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thornswoggled · 19 days

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on chises family, "a storm brewing in the east," and future arcs

hello im back from two years of not posting on this sideblog to spitball a theory thats been burning a hole in my brain since i caught up with the manga. all loose speculation, id be extremely interested to hear thoughts on this

now that fumiki is back in the picture, id like to theorize that yuuki hatori will soon follow. for the purpose of this theory im going to skip all the reasons why yori is absolutely fumiki. imo theres no point addressing all the evidence here, but id be happy to summarize if not. more attention being paid to chises life in japan, chise wondering why her father "abandoned his role," and elias expressing curiosity over the circumstances that led her to meet seth are all hints towards yuukis story coming to light

one thing TAMB does that i love is how tertiary characters are facsimiles meant to help us understand our main characters. for example, all the "toxic" pairs we see in season 1 that we are meant to compare and contrast elias and chise to, all in various ways that help us understand the ways their relationship might evolve. these minor characters may seem unimportant, but are preparing us to accept developments in the main cast. i believe there are two characters in the college arc that are prepping us for yuuki hatoris story - seth noel and adam sargent

lets first address fumiki, who ill just call yori. yori seems to have mastery over his eyes, which "have the power to bind [fae]" according to gabriella. this is a power both he and yuuki have, which protects chise and chika for a time. however, chika implies in chapter 19 that he didnt always have this ability, or perhaps didnt have the sight at all until he became involved with her. which is strange, considering yori has a "family business" important enough to require he study abroad to train for:

lets run with the idea that yuuki started off with weak or nonexistent powers. have any other men in this series been booted from their families because they lacked the skill?

its possible that this "family business" (assuming yuuki didnt found it himself, and that yori doesnt just mean the church, which i dont think he does because he seems specialized in exorcism) eventually learned that yuuki acquired his binding powers, as well as a child with the same ability. again, are there are other men who are forcibly dragged back into their family, to the detriment of their young daughters?

theres a few reasons why i think such care and time was put into the backstory of philomelas family. chise has done much of the character growth thats possible for her at this time, and attempts to "fix" philomela as a way of fixing herself. she projects on her, and for good reason too, since we are meant to compare them almost 1:1. i believe that the amount of time sunk into adam sargents story is meant to warm us up to understanding yuukis situation, regardless of whether we are meant to forgive him for his abandonment. seths story, too, introduces us to the idea of magical families booting their unworthy kin. which leads us to:

going back to the screencap for the beginning, lets give yuuki the benefit of the doubt and assume hes being truthful when he promises hell be back for the girls one day. this phrasing is really interesting, and i feel like it implies yuuki knows the place hes going is too dangerous for them. assuming hes returning to his family, or to some sort of organization (which i say because yori is part of the conclave/church), perhaps hes afraid that theyll be taken advantage of. or... maybe he was just lying! there is very little we understand about the church, so there are all manner of reasons why yuuki and yori may have ended up involved with them

so, great, okay. fumiki is here, and yuuki may be coming soon. under what context might he show his face? i have some ideas, but this soon into the arc everything is too subject to change. im also not convinced any of this will be addressed in the fiendbane arc. after all, yori was first introduced at the beginning of the college arc, and is only now becoming relevant. so all of this may only be laying the groundwork for yuuki to return in another arc, if not this one, which appears to have a lot cooking already with the dragon, the new mage, etc. but then again, we get oberons little prophecy:

i think we all understand this is japan, right. like, it has to be. it doesnt seem that oberons phrasing in the JP text matches what the great wall of china is called in japanese, but i dont think we are meant to interpret it any other way. what else could it mean, hadrians wall? cmon

all of this focus on chises family, past, and meeting with seth are perhaps warming us up to these people and places becoming relevant when the storm breaks. and i believe yori and yuuki will be the ones to involve chise in it all. now, at this point its clear yori doesnt know who chise is, and is just as likely to not know he had a sister at all. but i think this guy knows:

now... i double checked, and im almost certain this is not seths bodyguard. they have similar hair and fashion, but seths bodyguard parts his hair to the side. its been so long since yuuki has appeared in the manga that its impossible to know for sure if this is him, and im not confident at all that he is. they share some qualities for sure, but that doesnt mean much in this medium. he certainly has yoris swooping hair, at least, so if hes not yuuki he might still be related to him. in the same family business, perhaps? all we know is that hes been here before, and may have been keeping tabs on them in the same way the church does

the use of "wrest" in the above panel is notable here. to wrest is to forcibly take something, and what kind of "blessing" would they want to seize from elias' possession? maybe a useful slay vega that yuuki failed to disclose? if, IF this is yuuki, his demeanor has changed much over the years, and perhaps he is more willing to put chise to use now that he knows where she is. its possible yuuki is making good on his promise, and really is coming back for his daughter like he said he would. we have, after all, seen in chapter 99 how liam and isaac are both unwilling to return to their homes, and the sudden development of philomela being taken in by the scrimgeours. again, philomela is meant to be a near 1:1 chise dupe, so its compelling that we are just now seeing her spirited away to join another family without warning. again, developments among secondary characters prep us for developments among the main cast

again, too soon to tell, and the next chapter is coming soon, so theres a chance this will all immediately blow up in my face. however, we have already seen chise get scouted by another mage, and elias considers how frightened he is that chise will desire something "he cant provide." so how catastrophic would it be if she was also compelled to rejoin her family, searching for answers and closure in a way elias cannot understand? personally id love to see it, though itll be a long way off

do you think yuuki is coming back? do you think yori is a red herring? let me know. ill leave you with this

#the ancient magus bride #mahoutsukai no yome #tamb #mtny #this took like two hours to write im gonna go eat dinner now #original

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the-insouciant-scientist · 7 months

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@fallenlondonficswap @the-dye-stained-socialite

For the general swap. Hope this brings a smile to your face!

A Confession of Whimsy

Clothes Colony & Elias Leroux, General/teen? rating, 1594 words. A Hallowmas fic.

There is no way that this could go wrong, it thought to itself.

A crown-masked reveller walked past the alleyway, singing in a deep voice that boomed like a foghorn, and startled it out of its reverie. It dropped to the ground instinctively, loose silks floating in the air as gravity took over. If anyone had bothered to look, all they would have seen was a loose pile of discarded clothing with a smiling devil mask sitting on top.

Alright. Perhaps there were some ways that this could go wrong.

The Clothes Colony rose only when it was sure no one else lurked nearby. It fussed with its fabrics, making sure each “arm” was well stuffed and that no “skin” was showing. A single wanderlusty glove could mean catastrophe, after all. London’s streets were not as friendly as Polythreme’s. Quite literally. It shuffled the mask back into an approximation of a face, even trying to line up some buttons behind the eyeholes to mimic the glimmer of hidden eyes.

A Perfectly Normal Human Person dressed in Hallowmas costume stumbled out of the alley. One shoe went backwards as they tried to lean against a wall and play it cool. A whisper of fabric travelled down one pant leg, and the errant footwear righted itself. They nodded politely to a couple of drunk young Bohemians, who did a triple take as they went on their way.

A seamless disguise indeed. They puffed up slightly with pride. Who would ever suspect them of being anything other than Human? No one, that’s who.

They made a show of looking around with their mask, because humans generally only see out the front of their faces, and then shambled in the direction that had the most excited chatter and music.

It was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. People dressed in so many fine costumes (and how they ached to take pieces of them into themselves!), lights dazzled like polished cloak-clasps, and singing rang out from every corner. They were so overcome that they nearly floated away for a second.

Oh, they simply had to talk to everyone! They turned to the person nearest to them, clasping their gloves firmly around hers. “We are so pleased to meet you! We have never been here be-fore!” They said loudly, and not entirely with anything that could be considered a mouth. The reveller squeaked in surprise at being grabbed and scurried off, leaving her glove behind as she slipped away. A gift! A lovely Hallowmas gift, just for them, how kind! Stuffing it into what could charitably be called their chest, they glanced eagerly around. Who could they greet next?

"Hello good-day!" It called out to lithe person in an infant mask. "Happy Hallowmas!" The person perked up, obviously delighted to see such an impressive costume, yes yes! The person grasped at their devil-masked partner's hand and pointed in their direction. An introduction! The Clothes Colony shuffled hopefully towards them. "It is good to meet you!"

"Good to meet… you… too?" The devil-masked reveller said shyly. The one in the infant mask elbowed him gently. "I mean, the pleasure is all mine! Happy Hallowmas." He corrected himself. The Colony reached out and shook his hand vigorously, arms flopping excitedly around with every shake.

