions.

As they drew closer to the interior of the island, the lurking church and the surrounding trees blocked some of the wind. Miranda trotted silently over the path towards the curved labyrinth that was their destination. The vampiric fog kept pace with her easily, pricking her skin where it brushed her, even under the cover of the disillusionment charm. When they reached the edge of the maze, the fog solidified, Dante’s polished shoes crunching the brittle gravel into dust. Miranda released her charm, shaking off the magical invisibility and numbness as they darted through the twisting path towards its heart.

“Do you feel any better?” Miranda asked.

“No. Worse,” Dante replied.

They reached the center of the maze, and Miranda took the compass that Octavius Pepper had given her from her pocket. It was made of heavy brass, and etched with markings she’d been unable to decipher in the short amount of time it had been in her possession. Its arrow started to swing back and forth, moving languidly but showing no indication of settling anywhere. While they waited, Dante scuffed his shoe in the gravel, and his lip curled to reveal a single, pointed canine.

“Well?” he prompted.

Miranda opened her mouth to tell him to relax when the ground split open. Cursing, she reached blindly for Dante as she clung to the compass, even as the metal began to burn her hand. One of the vampire’s sinewy arms wrapped around her waist, hauling her roughly against his wiry frame. She put her arms around his neck, and though the rubble crashed over them, they glided slowly down into the darkness. The memory of the cave under the One Wood Church and its vengeful Spirit was at the fore of her mind, taunting her with its horrors. She buried her face in Dante’s shoulder and forced herself to breathe.

They landed lightly on a rocky floor. The moonlight filtered down through the gravel and dust that had been kicked up by the cave in, sickly and obscured by the depths. A tremor went through Miranda’s body as she realized how deep they must be, but she was determined to keep control of her mind tonight. Dante pressed his cool lips to her temple, and gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before releasing her. She dusted herself off quickly, and pulled her wand from her sleeve.

“Lumos,” she cast.

Dante hissed and flinched back from the light. “Must you?”

“We can’t all see in the dark like you.”

“Figlio di puttana,” he muttered.

“What was that?” she asked archly as she watched the wildly spinning needle of the compass.

“I said, which way do we go now?”

“I’m working on it.” The needle stopped all at once, pointing into the darkness. Miranda lifted her wand to see a narrow cleft in the rock, barely wide enough for them to pass through. “Fuck. Why do I keep taking these underground gigs?”

He laughed and took her hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm as though they were going for a stroll in the park. “For the money. And the company.”

His good humor was contagious in spite of her discomfort with the enclosed space and the gravely dirt that cut into the soles of her feet. “Excellent points. Tell me one of your yarns so that I won’t think about being trapped in this pit for all eternity.”

“Nothing would please me more. Have I told you about the first time I was in France?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Excellent.” Dante let go of her arm to enter the passage before her, but his calm, melodious voice betrayed no concern about the danger inherent in their current situation. “It was in 1389. I remember, because it was the year I turned fourteen, and we were escorting La Contessa Valentina Visconti to finally be wed to Louis de Valois. She was as kind as she was beautiful, and whatever part of my heart that was not full of my path to knighthood was full of her.”

“You rogue. Did you steal her from Louis?”

“No. Everyone loved Louis, especially Valentina. It was enough to love them both from a distance, and to serve them. Life in Melun was good for a long time. I learned to ride, to fight, to write poetry, and to make love to the ladies of the court. I was quick at my studies and unimportant enough that I could slip away to explore on my own.”

“That sounds ideal.” The blue light from her wand cast dancing shadows on the wall, and there was a dread curling in the corner of her mind that one of those shadows would turn into a cat like the Spirit of the Mine. She pushed it down the best she could and listened to Dante’s voice. “Then what happened?”

“I saw battle and earned my knighthood five years later, in the year that Charles was born. I also met two men who were to change the course of my life, each in his own way.”

“Who were they?”

“One was a minstrel, a servant of Louis. His name was Herbelin, and I could have listened to him sing forever. We met in secret of course, but I was good at keeping secrets, even then. And it was amusing to watch the ladies swooning over his dark curls and merry laugh, knowing who it was he moaned for when there was none but the moon to see.”

“How delicious. And the other?”

“Was Nicolas Flamel, and of course his good wife Perenelle.”

“The man who made the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“The very one. A knight off the battlefield is little more than an errand boy, and there were many messages and manuscripts that flew back and forth between Nicolas and the royalty of France.”

“Did you ever get to see the stone?”

“I did. In fact…Cazzo!”

Dante disappeared, and Miranda had not taken a full step before she fell into the dank pit after him. She flailed once, but when she could not find the vampire in the darkness, she changed tactics, gathering her magic to cushion her fall and relaxing her body to be ready to roll when she hit bottom. The impact with the dirt floor knocked the wind out of her, and she coughed as she rolled into a crouch. Nothing leapt out of the darkness to pounce on her, except for a courtly vampire who graciously helped her to her feet.

“Are you in one piece, Topolina?” he asked with a dashing smile.

“I’m fine.” She wiped the dirt out of her eyes, and her hand came away bloody. “Mostly fine. Do you want to take care of that?”

His eyes turned completely black, glowing with an unearthly fire. “Ho un debole per te.”

He ran his tongue over the wound on her forehead, a feral growl rumbling from his throat as he lapped at her blood. The gash tingled, healing under his Undead magic. A familiar thrill went down her spine as he nuzzled the side of her neck, grazing her flesh with the cold pressure of his lips, followed by a single, teasing canine. Guilt and desire tangled together inside her, and she stepped back a few paces to give herself space to breathe. She and Dante had been skirting the line of what even her flexible morality would call decent since they’d arrived in Ireland the night before, and angry as she was with Severus, she still wasn’t certain she wanted to cross it.

“We should keep going. There’s no telling what all is down here,” she said.

He extended his canines to their full length, and lisped like an actor in a melodrama, “I think you know exactly what is down here. Children of the night. My friends.”

As if in answer, a swarm of bats swooped down from the ceiling, chittering as they buzzed their new companions. Miranda ducked as they passed close to her head, hoping they would not tangle themselves in her hair, while Dante lifted his arms, welcoming his familiars. The bats danced around the vampire until Miranda started to laugh, and then flew off into the darkness beyond.

“Va bene, there is the smile I like to see,” Dante said.

“It’s good to have something to smile about,” Miranda admitted, turning her attention back to the compass. The arrow was pointing firmly in the direction the bats had taken. “It looks like your friends know the way.”

“As they should. Andiamo.”

The path was rough with brittle rock that crunched and snapped under them as they followed its twisting progress. Miranda knew without looking that her feet would be bruised and bloodied when they made it back to the surface, but some instinctive part of her brain insisted that she continue as she was. The longer they walked, the rougher the terrain became, snaking upwards at a sharp incline. Pacing her breathing became more difficult, and her fears were ever at the edge of her consciousness, tempting her to panic.

“I think you were telling me about the Philosopher’s Stone?” she panted when the imaginings became too much to bear.

“Allora, the stone. I only saw it once, when I was assisting Nicolas and Perenelle with their travel preparations. There were many who would have liked to claim the stone for themselves, and it required both an Obscuro and to be tucked into Perenelle’s petticoats in order for them to slip away with it.”

“Where were they going in such a rush?”

“It was not the where that was the trouble, it was the who. Madama Bonne had a taste for the stone, and she was less than pleased when she was unable to put her hands on it.”

Miranda had met Bonne de Valois once. It had not been a pleasant experience. “I can imagine. How is madama these days?”

He laughed. “I would steer clear of Italy for another decade or so, were I in your shoes.”

“Thanks for the warning. What happened to Herbelin? Did he become a vampire too?”

“No. He did not.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Not as sorry as I was. But I should go back to Louis. He was the beginning of the end.”

All at once they found themselves in a tiny room of packed dirt, the ceiling of which was so low that both of them had to stoop. A flickering green flame coming from an unknown source lit the space, revealing a mattress of rotting straw, a decaying bowl and spoon on a sagging shelf, and little else. The walls were painted with faded pictures in the ancient Celtic style, and between the crosses and saints were letters spelling out texts too worn to read.

“This is the place,” Miranda said, sliding the compass into a pocket.

Dante’s canines were showing. “I was afraid of that.”

“We’d better work fast.”

She chanted the incantation that Mr Pepper had drilled into her a few days earlier, singing through its chromatic tones in a clear, silvery voice. A white light burst out of the tip of her wand, wrapped itself around the straw mattress, and lifted it off the floor. Another light joined the first, piercing the floor under the mattress until a thin crack appeared. Dante flexed his fingers as they stretched into evil looking claws, and crouched over the crack in the floor to dig into the dry dirt. Miranda’s body flashed hot and cold as she struggled to keep the bed aloft, sweat rolling down her face and neck. The green light began to spin, causing her stomach to lurch. A buzzing chatter droned in the room, and she felt fingers curling around her ankles. She looked down in horror, but saw nothing. Then she blinked, and saw the gnarled hands pulling on her legs; but when she blinked again—there was nothing.

She fought down the urge to scream as Dante jerked a heavy length of rusted chain from the hole he’d dug. He stumbled backwards, grunting as he landed on his backside. Miranda waved a shaking hand, sending a spell to push the dirt back into the hole, then she lowered the bed with a thunk. Still trembling, she opened her bag for Dante to shove the chain into. His teeth were bared with the effort, a red-tinted sweat covered his brow, and his hands look like they’d been burned.

“Are you alright?” Miranda asked as she closed the bag tightly around the chain.

“Never better,” he snarled.

“Are you going to need a drink before we go back over the water?”

He his eyes flashed with a black, hungry fire. “I appreciate the offer, but if I were to start drinking from you now I doubt I would be able to stop. The sooner we get off this island, the better.”

“No shit.”

Miranda took out the compass, stamping her feet in an attempt to shake off the feeling of ghostly fingers. The needle started spinning again, and showed no signs of stopping.

“You don’t think we have to go all the way back down, do we?” she asked.

“We are close to the surface now,” Dante replied. “I can dig us out if need be.”

She paced towards the far wall, unable to remain still any longer. A spiral drawn in a dull red caught her attention, undulating in the flickering light. She traced a careless finger over it, and the spectral flames engulfed her. A scream welled up in her throat, but when she opened her mouth she could only choke on the sulfurous smoke. Hands grabbed at her ankles and wrists; and there was a wailing and gnashing of teeth.

