#He is a single mother of six eldritch children

[somnoir]

How to pull a Batman by J. Constantine

John Constantine wouldn't say he was quite fond of children. He's not fatherly by any means so he knows that he's not suitable for raising children. It's just that he somehow ends up with a young girl at his front door (how she found the house of mystery, he's not sure). The little girl looked normal but she felt off. Too drenched in death to be a run-of-the-mill child. Her red hair seemed to turn into flames at the tips, and her eyes were eerily teal and glowed. Everything about her seemed wrong.

"Hello." She murmured, "Clockwork told me to come find you."

And she was just blinking, looking utterly uncanny as John reluctantly welcomed her into the house. "Master of Time?" He hesitated, knowing that amongst the many powerful beings he'd met the ancient of time had been one of them. A mirthful entity who seemed amused by the chaos and order of the multiverse. 

"He told me to give you this!" The girl fished out a glowing green paper from... y'know, he's not sure. 

And in mocking calligraphy the words:

"You owe me :). p.s. there's more."

was directed at John like a fucking signal. 

Great... Being indebted to the cosmic entity of time has made him a father.

He thought it'd happen one time. Just once. Little Jasmine was adept at the occult and got along well with ghosts, often playing peacemaker when one of them tried bothering Constantine. She was concerningly liminal for a twelve-year-old child, but she brushed it of for the fact that her siblings were either halfas or very liminal. Was he concerned, admittedly yes. 

It wasn't until there was a pounding at the door again did he start praying to any god willing to listen. But no. The sentient house practically dragged him through the halls and led him to where Jazz was eagerly waiting, a grin on her face. 

"My baby brothers are here!" She excitedly says, eyes practically sparkling as she grabs him by the hand. 

"Slow down, darlin'. They won't bloody leave if we slow down." He sighed in exasperation, before pulling the door open. Two pairs of eyes stared into his very soul, making his breath hitch.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the hell was Clockwork sending him?!

"Danny! Dan" Jazz squealed, dragging the two halfas into the house. One with green eyes and another with red. 

"Clockie wasn't kidding when he said he's a sad guy in a trench coat." The one with green eyes muttered, still floating and staying close to Jazz and his twin. 

"Clockwork slept with that?" The red-eyed one unabashedly judged. "Another fruitloop..." The boy snarled.

John Constantine could already predict the future at this point.

Daniel and Dante take to the house immediately, haunting it to their hearts content.

In the course of four years, the hellblazer drowns in the depths of fatherhood, making sure that no one could find out about his children. No. Not even Batman.

He'd be damned (even more) than let anyone involve the best parts of his life in contingency plans and whatnot. 

His kids grow up to be a rowdy and peculiar bunch.

His eldest, Jazz, was turning out to be one hell of a magician. Especially in necromantic arts that he's tried not to touch many times.

The twins, Danny and Dante were little hellions that made him want to tear his hair out. Its later on when Clockwork comes to visit their children (because its joint custody now) that he's informed that one is the crown prince of the realms and to be king upon the expiration of his mortality, and the other was an alternate version of him and was dubbed the world destroyer. 

His fourth child and second daughter had come in the form of Sam, who had popped up in the house and was decorating it with plants he from different dimensions. Also, she was apparently a green witch that now had the powers of the spirit known as undergrowth. The house was green.

His fifth child came in the form of a boy with a red hat and a laptop clutched against his chest. Tucker had seemed so harmless and sweet compared to his older siblings... until John found him performing ancient egyptian rituals and casually hacking into the Pentagon for fun. 

His last (Thank god) daughter was a zoomie toddler. Little Elle had arrived three years after Jazz did. A five year old with such intense wanderlust that he was tempted to buy one of those harness leash thingies parents had their children wear. Also, like the twins in which she was the clone of, she was one hell of a child being directly connected to the speed force.

So in conclusion, John Constantine was the father of three children on the verge of becoming Ancients, a highly intelligent girl with a very deep connection to death, the successor of fucking Undergrowth, and a boy who could effortlessly hack into government systems whilst being a pharao-in-training. 

Batman must never know.

In the far future, John Constantine battles it out with Bruce Wayne, who's children thought it was a good idea to start flirting with his hellions.

Constantine: TO HELL WITH YOU IF YOU THINK IM LETTING MY PERFECT JAZZY PANTS DATE YOUR FLIPPY SON!

Bruce: SHE'S GOOD FOR HIM!

Constantine: YEAH WILL IS HE GOOD FOR HER?!

And then it gets worse once John catches the Red Hood displaying some ghostly courting behaviour towards Dan. And he's just.

Constantine: Tell your children to back off.

Bruce: You think I haven't tried???

Then comes Danny and Tim with their unhinged behavior. Constantine isn't even mad about the fact that his son is dating one of the Bats. He's just concerned about the chaos with these two.

Bruce: okay, that one is not allowed. How do we get them to break up?

Constantine who's already witnessed Danny making plans to brutally murder Ra's for some spleen: Yeah, no. Good luck with that one.

By the time it's just Sam, Tucked, and Elle, he's praying it's not one of the Bats.

He really is.