"Happy Hallowmas, and good-bye! We are so pleased to have met you!" They said, nodding hard in lieu of a smile. They would have loved to stay and talk more, but there were so many people to meet! So many confessions to give and receive! So much wine to drink? Probably not that. Too much risk of staining. They spun on one heel, errant shoe nearly getting dizzy again, and waved as they made their way back into the crowds. And to think that no one even knew that they were made of clothes! A master of disguise at a masquerade truly is twice hidden.

"Was that… what?" The devil-masked reveller asked, levelling a confused grimace at their retreating form. The infant-masked one cackled.

"No bloody idea. Rubbery, maybe?" They said with a sharp grin.

"That was not a rubbery person. Absolutely not." He responded.

"Didn't look like there were bones in there, darling."

The devil-masked reveller shook out the hand that whatever it was had shaken. Their grip had been very firm, but weirdly flexible and dense. "Uh, no, no bones." He said. His partner crowed in triumph. "Dooooesn't mean it's Rubbery." He followed up. The infant-masked reveller groaned, and smacked his shoulder. He caught their hand and kissed it with a smile.

"Alright, alright, fine." They said, rolling their eyes theatrically. "Still, that's a mystery that'll haunt me forever."

The devil-masked reveller swept them off their feet and they shrieked. "Not if I haunt you forever first." He teased, and carried them off in search of more wine as they sighed happily.

In the meantime, the Clothes Colony had amassed a little hoard of new parts and couldn't be happier. Lost gloves, a discarded silk domino mask, even a single scarlet stocking were eagerly added to their bulk. Someone had even stacked a hat on top of theirs! How lovely! But ah, still so much to do. They hurried onwards with delight in their chest.

And promptly tripped and fell onto a fellow celebrant.

"Ah!" They said, voice flat but high. "Sorry, so sorry, we did not mean to-"

A pleasant laugh sounded from beneath them before a mellow contralto voice came through. "Hey, it's okay, I promise! Are you alright?" The person asked, gently helping them back to standing. A loose crocheted baby sock clung to one of their wrists and they regarded it with amusement. "Here, I think this belongs to you." They said, offering it back to them. The Colony took it back carefully and led it back to its home in the thumb of their left glove.

What a close call! But their quick thinking and masterful sneakiness once again had protected their identity-

"Apologies if this is forward of me, but," the stranger quirked a grin, "are you a Clothes Colony?" Their gant moth mask glimmered in the low light.

Ack! Agh! How could this have happened? They had hidden their nature so perfectly, how could this stranger see through them so quickly? They shook their head emphatically, crossing what passed for their arms in front of themself in an ‘x’. "No, we are Human, what is a Clothes Colony, good-day to you, we-are-pleased-to-meet-you-good-bye." They insisted as they scurried backwards. A seamless cover up indeed. A flawless recovery.

Until they tripped again, over the exact same cobble. They yelped and managed to right themself near-perfectly, except.

Except for their backwards shoe, who realized too late what it had done wrong again and decided to cut its losses by just giving up entirely and walking away on its own. It was only after much hissing and whispering from the other garments that it sulked back into place.

"No, no, it's okay! I've met clothes colonies before, when I visited Polythreme." The celebrant explained. They perked up at that. This stranger had been to their home? "I always love meeting you all, you're so friendly. I'm Elias, by the way."

The Clothes Colony nodded enthusiastically. Yes, they were friendly! Very friendly! "We heard of a festival of masks and costume and secrets. We wanted to see for our selves and so we came across the zee to say hello and make new friends." It chattered. "The people here are nice and they think we are a people too because we have come in dis-guise! How did you tell otherwise?"

Elias looked for a second as if they were trying very, very hard not to laugh. "You're about ten kilos sopping wet, my love." They said. "And really, no one has noticed?"

"Not a single person!" The Colony proclaimed proudly. No less than a dozen people throughout the room were sporadically glancing at them in curiosity, confusion, suspicion, or all three. Most of that dozen were missing smaller pieces of their costumes.

"That's… impressive." Elias settled on. They tried for an encouraging smile. "But if you're amenable, I do have an idea that might make things a little easier for you.”

"Oh?" They said curiously.

"You want to experience this festival as a human does, yes? And I'm a bit overstimulated from all the noise and touch. So, why don't we work together? If you understand what I'm asking." Elias said, a delighted grin tugging at their cheeks. "Only caveat is that I'll be doing the wheeling around. You can still talk to whoever you like, though."

The Clothes Colony could have jumped for joy if that didn't risk their smaller articles of clothing going flying. "Yes, yes, you shall wear us! We shall roam these streets together!" They said, wasting no time in getting extremely cozy with Elias.

"That sounds wonderfu- oh! Alright, oh my!" Elias laughed as clothing squirmed into place. Some of the smaller articles found a proper place on them, but most of the larger ones contented themselves with simply wrapping around them like a Tomb-Colonist's bandages. Elias gave a pleased hum as they were gently squeezed. It was surprisingly calming, like a full body hug. They no longer felt on the brink of an anxiety-headache. That was a relief.

"We wish to play a game. Apple bobbing! We have teeth. With which to pick up the apple!" The Colony said excitedly.

"Whatever you like, my dear." Elias replied with a smile, and wheeled on towards the game stands.

#fallen london fic swap #others ocs #elias leroux #the scientist scribbles #i am trying so hard to space these out but im having an absolute blast #also this clothes colony was so unexpectedly fun to write skdvsks it has so much unfounded hubris #its a delightful voice to write in #the-dye-stained-socialite #a copy of your bazaarine tale

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 11 months

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Corrupted Snippet: TMA x Malevolent crossover

Tim opened a book he shouldn't have, and now has the last remaining god in the universe stuck in his head.

In the process of dealing with that, he was marked by the Desolation - a Fear entity, based on rage.

He's turned - reluctantly - to the Magnus Institute for help.

There is a lot going on here.

Tim feels out of his league.

Maybe he is.

But he's unnervingly certain that he could still burn it all down...

(As always, snippet is unedited, tenses are screwy, etc. Still fun!)

-------------

Bouchard is waiting for them. How about that.

The old woman looks disappointed.

“Thank you, Gertrude,” says Elias. “Tim, if you please - right this…” He stops.

Stares.

“Interesting,” he murmurs.

“Are you sure you want to handle this?” says the murderous old bat.

“Yes, it’ll be fine. He’s not a danger,” says Bouchard.

He’s lying. You are.

Tim is not in a position to respond to that, but he wants to. With something. Probably sarcastic.

Except… Bouchard’s look.

“Jon,” says Bouchard, suddenly. “I will need to see you after this meeting. All right? Clear your schedule. It’s going to be a bit of a thing.”

Jon looks absolutely spooked. “Sure, of course, Elias. Right.”

“You’re not being fired,” says Bouchard, almost gently.

Lara “Gertrude” Croft looks highly suspicious.

“Right,” says Jon, glancing back and forth.

Then he flees.

Aww, Tim thinks. “That guy needs a movie night,” he says out loud.

Gertrude blinks at him.

“You know. With friends? A bit of beer, or something? Snacks? Everybody cozy in socks? Bras off?”

She stares harder.

“Right. Maybe you need one, too,” says Tim.

Bouchard clears his throat. “Shall we?”

“Sure.” Tim gives her his brightest smile.

She does not respond.

Well, now she’s a challenge.

Tim, warns Yellow, who could mean anything.

Bouchard waits, holding open his door.

Tim walks in.

Bouchard’s look has not changed. Thoughtful. Penetrative. He gestures to the seat across from the desk, and sits behind it, fingers steepled.

“You really make a guy sweat with a look like that,” says Tim.

“I’m glad to hear it,” says Bouchard like that wasn’t creepy. “And please - do call me Elias.”

“Sure,” says Tim.

“So you’ve had an adventure of some kind since I last saw you,” Elias says.

“Yeah. That old bat out there tried to kill me for no damn reason.”

She was rather aggressive, says Yellow.

Elias grants Yellow a little nod - not quite a bow, but a distinctly respectful movement.

Tim can feel immediately that it worked - that Yellow liked it, responds to it, maybe is weak to it.

Manipulation. It was manipulation.

Tim frowns a little.

“I must apologize for her, not that I have any control over her, really,” says Elias Bouchard. “The fact is that when it’s time to stop her, I’m going to have to kill her - but she makes a marvelous distraction in the meantime, doesn’t she?”