And then there was darkness.

*****

Miranda’s body was terribly sore when she opened her eyes again. She was lying on a narrow bed with clean, coarse sheets and a warm, quilted blanket; and she could feel that someone had taken the trouble to wrap her feet in bandages. The small room was plain, with a crucifix on the facing wall and a little window letting in bright, welcome sunlight. A desk with a lamp and chair completed the space, and her arsenal of pistol, knife, and wand was laid out neatly on top of the desk. Her knapsack sat safely beside the bed, apparently untouched. Wincing, she pushed herself up, meaning to check the bag for their night’s work, when the door to the room opened.

A man in a rough brown robe and worn sandals entered. His curly brown hair was tinged with gray, and his lined face wore a friendly smile. She guessed he was about her father’s age, and his green eyes were bright and kind. He carried a tray set with a teapot and cup, brown bread, and a steaming bowl of soup. Her mouth started to water and her stomach to growl at the homey aroma.

“Good morning, lass,” he said, placing the tray on her lap. “Welcome to Station Island. I think you’ve had quite a time of it.”

She gave him a bland smile. “Good morning, Father. It was about what I expected it to be.”

“I’m no priest, only a simple friar. Brother Ronan, at your service.”

“Thank you.”

Brother Ronan turned to pull the chair out from the desk and bring it to her bedside. While he was busy with his task, she quickly cast a silent revelio venenum, musing that she’d been spending so much time with Severus his habits were rubbing off on her. Her instincts told her that Brother Ronan was trustworthy enough, but his casual acceptance of her magical artifacts—along with her missing vampire—were enough to give her pause.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said between grateful bites of the hearty soup. “I’m Miranda Rose.”

“Rose you say? You aren’t from County Cork by chance, are you?” he asked as he sat down in the chair to keep her company while she ate.

“Originally, yes. But my line of the family has been in America for four generations now.”

“America? I was there once. It’s a fine country. I wouldn’t want to live there, but I’d not be sorry to visit again someday.”

His easy manner prompted her to be more direct.

“May I ask you how I came to be…wherever it is we are?” she asked.

“This is the pilgrim’s dormitory. I found you and your friend on my way in from Matins. There aren’t many of us here in the off months, but we like to say the hours together in the main church even so.”

“What happened to my friend?”

“I thought it best to give him a room in the basement.”

She raised her eyebrows, but kept her tone even, wondering if she was going to have to Obliviate the friendly friar. “Are you a wizard, Brother Ronan?”

He laughed as though she’d told a fine joke. “Me? No, not at all. But your friend is not the first vampire I’ve seen in my life, nor are you the first witch. He helped me bring you here, and I gave him a bottle of the sort of drink he needs, and a room in the cellar for the day. It was too close to dawn to risk taking you both off the island.”

“Why are you helping us?”

“It’s my duty to help those who need it. I suggest you eat and rest as much as you can for now.”

“Will we be allowed to leave tonight?”

“You’re not a prisoner, Miss Rose. You and your friend may leave at any time.”

His kindness prompted a new wave of guilt, but she carefully concealed her shame.

“Thank you Brother Ronan. We appreciate your help.”

“I’m glad I was here to give it. Is this your first time to Station Island?”

“It is. My first time to Ireland at all, actually.”

His voice took on a note of pride like a fond parent. “You should come back in the summer. Everything is green and you could do the actual pilgrimage then. I suspect you’re hearty enough.”

“The pilgrimage?”

“Three days of fasting and prayer, and the pilgrims visit all the old hermitages of the saints.”

“That sounds grueling.”

“It is. But people come by the thousands to do it. Have since the old days.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

She finished her tray, and Brother Ronan took it, wishing her a good day on his way out. She forced herself to wait to a count of fifty before opening her bag, where she found the rusted chains lying, unharmed. After she’d resealed the sack and warded the door for good measure, she slept again. Her dreams were strange and troublesome, but she could not remember them when she awoke later that afternoon.

Gathering her wand, she went down the hall in search of the loo, taking advantage of the communal showers when she found it. She managed to heal the scrapes on her feet with a few quick spells, and the hot water did wonders for the aches in her muscles. A quick Scourgify made her clothes once again fit for company, and she padded back to her room, refreshed.

Her fingers itched for a cigarette, but she decided she would rather find Dante before indulging in a smoke. After pulling on her boots, she gathered her things from the desk, made her bed, and left a generous tithe in Irish pounds on top of the pillow. The empty dormitory was as simple as her room had been, decorated with candles, crucifixes, and saints painted in the Celtic style. When she reached the cellar, she cast another revelio, which illuminated a door at the end of the hall in a faint blue light. She knew better than to startle Dante when he was sleeping, and she let her feet fall heavily on the floor as she approached. When she reached the door she rapped on it sharply.

“Come in,” came Dante’s voice from within.

The windowless cell was in total darkness, though she could feel Dante’s eyes on her. He flicked on the desk lamp in deference to her mortal vision as she closed the door. An empty bottle and a bloodstained cup sat on the desk near the lamp. Dante was lounging on the bed like a lazy cat, apparently none the worse for wear after their mishap. His clothes and person were clean, and the burn marks on his hands were gone. He rose as she came into the room, putting his hands on her shoulders when they met.

“You are well?” he asked earnestly. “When the hell-mouth overwhelmed you I feared you would be more permanently injured.

“I feel alright,” she replied, shivering at his touch. “A little sore, but alright. What happened?”

He was running the fingers of one hand up the side of her neck, and his eyes were turning black with vampiric lust. “You didn’t expect the chains to go without a struggle did you? Generally hell-mouths dislike being robbed.”

“That’s why they pay me the big money.”

“I’ve always admired your durability.”

His hand tightened on the back of her head, and he crashed his cold lips into hers. She returned his kiss with guilty fury, her body thrilling with the way that his lips turned from ice to fire as they absorbed her warmth. The tingling chill from his touch crept over her skin, causing her to tremble, and she clung to his shirt as he seared a trail of savage kisses down to her neck, where her pulse was beating wildly.

“Does your offer of a drink still stand, Bellissima?” he purred.

“Yes,” she gasped before she could think better of it.

There was a pair of sharp pricks, and then a heady rush of ecstasy as he drank from her. It was as intoxicating as she remembered it—but even as her body sang with pleasure, it was Severus’s name on the tip of her tongue, Severus’s arms she wanted to be holding her, Severus’s lips she craved on her skin.

Dante, ever the gentleman, brought her down carefully, ending the vampiric kiss and healing the wounds on her throat with his agile tongue. Her mental protections were useless against Legilimency of the blood, and she had no doubt that the vampire was well aware of the man whose name was lodged in her heart. He guided her to sit on the bed, and rummaged in her knapsack until he procured a bottle of Blood Replenisher, the contents of which he tipped into her mouth. She nearly choked at the taste of the elderflower and lemon—Severus had created this variant of the potion to suit her personally, and his care for her was yet another lash of guilt.

When she’d gotten it down, she sagged against the wall, wishing she could cry that she might gain some relief from the feelings balled up in her chest. Dante pulled out a pair of cigarettes for the two of them, lighting them with the touch of an elegant finger.

“Perhaps it is time for you to tell me about Severus,” he said wryly after they’d both taken a bracing drag.

She let out a dry laugh. “What can I say? He’s an ass. He’s good at chess, potions, and dark magic. He likes to read and has a voice like sin.”

“No wonder you like him. What’s the problem then?”

“The problem is he’s sunk so deep in the war that’s coming that it’d take a miracle for him to come through it alive. I don’t think I can stand to lose someone like that. Not after David and Isaac.”

“The war is already here. Why don’t you convince him to run?”

She shook her head. “No. I think leaving would kill him, or at least his spirit. He has to see this thing through to the end.”

“That’s a shame. You might have wished for a more sensible partner.”

“I might have wished for a lot of things. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. “No, Topolina. No apologies are necessary between us. Allora, I was telling you about Louis.”

She was grateful for the change of subject. “Yes. Please finish the story.”

“Louis came to a bitter end,” he said, a sad smile spreading over his shapely lips. “His enemies in the Burgundian court sent assassins after him, attacking him in the middle of the street one November night. Valentina never recovered. She died of a broken heart not a year afterwards. Herbelin and I stayed with young Charles, intent on helping the boy regain some order and beauty in his court. And we were successful, for a time, until a fever took my Herbelin from me.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her. “I’m so sorry.”

“Life was bitter to me then, but I feared death too much to seek it from my own hands. And as Charles started to play at war, I believed that my time would come soon enough. I thought that it had after the battle at Agincourt. But there are scavengers on a battlefield, and one of them found me.”

“Was he the one who made you a vampire?”

“Yes, but not, I think, on purpose. As he drained me, I latched onto his wrist, biting him in my frenzy. He left me for dead, but enough of his blood had entered my veins for me to rise again.”

“Fuck. What did you do?”

He laughed and kissed the top of her head. “Just what you’d expect. I wandered the countryside in a rage until I found my way to Nicolas’s door. I might have killed him, and Perenelle too. But he tucked a bunch of mistletoe behind my ear, and it brought me back to my senses long enough for him to take me to Madama Bonne.”

“I wish he’d led you to a better Mistress.”

He shrugged. “There are worse, believe me.”

There was a light knocking at the door, and Miranda and Dante vanished their cigarettes before opening it to admit Brother Ronan. If the friar was at all surprised to find them together, he did not show it, for which Miranda was grateful.

“The sun’s down,” Brother Ronan said briskly as he handed each of them a dark bottle. “Best if we get the both of you on your way before anyone starts asking questions.”

“Thank you for your help,” Miranda replied. “I owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything, lass. But if you’ll remember me in your prayers now and then I’d be grateful to you.”

“That I can promise you.”

He led them through a winding hallway that opened at last near the shore. The wind was quiet tonight, and the lake was like a mirror of black glass. Miranda pulled the Molly Brown from her pocket and murmured the spell to make her seaworthy. Brother Ronan whistled appreciatively.

“That’s a nice bit of magic,” the friar said.

“I’m fond of it myself,” Miranda replied.

“And if I never saw a boat again, it would be too soon,” Dante laughed.

