#<- for organization

[pomefioredove]

Noble Bell ; prologue

what if you were sent to Noble Bell College instead?

type of post: (possible) series characters: rollo (barely mentioned), original characters additional info: reader is gender neutral, this is largely my own vision, I wrote this all in one sitting and it shows LOL, word count: 3.1k author's note: after several failed drafts, I decided to just write my thoughts on noble bell as a story. do tell me what you think and if I should continue, if you have the chance!

prologue | the king of truands, 1 | the king of truands, 2 |

It appeared as if, for all its hundreds of years of life, very little of Noble Bell College had changed. 

The original face, or what is left of it at this time, is almost indistinguishable from the prints of great artists who lived when the City of Flowers was still but three parts of one whole. If it were not for her clothes, those great banners of cotton which hang from her walls and surround her like the ruffles of an unflattering dress, that which cradle the insignia of a college in wine-colored hands, that pointed fleur de lis in gold, Noble Bell College would be the very picture of her younger self. 

The halls which extend from one end of her body to the other like the grotesque wings of a pigeon were added after the University, which had once been confined to its own division on the left side of the River Soleil, had consumed the island of the City, that which had, at one time, cradled twenty-one of these magnificent buildings, and now had only one. Noble Bell became a skeletal reminder of its medieval past. 

Now, what was once a ground of solemnity and penance, and other ancient things, had given a painful birth to a different sort of self-punishment, that of academia. Noble Bell dawned its new clothes and its new name, and became a home of scholars, a place of enlightened thought. The island that had once been a sanctuary for the sacred became its final resting place. The College was built over hallowed ground. 

The body of the Gothic building had gone, in some parts, untouched, however, the later additions, done in the style Haussmann some hundreds of years after, coil around her like the chains of a falsely accused prisoner, or the noose around a beggar's neck. 

Statues on the face, neglected, crumbled into dust. The colored glass in the lecture halls were replaced with white windows for better light. Every hundred years, some haughty new headmaster would consider cutting down the building herself, and putting something new and ugly in her stead. 

Nothing would ever come of it. 

It is important to note, dear reader, that though the past of religion and superstition had been abandoned by the scholars of Noble Bell in pursuit of the enlightened future of thought, with it went only the body, not the soul. 

The students of Noble Bell began to look upon their history with pride, rather than disdain, and thus the construction on the lady ceased, and the reconstruction started up. In some aspects, it was too late; the medieval glass had already been sold and repurposed into bottles which floated at the surface of the Soleil, the stone turned to dust and carried into the wind. 

This romanticized past was tainted with a bitter guilt, one that struck even the proudest of freshmen when they met the eyes of the statues which guarded the building and her history. A sense of possession consumed the heart of the student body, and, thus, a gate was built. It was sanctuary no more. 

A romantic would tell you that it is the love of the people that kept the heart of Noble Bell alive. 

This is not true; it is guilt. 

To the wise man, the realist, the freshman who feared the eyes of the statues, the traditions that carried on were as meaningful as digging up a rotting corpse and putting it on trial. Without the superstition, it was a delusion, a pathetic attempt at absolution for the sins of the scholar and the printing press. 

Enlightenment became repulsive to him. 

What was in the hollow halls of the Haussmann was never alive, and what had survived the purge of time and man was hidden in the bell tower for few to touch. 

To the wise man, the only absolution of sin was through the fire. 

Your heart wakes you before your body.

That is to say, the feeling of dread, of knowing you are somewhere you shouldn't be, comes before the biting cold and the splinters pressing against your back.

The inky water surrounding you in three directions (the fourth being the stone mouth of the river) nearly cradles you back to sleep. Your rest was quite comfortable. You can't remember the last time you slept like that.

Your mind is the very last to wake, and it is what finally forces your body up in a sudden jolt, uneasily rocking the boat which had become your manger.

You grip both sides until it steadies, which gives you enough time to adjust to the dark.

One thing becomes quite clear: This is not where you fell asleep.

Then, another: This is not what you were wearing before.