Tucked is emmersed in his work but that didn't stop him from befriending Bart Allen and the current Kid Flash. Time travel is the one they usually discuss. (Dante and Constantine were very much on the same page when it came to keeping them just friends.)

And then Sam somehow ends up catching the attention of a daughter of Zeus. By this point, Constantine was preparing to fight god again and would have to ask his ex for a favor.

He's just so happy his precious princess Elle was being a sweet fifteen years old and wasn't daring crazy people.

(Damian was being rather suspicious...)

[catmansquad]

Eldritch!König

Headcanons galore for the troubled soul.

For as long as he remembered, he knew he wasn’t like other children.

His mother would wrap him up warm, a little scarf so that no-one could see the welts all over his lower face.

Their parents would whisper, and pull the children away from him.

His mother was loving and warm, but his father never showed him love. The man was cold and abusive. Calling him a freak with bloodshot eyes and the stench of alcohol on his breath.

Eventually his father revealed himself as violently homophobic. König’s attempt at exploration in his teen years ended in being beaten black and blue. His father called him a freak in more ways than one.

König was inevitably forced to confront the fact that he definitely wasn’t like other people. The man who spat venomous words was only his step-father. His mother conceded defeat when he stepped into the light to show his face. She told him that his father- his sire- was “exceptional” in all ways. A night of transcendental passion that defied all description.

At 35 years old, König stands over 7’ tall, and can lift a grown man single-handedly.

To say he is intimidating would be an awful understatement.

Until he met you, there was only one other man he trusted and loved deep enough to unmask himself. It was the deep and pure acceptance he’d always longed for. For a time, he had found someone he could trust absolutely.

When the townsfolk came with torches and petrol bombs, chanting of death to the “Abomination”, König was determined to fight, then to flee with his beloved. In the end, only he escaped the flames.

It takes him months of letting down his barriers and rejecting your attempts to see his face, before he finally agrees.

“Promise me, mein Schatz… P-promise me that you... Won’t scream…”

You had expected scarring, perhaps disfigurement.

“I promise, King, you’re handsome to me no matter how-“

You barely manage to choke back the shriek of horror, eyes blown wide as the sniper’s hood falls to his side, clutched tight in a fist.

His azure eyes are sad, sparkling with unshed emotions. All six of them. His nostrils are narrow, his frowning mouth barely visible beneath the many long, tentacles that now hang limp and still as he waits for you to reject him. To call him a freak. To run, screaming into the night, howling about a monster.

“That’s… N-not what I was expecting.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, a soft gasp passes his lips. You don’t run, you step closer to him. Had reaching out, fascinated, until you stopped. “Can I touch them?”. He nods, slowly.

He shivers at the feel of your fingers brushing along one of his appendages, it twitches at the foreign contact. He slowly coaxes it into wrapping around your hand in return.

Kissing König is an experience. His huge hands cup your ass to support you against his chest, his tendrils wrap around your neck, across your shoulder and down your back, pulling you close against him. He kisses back with a ferocious desperation, a touch-starved, love-starved man who finally has acceptance once.

He has other secrets, too; of how his gloves conceal his dark, sharp nails and webbed fingers, of the faint, closed slits in his neck that hide gills, and of how the light never seems to sit quite right on his bare skin. It is as if the shadows of the night sky want to swallow him up.

You’d always let you imagination run wild, the first few times you’d slept with the hulking Colonel, the man who refused to show his face, but the moans and groans of your name from beneath the hood had been enough to sate you. Loving him for who he really was did not take much effort.

He loves you just as much. Perhaps, his love burns too hot. After what befell the last man who accepted him, König would do anything to keep you safe. To keep you his. Anything.

“Mein Liebe, mein Schatz… Mine…“

It’s common to wake up to find yourself hugged against his chest, eyes watching you sleep, a single tentacle stroking your cheek. Your dreams are stranger these days; of a ruined city beneath an eclipsed sun, and tattered yellow banners fluttering in dead winds.

You witnessed him deal with the last man who assaulted you; the mask shifted and one tentacle lashed out from beneath, wrapping around his neck and strangled him while König looked on with a ferocious growl in his chest.

At the Halloween party, König greeted you wrapped in golden silks and a white veil. He hugs you close, lavishing little kisses while spinning you on the spot and whispering sweet nothings in you ear. “I know who I am. What I am here for. Be my consort, by my side. Forever. We will rule this world made anew. You are worthy, dear one…”

Only then did you recognize what he meant. He was telling you who he was. His callsign, his robes of golden yellow silk, the yellow tears that stained his sniper hood. He’d always been telling you.

“Der gelbe König”.

The King in Yellow embraces you as the eye of the storm, lost in each other’s eyes, as the madness claims all else.

[papastarion]

Papastarion Headcanons Pt. 3

Uh-oh! She’s at it again! (But you’re here, too, so what does that say about you, hm? 😂) This one feels very long and just as indulgent as all the others, so strap in.

•Their kids as a collective are affectionately known as “the Brood.”