Tim gawks.

Yes… I see your point. And of course, she’s done so since before you claimed this body, am I right?

Tim gawks more, this time at himself. Or the one in his head, anyway.

Elias does that little bow again. “I see you don’t miss much.”

No.

“I am mindful of it.”

I’d guess… in the neighborhood of two centuries?

“Very good! Yes. I’m surprised one such as yourself would be aware of such mortal lifetimes.”

More manipulation. Because Yellow responds like a cat petted along its spine, arching its arse in the air.

I’ve had to pay attention to such things. Human bodies are… regrettably fragile.

Tim frowns this time, feeling the anger rising, trying to push it down. “Hey, old guys. I’m still here, you know,” he says, and can’t help himself, because "so young" feels like it must be branded on his forehead right now, guaranteeing he’s ignored.

“Yes, and that is a perfect segue,” says Elias, smooth as fucking butter. “I don’t know what happened yesterday. I know Gertrude came back with her memory altered; I know whatever you got involved with raised a sort of… fog through which I could not see.”

Tim stares. “You were watching?”

“I watch everything I can, Mister Stoker,” says Elias, as though this is perfectly normal. “That is how I serve my patron. But I could not see what happened.”

Tim doesn’t care to tell him. Elias just rubs him wrong.

Chaos. That’s what happened.

“Fair enough. Unfortunately, there is one thing I do see: Mister Stoker… you have been marked.”

I had a feeling you could see that, says Yellow.

Tim feels… bad?

He hunches a little. It’s not a familiar feeling, this. He's not even sure "bad" is the right word.

“This does place me in an awkward position,” says Elias. “You have, in a manner of speaking, been claimed by a patron other than mine, and they tend to be… possessive.”

Yet you have not thrown us out, says Yellow warmly (because the manipulation seems to have worked), and Tim frowns just a pinch harder.

“Naturally. I’ve never seen anything like this - which means, I fear, that you are practically catnip for me.”

And the two old assholes laugh, and Tim has almost had enough.

(But should he have had enough?)

(Wouldn’t he be more patient with this nonsense, normally?)

“Right,” he says. “So. What do we do? Because Yellow here thinks we should hide, and I know fucking well that won’t work.”

“I have to agree with you, Mister Stoker.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “We’re all on first-name basis here, I guess. Tim.”

Elias does a little gracious nod - but it is not the same one he gave Yellow.

Tim knows the difference.

He’s angry.

“Fascinating,” Elias whispers, then - Tim can tell - focuses on Yellow again. “Will you forgive some prying? What is your actual name?”

“You don’t have to tell him,” says Tim.

I know. I’m weighing whether his aid is worth whatever price he extracts.

“I assure you, whatever ‘price I extract’ is going to be observation-based. That is, after all, what I’m all about.”

Weird.

Very weird.

Because Tim thinks Elias just lied.

There’s no reason for it. He can’t see any difference in face or body language.

But he’s sure Elias lied.

The anger bubbles, slowly simmering.

And Yellow… doesn’t seem to see it. I’ve had… various names.

Elias is looking so damned intense. “I would love to know. It might even help me refine my current thought on how to give you some… support.”

“I don’t know that we should trust you,” says Tim.

And is ignored.

Are they trying to make him mad?

Maybe they are. Maybe it’s test, two assholes playing a game, to see how he handles his weird, growing rage.

Tim licks his lips and barely keeps the lid on.

I see no reason to hold this back, Yellow decides.

“Yellow,” warns Tim.

I have been called Hastur. I have been called… the King in Yellow.

So that’s where the name came from! “Ah-ha!” says Tim.

Elias’ eyes light up like he just won the lottery. “Phenomenal,” he whispers. “Lord of Carcosa. Regaled in a gown of yellow, twice as tall as any man! Majestic, he glides over the ground to take his throne in lost Carcosa, for he is the king that was and shall be!”

Tim actually rolls his eyes. “Really? Fucking really?”

But that is not Hastur - Yellow’s - reaction. Yes.

“Well… I am, I will not lie, deeply honored,” Elias lies, and does a proper bow.

“You can’t be buying this,” Tim snaps.

Tim.

“No! He’s lying! Don’t you see that he is?”

What I see, Tim, is that he’s playing the game, as am I - and which you will have to learn if we are going to survive.

Oh, and now Yellow’s reprimanding him?

The metaphorical lid is beginning to bounce on the pot of Tim’s anger, clanging, jarring out of place with rising rage.

And Elias sees.

Tim knows that he sees.

Elias is enjoying this.

Rein it in, Tim tells himself, because this isn’t like him, this isn’t usual, he’s a patient man, he’s dealt with shit like this from shitty managers all in the past, this isn’t new, this… he doesn’t have to… he…

“Your self-control is extraordinary,” says Elias, softly. “I’m very impressed, Tim. And I appreciate it. I don’t particularly want to be burned - so I thank you.”

And that time, he wasn’t lying.

He did that on purpose, Tim thinks, struggling, because Tim was an idiot and revealed he could tell when Elias lied, and that smooth son of a bitch has already adjusted tactics.

Tim.

“What?” Tim snaps between clenched teeth.

Please.

Well, fuck, what was Tim supposed to do with that?

They’re both waiting to see what he does with that.

If I give in now, Tim thinks to himself, as clearly as he can, I’m destroying me, for no fucking reason, because Yellow won’t trust me anymore, and Elias won’t help. So come on, you. Pull it together.

He breathes slowly. Deeply.

Shuddering.

“You are remarkable,” says Elias. “I wouldn’t have guessed - forgive me.”

He is, says Yellow, as though he somehow fomented this himself.

“I think I hate you both right now?” says Tim.

“Fair,” says Elias. “And I apologize for putting you in the position we have - quite unintentionally, I assure you. I had not intended to make you feel in any particularly unpleasant way.”

Again - he’s telling the truth now.

Elias, Tim realizes, is a fucking dangerous piece of work.

“Okay,” says Tim.

You have an idea? says Yellow.

“I do. This is, of course, based on research and memories from those in my line going back some thousands of years. If I understand correctly, your current vulnerability is largely based on… well. Your host’s mortality.”

That isn’t… fully accurate.

“As opposed, let’s say, to possessing a body closer to what you had before?”

There are no bodies here closer to what I had before.

“What if one could be created? How would that affect your situation?”

Tim has no idea. “What, give him his own body? Separate us?”

There’s a long silence.

“So…” Tim prompts.

I need to… consider this. You say it as if there were a possibility of such a thing.

Elias’ eyes lid. It’s like he knows he’s hooked a fish, and can take his time reeling it in. “Well. You no doubt feel the… stored power of this place. That is because we collect artefacts. This particular hobby is not a new one. I may - theoretically - know of some deific flesh, carefully preserved in crystal. And I may - theoretically - know someone who could potentially use it to craft you a new body.”

“Why would you go to all that trouble?” says Tim.

“Because it will be an amazing thing to watch, and as things currently stand, you won’t live long enough to… ah. I apologize.”

“Scratch your itch?” says Tim, dry. “Get you the fuck off?”

“Something like that,” says Elias, who isn’t so easy to ruffle.

I need to think about this.

“Of course you do. Might I suggest you stay here until you do, though? No obligation, no payment - well, beyond watching you, which I will be doing anyway, no matter where you are.”

“Creepy,” intones Tim.

Elias shrugs like a prince.

Tim wants to hit him.

Keep it down, he tells himself. You’re not the rage. You not the… whatever the fucking wrath monster god thing. You.

And what would we benefit from it?

“Protection,” says Elias. “We are not, of course, impervious to invasion, but we are far safer than a hotel, or an apartment, or, gods forbid, the street.”

We aren’t alone, are we? says Yellow suddenly, and Tim can feel the fear lift its head, feel it spike right through all the smugness and preening and ego.

“No,” says Elias, almost gently. “Three agents I can see followed you here - two of the Corruption, who would devour you with mold, worms, maggots, disease; and one of the Desolation, who… well, to be frank, I don’t know what she’d do, given that you, Tim, are marked - but I assure you, she is not here on a mission of mercy.”

“You didn’t notice? I didn’t,” says Tim, softly.

I didn’t. Fuck.

“The offer remains.” Elias looks back and forth between Tim’s eyes.

He’s looking at them both. That’s what he’s doing. He even knows which fucking eye Yellow’s claimed.