The delicate fabric, hand-dyed in wine and blood red, is like nothing you own. Where had these come from? Surely, not your closet.

And, more worrying: how did you get in them?

Take a moment, if you will, to look beyond the black water of the river: next to you, on your right, is a stone embankment, with a short ledging that extends only to a single flight of stairs. The wall is so high you cannot see above that.

Now, look behind you: there is one fabulous bridge, also of stone, arching above the water in a mesmerizing pirouette. Warm light spills from its sides and dances on the inky waters below.

Ahead of you is only more river and stone.

And then, on your right again, is screaming.

You had heard screams before, but none like this. This is bloody murder, save me screaming, the sort that makes you jump and run to its source without thinking first.

You climb out of the trembling boat, the sound of your footsteps scuffing against stone following you across the landing and up the steps.

Yet again you are stopped.

Rising above the embankment of the river as if ascending to heaven itself, reaching through the thin evening clouds and into the stars, are two magnificent bell towers.

Your steps slow, and then stop at the peak of the stairs to admire the body of the building, illuminated by street lamps and candlelight, blanketed in a fog of distant laughter.

You have never seen such an unearthly sight.

If not for the screaming, you could have spent days there.

But you are motivated once more to follow the strange sound, and, perhaps, find out where on earth you are.

Like a princess in a tower, the building is guarded by a rather impressive gate, not done in the style of the place itself, but sightly nonetheless. If it were not already left open and vulnerable by some obvious human error, you might not have found a way in.

The sound of your footsteps follows you across the stone, and you stop at the base of a staircase that would have led you to a set of inhuman wooden doors.

And... there is a goat.

A pretty, white little thing, with a bow around its neck.

it turns to you as you stop, and it makes that same screaming noise, and then bounds off around the corner of the building and into another, attached at its side.

"Wait," you say.

Though, your feet move before your mouth, your mouth before your mind, and you suddenly find yourself following this odd twist of a white rabbit.

The delicate thing leaps through an opening in the side, and you climb in after it, chasing it down open-air hallways that remind you all too much of an old monastery.

The goat bleats. "Wait!" you say. "Where is your owner?"

It bleats again, and it almost sounds like a laugh. How strange...

You tumble down corridors and halls, turn corners, ignoring the sound of laughter and cheering that is growing ever so close, and, all at once, you stumble out into the warm light of a party, crashing into something cold and metal. The goat disappears in the crowd.

Everything is silent.

You can see nothing but feet from where you fell, and a hundred hems of wine and blood red. Your clothes.

"Who is that?" someone asks.

"They weren't at orientation,"

"How could anyone be late? That's never happened,"

"They don't look like a student of Noble Bell..."

Student? So this is a school?

"You," a voice says, much colder and sharper than the others, like a winter breeze. "Get up."

You are in no place to disobey.

You stand, uneasily, and, much to your displeasure, every head in the crowd is turned towards you. Whispers dance amongst the students, glances are exchanged, looks ranging from confusion to disdain.

There is only one face you cannot see. At one distant end of the courtyard, there is a stage, dressed in reds and oranges, and on it, four actors. They are as still as the crowd, seemingly having abandoned their play in favor of the mysterious stranger.

The person in question, then, is actually below them, whispering something quite loudly, but you cannot make it out at this distance.

"Your name?"

You turn back to the wintry voice.

This man, you notice, is dressed differently from the others. He's in all black, from his boots to the cloak around him, even his hair, which flows around his shoulders, is as inky as the cold water of the river you had woken on.

"My name?" you ask.

He scoffs. "It is a simple request,"

"Shall we return to the mystery?" a weak, artificially high-pitched voice calls from the front of the crowd. "I'd like to see the mystery continue!"

"Quiet, Gregoire," the man in black snaps. "Now, who are you to come so late?"

"Late to what?"

A few murmurs ripple through the stillness of the crowd.

He sniffles, turning his nose up at you. "You do not know where you are?"

"No,"

Someone begins to whisper. "Do you think they're from-"

"Quiet!" he demands. "This is clearly not a student of any arcane academy I know of."

"They're wearing our robes!"