Brother Ronan held the boat steady while the witch and the vampire climbed into it. When they were ready, he gave it a firm push, and his sandaled feet splashed into the lake as the boat began to cut through dark waters.

“God bless you both!” he called, giving them a final wave before turning and hurrying back towards the church and his brothers.

“As if I didn’t feel guilty enough,” Miranda sighed.

“You must learn to overcome such frailty,” Dante chided, opening his bottle and drinking deeply of its contents.

“You’re probably right.”

Miranda tugged the cork from her bottle and gulped down the cold water inside, parched from the effects of the Blood Replenisher. They were quiet for a time as the Molly Brown made quick progress over the calm lake. Every inch away from Station Island was bringing her home to the problems she’d left behind, and she felt no closer to solving them.

“Did you ever love anyone after Herbelin?” she asked suddenly.

The vampire gazed up at the clear, star-filled sky. “Oh. Many times, Topolina. Some I have left. Some have left me. Some I have laid in the grave.”

“But how can you stand it? Or does it stop hurting after the tenth or the twentieth or the hundredth time?”

He took her hands and his, and the expression on his face made her wonder if he knew her heart better than she did herself.

“It always hurts,” he said. “Every time.”

“But is it worth it?” she persisted.

His dark eyes were wise in his youthful face, and they sparked with a mirth that all his centuries of loss could not dim

“Yes,” he replied. “Every time.”

*****

Station Island is the location of St Patrick’s Purgatory, which has been a pilgrimage site from the middle ages. It is also supposedly and entrance to Purgatory or Hell, depending on the legend. The pilgrimage is as grueling as Brother Ronan describes, and continues to this day. It is performed barefoot, which is why I have the magic of the place prompting Miranda to take of her boots and socks in this chapter.

The adventure of the One Wood Church and the Spirit of the Mine is told in chapter 24 of Moonlight: The Tale of the Three Miners.

Dante is telling Miranda the brief history of Louis, duc d’Orléans (1372-1407) , and his wife Valentine of Milan (1371-1408). Their son Charles, duc d’Orléans (1394-1465) is the author of the Valentine’s Day poem that Severus was musing over back in chapter seven.

Matins is one of the hours of prayer, traditionally said in the middle of the night. It’s the longest of the hours.

Figlio di puttana: Son of a bitch (Dante is cursing at the light, not Miranda) Cazzo: Fuck Ho un debole per te: I’m weak for you Va bene: Good, okay, alright Andiamo: Let’s go Bellissima: Gorgeous Allora: So, then, well

*****

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chapter 10+ >>

libera nos a malo masterpost+

#pro snape #ocappreciation #snape x oc #severus snape fanfiction #inmyownlittlecorner5

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sigyn-loves-loki · 3 years

Text

Loki felt himself pulled through a very narrow portal where he finally ended up at a place between two realms, the realm of the living and that of the dead. In a distance, he saw her figure, the translucent white dress still on her body.

"Sigyn!" Loki called and she turned to face him.

"Loki." she said, "I don't have words to say. I, um.."

"Ssshhh..." Loki said, "don't talk. Let me see you.

"But I have to tell you this. I'm not dead Loki."

"Oh, thank the norns. You don't know what days I passed without you. How misserable everything was. Why did you do this?"

"I know. I saw everything. I was there, always. I'm not dead, but I'm not alive as well. I'm struck here. In this realm. This is the passageway to walk into Vallahala. I can't pass it. My half life is stopping me from entering either realms. You have to help me. You have to help me release my semi-fluid body, so that I can finally die."

"Die? What do you mean?"

"Yes. I need your help to die properly."

"Sigyn. This is the day I am getting back my life by knowing that you're not dead, not entirely dead. I am not going to the same place by helping you walk into Valhalla."

"But......."

"Think of your children, if you can't think of me. Vali and Narfi has become so quiet after you left. I'm going to bring you back."

"You can't. I've tried. It's not possible to bring back a half dead being back to life."

"You may have tried. But I haven't yet. Wait for me. I promise you, today and now, that I, Loki Odinson, your lover and your husband, will bring you back to life. I promise you Sigyn."

The next thing Loki knew was that to wake up from his half concious state and run to Dr. Strange and Thor. He told them everything he learnt from Sigyn and asked them what can be done.

"I need to go to the Sanctum, now." Stephen said.

"And we, need to go to Asgard." said Thor, "to mother. She will know what can be done."

"Yes brother." said Loki.

The two ran to Frigga and Odin's chamber. Frigga opened the door and spotted her sons breathless due to running. She looked at her favourite son and said, "Seriously? You still remember the address of your mother's house? I'm amazed Loki!"

"Mother, I appologise for my behaviour. But there's something very important to tell you now."

"Yes mother. Let us come in." Thor said.

Odin also got up from his sleep. He shouted "What's the chaos? Thor? Loki? What are you two doing here at this hour of the night?"

"We need some privacy mother. Can we talk in a room where no one is shouting? Because we have something very important to talk about." said Loki.

Frigga shaked her head in disappointment and asked them to move to her private chambers where she practiced her charms and witchcraft. She mentioned them two chairs and sat on her sofa.

Thor and Loki looked at each other before beginning. Then Loki told her everything he knew about the incident from Sigyn's narration.

Frigga gave a jump from her seat in excitement and said "Oh I knew it!!! I knew it Loki, I knew she was there, she was alive. That it was her fake dying just as mischievous as you my dear son. Remember Thor, I said she was alive, and you two never believed me. We could have brought her back a year ago. It's been such a long time. Wait, wait, I must have something here." she said and went to her bookself of magical charms and magic.

Frigga searched through her books in her charms library but was disappointed to find nothing. She said, "It isn't here. Wait, I need to check the Palace Library. You two come with me."

The three went to the huge library of the Palace and started searching through the isles. It took them the entire night and the whold day to look all the books. Thor got bored coz he was never a boy who liked reading books, but still kept on going just to help Sigyn. Loki and Frigga did most of the searching and reading. All these reading of piles of books and going through the old magical records of old Asgardian documents, didn't bring them to any solution. They still couldn't find the solution to bring back someone from half life.

"It's not possible!" Frigga said and sat on the chair.

"Mother, there must be a way. There must be. Didn't you say it was a prophecy? But she isn't dead, so there must be a glitch in the propechy? Who told you the prophecy?" Loki asked.

"The high priestess of the temple of ancient runes."

"Maybe she could help?" Thor asked.

And she did. The high priestess was one of tge oldest persons in all of Asgard so there was so much knowledge in her. She knew of everything and most of the prophecies came from her. She smiled when she saw the Queen and the princes to come to her temple.

"The princess is right. She is having a half life. It is easier to help her cross the path to Valhalla, but to bring her back, it's not going to be easy."

"But you're not saying impossible?" Loki asked.

The priestess smiled, "No, my Prince."

"Lets see." she went to a very very ancient book, whose pages were half ruined. She said, "Two moons later, it is the night of the red moon. Hmm...and.... Yes, found it my Queen." she looked at them and continued, "Tommorrow is the thirteenth day of the astrological month. Very holy day. I am giving you the list of elements to bring me as soon as possible. These are," she scribbled a long list, "then I'll tell you the rest.

Loki did everything. Even though the things were very hard to find, but with an extra pair of helping hand of Stephen Strange, it became easier. Loki couldn't believe he was going to kill this man.

Things were brought, a huge fire was lit up in the centre of the temple. Four priests along with the high priestess and two sorcerers, Frigga and Loki started doing the most hardest ritual in the history of Asgard. It took them two days to complete the process. After finishing, the high priestess told Loki "Now, my Prince, you have to bring the Sorcerer's Stone. And give your wife the Elixir of life so that she can come back in the world of the living."

"The sorcerer's stone?" Loki asked.

"I know about it. A wizard in England is said to have it. His name is Nicolas Flamel." said Strange.

"Can you bring it?" asked Frigga.

"Yes my lady." he replied.

The wizard who was supposed to have that stone refused to give it, saying it is not his own property to give away but he shares its credit with another wizard. So Loki came up with the idea of stealing it. "Oh Stephen, I know stealing is not a good thing to do, besides, it's not stealing at all, we will return it to him once our task is done." So they had to steal it. They brought back the stone to Asgard and gave it to the priestess. She used the stone to create the elixir of life that Sigyn had to drink but through the same portal where she is struck.

"Keep it in a chamber in the north east corner of the palace in between night and dawn. Don't look, don't wait. She will come and drink it. And then at the stroke of the midnight hour of the seventh moon, she shall come back." said the priestess.

Those seven days were the toughest for Loki. Tougher than the year he passed without Sigyn. He didn't sleep, didn't eat, didn't move from his room. He didn't practically do any work. The sun rose, it set and the moon came, one after the other. And then on the seventh moon Loki was the most impatient. Not only Loki, Frigga too wasn't able to sleep. She sat on her couch with a blanket on her body waiting for Sigyn to come running through her door just like she did in older times. Thor paced his room in impatience, walking from one side to the other, eagerly waiting for midnight to strike.

And then it finally happened. At the stroke of midnight, all the clocks stopped. A tint of light from the northern side of the Palace was observed. Slowly, the light passed through every room, waiting and observing, stopped just before entering the correct one.

The knobs in Loki's door turned, his eyes was fixed at his door for too long. It didn't mistake when it opened and through it, Sigyn came. Her golden hair flowing down her shoulder, playfully falling over her breasts. She was wearing a light green gown and had the same beauty as she had always been.

Loki jumped off his bed and ran to pick his wife in his arms. It was her, it was really her. His Sigyn, his beloved Sigyn. "You did it my lord!" Sigyn said.

"Oh darling. You bag of mischief. You have taken my life, what did you think? I am not worthy of bringing you back?" Loki kissed Sigyn in a way as if his whole life depended on that kiss. And wasn't it?

All of Asgard was happy when they got the news of the returning of their Princess. Frigga arranged for a proper wedding ceremory of Sigyn and Loki and a nine day long feast in the Palace. All their Avengers friends from Midguard were invited. The higher Gods and Goddesses of Asgard announced in the feast that because of the great sacrifice Sigyn has done for Asgard, they will grant her immune power and bless her to be the greatest soccerer in all the nine realms. She has proved herself to be the true Goddes of Fidelity. Now they honor her with the title of being the Goddes of Victory.