We shall stay, says Yellow as though the favor being given is them gracing this place with their presence.

Tim realizes with a shock that he isn’t sure his opinion is any good right now.

He’s too angry.

It’s not his rage.

But it’s… spilling into everything.

Tim has never felt unsure in his life. This is… a horrible feeling.

He wipes at his eyes, surprised to find them wet.

“Come.” Elias stands, not revealing whatever he thinks of this display, and heads for the door.

Are you all right?

Yellow… seems to mean it?

Can Tim trust that, either?

Yes. He knows he can. Whatever else is wrong with him, he knows he’s reading other people correctly, including Yellow. “Not really?”

I will do what I can for you once we are alone.

“Alone,” Tim scoffs.

Comparatively.

“Sure,” says Tim, and follows Elias Bouchard deeper into his spooky Eye palace.

#tma #malevolent #tma fic #malevolent fic #tim stoker #elias bouchard #king in yellow #kiy malevolent #fic in progress #wip #amwriting

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angie-j-kay · 2 months

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OC in Fifteen, doubling again as Snippet Sunday!

I was tagged by @dyrewrites. I'm tagging anyone who wants to play!

I'm gonna write for Elias, from What You Cast Out. He's... yeah...

1: "I'm not here to do battle." 2: "I have met many of your blood over the years. I didn't expect to ever meet one again. I was certain that the monarch's Reliquus must have been mistaken when they returned to us." 3: "I am impressed already. Most of your kind refer to them as an 'it,' if they live long enough to refer to them at all."

4: "Is it called theft to take a tiger from the wild when its species is threatened by poachers? Or to bring a rare orchid into a greenhouse before its forest is razed by developers? She is the last, boy. If Tracey Rutledge falls, there will not be another."

5: “Jonas Alderman was hardly a victim.”

6: “A demon in the most literal sense, yes. The Reliquii are the truth behind your more monstrous legends. And this one has been commanded to retrieve you.”

7: “I am not a kidnapper, Billy Jameson... It would be mad not to expect a Rutledge woman to intervene in this matter. However, since there is no force on earth that could convince her to remain where it is safe, we must simply protect the girl ourselves.”

8: “I beg your pardon! I had intended to wait for my... a young woman, but I simply could not. She was this tall, a plump beauty with the air of a kitchen fire?”

9: “We are all adults here. You are an animal like any other, do not deny this. And Tracey Rutledge is the female of your species. I see no trouble with this arrangement, provided you are not a waste of the lady's valuable time.”

10: “You lack adventurousness, my new friend. But then, that is what makes you who you are, is it not?”

11: “Lovecraft was a brat and a leech, who lived off of others while pretending to be Edgar Allen Poe. His writings were fueled by racism and bitterness, nothing more.”

12: “That is racist. It is also inaccurate.”

13: “She will be asked to do nothing against her will. There will be hope, yes. Many men will offer to assist her should she wish it, but if she refuses them [SPOILER] will respect that. We wish to preserve her, not harm her.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------

What You Cast Out: A Tale From Little Egypt (Novel Masterpost HERE!)

A small college town is rocked by a horrific murder, with only one suspect. Officer Gabe Nelson knows Tracey Rutledge can't possibly be guilty, but the only thing more incriminating than the woman's behavior is everything else that his investigation reveals.

Why does the case trace back to her childhood home, and why did she run away from it eight years ago?

Why is the FBI as interested in Tracey as they are in the murder?

What smells like wet dogs?

As the case closes in on Tracey, so does the real killer. Gabe will have to choose between the life he has always believed in and the values he has always held, while the world he thought was real starts to fall apart.

Chapters are available for download on Ko-Fi and Patreon!

--------------------------------------------------------

NO AI WAS OR EVER WILL BE USED IN THE PRODUCTION OF MY ZINES.

If you like this post, I'd love it if you shared it so more folks could see it. The more people share this post, the more people will be able to read the novel!

And if you'd like to join my taglist, let me know!

The current taglist: @wedgie-of-destiny, @nightacquainted, @storminmywake, @brokenandlonelysouls, @tattur, @theamazingchickenman, @solstice-muse-collective, @axl-ul, @tucsonhorse

#what you cast out #writeblr #artblr #writers of tumblr #artists of tumblr #midwestern gothic #fantasy #horror #romance #rural gothic #snippet sunday #oc in fifteen

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arclundarchivist · 2 years

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A Goodbye to Calamity.

This is how the Story Ends.

Avalir cracks at the seams foundations laid generations before vibrating with the deep tonal cry of the Astral Leywright and the Furious Cries of the world's eldest Rulers. The grand statue of Imyr cracks at the ankles, toppling into the city below. Ash and fire erupt into the sky, funneled up and away, and as it does so, Exandria too cracks at the base.

She doesn't exist now, survived by her Son.

Cerrit climbs, fighting as he never had before, racing towards the sun with an outstretched arm as the shadows and heat boil up around him, furious voices screaming in the cloying smoke, as spread out beneath cracks dance upon the earth like ripples on a pond.

One amongst many legends.

Breath hitching, Purvan Suul pushes his way out of the rubble. Hunting frantically, he finds his companion's furred back and draws him free. Galdric snarls, coughs, and stands, following his master's gaze up towards the horizon. Haloed by the rising sun, the Lord of the Hells' snarling laugh worms into his brain. His immense scythe rises, the backswing cascading a torrent of fire down across the breadth of his home. Vasselheim is burning. The Ruiner rises like a peak behind his brother, entire building disappearing into his mammoth maw. It is the end of the world. Purvan rests his hand over his pendant and closes his eyes as the scythe falls. A thunderous chime shakes him from the moment, and as he cracks upon his eyes, shadowing the city, an immense axe had parried the blow. He turns, and amongst the blessed gardens of the Wildmother, the Lawbearer stands, her stern gaze burrowing into her lost siblings. Beside her, the First of Dragons stands, platinum scales gleaming from within, his four burning eyes turning to glare at the Ruiner with fury and grief. The Prime had come to Vasselheim. Stirred by their presence Purvan takes up his bow, an arrow finding a K'nauthi neck as Galdric howls to the heavens. Fate's Hand was at play.

The Last Eye of Avalir soars, older, scarred, shoulder to shoulder with his Children, the light of the smoke choked dawn briefly glinting on the large brass ring he wears over his heart. Kir, his face set in a long practiced scowl, hawks already ready to fly as they race towards the meeting. Maya's eyes are trained on the horizon, his bright young girl now a young woman with the drive to catalog all the ages within the Will of his long-lost friend. The Orb hovers about, and his eyes flick briefly to the Cobalt Eye that rests upon her forehead. Together they hunt, scouring the dark places, seeking the hidden clues, working to scour the rubble for all that could be rescued or preserved. He looks up, the warped form of Aeor growing closer and closer. The Shadow Grows. The Truth Must be Found.

Elias Alterra Ilerez, the Starbearer, draws his blade, the feathered blade gleaming with internal stars as once more the damned followers of his father's captor seek to snuff out his life.

A desperate young man, marked by the Blightstar and blessed of three, raises his spear, parrying the God of Destruction and falling far below for his effort. Yet, the Doom of Domunas is not joined by the Massacre of Marquet.

Deep below ground, the One Who Called finally founds One Who Will Listen in Leylas Kryn.

Isn't it Lovely?

Cerrit falls to the ground, emaciated and wind-worn, his wife and children racing to embrace him, tears falling freely as above them, the Last of Domunas begin to descend again to Exandria Firma, even as the Ash of their Homeland still rains from the sky.

Isn't it Funny?

Nydas laughs darkly as he realizes no one will ever see the Hoard again and how just an hour before, he slaughtered a man over their blind desire.

Isn't it Cruel?

Laerryn feels the ground shatter beneath her feet as her life's work keens its song to the sky, and the scene of the tree ripping open at her attack plays before her eyes once more.

And Aren't I a Fool?

Zerxus bends the knee and bows his head. At his left Vespin, at his right a red-haired Drow Woman with too many arms. The Lord of the Hells reaches down and tips his chin up, and once more, Zerxus is forced to see his Husband's face. His weapon coos in delight at the attention.

To Happily Listen, Happily Stay,

Quay smiles, clutching Laerryn to him, thinking of what would have happened had he stepped over the threshold into the arms of his Queen and casts the thought aside, hugging his beloved tighter even as the world goes dark around them.

Watching Them Drift...