You look down at yourself. You'd almost forgotten about that.

The boy narrows his eyes. "How did you get here?"

"I don't know. I woke up on a boat,"

He sighs. "What part of the city are you from?"

"...The city?"

Another moment of whispers and stares. The crowd seems to have all but forgotten the play happening at the mouth of the courtyard.

The man in black puts his hands on his hips. "Yes. Now, what division are you from? The old university? The Ville?"

"I, um... none of those,"

"The outskirts, then?"

"No. What city is this?"

His brow furrows, and he crosses his arms. At the very least, he no longer seems angry. More... thoughtful.

"What country are you from?"

You tell him, and he huffs.

"There is no such place. None that I have heard of,"

The same voice from earlier returns. "Perhaps we should wait until after the mystery has concluded-"

"Gregoire!" the man in black snaps, "We know it's you! Quiet, for once in your life!"

"...Very well,"

He grumbles, massaging his temples, and then turns back to you. His eyes are as sharp and focused as his voice. They're dark, almost black, with the faintest gleam of red. He's wearing a lot of eyeliner, you think.

"Come with me. If you are telling the truth, then you will have nothing to fear,"

"There is no such place,"

"That's what I said!" the boy exclaims, swiping the atlas off the desk.

The headmaster of this school is old, much older than you are imagining now, thought perhaps it is not the fault of age, but of weariness.

"Control yourself, Monsieur de Neige," he says, looking longingly at the book whose pages are now scattered across the floor.

The boy grumbles, giving you a nasty side-eye.

"What will we do with them?"

"What else? They will stay here until we can find an answer. I will reach out to my colleagues at the other arcane academies and see if they have any council,"

"Stay here?" he snaps, standing from his chair with such force that it goes flying backward, narrowly missing you from where you're standing against the wall.

"They are not a student of Noble Bell. They are a stranger! Who knows what they might-"

"Now," the headmaster sighs. "I know we are a... private institution. But a long time ago, this building was a sanctuary for outcasts."

He grits his teeth. "I am not willing to risk the safety of the building or its students for an act of pity. You should know that I take my duties as vice president of the student council quite seriously-,"

The corner you'd been backed into was starting to feel tighter and tighter. If not for the conversation, you'd-

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the heavy wooden door of the office opening, but a sliver, and something white just outside.

Your eyes widen. You glance between M. de Neige and the headmaster, and, in the throes of their heated argument, you slip out into the dark hall.

"You," you say, putting your hands on your hips.

The little goat bleats. It doesn't seem very guilty.

"You led me there on purpose, didn't you? To create a diversion? What did you want?'

It stomps and scuffs its hooves against the stone floor, and with another little bleat, it turns around itself to show you something.

Your eyes soften.

There are two apples on the floor beneath it, both bruised and wrinkled, but good nonetheless.

"For me?"

You stoop forward and take one of the browning fruits off the cold, dirty ground, and slip it into one of the wide pockets of the robe. The goat chuffs, clearly pleased, and not even you can help but smile.

"Let's go, then, shall we? I want to get out of this place,"

The hallway is pitch black, the moonlight subdued by clouds and softened by the thick windows, but you can still make your way around quite easily.

You start heading in the direction you came, your new (and only) friend in tow, when the sound of footsteps scuffing against stone follows you.

You turn, eyes wide, expecting M. de Neige, or worse, but there's only a flash of gold and then quiet.

"Who's there? Come out, now, or... my goat will gouge you!"

The little animal stares at you, mouth hanging open in bewilderment, but it seems to work, anyway.

A boy, taller and thinner than M. de Neige, comes out from around the corner with his hands held up. Even in the dull silver light of the hall, you can make out the color of his eyes. Green. His hair is blond and reaches his chin, and is rather unkempt, curling and sticking out at odd places. His straight bangs are clearly cut by his own hand.

"My-my apologies. I did not mean to frighten you. I was only curious,"

You sigh. It's the voice from the orientation festival, the one M. de Neige called Gregoire.

"Well, don't be. We're leaving," you say. "Now... which way is out?"