•In my canon, they have four boys and one girl by the time they’re finished having children, on top of their two adopted daughters. So far, I’ve named three of the boys. In order: Nero, Eldritch (“El”), and Apolinary (“Arry”), Their last biological child is their third daughter: Phaedra (“Phae.”) I’ve got one more boy left to name, but I’m being indecisive. :)

•Naming the kids is a group effort. They’ll take input from literally anyone. Astarion even asked Petras once. (Never again.) They didn’t think they’d make it this far, they didn’t discuss baby names or dream them up before there were babies to be named. Thea’s wanted kids her whole life, assumed she would never get the chance, and never once had a single name ready to go just in case. She thought it would come to her when the time came. (Spoilers, babe: it did not.)

•Gale is not allowed participating in any naming discussions after suggesting Telemachus for their first child. He considers this a fair point in hindsight. He gets to keep his uncle privileges, though, and he loves all his honorary nieces and nephews just as much as the other members of their little troupe do.

•Karlach (once her engine’s fixed) thinks they should all be named Karlach. When it seems impossible to agree on a name or come up with one at all, it is very tempting.

•Astarion and Thea didn’t expect it to be possible to have any biological children, but once they adopt the girls, and then when Nero comes along, they both discuss what they would like their family to look like. Astarion strikes me as an only child, and Thea came from a very messed up family dynamic (Bhaal aside), and they mutually agree they wouldn’t mind having a bigger family, if it works out. (“Your eyes? My hair? Our genetics would be lethal, love.”)

•For all the hassle, they always manage to land on the perfect name, in Astarion’s very unhumble opinion. And for all the hassle, too, he wouldn’t trade those nights where Thea can’t sleep because she’s thinking too much or can’t get comfortable where they’ll nestle up together and talk over their options while feeling this poor person they can’t name move around.

•They didn’t want to name their kids after anyone, either. There are precious few people between them who deserve that honor, and they mutually agree it feels right to give their children names unencumbered by any legacy.

•Astarion’s parents are very much alive in my mind. For personal context: his father is a high elf and his mother is a wood elf, bit of a star-crossed thing going on with their backgrounds. His father is a highly-esteemed magistrate named Gildersleeve but he goes by Sly, his mother is a woman named Orianna who loves nothing more than playing high society while the nobility of Baldur’s Gate are scandalized by her. After Astarion’s death, they both became very withdrawn from social activity, though Sly continued his council duties. They never thought they would know what happened to their son after his murder, let alone that he would come home to them again, married, and that they would be grandparents in the not too distant future.

•They dote on their grandchildren, adopted and blood alike. There’s no difference to them. More than once, Sly has walked into a day of legal work with a six month old dhampir on his hips because Thea and Astarion needed a babysitter, and what’s he going to do? Not spend time with one of his grandkids? Not Gildersleeve.

•Astarion has learned how to do hair over the course of his life and unlife. He would do his sisters’ after Cazador’s torment left their hands shaking and unable to properly finesse their braids back into place before entertaining a new guest. He picked up even more styles from Thea and their first adopted daughter along their little tadpole adventure. So, of course, he helps take care of his kiddos hair, too. There are full on (affectionate) fights about who can do it the best.

•Obviously not one for rules or social standards, Astarion is absolutely there for each labor and delivery. He doesn’t like seeing Thea in pain (anymore), but her discomfort outweighs his own. He and Thea are partners, equals in all things. The very least he can do for her is be by her side, if she wants him there (and she absolutely does), and the rest of the world can be damned. It’s a stupid “rule,” in his opinion, anyway.

•He watches all five kids come into this world he had a small hand in saving, and he’s grateful everyday that some trick of fate found him deserving of such an honor. He’ll always have his scars and his nightmares, but every last night spend under Cazador’s thumb is a little more distant any time he holds little Nero, and when he gets to teach El how to read, and when Mina laughs, when Thea asks for his hand so he can feel one kick. They’re all priceless to him, worth every terrible night.

•On a lighter note to end this one: Astarion is the one who patches up any clothes that get torn in the throes of playing (or teething.) He likes to put little inscriptions in hems for the kids to find, because he’s turned into a sentimental and mushy fool, and he doesn’t mind a bit.

[haberdashing]

Open Up My Eager Eyes

TMA fic set just after MAG 168. Jon and Martin have an important talk about what once was and what might have been.

on AO3

They didn’t speak much right after Jon returned, but the tension in the air was palpable as they made their way forwards, the only sounds that of their footsteps crunching against what passed for ground here and the whispers of the dying.

Eventually, Jon couldn’t stand it anymore, so he stopped walking, turning towards Martin as he said, “Can we... let’s talk.”

“About what?” Martin’s tone was a little sharp, but he stood still as well, looking Jon in the eye as he did so.

“You know, the whole jealousy thing.”

Martin’s face tensed up, and he made a show of breaking eye contact with Jon as he said, “I think we’ve talked quite enough about that already, thanks.”

“No, not... look, we already discussed how you’re jealous of Oliver Banks for, for some reason, and how I’m not going to kill a man just because you’re jealous of him-”

Martin scrunched up his nose in a way that would be patently adorable if he wasn’t currently trying to convince Jon to murder someone. “He’s not really a man anymore, though, is he? I mean, that’s kind of the point.”