The web of fire grows, spreading across Toramunda and then all of Domunas.

Gold and Silver threads knot across Exandria.

Drift...

In the air far above, the survivors watch as their home, and all the unknowing people upon it shatter beneath tearing earth, bellowing fire, and boiling waves.

Drift...

The threads become bars, a cage of cosmic energy with the world nestled safely within.

Drift Away.

The survivors turn to each other, their fragile hope fighting to stay together in the face of the growing cloud on the horizon, swallowing the sun in its billowing embrace.

Patia turns away, and the familiar stranger places her mask back atop her face. A cold yet comforting hand rests on her shoulder and ushers her on. Into the Unknown, and how she hated not knowing things.

#critical role #critical role spoilers #exu spoilers #exu: calamity #exu cerrit #exu nydas #exu laerryn #exu zerxus #exu loquatius #exu patia #purvan suul #cobalt soul #ruidus #leylas kryn #vespin chloras #Took a some authorial license of course.

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ollieofthebeholder · 6 months

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My website

Chapter 60: April 2017

Jon’s head was spinning as he and his team left Elias’s office. Partly it was the fact that his team had almost doubled in the last two months; first Melanie, now Basira. Partly it was that he was still a bit lightheaded from the events of the night before—or had it been early that morning?—and lack of sleep. Partly it was the sensation of having deliberately used his…abilities…on Elias. Partly it was the information he’d received, and not received. Partly it was the relief of seeing his team again. Partly it was wondering why it was Martin, and not Basira, that Daisy had made eye contact with in the long seconds between Elias’s taunt and her lowering her gun.

Partly it was concern about why Martin had given that little cry of pain when Melanie squeezed his hand.

The young woman at Rosie’s desk—Manal, Jon supposed—shrank back a little when she saw him, which made him feel terrible. Tim, however, slung an arm around his shoulder and gave her a huge grin. Only someone who knew him well could tell that it wasn’t as genuinely cheery as it had been before Prentiss’ attack.

“Jon,” he announced, “this is Manal Ellayq, Elias’s new assistant. Manal, this is Jonathan Sims, the Head Archivist. Sorry you haven’t had a chance to meet him yet, but he’s been out because of the thing that took down Rosie.”

“Oh!” Manal’s eyes widened slightly, but she managed a tentative smile. “Oh, okay. Um, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Sims. Glad you’re…doing better.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Manal. And please, just call me Jon.” Jon managed a smile in reply. “Ah, Elias told me to get a Return to Work form from you…?”

“Oh, yep, yep, of—of course.” Manal turned to the file cabinets behind her and bit her lip, her brow furrowing as she muttered under her breath. “Let’s see, let’s see, blank forms are all in the left cabinet, employee forms are third and fourth drawers down…um, sorry, do you know what the—” She stopped, and her shoulders slumped. “No, of course you wouldn’t.”

“602343,” Martin told her kindly. “It’s a rubbish system. I think it was Rosie’s idea of job security.”

Manal giggled as she pulled open the drawer and found the relevant form, then handed it to Jon with a smile. “Here you go, Mr.—Jon. Welcome back.”

“Thank you,” Jon said, taking the form and tucking it into the folder Elias had just handed him. With another smile of his own, he led the others back to the Archives.

The second the door shut behind them, Melanie turned to Martin, eyes stormy. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine. I needed something to pull me out,” Martin assured her. He grimaced, just for a second, as he took his hand out of his pocket and checked his watch. Jon’s heart lurched as he saw that the hand in question was tightly wrapped in white gauze.

Melanie checked her own watch. “Twenty more minutes. Will you be okay until then?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Tell you what,” Sasha said, clapping her hands together twice as she broke in. “Jon, Martin, why don’t you two debrief one another while the rest of us get Basira settled in?”

“Uh,” Jon began.

“Great!” Tim looped one arm through Jon’s and the other through Martin’s, then practically dragged them over to the trapdoor. Melanie threw the door open just in time for Tim to half-shove them down the steps, pressed a small lantern into Jon’s hand, and closed the door behind them.

Jon managed to click the light on before they fell down the stairs, and they descended in silence. He’d expected to feel nervous, or more accurately scared, at the idea of going down there again knowing the Not-Them was trapped in its depths—and he wasn’t entirely certain where. But being there with Martin made it a lot easier.

They both knew this level fairly well at this point, and through unspoken agreement they headed into the first room off the hall. There was a rusty spike sticking out of the wall a little ways in from the door, just enough for Jon to hang the lantern on so they would have light without having to hold onto it. He looped the handle over the spike, then turned to face Martin and took his first easy breath in almost nine weeks.

“What happened to your hand?” he asked.

“What happened to your throat?” Martin asked at the same time.

Both of them tried to explain at the same time, and as soon as they realized it, they tried to simultaneously tell the other to go first. The situation must have struck both of them as funny, because they both started laughing. Either that, or they were both so stressed and strung out it was the final snap of the tension.

Either way, Jon wished they had a recorder running so he could keep the sound of Martin’s laugh forever.

“God, I missed you,” he found himself saying.

Martin’s laughter died away, but his smile remained, even if his eyes grew wistful and melancholy. “I missed you, too. It…it hurt, not knowing where you were. If you were all right.” He took a deep breath. “Right, okay. Um…do you want to go first, or do you want me to?”

“I suppose I will.” Jon hesitated, then decided to just ask for the one thing he’d been desperately needing for the last two months. “Can, ah…can I have a hug first? I, I think I need one.”

Martin’s face softened. “Jon, of course. You don’t even have to ask.” He held out his arms.

Jon immediately stepped into the circle of Martin’s embrace and wrapped his arms as far around Martin’s torso as he could. Pressed against Martin’s chest, he sighed softly in contentment as the familiar scent of mint and cherries settled into his nostrils. The smell of safety—the smell of home.

He was fairly sure at this point that he ought to just outright admit it, if only to himself. At some point in the last year or so, he had fallen in love with Martin Blackwood.

After what was simultaneously an eternity and nowhere near long enough, Jon sighed and eased back, reluctantly. Martin did the same. “Right. So…yes. Do you…want me to start at the beginning, or somewhere else?”

“Wherever you think is best.” Martin leaned against the wall and studied Jon seriously. His eyes lingered, for just a moment, on the bandage at his throat, but snapped up to his eyes almost immediately.

Jon, too, leaned against the wall, trying to think where was best, what was the most important point to get out. “I…suppose the beginning is as good a place to start as any. After we—after I left you that day, I…I went to Melanie’s house. I thought, well, she was out of town, and I’d promised to make sure the cats had water anyway, so I thought…I-I was sure this would all be cleared up before she got back.”

“So was I.” Martin sighed heavily. “I—I guessed that’s where you were. After she got back, she said a few things that…but she didn’t say for sure.”

“Safer that way.”

“Yeah.”

Jon fidgeted for just a moment with the cuffs of the jumper he’d taken to wearing whenever he needed the comfort, which was often these days. “I thought you did know,” he admitted. “At first. I…after about a week someone delivered a statement to the house, addressed to me. No postmark, so it hadn’t come through the mail, but…I thought it was you.” He paused. “No…I wanted it to be you. I was hoping you were…I don’t know, feeding me statements to keep me in the loop, give me clues as to what you were working on. Melanie worked out pretty quickly that you weren’t responsible, though.” With a sigh, he added, “It took me way too long to catch on that it was probably Elias. At least it was still clear he didn’t realize how much I knew. All the statements were about the Stranger, o-or implying about the rituals. The last one I got talked about Bucoda, Washington—I think it was the, what did Gerry call it? The Sunken Sky?”

Martin shivered, and Jon immediately felt bad for mentioning it. “Yeah, that’s the one. How soon before…or after…the ritual was it?”

“The night before. I think. Or at least the night before Gertrude disrupted it. It’s…I can let you listen to the tape I made later, if you want.” Jon hesitated, remembering what else was on that tape. “I probably should, actually. I…the day I was recording it—it was just this past Thursday, or at least I hope it was—something…something got in.”

“Something got in?” Martin repeated, straightening up so fast Jon was afraid he might topple over. “What do you mean? Got in where? In your mind?”

“No—in the house. It, I still don’t know how she got in. She. It. I don’t know.” Jon took a deep breath. “She said her name was Nikola. Nikola Orsinov.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “Nikola Orsinov? That’s—the Stranger, isn’t it? I—oh, God.”