Vali and Narfi has now got attached to Midguard, so Sigyn and Loki had to settle in Earth in a country-side small cozy home. They visited Asgard for the holidays. Thor marraid Jane and had a beautiful daughter who had blond hair and blue eyes like Thor. They made Loki and Sigyn as her godparents.

All the Avengers were also happy having Sigyn in their team as the Goddes of Victory made sure that they always win. Stephen and Tony finally got married and adopted a son Peter. Steve and Buck continued to be the best example of lovers and to take their relationship to next level, were planning for adoption.

Just like any other fairytale, Sigyn and Loki, along with their sons, went on living happily ever after.

THE END.

Thank you everyone!!! ♥

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durzarya · 5 years

Text

HP x Good Omens crossover part 1

So I've been talking with one of my friends and somehow this came up. And yes I needed to split this up, because it's way too long already

So the demons bring up the Antichrist, and it's the early hours of 1st of August, and every witch and wizard can feel his power

Voldemort was planning to attack the Potters on Halloween, because it's an important day full with dark magic, but then there is this power and the Potter kid just turned a year and one day old, and that's an important milestone too

So he attacks, and everything is the same just a few months early, the Potters die, and Harry lives because of his mother's sacrifice and he is taken to live with his aunt

And Crowley? He is late. He is late, stuck between two traffic jams so he only arrives to the cemetery an hour later

He takes the Antichrist, receives his instructions, and decides he needs a little time to calm down, so he steers the car towards Surrey, it's okay, because both Harriet and Dierdre are having a hard time, so everything is in order, he knows he has time

He arrives to the privet drive just as the wizards apparete away, and he is driving so slow, because there is the most important baby in the universe on his backseat, he can't have an accident now!

That's why he sees the baby sleeping front of the door, and he is a demon and he can't imagine how cruel you can be to leave a kid out for the night

So before he has time to think he is out of the car and grabbing the kid, and knocking on the door

The people living there are cruel and soon enough he miracles them only knowing that Crowley took the kid, they will say this with such stubbornness that no one will ask questions about it

He knows this, a little one isn't the first baby he ever took, he have been stealing them from heaven since Noah, this is so much easier

He takes Harry, and now he has to hurry because the Antichrist is a ticking time bomb and it needs to be delivered

He hands it over to the delighted nun and oh, she is right, it's cute, he is cute, and suddenly he is stuck with the overwhelming desire to stop all this, the world ending, the baby swapping, he just wants to live his live on earth like he always did

And... He has been stealing children from heaven for thousands of years now, he just took one from humans, so maybe it's time to take one of hell's too

When he decided it's so easy, few possession and memory alterations and now everyone thinks it's done, but actually all the kids are with their birth parents

He takes the Antichrist, telling the nuns he is the third baby, and that he will take care of him

When Aziraphale opens his door and finds Crowley there he can't find his voice at first, at least until Crowley starts to ramble

"Angel, I took the Antichrist! What do I do?" " I can see that dear, but where did the other child come from?"

They read Dumbledore's letter, and they decide, that London is far too chaotic and dangerous to raise both the Antichrist (who after some consideration is named Adam), and some kind of wizarding saviour (they didn't know there was an entire community, but they both decide it's the best not to get involved)

They go to live in Taddfield

There is an elaborate story, how Harry is Crowley's sisters child, but his parents died in an unfortunate accident, and he gets to live with them, and how they just adopted a baby themselves, so they need a calm place

Everyone believes them

And here is the thing, it's hard, raising two kids, but at least magic involved, they don't need to hide themselves with the boys

Harry and Adam are aware who the two of them are, they know who they supposed to be, but it's stressed both by Crowley and Aziraphale that they can choose something else. They are human after all

So they grow, they learn, they make friends (the Them are aware the two boys are magic, they don't really care), and they love each other and this tiny little village, where Aziraphale works in the local library, and Crowley opens a flower shop of all things

Everyone in the family speaks parseltongue

Crowley is a snake, so really it's his first language, Aziraphale can talk to every animal, Harry's dad's ancestors came from India, and Adam can do whatever he wants, reality is his playground after all

Years pass, and suddenly it's Harry's eleventh birthday and with it comes a letter and a long breaded wizard with the ugliest robe ever (Aziraphale loves it of course)

Dumbledore never gives out acceptance letters personally, at least not anymore, but Harry Potter have been missing for a decade now, and all they could figure out some guy Crowley took him (Petunia doesn't tell him anything more, but her voice implied familiarity)

At least the house is warded, and he thinks it's a blood ward, like around the Dursley's house or something similar, it's based on love and family at least, so his very first thought he has when a red head opens the door is 'I thought Lily had only one sibling'

He doesn't ask, but resolves to talk to Severus later, the man must know something

He gives the boy the letter, and there is a cluster of children surrounding him (the Them know everything of course), while he explains what needs to be done, he goes back to Hogwarts slightly dazed and completely confused

They go to the Diagon Alley, and they end up buying a snake and an owl, Crowley doesn't like it that he is no longer the kids' favorite snake

They meet Draco Malfoy too, and it's similar, but not the same because now Harry has parents and a brother and friends, and he is loved so much it hurts sometimes

And Draco is flabbergasted, because there is this boy who says everyone in his family is magical, but had zero idea how things actually work, they leave before he can find out anything else

Harry gets his wand, and Olivander is weirded out which is an entirely new feeling for him, he is used to be at the other end of this

Slowly September the 1st comes and the family leaves for the King Cross

They don't meet with the kind redhead family, but Ron finds a way into Harry's compartment anyway

They become friends, but this time Harry read about Slytherin, and he tells his new friend, that he doesn't think it matters how different they are as long as they love each other (and that's a lesson both Crowley and Aziraphale learned the hard way, they won't let their kids suffer through it)

Malfoy and Hermione both come at one point, and the four of them start to argue about different kinds of magic, and apparently Hermione heard about Agnes Nutter

Time flies and the train ride is over much sooner than they thought it would be

Harry goes to Slytherin with Draco, Ron and Hermione goes to the lion's den, both Dumbledore and Snape are dumbstruck

The first thing the gang does is asking after Agnes's book, Madam Pince almost faints when two 11 year old ask about the rarest and most wanted book, also she doesn't have it

Between shocking teachers, befriending three head dogs (they say a Cerberus stands front of the gates of hell, his brother is the Antichrist, he is sure it won't harm him) and solving mysteries the year passes

Harry and his friends still end up going after the stone, and Harry still faces Quirellmort alone, but his first reaction this time isn't fear but "Wow you are really bad at possession aren't you?"

Voldemort was expecting many things, that wasn't one of them

Harry still kills his professor, only this time one touch is enough for them to turn to dust. Blood magic fused with mother's love is powerful, but Harry is loved by an angel and a demon and the Antichrist, heaven, hell and humanity

When he wakes up it's to the news that the Flamel are going to die, Harry's magic fused with love destroyed everything in the room but him, it would take a miracle to make another stone before their end. Harry is sure he can arrange that

Slytherin wins the house cup, and Dumbledore still gives the lions a shit ton of points, they end up second

Harry goes home with promises that they write each other and the apocalypse just around the corner, he is sure it will be resolved just in time

And I'm stopping now because holy shit this is long so as I said I will add a second part. That will be about the Armageddon't and Flamels and the second year at Hogwarts with the Them

(also Voldemort ends up with the Crowley-Fell family, but again that's the second part)

#good omens #good omens tv #crowley #Aziraphale #adam young #The Them #harry potter #harry potter series #hogwarts #magic #crossover #hp x good omens au #meta #headcanon #wip #maybe??#at this point i should tag this as crack #but again i mostly write #crack taken seriously

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festeringfae · 5 years

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⭐️⭐️⭐️ (that’s not three separate things unless you want it to be, i just want to hear more about the dumblefic)

If this were a DVD commentary it would probably start with me laughing over the various logos before the opening credits like ‘holy shit we actually made this, this is wild.’ Not because the fic itself is particularly wild (where even is the bar on that with HP, tbh?) but because I’ve always been pretty adamant that I wasn’t confident enough in my ability to replicate Dumbledore’s voice or my ability to execute...literally anything involving Grind3lwald to actually attempt to write any fanfic about them, ever. But then the more b.s. that happened leading up to the devil prequel, the more I started revisiting relevant sections of the books & seeing the potential in them, and once the Nagini news broke, so did I, and I wrote the first 4 scenes in one fucking night out of sheer spite and what has been supportively referred to by several beta readers as “my city now.”Because the fic was born as a reaction to the general post-books-HP-Mess, memory as a central theme. The reason I haven’t posted any of the fic yet despite mentioning how long it already is, is because since it’s about memory, the order in which the scenes are presented is not the same as the order in which the events happen. Which in turn means that sometimes I’ll realize oh shit, I need to stick a scene to establish x in between Scene A and Scene B, so I don’t want to post it on A03 until it’s a hundred percent done. Which is a pain for people who wanna fkn read this thing I’ve been talking about non-stop, I acknowledge, and your patience/continued interest really means the world to me. The thing that ties all the memories together is Albus’ relationship to The Tales of Beedle the Bard, and how it influence(s)(d) his internalized homophobia over his life (his....long.....long.....canonically 115 years old....life. This is the other reason the fic is taking forever, motherfucker has lived through too much shit! Do you guys know how old Dumbledore is when he beats Grindelwald in canon? 60! They broke up when he was 17! That is half a century to fill before even Lily and James are born.) Besides memory & media I would say the major themes are decorum vs candor, the tension between how no human being is infallible but no child deserves to be failed by a parent, the tension between being a failed child & the inevitability of becoming a fallible adult, how fallible the ways we measure “intelligence” are, and the difference between something remaining unsaid and not existing. The fic is actually titled “Silence” because of this last thing, but even I still call it ‘dumblefic,’ honestly.The worst thing about writing this fic is that it made me unironically give a shit about Aberforth. The second worst thing about writing this fic is that I accidentally made myself and everyone who has read it so far fall in love with Nicolas & Perenelle Flamel, who are obviously going to fucking die. But honestly,after a decade-- a LITERAL DECADE-- being too worried about striking the right balance between showing how Albus could have ever liked Gellert & not romanticizing Gellert to even try to write fic, the fact that all the scenes with GG in it have come out tonally perfect makes it hard to stew in any of my other writing-related gripes. I’m so happy to have a long-term project again.