“Martin, if just being an avatar of a fear god during, well, this, is enough for somebody to deserve getting killed in your mind... I’d like you to think a bit about what that implies about me.”

Martin blinked a few times and furrowed his brow, thinking for a few seconds in silence before letting out a long, solemn breath. “Alright, yeah, point taken.”

“Besides, if you just let me explain what actually happened, maybe you’ll understand that there’s really no reason for you to be jealous of...” Jon tried to hold back the laughter in his voice, but a bit of it sneaked through just the same as he finished, “...of Oliver Banks, of all people.”

“I mean, you did wake up for him and not for me, though. That’s just a fact.”

“It wasn’t... it wasn’t for him, is the thing. Because of him, maybe, but not for him.”

“Fine, because of him, then. But he- he still did something for you there, then. Something I clearly couldn’t.”

Jon threw his hands in the air. “Yes, because he was an avatar of death! Look, if you’re really that desperate to throw away your humanity, feel free to give Annabelle Cane a ring, I’m sure she’d be glad to hook you up-”

“Jon...”

“I... It was a joke. I was joking.” That wasn’t entirely accurate, truth be told--Jon kept wondering if that was Annabelle Cane’s endgame in all of this, recruiting Martin to her side--but that was a very different conversation to be had than the current one, and not one Jon terribly felt like delving into at the moment.

“Sure.” Martin sounded less than convinced.

“It’s not like I- I cared more about Oliver Banks than you, or anything like that, if that’s what you’re thinking! He just... let me know what I needed to do to wake up. Gave me information I had been lacking.”

“I thought you knew everything!”

“Now, maybe. And there’s still a few limits even now. But back then it... it wasn’t quite that simple.”

“So, what was this information he had and you didn’t?”

“He explained that, that what had happened... it left me trapped somewhere in between life and death-”

“You couldn’t have figured that much out for yourself?”

“Let me finish! At the time, I was... how did he phrase it... not human enough to die, but still too human to live. And I had to make a choice. Either I could pick my human side and just- just die, or I could give up on being human and wake up as a full-fledged avatar of the Beholding.”

“And you chose the latter?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Jon let out a sharp bark of a laugh, looking around at the desolate, nightmarish landscape surrounding them before adding, “Knowing what I do know... I don’t think I made the right choice there.”

“Don’t say that!” Jon hadn’t been expecting the desperation in Martin’s voice, hadn’t been expecting him to reach out and clutch Jon’s arm as if he were going to fade away at any moment. “Don’t... don’t you dare say you want to die, alright?”

Martin looked like he was on the verge of tears, suddenly, and Jon pressed one hand against his cheek, ready to brush away any teardrops that might fall. “I mean, I don’t want to die now, I’m not suicidal. At this point, the damage has already been done. Dying now wouldn’t do anyone much good.”

Martin released his grip on Jon’s arm, but that sad, desperate look in his eyes remained all too present. “But you still think the world would be better off if you had died back then.”

“I mean...” Jon used his free hand to gesture towards the hellscape that surrounded them. “If I had, none of this would have happened. And the rest of the Archives staff would be free to leave, to escape from this mess. You would be free, Martin. Free to live your life without having to worry about any of this.”

“But without you.”

“Without me, and without being tied to an eldritch fear god, and without the apocalypse unfolding in front of you. That seems like more than a fair trade-off.”

Martin laughed, but it was a laugh more of sorrow than of levity, and Jon felt a single teardrop fall onto his finger. “After all this time, you still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

“None of that matters to me if you’re not there. The only reason my working with Peter Lukas became more than just- just a death wish was because you woke up, because I could see a life for myself outside of the Lonely with you. Maybe it’s selfish--no, strike that, I know it’s selfish--but I’d rather be beside you here and now than in a world where none of this happened, but you’re not there to share it with me.”

“...thank you, Martin.” Jon broke into a shaky smile. “But even if you’re fine with how things worked out, the others-”

“-are better off with you here too.”

Jon let the hand that had been pressed against Martin’s face fall to his side, tried not to focus on how it was now shaking due to some emotion he couldn’t quite name. “I don’t see how that works.”

“Alright, let’s go through this one by one. If you hadn’t woken up, Melanie would still have a- a ghost bullet from the Slaughter stuck in her leg, right?”

“That she wanted in there!”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Right, because that’s healthy. Look, I’m not saying the way you went about things was the perfect solution, but I do think it beats doing nothing and just letting her become an avatar of unthinking violence. And if you’d died, she’d have had to find another target for all that rage...”

“...fine, let’s say for the sake of argument Melanie’s better off. There’s Basira, too.”

“Basira...” Martin bit his lip for a moment the way he often did when he was deep in thought. “I’m not sure what she would have done if you had died, honestly, but I do know she wouldn’t have gotten Daisy back without you. You’re the reason she knew Daisy was in the Buried, and you’re definitely the reason Daisy got out of there.”

“Because I jumped into a coffin where the whole idea is that once you go in, you can never come out.”

“Again, not claiming it was a great plan or anything, but it did work. You saved Basira from not knowing what really happened, from mourning a woman who was still alive. And you saved Daisy from being stuck in the Buried literally forever.”