“Yes. She said her ‘father’—Gregor Orsinov—she said he named her Nikola, but she killed him and took his surname too. She’s…not human, Martin. She’s a mannequin. Plastic.” Jon shuddered at the memory. “She said it was time we talked. She wants me to find ‘that old skin’. I think it’s one of the ones from the Trophy Room…she seemed to think Gertrude had it, and might have destroyed it, but also might still have it? I-I’m afraid I didn’t…I wasn’t really thinking clearly.”

“I’ll bet. What did she…did she hurt you?”

“A little,” Jon admitted. “Mostly she was just…talking. Then she said she was done answering my questions, and I had until she changed her mind.” He started to rub his throat at the memory of her fingers around his windpipe, then stopped when he encountered the bandage. At least it was dry.

Gently, ever so gently, Martin cupped Jon’s chin and lifted it slightly. “Did she do this to you?” His voice was quiet, but the steel underneath was unmistakable.

“No,” Jon said softly. “She grabbed me, but she didn’t…break the skin. This…this was Daisy.”

Martin went incredibly still. “With what?”

“A knife. I—it was mine. She said it was blunt.” Tears sprung into Jon’s eyes, and he had to look away…as best he could with Martin still cradling his face, anyway.

“Oh, Jon.” Martin let go of Jon’s chin as carefully as he had taken it, then folded him in another hug before he had time to think. Jon dropped the folder he still carried heedlessly and clung to Martin’s jumper, the same way he had the night they parted. The night of Leitner’s murder.

The words tumbled out of him in a rush, not a panicked one, just like a dam had broken, letting him say all the things he’d been waiting to tell Martin about, give him all the things he wanted him to know. To hand over all the pain and agony he’d gone through in the last days, for Martin to take his words and make everything all right again. “Melanie gave me the information she got from you—about Mike Crew, how to find him. I went to talk to him, I had to, it—Melanie was going to bring me Jude Perry’s information, but if she gave you Mike Crew’s I knew I had to follow up on it, so I went to find him, to talk to him. It took me almost three days, but I did it. And he, he told me, he gave me his statement—I thought, I was so sure he would have something to do with the Unknowing, that he would know something about it, but he didn’t say anything about it, he just told me about himself. I, I got it on tape, I hope I got it on tape, but I haven’t had a chance to listen. He, from the things he told me, he was being chased by the—by a fragment of the Twisting Deceit, and he bound himself to the Vast to escape it, and he said he felt so free afterwards, but he told me all this while he made me fall, made me think I was falling anyway, and I-I didn’t know if he’d let me land safely or make me hit the ground. And then we did land safely, and he was going to let me go, I think, he said to ‘take his mercy and leave’, but then there was a knock on the door a-and it was Daisy, she’d—she found me somehow. She knocked him out and…and kidnapped me at the same time, and I lost track of where we were going, but there was, it was an isolated clearing, a lonely cliffside, somewhere no one would have heard me, and she was going to—I tried to, I wanted to know why, but she was going to kill me, she shot Mike right in front of me and she was going to take me out too, she—she said I’d dragged her secrets out of her—I d-didn’t mean to, I swear, I didn’t know it was happening, not then. But, but it’s been happening—I did it to Melanie on accident, and I said I was sorry, and she said I didn’t have to be, but Daisy thought I did, and—” He gulped and pressed his face into Martin’s chest, hoping, praying that Martin wouldn’t push him away, that he wasn’t hurting him. “She would have killed me, Martin. She would have killed me if Basira hadn’t stopped her and given her something else to focus on and…”

“Shh. Shh. I’m here, Jon. I’m here. You’re safe now.” Martin’s cheek pressed against the top of Jon’s head, and the fingers of his left hand stroked gently at his hair. “I won’t let her hurt you again.”

Standing there, wrapped tightly in Martin’s embrace, in the dim light of the lantern, distanced from the Eye and all the other fears, Jon believed him. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that Martin spoke nothing but the truth. He wouldn’t let Daisy, or anything else, hurt Jon ever again. If it ever did, it would be in spite of everything he could possibly do to prevent it.

Jon only wished that he could do the same for Martin.

After several long moments, he eased back only far enough that he could look up at Martin, but not so far he was out of his embrace. “What, ah…what about you? What have you…have you been all right? Melanie said you were, but…your hand…”

“If it took you three days to find Mike Crew, Jon, you haven’t seen her since it happened,” Martin said, a little regretfully. “Or at least since she found out about what happened. It…at the beginning, I’ll admit I was working myself too hard. I just, I thought if I concentrated on…everything here, I wouldn’t worry about you or Melanie. Tim finally called me out on it and made me slow down, made sure I left on time. Made me spend less time down here. I joined a knitting circle,” he added, and Jon laughed, just a little. “Didn’t help much, honestly, especially after Melanie came back and got recruited to the Institute. Then on…Thursday, actually, I was recording one of the statements—”

“A real one?” Jon interrupted, suddenly worried.

“Yeah. Stranger statement, too, although the Desolation was involved. That’s where I got Jude Perry’s name from, actually—Melanie had made a note about her and it got mixed in with the paperwork, I obviously wasn’t supposed to find it.”

Jon gnawed on his lower lip. “Martin…you, you shouldn’t be…those statements, they’ll just draw you further in. I should—”

“Jon,” Martin said gently, “it’s a bit late to worry about that now. I’m already in too deep, and I think it’s getting worse. Reading the real ones, it…takes the edge off, a little bit anyway. It’s getting harder and harder to avoid Seeing, even when I’m not trying, but when I read the statements…it pushes it back a little. Like the Eye’s getting something out of me, at any rate.” He hesitated, then added, “That was…honestly probably why I followed up on Jude Perry without really letting anyone know what I was up to, at least at first. The statement…for some reason it, it didn’t work. I was still shaky and…off when I finished. When I found Melanie’s note, I…I just, I felt this need, that hunger for knowledge. I had to find out what it meant. So I called her up and made an appointment.”

“Without telling anyone?” Jon asked, like he had a leg to stand on when it came to that sort of thing.

Martin gave him a crooked little half-smile, as if he was thinking the same thing. “Like I said, at first. But by the time I got there…well, I realized I’d been stupid. Especially since I almost went and got another statement after I recorded the first one—Tim and Sasha, and Melanie once she found out what was up, were adamant that I wasn’t allowed to read more than one real statement a day, and I was only supposed to record once a week anyway, but I thought maybe if I, you know, got an older one we didn’t have to research too much I could read it and it would stop the shaking—”

“Martin…”

“—but I realized I was justifying it the way Gerry did when I tried to get him to quit smoking, so I didn’t,” Martin continued. “Tim sent me home early anyway, I wasn’t…right, and I was going to just go to the appointment and then go home and…I dunno. And I, I knew going was probably a bad idea, but if I hadn’t gone you or Melanie would have, and I didn’t want either of you to get hurt. But once I’d made up my mind, once I got there, I decided not to be a total idiot. I called Tim and told him to give me an hour, and then if he didn’t hear from me, to tell Melanie I was following her lead. I figured she’d have an idea of what to do then.”

Jon studied Martin’s face anxiously. “Did…did you get anything from her other than Mike Crew’s information?”

Martin grimaced. “No. Not really. From the statement—i-it involved the Gwydir Forest, up in Wales—I, I thought maybe the Desolation had allied itself with the Stranger to help with the Unknowing, but…”

“Oh.” Jon sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I—I know that statement. It was one of the tapes Elias sent me. Maybe…maybe that’s why it didn’t work well for you? Because the Eye had already…fed on it recently?”

“That…would explain a lot, actually,” Martin said slowly. “And it would certainly explain how Melanie knew to look up Jude Perry to begin with. But yeah, I—she didn’t, it wasn’t related. She was just doing a favor for Nikola Orsinov, because it gave her a chance to burn something someone loved and feed that to the Desolation.” He sighed again. “So a whole lot of damage and an extra mark for both of us…for a fat lot of nothing.”

“Both of us?” Jon repeated, horror slowly dawning on him. “Oh, no…oh, Martin, your hand—don’t tell me—”

Martin brought his right hand around to between the two of them, and Jon stepped back a little more, only so he could take it in his own hands as gently as possible and study it while Martin continued to explain. “I made a deal with her. She gave me the information about Mike Crew, and in exchange I told her I would personally destroy Jack Barnabas’ statement, the one about Agnes Montague. So she wouldn’t be one of our stories.” He gave a short laugh. “Never mind that we both know it, so it’s not likely to be forgotten any time soon, but she doesn’t need to know that. Anyway, Jude said we had a deal and held out her hand to shake, and…I couldn’t see any way around it.”