#gaykatara

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catsnuggler · 3 years

Text

@gjavavont we really should talk sometime, btw. I often see you in my notes, but haven't taken the time to talk to you yet, and that's rather unfortunate. Anyway, I remembered that you invited me to answer the other apostate questions if I felt like it, and, well, I think I'd like to, actually, so here they are.

I'm going to put this under a cut because the answer to the first question, in particular, is incredibly long. Like. You would not believe how fucking long it is. You would either think I just think angels and demons are neat, or that I don't really care. Nope.

Tw for mention of limb loss. And very, very mild NSFW. Plus discussion of religious trauma syndrome (RTS).

7. Do you like angels or demons?

I do! And, actually... I've wanted to be a writer for years, but have yet to write a page for my ideas. Most of my writing ideas regard ancient history, particularly "barbarian" peoples resisting Roman domination, or perhaps those who already threw off the Romans throwing off a local tyrant. However, relevant to this question, I've had, for years, the idea to write a book about a fallen archangel.

The basic premise would be somewhat similar to the basic premise of Mormonism: there's a war in Heaven before the Earth is populated, where God represents choice (but only the choice to follow him will result in salvation), and Lucifer, later Satan, represents the salvation of all, but with no choice to deviate from his will (in the sense that it would be impossible to do so, not in the sense that you could but would be punished for it; like you're a drone and can't think for yourself).

Here's where it deviates: I don't think, if I remember correctly, that Mormons believe in archangels? And they don't really believe in fallen angels the way some Christians do. Plus, the Mormons don't believe the war in heaven, which they believe happened before mortal life, was a literal war, but that souls simply chose to follow God or Satan, and those who followed the latter were cast down to "Outer Darkness" (Mormon Hell, basically). Unlike Mormonism, my story would have that war be an actual war. Spirits would only be functionally immortal, impervious to mortal weapons, but able to be killed by spiritual/holy weapons. And the main character, again, would be a fallen archangel.

I don't know what his name would be, but he would be a fallen archangel who resisted both God and Satan. He'd recognize that to have choice only to be confined to a certain, narrow range of choices, lest you be punished for not falling strictly in line, is not really choice at all, so if that's good, if that's light, then he is opposed to the light. Likewise, he rejects outright the proposal to give up all choice whatsoever and succumb to domination, thus he refuses the... urgh, I want to say "darkness" because I'm just thinking in terms of sunlight vs shadows, of open truth/"truth" vs cloak-and-dagger-in-the-night deception, but the terms "light" and "dark", "white" and "black", are racially-charged. That's one of my most major problems. And my idea for his true archangel form is that he is black on one side, and white on the other, with a black eye on his white side and a white eye on his black side, so like, not arguing against scrapping that if that's what I have to do, just saying I would also have to scrap that if I scrap the use of the terms "black" and "white" to refer to Satan's and God's respective sides.

I'd choose to go with God being one personage for the story. Supporting Trinitarianism, with God just being called different things when he does different things, would make the story a lot easier to write.

So, basically being an anarchist, who is alienated from his family because he can't choose either dominionist side, yet is pained by his love for them, and his desire for them to stop their conflict and to choose peace and freedom; and being cast down for rebelling against God, but also thankfully separated from Satan, he spends his days wandering the earth as an immortal, disguised as a mortal. I don't know what his skin color would be, although if he's been on the earth ever since modern humans were on the earth some 300-odd thousand years ago, I'd say his skin would have to be dark to some extent, possibly Black, because he wanted to/had to blend in. He changes his appearance on occasion to further disguise himself, but usually stays with the original appearance he chose. His eyes would be golden, and would glow under certain circumstances.

Let me be clear, his skin color would be his choice, but would not be a curse. Fuck that racist Mormon bs. God does agree with, and even mildly order him to be dark-skinned, anyway, in the story, but that's only because the first humans are dark-skinned and God wants him to blend in. As terms of surrender after God won the war, God ordered that those who lost would tempt people, to test them in accordance with his will, and the best way to be able to do that would be to not stick out like a sore thumb. So if nobody had white skin until between 20k-50k years ago, that would be suspicious, wouldn't it? But the skin color thing is not a punishment, not a curse, no way to that racism.

Back to the fallen archangel's character, rather than appearance, he spends hundreds of thousands of years in exile on Earth, traveling, learning from humans, but largely keeping to himself. He has hidden enclaves, libraries, across the world. Rumors of immortal individuals, such as the Comte de Saint-Germaine and Nicolas Flamel, are inspired by him. He is forced to see humanity commit cruelty upon cruelty against itself, and to not lift a finger to stop it, only to cajole, as God decrees that there must be cruelty within the world for people to ever learn, become purified, and worship him; cruelty which, though required by God, is largely caused by Satan, who knows he's doing work for God, but is sated by the fact that he is nonetheless denying more souls to God and causing suffering for his children. The fallen archangel is mentally ill from witnessing death for as long as he has, only being allowed to do what a mortal can to save others. He keeps himself distant, consequently, because it hurts less when he doesn't know the people who die. Or so he tells himself.

Eventually, by the 2000's CE, the seven seals - now I'm borrowing from more traditional christianity and legend - are broken, and the end times are upon the Earth. A final great war between God, his angels, and his followers, versus Satan, his demons/fallen angels, and his followers, will commence for years. Satan has become a lot more powerful since his battle with God long, long ago. The forces of each are about evenly matched, but Satan's forces are ultimately stronger.

Back to the beginning of the end times, the fallen archangel already knows exactly what's happening. God and Satan both try to bring him in, to turn the tide in their favor. He refuses. They both try to assassinate him, destroying his sanctuaries, and they fail. He has to run, and finds himself in a conflict he wanted to avoid, as he in fact wanted to avoid conflict all of his existence. But since God and Satan are fighting, and Satan is more powerful than God thought, the fallen archangel can finally be himself. He can finally rise, finally fight, though he wished it didn't come to that. Finally, he may have a chance to end the conflict, and end it right. If he can, he'll do anything to bring peace and freedom, true freedom, to the universe.

I don't know what would happen from there, save that he'd have a force that would neither be as strong as God's, nor Satan's, but would still be a force to reckon with. He'd have to wait for the right moment to strike - then the final battle happens. His troops lie in wait, til one of the stronger contenders has nearly bested the other - then they strike.

The fallen archangel, covered in the blood of mortals and immortals alike, sweating and exhausted, every divine and unholy muscle in his body strained, fights through the hosts to face the enemy generals. He finds God, largely beaten up by Satan, about to be killed. The fallen archangel has a traumatic relationship, as previously mentioned, with the both of them, but he loves them, and he loves his father. He can see that Satan long since lost his genuine desire to protect his family, and that God still does have his own genuine desire, it's just that his method is entirely wrong, his structure is entirely wrong. He wants God to stop. He wants Satan to stop. He wants the bloodshed to end.

Instead, Satan kills God. Stabs him in the chest. God whimpers "Lucifer..."and falls to the ground, but his head is caught and propped up by the fallen archangel. God gives him some last words of love and apology, but is unable to finish his sentence before he breathes the last of what would otherwise have been his eternal, unending breath.

Satan laughs, and mocks God and the archangel alike, after the archangel has wept for a brief moment. The archangel is overwhelmed - he is filled with grief, hatred, and love. He loves Lucifer, but not Satan. And he loved God. He had to take him down, but he loved him. He is filled with a burning need for vengeance, causing his transformation into his true fallen archangelic form. He slowly stands, and as he does, the tears rolling down his cheeks turn to blood; then, he is engulfed in flames, explosive in their brilliance yet rendering the light out of one's vision from the sight; and then his form slowly emerges as the flames dissipate, all while he still rises. His left side, white, with a pure black eyelid, crying pure black tears, his left wing looks like a bat-wing but pure white, the ivory-shade sword is magnificent and sleek; his right side is black, his right eyelid is white and crying pure white tears, his right wing is obsidian-black, and like the wing of an eagle, its feathers sleek, his blade is pure black and looks nearly to itself be made of obsidian with how jagged it is, roughly serrated in places. His swords are of equivalent length and heft. His gaze was downcast when he was on the ground, but his face slowly turned upward as he rose, a grim, determined, closed-eyed look of concentration emerging from the pitiful expression he had before, though the tears remain, as described. He begins to rise above the ground after standing, flying while his wings slowly, majestically flap. And then he opens his eyes, his expression becoming more furious as his eyes, his right eye pure white and his left eye pure black, flash open, immediately followed by him unsheathing his blades - his left arm grabbing the right, his right arm, over his left arm, grabbing the left - in a split second. Satan laughs, transforms into his (stereotypically red, goat-like, with wings) form, taunts him as he pulls out his blades, inviting him to attack, which the archangel accepts as he launches himself swiftly at Satan.

Their battle is intense, destroying the broken structures around them as they fight, each strike of blade on blade can be heard for miles, from the most grating steely sheen-shriek of blades sliding against each other, to supersonic booms when the flats of the blades hit each other head-on.

They're evenly-matched, evenly attacking and blocking each other's attacks, but then Satan lands a blow. The blow isn't fatal, but is grievously painful. The fallen archangel has an instant realization after feeling the pain - this isn't just about his vengeance. It can't just be about his vengeance. It isn't just about him. It isn't just about his loss. If he dies - no. Whether he dies or not, if Satan wins, the universe trades one slavery for another. He can't allow this. God must be avenged, yes, though his cause was wrong; and Satan must pay for what he has done, even though God had to be stopped anyway, and he is still the fallen archangel's brother; but more so, more importantly than anything, the fallen archangel must prevail, even if he isn't there to see it, for the freedom of all. He is, at once, encompassed with a divine, pure sense of justice, a sense of justice that does not necessarily require his own death, but which he will fulfill even if it comes to that.

In the instance that he is filled with this divine purpose, a blinding white emit explodes from him, as well as a shock wave which sends Satan back to land hard against a wall. When Satan opens his eyes, he sees the archangel in what appears to be his mortal guise, but with a near-blinding white light emanating from him, gold-yellow light shining from his eyes to the point you can't see his irises, and blue-white flames emanating from twin sabers, both held low and painting down and behind the being that was once a fallen archangel, but who has transformed into a god. A healed scar is visible from where he was cut by Satan. A look of impending judgment from this new god stares deep into Satan's eyes.