“And now she’s succumbed to the Hunt. I can’t imagine that’s much better.”

“You were down there with her. You tell me.”

Jon’s silence as he considered this was as much of a response as any words could have been.

“Basira might have stayed, too. It’s not like she had anything left outside the Archives, after all. And if she did? Maybe I would have actually gone along with Peter’s plan and killed Elias-” Jon gave Martin a look, and Martin corrected himself. “Killed Jonah Magnus, and then she would have died. Along with everybody else who works for the Institute. Rosie from the front desk, who always greets everyone with a smile? Dead. Sonja from Artefact Storage, who actually seems to accept all of this weirdness? Dead. Hannah’s children would lose their mother. Hundreds of families would be torn apart.”

“That’s still a lot less pain and suffering than I caused by reading that damn statement. You can’t claim the world wouldn’t be better off if I hadn’t done that.”

“Okay, no, I’m not gonna come out pro-apocalypse here or anything, but... think about it. Jonah Magnus was planning all of this for two hundred years. You really think he would have given up if you died?”

Jon hadn’t thought of that, and his vision blurred as he considered the implications there.

“He would’ve found another Archivist, he would’ve made them go through hell instead, and we’d end up back here soon enough. The only way he would’ve stopped is if I killed him, a-and then Peter’d have the Panopticon for whatever the hell he really wanted it for, and maybe it’s not the same, but you can’t tell me a world under Peter Lukas’ control would really be that much better.”

“...I suppose not, no.” Jon cleared his throat as he prepared to change the subject as smoothly as he could manage. “So. Oliver Banks did what he had to do, as did I, whatever the consequences. And I’m pretty sure either option of his choice would be better than being eternally stuck watching other people’s nightmares. You’ve seen for yourself that those can be... rough on me, and that’s after just one night.”

“That’s what it was like? Just- just six months of nonstop nightmares?”

And suddenly Martin’s arms were wrapped around Jon’s body, Martin tucking his head against Jon’s shoulder, and he could feel tears dampening his jumper. Jon did his best to reciprocate, to reach out to Martin in turn, and tears of his own began to fall as well.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Jon.”

“It’s fine-”

Martin looked up at Jon with a fiery gaze. “It’s not fine.”

“Well, it’s fine now. And- and maybe now you can see why I’m grateful to Oliver Banks for letting me know that I had options besides being stuck like that forever.”

“...yeah, I guess so. Though I still wish I could have been the one to help you.”

“I know you did everything you could.” Jon’s lips turned into a wry smile as he added, “I heard you, you know. The only other things I heard were statements--Oliver’s and Jonah’s, and please don’t tell me you’re going to be jealous of Jonah Magnus now-”

“Nah, I think we’ve got better reasons for killing him than that.”

“Quite.” Jon snorted. “But I heard you, at one point, too. Not a statement, of course. Just... you, talking to me. Begging me to come back. And I wanted to, I really did. But at that point, I didn’t know how.”

“...I didn’t know you heard any of that.”

“Well, we never really talked about it before. Understandably so; it’s not exactly the most pleasant of conversation topics.”

Jon leaned over, tilting his head just so before planting a kiss on Martin’s damp cheek.

“I’ve also never done that to Oliver Banks, so hopefully that will help you get over that jealousy of yours.”

Martin’s eyes were sparkling as he looked up at Jon, and only partially due to the half-formed tears still lingering in his eyes. “Hmm... I don’t know. Might need to give it a few more tries just to be sure.”

Jon raised an eyebrow as he broke into a wide grin, though he tried to keep his voice calm and level and faux-academic. “Ah, a firm believer in the scientific method. I can certainly respect that.”

And Jon kissed Martin again, and again, and again, until the kissing dissolved into a mutual fit of giggles and both their tears were well and truly gone.

[catgirlthecrazy]

To Love and To Cherish

After being extremely mean to Jon and Martin in my last fic, I had to make it up to them with 2,000 words of domestic softness (and a side helping of character development)

AO3

Summary: What if the Scottish Honeymoon lasted through retirement? 

***

Martin was washing dishes when the fog rolled in. He didn't notice it right away. He was bent over the kitchen sink and didn't see much beyond the plates and soapy water. It wasn't until Martin straightened to work a kink out of his back that he saw the soft white curtains of vapor drifting across the yard. And Jon was down in the village at the moment, and hadn't said when he planned to come home.

When he'd first come to Scotland for years ago, that had been enough to send him into a panic attack. Slumped against the kitchen counter, knees hugged to his chest, sweating and struggling to breathe for god knew how long until Jon came home and found him like that. He'd held Martin's hand, softly rubbing circles in his palm. Come on Martin, breathe with me, he'd said, voice soft and steady as a highland cow. Breathe in to a count of ten. 

Decades had passed since then. Somewhat less since his last real panic attack. Martin knew now, with a rock solid certainty, that Jon would come back. He knew he had friends waiting for him.

Still. Martin Blackwood might not be Lonely anymore, but that didn't mean the scars couldn't ache in the wrong weather. He stared out the window into the fog, hands still dripping with suds. He could remember the day when that fog had filled his eyes and lungs and heart and mind. When he'd been certain that no one in the world cared if he lived or died, and that he would spend the rest of eternity with that numbing fog. Without even the mercy of death to look forward to.