Jon stared at Martin’s hand. It was heavily bandaged; only the very tips showed at the end, but it had been wrapped in such a way that it would allow movement, even though it seemed difficult for Martin to flex his fingers. He ran his thumb over the palm as lightly as he could. “Is it…” he began, then stopped. He didn’t even know how to finish that sentence.

“It’s not so bad,” Martin assured him. “She’s essentially made of wax. I only gave her three seconds to shake my hand, and wonder of wonders, she actually kept to it. She couldn’t have got hot enough to do real permanent damage in that amount of time, not without her hand turning fully to liquid. It’s only a second-degree burn.”

“Only second-degree,” Jon mimicked.

“Says the man who almost had his throat cut with a blunt pocket knife.” Martin smiled briefly, but something flashed in his eyes as he said it. “I’m okay, Jon. Honest. It hurts—which is good, because if it didn’t that would mean there was nerve damage—but I’ve got painkillers, and the doctors said I probably won’t have a whole lot of scarring when all is said and done. It could have been a lot worse.”

Jon took a deep breath. “If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure.”

“Then…I trust you.” Jon looked up at Martin’s face and tried to smile. “But maybe slow down on the Marks a bit? By my count, that’s seven you’ve got now.”

“No more than you have,” Martin retorted. “Look, how about from here on out we stick together? If we have to investigate things outside the Institute, we’ll do it together. That way…that way we can keep each other from getting hurt.” He hesitated, then brushed Jon’s cheek gently with his good hand. “Is that acceptable?”

“It’s a bargain.” Jon covered Martin’s hand with his own for a moment, then let go and bent down to retrieve the folder he’d dropped. Form 602343, the Return to Work form, slid out from behind a very fragile-looking piece of yellowed paper covered in shaky handwriting. The date at the top read 1824. “Oh, good, another letter direct to Jonah Magnus. I only hope this one isn’t from a native German.”

“How many foreign friends could a man like Jonah Magnus actually have had?” Martin asked with a raised eyebrow. “What do you think it’s about?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. I only hope it’s enough to…settle my stomach, I suppose.” Jon looked up as a thought occurred to him. “Would…would you like to read it together? The way we did with…i-it might help you, too. You’ve, you’ve had a long week too.”

Martin looked surprised, then smiled, for real this time. “Would you…like to come over to my flat? I could, I could make us something to eat, and we could read it there. If you like.”

“I’d like that, Martin,” Jon said sincerely. Warmth filled his body. “I’d like that very much.”

#ollie writes fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#tma fanfic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #melanie king #sasha james #basira is there too but kinda in the background #pain #attempted strangulation #attempted murder #police brutality #manipulation #threats #misuse of Beholding powers #burns #EDIT: SHIT SORRY FORGOT THE READ MORE ON FIRST POSTING

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heightstm · 1 year

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❛❛ — you’re soft, soft like spring flowers and sunsets and the white feathers inside your pillow. ❜❜

. ✧ . * . ˚ ━━ ｢ COURTNEY EATON, CISFEMALE, SHE/HER. ｣ welcome IPHIGENIA VOHL, the EMISSARY of THE DAWN COURT, to velaris! it is well known that the 25 / 587 year old PEREGRYN is VIVACIOUS and CLEVER. it is a lesser known fact that they are also ANALYTICAL and STUBBORN. however, it is running rough bristles over the white of your wings, barely noticing the disarming nature of a pretty smile, feeling far too young for your aging bones, the satisfaction of plucking an imperfect feather from your back and ignoring its sting that truly define who they are. in the shadows, their alliance with THEMSELVES makes them a force to be reckoned with. truly, who knows what to expect of them. cauldron save them, mother hold them.

full name: iphigenia nassa vohl nickname: iggy, piggy, pip, gen age: five hundred and eighty-seven, biologically twenty-five species: peregryn ( self-identified winged fey of the dawn court ) gender + pronouns: cisfemale + she/her sexuality: bisexual, but would be open to exploring beyond that label marital status: single and unmarried court + allegiance: of the dawn court, loyal to the dawn court and themselves.

height: 5'2" build: petite , but those in correspondence with her are usually surprised as she is much smaller than they envisioned , most likely due to her malnourishment in her younger years hair: dark hair with an eclectic array of shimmering stones woven into whatever up-do she's sporting eyes: brown honeyed eyes complexion: shimmering tan skin that reflects a nearly golden , iridescent sparkle about her fae: perfectly fluffed and maintained wings that are pristinely white as achieved through at-home remedies. the wings are tiny , but they can get her far enough.

i. most stories begin at birth but as far as iphigenia cares to say, she’s an orphan. who cares for a pair of people who did not care for her ? they place her in the arms of a destitute orphanage and leave. but, knowing that there must be a life beyond threadbare sheets and knocking elbows at an over-crowded dinner table full of whining children, she’s gone before she’s even lost all of her baby teeth. when she spends her nights laying in tall grass, ignoring her rumbling tummy, she imagines herself a loose feather dancing along the skies, never to land in one spot. this is where she lives comfortably: THE IN-BETWEEN.

ii. she doesn’t know where she starts, and she doesn’t know where she ends up, but iphigenia knows that when she looks up one day and sees him, she thinks that elias vohl is her guardian angel. her takes her under his wing. literally. she’s a frail little thing — already the runt of the orphanage with her chicken-sized wings, she’s even weaker after travelling alone and on foot for what feels like months. it takes some time, but with his gentle care, iphigenia sheds the the hurt and stops running — no longer afraid that she’ll be left behind again. she opens up like a flower, blossoming in the sea salt breeze and dazzling summer heat.

iii. what business does a former street rat have rubbing shoulders in court ? one day, iphigenia decides that she wants to spread her wings. she bids her dear papa goodbye with a kiss to each of his tear-stained cheeks and sets out on her second great journey. she travels to each of the courts , looking for home but nothing feels as right as the days in the summer court. but, never one to return with her tail between her legs, she decides that the dawn court must be home. why else has iphigenia called herself a peregryn for all these years ? she learns to take care of herself by pulling herself up by the bootstraps. a pretty face is a dime-a-dozen in a land where they’re all disgustingly beautiful, but her charm and her willingness to do anything is what sets her apart from the rest. it’s decades of petting egos, and disarming smiles, and all but grovelling at the feet of the high fae.

iv. possible connections: people who thinks she's out of line and generally just don’t like her ! someone who is in love with her ! maybe she loves them back !

#✧˚ · . * iphigenia.#fae.intro #man why did it even take me that long to do these

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agentrouka-blog · 2 years

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Sansa is blamed by fandom for not looking Joffery for his cruelty earlier and romanticised his actions. But Ned did the same thing with Robert. He knew that Robert rewarded Tywin for killing Elia and her kids. Robert claim to know about Joffery lie at Trident yet didn't do anything. Ned came to know that Robert is not same person and is abusive to his wife. Hell he even ignore Lyanna worry about Robert. He continue to be his friend till his last breath. Do you think their relationship was toxic?

Ned's levels of denial are really... not a good look.

Part of it is owed to GRRM's desire to hide Jon Snow's identity, but a consequence of that is that canon!Ned is shown avoiding all thoughts of why he desperately needed to keep the kid's identity a secret in the first place.

It's cohesively set up, how this denial exists alongside his very real fears.

The obvious way in which women are oppressed in their society makes him uncomfortable, so he evades confronting the thought, even though he knows that a problem exists.

"Robert will never keep to one bed," Lyanna had told him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm's End. "I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale." Ned had held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart. Lyanna had only smiled. "Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature." (AGOT, Eddard IX)

Lyanna doesn't need to be a genius to realize Ned is feeding her horse dung. It's hard to tell if he even realizes the contradiction: he doesn't want to lie to her, so he serves her wishful thinking instead, something he wishes was true, but that obviously isn't for anyone who is not an idiot.

His priority is to make Lyanna stop worrying about it, to smother the conflict in his life between his sister and his friend. It's meant to appease Lyanna, not seriously address her concerns.

Avoidance at its finest.

It comes out again later, and more seriously.