Satan is horrified. He knows he can't win now. He knows he is going to die if he continues fighting. He knows he has to escape. He knows how unlikely it is that he will.

The new god charges forth, raining unending and lightning-quick strikes at Satan, who is only barely able to block the blows as he looks on, unblinkingly, in sheer terror at his adversary. Satan is backed further and further as he blocks attack after attack after attack, his mind screaming to find an escape but unable to find one as he is backed toward a pillar. Finally, his back hits the pillar after he blocks a blow, which surprises him just long enough for one of his blades to be hit out of his hand and flying into a wall, shocking him for another split second long enough for his right hand, holding his other blade, to be sliced off. He falls against the pillar, holding the stump on his right arm, opens his mouth in pain, and faintly hears a low, bloodcurdling scream, not knowing if it's his own, as his nerves are overwhelmed with pain, and his ears were already pounding from rapid blood flow caused by the intensity of the fight.

The new god swiftly finishes him off, with wide but well-practiced and swift swings, the first lifting him up off the ground, his body sliding off the blade, as the second slices him again on the torso as his body hits the ground. Two more slices, in an x-pattern, are delivered on the torso, followed by twin stabs pinning him to the earth. His eyes quiver, then freeze, going pale.

I mainly thought of the final fight of the story, tbh, before coming up with the rest, after listening to the song Archangel, by Two Steps from Hell. The fight details just came to me, vividly. The rest is concocted from various Christian myths I've heard over the years, and, I suspect, no small amount of my personal traumatic emotional issues.

I like the concepts of angels and demons generally, though I mostly want to avoid Christianity altogether. However, if I were to write this, and if, somehow, this were to become popular - unlikely, I know, but can't a man dream? - that would be incredible and hilarious to me. Especially if I write under a pen name and leave my author background vague, only mentioning I "was raised in a Christian background". It would be entertaining to me to hear pastors, bishops and the like, as well as Christian laypeople, arguing about my book, were I to even put a page to it, let alone finish, edit, and successfully publish it, calling it blasphemous and anyone who reads it a heretic vs defending enjoying it as a work of fiction and nothing more. Meanwhile, my pagan self would be laughing my ass off at the whole debacle, as it's an apostate, not a heretic, who would have written it.

8. What gives you purpose?

Oof. This one is tough, but should - in the sense of not making this post more needlessly long than it already is - hopefully be much shorter? If we're talking not just in the grand scheme of things, but what keeps me above-ground, which I'll just assume to be the case, it'll be slightly longer. Not too long, though.

I'll just make a bullet list:

I want to know true, romantic love. I've had dependency issues due to my background, which is one of the major factors in why my romantic relationships have always ended badly. I felt deeply attached to each of my partners, but in retrospect, I'm pretty sure that's dependency, not love.

I haven't... quite fucked somebody. It's rather complex. What it boils down to is 1) the actions themselves were sexual, but I don't feel they truly count as sex in my case, or else why would I still feel apprehensive and unfulfilled like a "virgin", for whatever worth that concept has? And 2), the person I was with was... in a few ways, they didn't yet know who they were, to the point that the person I was with, in a manner of speaking, didn't really exist (this person is flesh-and-blood, though). That sounds complicated and confusing af, but I won't further explain that.

My political convictions. Anybody who looks at my blog for longer than a day can tell I seriously believe fundamental changes are necessary for the just survival of all life on Earth. I feel guilty that I haven't done a thing about it yet, but if I'm no longer around, I'd never be able to do anything, would I?

"I deserve better, and others do, too." The first part is a lot harder to accept, though. The very existence of the self feels inherently selfish and bad to me, even though I don't judge others the same way. It's a struggle.

Aside from that... I don't know.

13. (tw) Do you relate to the concept of Religious Trauma Syndrome?

I thought I'd heard that spiritual abuse is a thing, but I don't think I've heard before of Religious Trauma Syndrome. Um... yeah. Yeah, I relate to it. Nearly all the symptoms are ones I still struggle with, intensely, to this day.

Anyway, that just about covers the last questions, I think.

#asks #not technically an ask per se #but he sent an ask before #and said I could answer the other questions if I wanted to #and I finally decided I'd like to #hence this post

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halvatir · 6 years

Note

Hello mizu! Its okay if you're too busy/don't want to do it but could you do the more detailed character ask for flanel and randel? Curious anon here, have a good day!

hey there anon, hoping you’re having a good day too ( ᐛ )و - are you talking about this ask??? i’m not sure what you’re talking about but bless these kinds of tumblr blogs, here u go

btw the likes/dislikes are in reference to my interpretations for them, the fav/least fav moment are in reference in-game since y’know… these guys don’t exactly have ‘moments’ minus… idk, whoever the devs decide to feature in the updates (゜▽゜;)

flamel (… flanel lol i thought u were referring to another chara)

what i like about them: perfectly self-aware of himself: knows what his strengths + capabilities are and also his weaknesses + flaws, along with his morals + ideals + character. nope, any form of psychological bullshit won’t work on him. he’s absolutely aware of what he’s capable of doing and he’s not in denial about his shortcomings at all… what he does with that knowledge and what he plans to do about it is more of the question.

what i dislike about them: while flamel has a condescending air about him, he actually does not look down on people and he acknowledges others’ capabilities + character, even if they’re better than his own. that’s the problem: he knows or at least he has a general idea of a person’s capabilities + character, and what he dislikes the most is if it is not put to good use. without mercy, he can really say stinging observations about one’s failures and fears straight to their faces - the worst part is? it hurts, bc it’s true. he’s insensitive, but you can’t exactly deny his words either.

favorite moment: when i get his card lol bc i really like his card art??? not the mvp + biochemist one, the regular one - like… daMN??? i dig, he probably has the best regular card among the bio mobs imo

least favorite moment: ??? have u fought this fucker in-game??? no??? lucky u then, cecil’s still the queen bitch but mAN is flamel also a pain to fight, the last time i played ended up with my party dying partially bc of him and his clones

a situation with this character that i want to see explored more: not exactly a situation but his backstory??? or okay, something with his family - i know he’s nicholas flamel’s son but what about his mom? or what if: his parents announce that he’s about to have a sibling like??? what, i’m like around my 20s already then u tell me i’m gonna be an older bro i am questioning ur nightly activities??? cue a much needed slap from his mom lol

an interesting au for this character: lol i’d probably like to see flamel in a soulmate au where he feels the same emotions his partner does like wow he’s really irritated at it at first bc really why is this person so damned emotional / feel so much but eventually he’s able to compartmentalize his partner’s emotions from his own and he also takes note of the emotions his partner experiences in a journal daily, complete with time frames/lines??? that’s sort of sweet??? it also becomes a habit for him to look at the journal at the end of the day and think of reasons why his partner may have felt this way at each of the recorded times??? what’s funny tho is that despite the fact that he’s been taking note of his partner’s emotions for so long (probably middle school up to college?), he’s never gotten the urge to discover who his soulmate is, or to try find said person. sorry soulmate, you’re the one who’s gonna take initiative.

a crossover: top of my head, probably a fullmetal alchemist one lol - he’s probably some big shot alchemist then surprise surprise, one of his transmutation attempts fucked up him up pretty badly leading him to the gate of truth. he wakes up feeling ‘empty’ only to figure out that somehow his parts of him have taken the form of homonculi… and not just any kind of homonculi - they introduce themselves as a part of him, the sins in him that has made him the man he was today. they even call him father and take different human forms (lol, aka they take the form of his floormates, take a pick who represents each sin) - the revelation is in his travels tho while he’s trying to get to the homonculi, is that flamel himself embodies a sin, the seventh sin that completes all of them (try guessing what, lol). ooooh, this could probably be good if i actually fix this but yeah, there u go, it goes somewhere along those lines.

otp: none, actually.

other ships: kathryne // trentini

brotp: randel // alphoccio

notp: lady tanee hahAHAHA jk no seriously idk just ignore my first entry pls it was supposed to be a joke… maybe…

assortment of headcanons

surprise bitch, he’s the best chef in the biolabs but he ain’t gonna cook for anybody but himself - the only time he isn’t hung up on precise measurements + time is when he’s cooking

has a pair of reading glasses, uses them often and keeps them stored away neatly in his desk complete with a wipe - he always makes sure there’s adequate lighting + his reading glasses are present when he reads stuff, he sure cares for his eyes a lot

he… surprisingly follows a lot of good health practices - he always takes 15 - 20 min break if he’s been doing something for a straight hour (patrol + battles are exempted), drinks 8 glasses of water daily, sleeps early, etc.

his hands are always gloved - takes ‘em off only when he’s about to sleep. his right hand is pristine but his left hand has a strangely shaped burn mark that runs diagonally across his palm - it looks old.

he looks prim and proper but honestly his room is nuts - what’s more confusing is that he isn’t bothered by his room’s state at all + he knows exactly where his stuff is when he needs it, like… dude… how do u even know where to find ur shit in a warzone called ur room, teach me ur ways master

randel (oooh this is new)

what i like about them: he’s a very resolute yet flexible person: definitely not the type of person who’d go second-guessing on his decisions or would waver in times of crisis, but he’s not also the person who’d insist on pushing on with the initial goal/objective when difficulties or contradictions arise - he takes in the present situation + other factors & encountered facts and weighs them against the supposed goal/objective. from there he determines what he thinks would be the best course of action to take, and it takes him only a short time to do so even under pressure.

what i dislike about them: true to his class, he’s too self-sacrificing??? which is like… dude c’mon it’s probably an honor for the crusader line to die in the act of protecting others but still if u die, who’s going to protect those who can’t protect themselves? like yeah, he understands that too but he’s more inclined to believe that it’s better for him to be left behind/sacrificed/die in exchange for the lives of the majority. well - it’s either he’s that self-sacrificing or sadly, when weighed against the lives of the people he must protect, he doesn’t place that much value on his own life.