Martin closed his eyes and breathed in. One. Two. He thought of Sophie and Rasheed, who ran the chemist's shop down in the village and invited them to dinner every once a week. Three. Four. Their children, Maryam and Noah, who Martin had known since they came home from the hospital and were now graduated from university. Five. Six. Robin and Daniel, who ran the pub that Jon and Martin went to every Wednesday, and had done so ever since taking it over from Robin's father ten years ago. Seven. Eight. Georgie and Melanie, who hosted Christmas every year down in London. Nine. Ten. Daisy and Basira, who came up to visit for two weeks every summer. Now hold.

Jon. Who woke up beside him every morning. Who could go on and on about the strangest things. Whose brusque demeanor hid a surprising depth of kindness that still delighted Martin even to this day. Who'd plunged himself into that cold and numbing fog to save Martin, and pulled him out again with love. Who'd given up his own sight for a life with Martin, away from eyes and fear. Martin breathed out to another count of ten. He opened his eyes, and the fog was just fog. Just water vapor brought about by a closeness of air temperature and dew point. He went back to washing dishes.

Some time later, something meowed at his feet. Martin looked down and smiled. "Hello Percy," he said to the regal ball of fluff twining itself around his ankles. Percy looked up and meowed again.

"Don't give me that. It's not dinner time for another hour."

Percy gave him a withering look and meowed again, as if to say You are most certainly mistaken. Your clocks must be running slow.

"I think you'll find it's your clock that needs winding, not mine."

Another plaintive meow. You must make an exception! Can you not see how I am malnourished and dying?

"Not falling for that one either."

Percy gave him a look of pure pleading, and mewed.

"That won't work on me. Jon's the cat person, not me."

Percy's expression grew more plaintive. He mewed pitifully. Martin turned back to his dishwashing before he could give into weakness.

Percy's full name was Sergeant Major Percival Pike. The naming of cats was one thing Jon and Martin had never really been able to see eye to eye on. One day many years ago, Jon had come home with a stray kitten and informed Martin that they were calling her The Commandant. Martin hadn't had the heart to argue at the time. Jon had been so adorably besotted with the tiny thing, how could he tell him no? But Martin always felt a little ridiculous calling such a squeaky little fuzzball by such a weighty title. So he'd nicknamed her Manda, and called her that until she passed away from old age in front of the fireplace. Jon had only lightly teased him for it, and Manda didn't seem to mind answering to two different names.

When they adopted their second cat, three years after rescuing Manda, Jon had wanted to name him Lord Chancellor. This time, Martin put his foot down.

Please Jon, can't we give the cat a normal name?

Jon scoffed. What self respecting cat would accept a normal name?

You think a cat's going to care if it's called Whiskers? Or Mittens? Or Fluffy?

Yes, and their owners should be hanged for lack of creativity.

In the end, they compromised, and the cat was dubbed Lord Chancellor Reginald Roberts III. Martin called him Reggie. And so it continued for every subsequent cat they owned, down to their current pair. In addition to the Sergeant Major aka Percy, they were also graced with the presence of Brigadier General Eleanor Evans, aka Ellie. People who didn't know them well sometimes assumed they actually had four cats instead of two.

The scraping of a white cane on concrete announced Jon coming up the front walk. Percy alerted to the sound and trotted over to the front door to wait. A moment later Jon came in, Ellie following closely on his heels like a mother shepherding a slow kitten. She did that often these days. There had been a time some years ago when Jon had been clipped by a drunk driver while walking up the lane, fallen into a ditch, and broken his leg. Ellie had found him on her daily ramble outside, then gone home to Martin and refused to stop screeching until he followed her to see what the problem was. She had appointed herself Jon's official outdoor chaperone ever since. Jon didn't put up with overprotectiveness from humans, but apparently he could tolerate it in cats just fine.

"Sophie and Rasheed say hello," Jon said. He shuffled over to the counter and set down two bags. One had the logo of the chemist's shop, containing the month's assorted prescriptions (arthritis medications for Jon, blood pressure and thyroid medications for Martin). The other had a container of something thick and brown and spicy-smelling. "They insisted on giving us some of their leftover curry, so I think we're having that tonight, unless you have any objections."

Martin smiled. Percy leaned his front paws on the counter walls and meowed insistently, as if to say Yes, that is clearly meant for me, please serve it up straight away. "Sounds better than omelettes. I'll go put on some rice." He leaned in to kiss Jon on the cheek.

***

The curry was excellent. Rich and warm and exactly as spicy as Jon liked it. After dinner found him and Martin on the couch, Jon leaning sleepily into Martin's shoulder. The fabric of Martin's sweater was soft against Jon's cheek, and it smelled faintly of lavender scented soap. Somewhere close by, the Sergeant Major was purring like a well oiled car engine. No doubt he was using Martin's lap as his own personal heated cat bed. Good taste in laps, that cat.