"There are more than one, if you know where to look,"

You narrow your eyes at him and he goes pale.

"I-I only mean that there are many ways out into the streets, but you wouldn't want to be alone in the city after curfew,"

"I think I can handle it,"

"It's unsafe,"

"Is it?"

"Veritably,"

He doesn't seem to be lying, at least. You let your arms fall to your sides with a sigh.

"But I can't stay here. This feels like a prison,"

"It may," he nods. "It is stone walls all the same. But you don't have to stay here. The dorms are but a short walk away."

The goat bleats, and you agree. You're not sure whether you can trust this man or not, yet.

"What's your name?"

He seems to stand a little straighter, almost eager to talk about himself.

"I am the author Pierrot Gregoire, whose mystery was presented in the courtyard this evening,"

You seem to recall his voice again, his back turned to you in the crowd, as if he were infinitely more interested in his play than the commotion.

"I remember you," you say, sticking your hands in your pockets. You feel around the apple you'd put in there earlier. "Sorry I ruined it."

"The people were losing interest either way," he sighs and hangs his head. "My poor mystery..."

You glance at the little goat, and it chuffs back, nodding its head towards the end of the hall as if telling you to make a break for it while he's distracted.

You can't bring yourself to.

"Here," you say, handing him the shriveled apple. "We're even, then."

Pierrot's entire disposition changes; his face lights up with a childlike joy that makes it seem as if he'd completely forgotten about his woes, and he cups the apple in his palm with reverence.

"Oh... thank you," he says, finally. "I will take you to the dorms."

The evening had grown cold and windy since your spectacle in the courtyard.

The robes, at least, are warm enough to keep you comfortable, although you feel a pang of sympathy for the poor goat, who has only its fur, and, in a way, for Pierrot, whose robes look worn and beaten and strangely burnt.

"You can stay with me in the spare house," he says.

"You don't stay in a dorm?"

"My housewarden threw me to the streets months ago,"

He says it merrily, with that same smile, but there's an underlying sense of bitterness. You don't ask about it again.

Pierrot brings you to a small, dark building at the very edge of the island. Once again, you are surrounded by inky black water.

"Here," he hums, lighting a single candle as you walk in. "It's not much, but better than the sewers."

"You've slept in the sewers?"

He shudders. "I don't want to talk about it,"

Once an adequate amount of candles are lit, he pulls up a chest for you to sit on, and takes a seat on the floor across from you.

You sigh, letting out the stress and tension you'd been carrying in your chest in a single breath.

It felt much later than it truly was.

"That is a pretty creature of yours," he says, nodding at your goat. "Does it have a name?"

"Hugo," it says.

Both you and Pierrot go silent.

Then, finally, you shout.

"You can talk?!"

[a-frog-in-a-bog]

i don't wanna be mean but it's so telling the way ppl on this site reacted to a poll essentially asking "is a cishet man who has no desire for a relationship and uses women for sex queer?" with a full on tantrum kicking and screaming bc apparently saying "no he's not queer and also he's an asshole" is discrimination against aro men. like. that was all the proof i needed to be certain that a lot of tumblr users have no idea what discrimination and oppression actually are. men are literally praised for using women like sex toys then discarding them when they get "clingy". in what fuckin world is it discrimination against aro ppl to call alpha males and patriarchal double standards shitty and sexist. also what are you trying to accomplish by saying that someone who objectifies and uses other ppl for their own sexual pleasure is probably just aro

[sixteenth-days]

ghost iskall for the art trait swap? 👉👈

-vaish titiro

It’s storming out, but Iskall knows how to handle himself in snow. It’s his thing, in fact. In his name and everything. As long as he gets back to his cozy starter base in the next, say, fifteen minutes, he’ll be perfectly fine and curling up with carrot-ginger soup to wait out the blizzard.

The problem being, of course, that he’s lost.

He knows his starter base is around here somewhere, although being that he’s been down in the cave base recently he’s not as quick on the mountain navigation as he’d been start-of-season. He’ll be fine, though. As long as he stays moving, keeps struggling against the driving wind, watches his steps. Remembers where he’s going. Figures out where he’s going.