favorite moment: the feel when u don’t get his attention, seriously. pls let me sneak about ur floor in peace - i swear i went to church so pls stop with the grand + holy crosses

least favorite moment: fighting him is torture bc if rms data is right, 478,745 hp, man - he has the longest hp out of his floormates… and that’s just a regular randel… the paladin one has 3,870,000 and the mvp one a whopping 6,870,000… since his life is that fucking long, say goodbye to trying not to be mobbed by the other ghosts bc ur still busy trying to kill him, damn

a situation with this character that i want to see explored more: same like flamel, knowing his backstory would be A+ but… hmm, maybe something way back like his origins story or something, the story of why and what made him decide to be a swordsman/crusader. y’know, that’s if we’re assuming that he’s not from a family line of swordsmen/crusaders or something. idk, sometimes the thing is with characters who are in line with a faith/ideal is that i’m interested in what made them devote their lives to that certain faith/ideal in the first place.

an interesting au for this character: oooh, just… idk, a modern au where he suddenly ends up taking care of the bio2 kids who are orphans. he’s never mentioned it to anyone, not even to the people of his workplace who happen to be his friends/co-workers like for 4 years already. therein lies the problem: his friends on separate occasions have seen him with at least 2 or 1 of the kids. they all know randel isn’t married. the hair colors (cenia and laurell) + other features don’t match up. some distinctly heard a kid call him dad/daddy/father (see: wickebine, armaia, the rest respectively). conclusion: it’s either a) he’s babysitting as a part time job bc goddamn rekenber’s a cheap son of a bitch that won’t give him a raise, b) those kids are his cousins or something and are probably so fond of him that they see him as a father figure, or c) illegitimate chiLDREN FROM SOME ONE NIGHT STANDS ALRIIIGHT SCANDAL IN THE OFFICE. chaos ensues even before poor randel has a chance to explain himself.

a crossover: lol, idk… a shingeki one maybe where randel’s probably the head of the survey corps, watching over our fated trio (probably flamel/celia/chen for his floor, bio2&3′s are a mix&match). for some time, the trio don’t see him but strangely enough when the trio get old enough to join the corps, they discover that randel is considered a scum and a traitor to humanity by all three army regiments (survey, garrison, & military) which is strange bc randel is very well known and respected by humanity within the walls, wow. when the trio get deeper into his case, it turns out that randel vehemently fought against a group of scientists that were looking for human subjects for the ‘sake of saving humanity by using present resources’ - the three of them were seen as part of those potential resources and were eyed upon by the scientists were they were already young, along with other people from different parts of the walls (the other bio mobs). what happened to randel, however, is left in the air… was he even still alive, or had something important happened leading him to be branded as the traitor of humanity? politics, religion, science, drama, and titans (removers maybe lol) ensue.

otp: again, no solid one.

other ships: ????? surprising revelation is that i don’t exactly ship randel romantically, wow even i just discovered that now

brotp: his floormates - although honestly i think that one way or another, randel could be on everyone’s good side once they just get around to talking, probably

notp: zealotus oKAAAAY no seriously pls make me stop placing random mobs in this section

assortment of headcanons:

very, very religiously open + tolerant. he shows a lot of interest on other faiths and is knowledgeable even of various religious practices asides from his own. of course, he’s still steadfastly loyal to what he believes in first and foremost, but he feels no need to impart his beliefs to those who don’t / are reluctant to believe. he isn’t the type you’d see to be preaching about his faith either, that is unless you ask.

in line with the hc above, his tolerance also extends to people and their character + personalities, but he isn’t too tolerant to the point that he’d rationalize questionable actions + motives. he may have the patience of a saint, but no one’s so sure if they want to see him snap / test his patience to see what makes him tick. throwing bullshit about his faith doesn’t work on him, actually.

he’s pretty crafty - he pretty much taught himself other ways to help people, from practical stuff like sewing to more complicated stuff like woodwork + metal works, wow. he’s basically the ideal useful guy in survival crises… minus the fact that he can’t cook that well lol

he has the worst drinking tolerance among the bio3 + bio4 residents - the sign that he’s drunk is when his face shows more expression than usual + his posture breaks (the paladin randel card art lol). nobody knows bc damn son, he has a pretty good poker face and he can hold it for a really long time

... the only reason he grew his hair long is bc of a promise to his mother. he vowed that if ever he was to fall in love (and it was reciprocated) / find the person he would devote his life to, that would be the only time he would cut his hair, and his mother would do the honors... but... yeah... wow, i made myself feel sad

this was a lot of fun - thanks a lot for the ask anon, and i welcome your curiosity anytime! (　＾∇＾) i’m always in for a distraction from work lol

#anon #askdfghjl #hmm those aus tho... not bad #maybe i'd plot them out sometime lol

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viktorrotkiv · 7 years

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I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS

I just finished reading Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel (for the second time) and after crying myself to sleep last night bc of the feels I am ready to face the complete mess that is this series. Behold, all the things I still don’t have an answer to.

THERE WILL BE TONS OF SPOILERS

-what’s marethyu’s timeline???

-are there two codexes? bc abraham wrote one and gave it to tsagaglalal who gave it to josh who gave it to the flamels who gave (=was stolen) to dee who gave (the term ‘gave’ is used loosely) it to abraham… but only after abraham gave it to tsagaglalal, meaning in danu talis abraham has a codex and josh also has one, but abraham only wrote one so how can there be two,,, what,,,,,,

-again, josh’s timeline???

-what’s stopping the elders from trying to take over the world again in ten years? nobody actually defeated them. sure, you protected san fransisco, now what?

-wouldn’t there be retribution for machiavelli, billy, and black hawk for betraying their masters?

-isn’t machiavelli’s master aten? but aten is pro-humans ?????

-do the flamels live? the only way i can think of of them surviving is if marethyu gave them the codex, but assuming there’s only one codex, then he already gave it to them in the past so he doesn’t have it. UNLESS there are two codexes and marethyu got the one that abraham took from dee and there were two versions of marethyu on danu talis at different points of their timelines and they each had a codex

-time travelling is confusing

-in his letter to sophie josh says that ‘we’ (the flamels?) were at aoife and niten’s wedding, implying that sophie wasn’t. was she not invited? OR is she still in the past and couldn’t come, in which case a)why didn’t josh bring her to the wedding and then take her back in time to help the humans b)wait no she comes back to the point in time from which she left meaning she was in san fransisco before the wedding c)if she’s somehow not at that time (which i just realized makes no sense, read b)), how is josh sending her the letter?

-is dee dead? is billy? what about black hawk? i assume dee is dead, black hawk isn’t because the nereids are gone, and billy? what about him?

-wait so machiavelli’s body is now older right

-holy crap this is confusing

-who got aoife out of the shadowrealm? scatty? how?

-the isis and osiris who met sophie and josh in danu talis are the past versions of the isis and osiris who raised the twins; meaning it hasn’t happened for them yet. how do they recognize sophie and josh? how do they know their names? did they plan every tiny detail more than 10,000 years in advance? if so how did they know that sophie and josh would be popular names in the future??

-sophie lives her life and eventually dies (at the ripe old age of whatever physical age she died at + the time she spent as a baby in a shadowrealm + the 700 years she spent in the past) while josh lives on forever?? NOOO

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alleiradayne · 6 years

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writer’s process

@jonogueira remembered me! *squee*

So here are some questions about writing...

Short stories, novels, or poems?

Short stories and novels. I used to do poetry back in the day, but not anymore.

What genre do you prefer reading?

Modern fiction. I still have a fantasy idea that I think would be fun to nail down, I’m just really bogged down with so many projects.

What genre do you prefer writing?

Thrillers and romance. Together. Lots of action and lots of romance. :D

Are you a planner or a write-as-I-go kind of person?

I’ve done both. And I hate writing-as-I-go. Holy shit all I do is write myself into a corner when I do that. That’s the worst. I have to rewrite Bang Your Head, but for now, I’m letting it settle so I can outline my next big project and get it written.

What music do you listen to while writing?

Tons of stuff. Anything from metal, to drum & bass, to classical, to jazz, to classic rock, to soundtracks. I have playlists...

Fave books/movies?

Books: This list is hard because sometimes I forget the shit I’ve read. But off the top of my head: A Song of Ice and Fire, Sword of Truth, Wheel of Time, Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, Harry Potter, Great Gatsby, Brave New World, All Quiet on the Western Front, Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel... there’s more.

Movies: Blues Brothers, Back to the Future, Thor: Ragnarok, Black Panther, Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Hidden Figures, there’s a ton more I could put here.

Any current WIPs?

The End, which is a five-act longfic for Supernatural featuring Sam and Dean and two original female characters that are hunters.

Curing the Cursed, which is a one-shot within the The End universe, featuring Sam and Natalie, one of the original characters.

I actually have a beta right now. And she is just... out of this world. I cannot express how amazing she is. So while it’s taking me a really long time to get this stuff written and posted, it’ll be worth it because it’ll be hella polished and clean and won’t require me to go back and fix stupid shit later. :P

If someone were to make a cartoon out of you, what would your standard outfit be?

plaid, skinny jeans, boots.

Create a character description for yourself:

Wild purple curls frame a deceptively young, petite, square face with wide hazel eyes. Though short in stature, she carries herself with an air of confidence, bordering on arrogant. But she wears an approachable smile more often than not. A short conversation belays her demure appearance of plaid, jeans, and boots; “fuck” is bandied about like punctuation.

Do you like incorporating people you actually know into your writing?

Amallia is an amalgamation of myself and my husband. But that’s about it.

Are you kill-happy with characters?

Nope, I killed Alistair once and was absolutely depressed for days after that. It was an excellent piece of writing and really hit all the emotional beats I wanted, but got damn, I cried.

Coffee or tea while writing?

Waaaaaaateeeeeerrrrrrrr

Slow or fast writer?

Slow. Slow af. Seriously a sentence could take me an hour to craft. And English is my only language.

Where/who/what do you find inspiration from?

Mostly lived experiences and the people around me. Supernatural is a great storytelling agent because it allows a writer to dress a message up in a monster. The moster is just a vehicle for a theme. So I’m focusing on very concrete themes of trust, respect, integrity, honesty, and love for this fanfic.

If you were put into a fantasy world, what would you be?

A motherfuckin’ dragon.

Most fave book cliche? Least fave book cliche?

Most: Riding off into the sunset with a newfound family.

Least: Killing characters to shock readers... and no GRRM does not do this, Ned’s death was fucking obvious. The show doesn’t understand that, though.

Fave scenes to write?