"Let's see, where did we leave off," Martin said. Jon heard the distinctive paper scrape of flipping pages. Real paper books were something of a rarity these days, but Martin wouldn't hear of replacing his collection with more convenient electronic versions. Jon couldn't afford to be as picky. Paper books were satisfying to hold, but they didn't come with built in text-to-speech software. Except when Martin owned those books, then they sort of did.

"Ah, here we are." Martin cleared his throat.

"Nevertheless I long—I pine, all my days—

to travel home and see the dawn of my return.

And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea,

I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure."

Martin read in a calm, gentle voice. A slight shift in the cushions told him the Brigadier General was settling herself down above them on top of the couch. Aloof, but still part of things. With care, Jon reached up, found her chin, and offered scritches. The Brigadier General graciously accepted. What a picture they must make.

Jon didn't actually know what Martin looked like anymore. That was a statement that was true on a couple of different levels. Jon's mental image of Martin was still of a smiling, round-faced man with freckles in his late twenties. Jon knew Martin couldn't look like that anymore. His skin was dry and papery, his arms soft and flabby his hair thin and wispy and bald on top. And that was before considering the visual changes that other people (including Martin) commented on, like white hair and liver spots. Jon tried to overlay those facts onto his mental image of Martin, like a police artist trying to age up a photo of a long-missing person. But Jon would never know how closely that image matched the real thing.

On a deeper level though, Jon wasn't even sure if his image of young Martin was still accurate anymore. He'd made a point of memorizing every feature of Martin's face the day he'd decided to take his own sight. Every night for weeks after that, he'd conjured up the image in his mind, gone over every single detail with a mental microscope. He'd hoped that by sheer repetition Martin's face would wear a groove on his memory that could not be wiped away. But memory didn't work like that. Like an image that had been through the photocopier too many times, each act of recall changed the memory, altering and embellishing it until it was a caricature of its original form.

Once, that would have horrified Jon. He'd already had Sasha's face stolen from him, and no amount of terrible eldritch knowing power had been able to retrieve that knowledge for him. The thought of losing Martin's face? That had kept him up nights in a cold sweat. But if the decades since had taught him anything, it was this: the Not Them might have stolen Sasha's face from him, but it had also stolen every other part of her. Her voice, her laugh, even her manner. Jon still had every other part of Martin, waking up beside him each morning.

Jon awoke to gentle shaking. "Jon? Jon, you'll get a crick in your back if you fall asleep like that."

Jon grumbled and sat up. His spine screeched at him for forcing it back into a normal alignment. He grimaced. "What time is it?"

"Half past nine. You want to go to bed? Or I could make Percy let you have my lap."

Half past nine. In his younger days that barely counted as night. One of the lesser known adjustments of old age was the way it had completely obliterated his night owl tendencies. Jon considered Martin's offer. One last nap on his beloved's lap before moving to bed? "Tempting. But I think if I stay much longer I'll stick to it permanently."

With some considerable effort, Jon levered himself out of the couch. He offered a hand to help Martin up, which he readily took. "C'mere a minute," Martin said, tugging Jon gently back before Jon could turn towards the bedroom. Martin placed a hand under Jon's chin and tilted it up slightly. The gesture was both invitation and request, codified through decades of habit together. If the answer was no, Jon just needed to pull away, and that would be that.

Instead, Jon leaned in. There was the subtle but unmistakeable crackle of electricity that came before their lips met. Martin pressed his mouth into Jon's with a somewhat surprising level of intensity. Had something happened while he'd been out that day? Well, if it had, Martin would tell him. Or he wouldn't, if he didn't want to. Either way, it wasn't something Jon needed to know. Jon reached up to caress one cheek. It was dry and cracked, but covered in a soft peach fuzz he'd always been fond of. His other hand stretched around Martin's back, still soft and warm and huggable as an overlarge teddy bear. Jon might not know what Martin looked like anymore. But he didn't need to.

[novastarlyght]

More things I loved about Ralph Breaks the Internet

-Sonic continuing to be The Exposition Guy™

-Felix calling Calhoun “Tammy” and how they’re just the most adorable and perfect couple ever

-”Look, I know you’ve been married six years and you wanna spice things up a little but adopting 15 children is the wrong kind of spice!” 

-The Sugar Rush racers being acknowledged as terrible brats even 6 years after their memories have been restored, meaning that was always a part of their personalities/programming regardless of King Candy’s meddling

-HOW ALL THE INTERNET AND WEBSITE BASED JOKES ARE ACTUALLY EXTREMELY CLEVER AND FUNNY

-KnowsMore making me feel guilty I never thank Google when I search for something

-Also KnowsMore in general? Seriously what a cutie?? Sweet grouchy purple boy who deserves love.... (though I wish Vanellope had said he sounded familiar or something... bit of a missed opportunity)

-Spamley, basically an anthropomorphic pop-up ad, being portrayed sort of sympathetically. He’s obviously involved with some shady stuff, but at the same time it’s made clear he isn’t really a bad person.