Honestly, it's quite horrible. Lyanna fought in a tourney to chastise three squires for harrassing Howland Reed. This scene below would disgust her:

Ned did not feign surprise; Robert's hatred of the Targaryens was a madness in him. He remembered the angry words they had exchanged when Tywin Lannister had presented Robert with the corpses of Rhaegar's wife and children as a token of fealty. Ned had named that murder; Robert called it war. When he had protested that the young prince and princess were no more than babes, his new-made king had replied, "I see no babes. Only dragonspawn." Not even Jon Arryn had been able to calm that storm. Eddard Stark had ridden out that very day in a cold rage, to fight the last battles of the war alone in the south. It had taken another death to reconcile them; Lyanna's death, and the grief they had shared over her passing.

This time, Ned resolved to keep his temper.

He used Lyanna's death and his grief for her as an excuse to ignore Robert's approval of these murders. Even though they are the reason he knows why Robert cannot ever discover Jon's identity. He doesn't frame it in terms of still being secretly angry at Robert over this. He speaks of a mutual reconciliation. And it is mirrored here.

No sooner had those formalities of greeting been completed than the king had said to his host, "Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects."

Ned loved him for that, for remembering her still after all these years. He called for a lantern. No other words were needed. The queen had begun to protest. They had been riding since dawn, everyone was tired and cold, surely they should refresh themselves first. The dead would wait. She had said no more than that; Robert had looked at her, and her twin brother Jaime had taken her quietly by the arm, and she had said no more.

They went down to the crypt together, Ned and this king he scarcely recognized. (AGOT, Eddard I)

Robert is being a tyrannical husband in this moment, almost humiliating his wife over what are absolutely valid concerns, but Ned just absolutely loves it because Robert wants to talk about Lyanna. Lyanna who had not wanted to marry Robert.

Ned goes about banishing Jon from the family table to hide him from Robert, but when his visit is announced?

It took Ned a moment to comprehend her words, but when the understanding came, the darkness left his eyes. "Robert is coming here?" When she nodded, a smile broke across his face. (AGOT, Catelyn I)

"Yay, the guy who would kill my nephew is coming here!"

Lyanna spent her final moments probably begging Ned to save her son's life. From this man. Who approves of child murder. With whom he then reconciled over his grief for Lyanna.

It's absurd! She would have hated Robert so much! That never occurs to Ned.

And his resolution now is to appease Robert even more by suppressing his own anger at the idea of assassinating Dany. Avoiding the conflict is more important again, because he has a murder investigation to worry about for which he is using his daughters as a cover. Especially Sansa, who is now going to marry into the murder suspect family. All is well.

It's kind of sickening.

Ned is not an 11-year-old girl with no power, trapped in a betrothal, reframing reality to mentally protect herself from trauma.

He is a grown man with tons of power, reframing reality to protect himself from the responsibility of open conflict.

Ned's wardship in the Vale must have been absolutely enchanted to make him prioritize his friendship with Robert over the reality of the man over and over and over again.

#anti eddard stark #anti ned stark #eddard stark critical #anti robert baratheon #lyanna stark #denial #conflict avoidance #cowardice #(and cue the ned stans coming into my ask box)#hint: please don't

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missdawnandherdusk · 4 years

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the lakes

Draco Malfoy X Reader

Request: @youareinllve: Imagine spending summer break at the Malfoy manor and you realize that this is the first time in a while that draco seems like a kid again, with no pressure from his family or Voldemort or the death eaters, just draco, your draco again, just having fun in a lake. (also see the lakes)

A/N: So I think this is the softest thing that I’ve ever written in my life and that’s saying something (especially for those of you who have been around for a while). It also has brilliant cadence, so if you can, read it aloud: it’s that much more enchanting if you can. By no means will this always be how I write, because it is more poetic than prose, but I don’t mind doing it now and against especially with a muse like folklore. Let me know what you think! Seriously, I thrive on y’all feedback/comments/reblogs.

There were few days that I could call my own. The days when no one expected me to sit this way, talk that way, act perfectly. I could be young. I could be free. I could be loved. I could be with him.

There were few days that I could call him my own. The days when no one expected him to walk this way, speak that way, act like a Malfoy. He could be young. He could be free. He could be loved. He could be with me.

There were no tight-fitting robes. There were no school uniforms. There were no hours spent on hair and makeup. There was no time wasted in reflections. There were no side eye glances to steal.

There was the lightness of cotton. It was sundresses, cuffed trousers and flowy shirts. It was wide brimmed sun hats and bare feet. It was the softness of grass and the strength of the stones and comfort of earth.

It was his smile. The way it met his eyes. The way it called me in.

Into that cold water. That crystal-clear water. The water that matched the shade of his eyes.

Meet me at the lake,

Yours, Draco

That’s all it would take. That was when I knew the day was mine. When I knew he was. It was a trip to Windermere. To the wood skirting around his large suffocating manor. It was meeting him at the lake, where our days went to live and die.

“Took you long enough,” I’d tease as he passed the first few trees, his eyes scanning the foliage for me.

“Not all of us can apparate yet,” He’d jest back, taking my hand.

The warmth of his hand in mine matched the smile on his face. The sharp points of his cheekbones and jaw meeting the soft curves of his lips and eyelashes. The grass struggling to grow in the speckled light beckoned us forward. Our shoes, coats, and griefs left under a tree where our initials were carved. Sunlight filtered in golden and green through the trees lighting him softly.

Draco would take my hand and pull me close. His hands would rest on my waist as his nose nuzzled against mine in the calm lighting. Our breaths and the rustling of leaves were the only things heard. The only things that mattered to listen to. His lips would be soft and alluring on mine—just as his smile was.

The shock of the chilled water would elicit the most irresistible laughter and shouts of joy. The squishy earth beneath my toes would have me draped over Draco’s shoulders, just to avoid the prickling feeling. My dislike of the sensation would have him laughing yet again, and perhaps he’d roll his eyes at my ridiculousness. But he’d never complain. Instead he’d hold me or draw me deeper into the water.

The lake. The deep water. As soon as we could dive beneath it, our worries were gone. There was no war looming. There were no evil overlords. No heroes. No ransoms. There was no good versus bad. There was no sides. No houses. No prejudices.

There was me.

There was Draco.

There was the hum of insects. There was the swaying of wisteria. His smile pressed against my skin.

“I love you,” He’d whisper. “More than anything,”

“Never more than I love you,” I’d reply.

The enchanted water of that lake would take us to the banks. The outcropped rocks surrounded by flowers that were free to grow. That grew despite the adversity that it faced. The blanket would be soft under my touch as we carved a little square of the wildflowers to call our own.

Draco’s eyes would watch the distance, gazing upon the peaks of the mountains. Being with Draco seemed to make everything hurt less. No matter what it was, he had a way of soothing all of my worries and strife.

“How do I love thee?” He’d quote as I lay beside him watching the blueness of the heavens above.

“Let me count the ways,” I’d muse back, propping up on my arm so that I could catch a glimpse of the grey that his eyes held.

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach,” The words would tumble from his lips with practiced ease, with the same grace as the breeze persuading the grass to waver.

“I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.” My words would barely be heard above the babbling of the lost brook as the sun would stretch out its last efforts of warmth and guidance.

Draco would sit up then, tucking my drying hair behind my ear in a feeble attempt to tame it against the will of the wind gods that accompanied us.

“I love thee freely, as men strive for right.” An air of melancholy would haunt his words as shades began to seep back into our Eden.

“I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.” The gentle reminder would ward off the ghosts of who we were supposed to be as a smile would be mirrored on his face as it was mine. Again, we were free.

“I love thee with the passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.” Draco would become theatrical at these lines, feigning distress and he draped over my lap. A laugh would fall from my lips and onto the perfection of his features.

“I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints.” My fingers would dust over his cheek, drawing down his jaw, to trace the pink of his lips.

“I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life,” His grey eyes would vow this to me. Each and every day that belonged to us he would declare these words.

“And, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.” I’d promise back.

As the sun gave into his sister for the night, there was no escaping the world that demanded us back. The world filled with grief and sorrow.

The truth was: Draco and I didn’t belong in that world. The world of heroes and villains. The world of happily ever after’s and storybook endings. We weren’t made for rumors and gossip. Our love didn’t fit in newspapers or hushed conversations.

We belonged to the poets. To the sad prose. We belonged to the orishas of that lake and the wood and the flowers and the earth. Thousands of nymphs and naiads for us to be in the comfort and care of. The fae that would welcome us and protect our love. Our love that grew deep roots and beautiful flowers with no one around to spoil it.

Those were the days that we’d set off without our beloved to the lakes.

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