Heavy emotional scenes. Action sequences. Foreshadowing is fun, too.

Oh, and sex. Smut is hella fun.

Most productive time of day for writing?

i’m not sure; it feels random. Sometimes I get inspire and write a shit ton. Sometimes I don’t. I think it’s at night. But if I have distractions (internet, another person, work) I find it impossible to write.

Reason for writing:

Because I fucking love it. I love telling stories. I always have. Whether verbal or written, I absolutely love telling stories. I probably would have been a damn Bard in a fantasy setting, not a dragon. Or a Dragon that’s a Bard. Can you imagine that? My hoard would be musical instruments and scrolls of stories. I smell a plot bunny...

Here’s the part where I admit that I’m a terrible member of the fanfiction community. I am terrible at reading fanfiction and I tend to forget who and what I’ve read. So I’m only going to tag a few people...

@@@oneshoeshort , @@@supernatural-jackles , and @fuckyou-mavhenan .

#writing thingy

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wildmanesestate · 7 years

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Hi!

“Welcome to the Wildmane Estate” Says a young looking man, appearing to be in his mid-to-late twenties, as you approach. “My name, if you must know, is Zachary Wildmane. Also Nicholas Flamel, or Zachary of the Hunt, if you’d prefer either of those.” The man seemed amused for some reason “Although if you call me Nicholas Flamel, I may find a reason for you to go... ah, shall we say on a long trip, one which you probably won’t come back from.” The man chuckled to himself at his little joke, before noticing your more than likely unammused expression. “I kid, I kid.”

//For those of you who are unaware, this is how I, and I’m sure I’m not the only one, writes in OOC, or out of character, text.//

//Text written as such, bolded and italicized, is in character actions, unless within quotations and in direct conjunction to in character speech, in which case the bold is used for emphasis.//

//”Text written, not just in italics, but with quotation marks around it is USUALLY going to be in character speech, unless written within character actions for emphasis. i.e. “Zachary Wildmane, at your service.” Zachary said to the “man” in front of him. It was obvious this thing wasn’t a Man, but then again, neither was he at this point.//

//This is to be a page devoted to OC roleplay within a fantasy setting. I will also be posting my own creative writing about interactions between my characters (because I have more than one).//

//The MAIN characters I will be roleplaying with here are as follows, and it’s a relatively extensive list, so please try to bear with me, I will list all abilities and descriptions thereof listed at the end..//

//Zachary Wildmane, AKA Nicholas Flamel, is a strong mage, one whose strength is unknown in it’s entirety. Zachary uses an adaptation of the Will and the Word, something that only a handful of other individuals have been even remotely capable of considering using, much less actually using. The Will and the Word is also called Reality Warping, although in actuality, it is much more akin to Nigh-Absolute Creation, Nigh-Absolute Destruction, Reality Negation, and Reality Warping Negation bundled into one ability than it is Reality Warping. The User can only do as much as they can visualize and imagine within their reality. Zachary Wildmane is also Raven Atkinson’s //

//Marcoh Fuller belongs to a class of Demi-Angels known as Ascended. These are Angels who fell or who were cast from heaven and regained more than their original strength and power with means other than redemption. An adaptation of Marcoh’s full bio and abilities will be posted below.//

//Raven Atkinson was a bastard-born child under a cursed star. She was given the Pact of the Seven Sins, the only person to have received this Pact in 3000 years. The pact caused Raven to be tormented by people for being different, and then when the pact lashed back for her, she was terrified of herself and has since tried to distance herself from people as best she can. Raven’s abilities and an adaptation of her bio will be available below.//

//Marcoh’s Bio://

//Marcoh wandered this world for many months and years with a broken and fragmented memory. What he was able to piece together from these fragmented shards was that he was the Archangel of Fates. He saw every potential future for every living being that had ever and would ever exist. Eventually this made him irritable, snapping occasionally at his fellow angels. Eventually, he was driven insane and, taken over by this madness, transformed into a large beast. Marcoh killed many angels and even a few minor gods before he was cast out from heaven. When he awoke, it was in the bed of a stranger. His mother, or, the woman claiming to be his mother, was not the woman who raised him. He was cold and broken and alone. Eventually, he was able to figure out what happened, via his poor fragmented memories. On his "16th" birthday, Marcoh, for that was the name of the stranger whose bed he slept in, received a large hammer as a gift from the artisan blacksmith who called herself his mother, with the warning "This hammer may take you to great places, dear, but you mustn't ever forget your home here..." And on to great places Marcoh went. He left his small hometown and journeyed the world. Marcoh found love eventually, in spite of his blackened wings, and with the strength of that love was able to eventually cast off his curse. The love of his life was kidnapped by an old enemy of Marcoh's, whom he didn't remember clearly. Marcoh tormented himself with that knowledge, that he wasn't powerful enough to protect the woman he loved. He let it torment him... and eventually, he reverted to that primal form... That beast, which he despised so much. The beast, mindless as it was, tried to hunt for the enemy, but instead ended up attacking Marcoh's fiance. Through amazing force of willpower, or perhaps an act of some God somewhere, Marcoh was able to see through the haze of red that clouded his vision and recognize the strange creature he was attacking. He fled, and Polaris chased him. Marcoh eventually looked back and saw that Polaris had fallen and injured herself. Overcome with grief, the beast that was Marcoh felt the haze clearing. Marcoh was in control... for the moment. The animal approached Polaris and licked the wound for a few moments, only able to make his bestial features say three words. "Polaris... Marcoh sorry..." Not a very good sentence, I'll grant you, but given the circumstances, one would be surprised to see that much. Marcoh's apology was accepted without thought or hesitation, and with a love pure enough to completely break the curse. Marcoh curled into a ball and a dark purple light enshrouded him. Then... Marcoh burst forth in a blast of white light, his features serene, his eyes a piercing sky blue as opposed to their usual thundercloud grey, his wings pure, untainted white, and his memory completely returned. Marcoh was Ascended. Finally, Marcoh's memory had returned, and he could feel more astral and arcane energy pouring through him than he ever had. He was stronger than any Angel, Archangel, or God there ever was or would ever be... He was Ascended.//

//Marcoh’s abilities://

//[[Destiny's Shackles]] Marcoh has the ability to chain the soul of a person onto a physical object. The nature of this chain is similar to that of a Lich's Phylactery, or soul box, to the extent of the soul dying with the object's destruction. However, prior to the object's destruction, the shackled soul is able to construct a new body even after the old one is destroyed. Marcoh can also unshackle a soul at will. [[Immortality]] Marcoh cannot die of old age. [[Primordial Light Manipulation]] Marcoh can manipulate the Primordial Light of Creation, which represents the lighter, warmer side of creation. Opposite to Primordial Darkness Manipulation. Marcoh can use this ability for many things, from creation of constructs, to attacking, to defending in combat situations. The Primordial Light of Creation, as a Primordial Entity, is beyond concepts of Good, Evil, or Neutrality. [[Flame of the Inner God]] Marcoh has the physical strength, stamina, magical strength, enhanced speed and durability of a God. This does not mean Marcoh is unkillable, however. Marcoh is also given the ability to transform into a Primordial Flame Elemental. This ability also gives him access to a number of new powers, Primordial Fire Manipulation, Fire Manipulation, Hellfire Manipulation, Holy Fire Manipulation, and a Fire Immunity. However, Marcoh is weaker to water in this state, holy, unholy, or otherwise. Marcoh also loses an attatchment to alignments of Good, Evil, Chaos, Lawfulness or Neutrality, and no aura is detectable around him. [[Archangel of Destiny Reborn]] Marcoh was the Archangel of Destiny before he was cast out of Heaven. He has retained some of his abilities from his time as an Archangel of Destiny, including an immunity to time manipulation magic, space manipulation magic, and the ability to manipulate time and space to an extent. He also has minor probability control, coin flips, dice rolls etc. etc. Marcoh can also move between timelines, or out of all timelines altogether. [[Divine Territory]] Marcoh can create an area protected by divine power which damages and repels anything of evil that attempts to enters its range of influence. This ability is a powerful defensive skill which allows Marcoh to hold off even the most powerful of dark entities to formulate a counterattack.//

//Raven’s abilities://

//[[Pact of the Seven Sins, Greed]] The Sin of Greed causes a demon to appear and fight alongside Raven. The demon is a large creature made of stones, a long lost power holding them together loosely. [[Pact of the Seven Sins, Lust]] The Sin of Lust causes a maelstrom to circle around Raven, causing anyone who comes too close to be buffeted by wind and hurt by anything caught in said wind. If the person gets within an arms length of her, the person is at risk of being blown off of their feet. [[Pact of the Seven Sins, Gluttony]] The Sin of Gluttony causes the minds of her opponents to fade temporarily, going to a place spoken of only in nightmares and at the edge of the abyss. The place where everyone fears: The dark. Not just the dark of say, your bedroom at night, but pure darkness, nothing permeates it, not the glow of a thousand stars, not even the strongest of fire magics. The physical body isn't consumed, only the mind, so this ability causes no physical damage, but occasionally causes psychological damage in the weak willed. [[Pact of the Seven Sins, Wrath]] Raven grows claws and sprouts horns of dark blue flames. She also enters a state in which all she craves is the heat of battle. This is her least favorite ability, as her memory afterwards is occasionally hazy. [[Pact of the Seven Sins, Envy]] The Sin of Envy causes a single target to suddenly burst into flames, and then a bolt of flames bursts out in the cardinal directions and latch on to the first thing they touch. [[Pact of the Seven Sins, Sloth]] The Sin of Sloth causes a space roughly a cubic foot to implode, leaving a temporary space of nothingness, until matter rushes back in causing a concussive blast. Anyone too close will get the full impact and be sucked towards the sudden emptiness in an attempt to fill the gap and then blasted out. [[Pact of the Seven Sins, Pride]] The Sin of Pride causes the ground to become frozen around Raven. Whoever sets foot on the frozen ground will begin to freeze, with ice physically forming around them and eventually encapsulating them completely.//

//If you’re still here, I appreciate you taking the time to read all of this. I’m sure all of my characters do too. If you ever want to roleplay with me, feel free to inbox me. I’d love to have my inbox blown up with people wanting to roleplay.//

#oc rp blog #oc rp #marcoh fuller #zachary wildmane #raven atkinson

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