As long as he doesn’t let his eyes slip closed.

It’s dark out. He’s going numb. He’ll be fine though. As long as he... As long as…

As long as…

It’s bright out. That’s nice, if a little glaring. He must have made it through the blizzard, hypothermia derps and all, if he’s waking up to snowmelt rather than to a jolting respawn in his bed, little trickles of water like the snowbanks are sweating falling off to the rocks below. Oh, wow, he’d been close to the edge there. And properly snowed over. He’ll have to check in on the integrity of his electronics once he digs himself the rest of the way out of here…

His hands go through the snowbank. Right through, as he tries to lever himself out, with no sensation but a little whoosh of cold.

He doesn’t look down. Instead, he tries again, feels that distant little frigid feeling, hits something solid. His arm sinks in, spoon into soup, and then he can feel his arm again. Stiff. Frostbitten. Solid.

He looks up at the pale sun. Something glitches horribly, black and pink, in the electronics of his left eye.

[tinamybeloved]

George talking about excel!

[vincentaureliuslin]

MOMUMENTAL MOMENT! THEY'RE HERE I'M SO EXICTED

[inkats]

hiii i did this essentially just for paneling + line practice . if anyone has any. critiques or tips or things i should try or things that really dont read well pls let me know. heres something else i did also if u want to. tell me ive improved ^-^ or if i havent ^-^

[labratboygirl]

day 1

the first few days of this are gonna be kinda nothingburger probably .sorry i like how this one turned out howevr !!!!!!!!! its fun looking (also sidenote i am Not going to draw argos with short hair for the first few days either i know it would be more canon accurate but that haircut makes me want to kill myself sorry)

[18cents]

people's republic of china: industry and agriculture (1977)

[maverickcanine]

fankid 🤯 yes of COURSE i have a nextgen planned

[wwoofington]

saw the words bunny zemo and blacked out

[dukethomas]

duke? i know next to nothing about him and i'm curious <3

oh boy oh boy oh boy !!!!!!!! thank you for asking i love talking about duke

one aspect i love about them: i could list a million things rn but how about. this sense of personal responsibility that is both a strength and a vice for him but in a way unique to the "great power comes great responsibility" model of heroics. duke feels like he has this responsibility to better the world, he feels responsible for his loved ones and ppl he deems under his care, but not because he's uniquely special. instead he feels like it's something everyone owes the community. he monologues abt how you can make that choice, to choose to do good or inflict evil. he holds bruce to this personally--confronting him about using his amnesia to ignore his responsibilities as batman. he has the weight of the world on his shoulders and don't get me wrong he isolates himself like crazy and tries to tackle it all alone but it's because he believes this is just what everyone should be doing. he doesn't view himself as particularly special or powerful, this is just his job. his calling !!!

the rest of the answers under the cut bc i talked a lot

one aspect i wish more people understood about them: there's a lot of really obvious answers that i'm going to skip over bc they've been said to death. instead i think i'm going to say i wish ppl understood he's not like. the mentally healthy bat. when he's not doing so hot and crumbling under the weight he has put on his own shoulders he self isolates he gets snappy and bitchy and closed off he gets into fights he gets self destructive. he's allergic to asking for help. and also he is very frequently in a bad place because he's a teenager that's what they do + in comic time he goes through like. a traumatic event every month. his status quo is constantly changing because of the nature of comics but in universe that means the longest, most stable period he's had in a while is, like, the year he spent training with bruce wayne, inflictor of mental illnesses. come on now

one (or more) headcanons i have about this character: i will elaborate on this in a post sometime but i believe his powers are about potential. snyder lore posits that metahumans somehow are created by nth metal. proximity to nth metal sparks duke's powers in a snyder comic, and duke himself is a snyder creation, so i figure this implies duke has a unique connection to nth metal. which is where i believe his meta amplification comes from in batman and the signal, another snyder comic. maybe if i read more of the snyder lore than just the duke parts i'd understand it more.

regardless, this connection to the source of metahumans could mean a million things but in line with the themes in we are robin about choice, i think it indicates great potential in duke. also, in alternate futures for duke--tales from the dark multiverse & urban legends #8-9 outsiders story--his powers have increased substantially in different directions. in the dark multiverse, his first canonical powers are amplified so much he has to actively suppress them or else he. can't see. but also those powers fuel him with one key thing that leads him to be the last survivor of the multiverse, which is his hope. and then in urban legends, future duke is just a badass who is a powerful mage???? which is something duke becomes, once again, to survive the way the world becomes. taking from a canon example, ra's and ishmael are able to invert duke's powers entirely, giving him his umbrakinesis. literally what other meta can this happen to!! anyways, my headcanon is that because of his inherent connection to the source of metahumans, his great power lies in the potential to become whatever he needs to be to keep fighting the good fight. whatever he needs to be to keep trying to make the world better. i think in the canon timeline, where the future will never become desolate, where duke will never become so desperate, he won't need to unlock his full potential, and he wouldn't choose to, because he's not that kind of guy. but the potential simmers under his skin, waiting for when he does need it. when he chooses it.

one character i love seeing them interact with: how do i choose one. i'm going to speed run a bunch of them. cass & duke are genuinely such supportive sibs like they back each other up it's so nice to read!! my besties!!! bruce & duke is interesting in the way duke comes from the era where they start pushing the fanon batfamily more, and so you get a bruce that does seem more supportive, and it really is bruce's healthiest relationship w a mentee bc he 1) positively reinforces duke 2) has never beat him up nor tried to. low low bar. but you can still see. bruce harps on how duke's the future of heroism. how he is going to lead the way, how he's "something different." and he pushes duke, and trains duke personally and assigns him day shift and puts him on the outsiders. and duke feeds into that by insisting the mission IS bruce's responsibility. they make each other worse is what i'm saying. jeff & duke are fun for opposite reasons, because jeff believes in duke just as much but also can intervene and stop duke when needed. just a nice positive relationship with an authority figure for duke it's nice :D

one character i wish they would interact with/interact with more: pipe dream. renee. i have a very self indulgent au draft where duke becomes renee's mentee instead through sheer stubborn force of will and she is so annoyed with him all the time and also after the 5th or 6th time this teenager tracks you down as you work various cases you get a little fond. she'd never say that to him though are you kidding he'd get worse and more annoying. mainline renee and duke could have a fun detective story as well i think as two ppl with very different ways of operating who use their individual strengths to solve the mystery and also throws in juxtaposition of the ways their depressions manifest in there or smth. my other answer that doesn't throw my 2 dc faves together is duke meets anissa and jen pierce i think that could be fun!! jeff introduces them and then regrets it. also i wish damian and duke talked more after robin war the post-robin war dynamic that lives in my brain is great

one (or more) headcanon(s) i have that involve them and one other character: going to keep this one short bc i've said so much already. i headcanon the narrows as a large neighborhood in gotham and park row/crime alley as a smaller, really well-known part of that neighborhood, to avoid having 2 worst neighborhoods in gotham. anyways this means jason and duke grew up in the same neighborhood and oh boy do they rip each other a new one for that. half the time their convos are incomprehensible to non-narrows residents bc it's just insults from coming from opposite sides of the neighborhood and those insults are very narrows-specific. jason texts duke during the climax battle in batman and the signal and goes "how tf did you let narrows go to shit your first day. i wouldn't have let this happen. crime alley kids are just built different ig"

[mityenka]

for me rereading the brothers karamazov really opened my eyes to just how much the book is haunted by alyosha dostoyevsky... i was aware of the naming parallels between the characters and dostoyevsky’s real family with fyodor being the father and alyosha being the son as well as alyosha k.’s role in the story being that of an almost messianic figure but god there is so much more... the fact that child death is a recurring theme throughout the book... the peasant woman in book two who came to see elder zosima mourning the death of her three year old son who was called alexei...

[bilbao-song]

Jeff Lynne & Paul McCartney, 2002

[fujobritta]

cooking (draft)

[butchboromir]

fellowship of the ring / battle of the five armies