-I have had Gord for 5 minutes but if anything happened to him I would kill everyone in this room and then myself. Smol and pure noodle arm baby, I will protect him, I want to see him grow up healthy, I will tell my friends and neighbors about him

-Just how dang positive and chill Shank and her crew are despite being from a game that’s basically a combination of GTA and Saints Row if it was programmed by Nyarlathotep (and what’s funny is they remind me of a couple of my OCs that were inspired by the first WIR who also happen to be a street racing gang), and just like all the games made up for the original I would totally play the hell out of Slaughter Race if it were a real game

-YESSS, MY QUEEN, MY PERFECT BEAUTIFUL WIFE PLEASE LET ME MARRY YOU AND EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOUR AMAZING OUTFITS❤️ I wouldn’t mind a three-way with your assistant in the bowtie in suspenders either

-The fact every single viral video that Ralph makes absolutely would become a meme and you fucking know it, like I’m legit a little bit terrified at how well the filmmakers understand the internet

-The entire Oh My Disney sequence, from the baby Groot AMA to the Stan Lee cameo (*clutches heart*) to Vanellope and the princesses. The 1960s Batman style scene transition to them all wearing casual clothes MURDERED ME. Also the fact they made Merida’s dialogue even MORE unintelligible than what’s in the trailer.

-How the movie actually says word-for-word “First rule of the internet: Don’t read the comments.”

-Double Dan’s voice??? Because “Slimy British gangster” was the absolute last thing I expected the Globgogabgalab’s evil twin to sound like. Thanks, Alfred Molina?????

-The part where Ralph is looking for something amidst a bunch of rubble and ruin and it takes a moment before you realize this is the remains of now defunct websites, including a destroyed sign for Geocities.

MORE SPOILERY THINGS AHEAD UNDER THE READ MORE

-That this movie really has no villain and ESPECIALLY no “twist villain” except for the characters’ own personal issues and insecurities. While there are extrapersonal stakes initially with the need to get the wheel for Sugar Rush or it gets unplugged, that’s basically resolved by the final act and traded in for a conflict caused by Ralph’s own need to grow as a person and let Vanellope pursue a new direction in her life without fear of losing her.

-VANELLOPE’S ENTIRE MUSICAL NUMBER WHICH I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE WAS REAL, RIGHT DOWN TO ALAN MENKEN COMPOSING THE SONG. Disney hasn’t parodied themselves that hard since Enchanted

-NIGHT OF THE LIVING RALPHS?? FOLLOWED BY GIANT RALPH??? MADE OUT OF THOUSANDS OF SMALLER RALPHS?!?!?! WHICH THEN CLIMBS THE GOOGLE BUILDING LIKE IT’S FUCKING KING KONG HOLY MOTHER OF PONG WHAT A CLIMAX!!!!!!

-the goddamn 4th dimensional meta fuckery of the mid-credits scene like. were they originally gonna cut the scene but then decided to keep it in by reincorporating it like that? or was it planned like from the very beginning??? I NEED TO UNDERSTAND SO I CAN GET ON THE UNNERVINGLY ELDRITCH LEVEL OF THESE FILMMAKERS

-the post-credits scene. just. the fucking post-credits scene. FROZEN 2 PREVIEW!?!? JK YOU GOT RALPHROLLED BITCH!!!!! ps I actually really want a full version of john c. reilly singing never gonna give you up

[nobody-wants-ice-cream]

Day 3: Snowflakes

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639139/chapters/51654073

Isabel McDailey was the governess tasked with teaching of all seven 26 month olds in the Hargreeves household. She was not allowed to question their names, Dr. Pogo, or Sir Reginald’s orders. She came to work at 7:00 on the crisp, cold morning of December 3, 1991. 

“Ms. McDailey. Sir Reginald wants to improve small motor skills for the children today. It would be wise to do some form of activity with them,” Dr. Pogo took her coat at the door. She stopped being shocked by his appearance very early on. 

“Alright. I’ll use classroom one then. Are the children still eating?” Isabel asked. Seven was a very picky eater. She could hold up the entire group when she didn’t want to eat something. Her nanny, Marielle Greens, often complained about her when they went out for drinks. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Dr. Pogo looked up at her, “Perhaps you should prepare your activity.” 

Isabel nodded and then ventured across the mansion to the learning part of the house. She spent most of her time in a few classrooms. Classroom one was for general purpose. Classroom two was an observatory. Classroom three was the courtyard. Isabel prefered the courtyard because she felt that the outdoors and fresh air helped young children learn. However, it was far too cold to use it today. 

She flicked on the lights for classroom one. The floors were covered in soft, foam pads and rugs. There were seven of each supply and each were the best quality money could buy. There was one teacher’s desk and one chalkboard. Isabel pulled out a stack of printer paper and the seven scissors meant for seven little hands. She took care to pass out a few pieces of paper to each child. She then remembered that they recently discovered Five was left handed, so she gave him a pair of left-handed scissors she bought herself. Just as she was laying out the chalk, Five’s nanny, Linda Finchley, led in her class. 

“Good morning, children,” Isabel said in her happy, teaching voice. 

“Good morning, Ms. McDailey,” seven cheerful voices screamed back at her. For the most part, her class was very loud. 

“Remember to put your shoes in the cubbies,” she reminded. For some reason, Sir Reginald didn’t want them wearing shoes in the classroom. She knew better than to question it. Each slipped off their little oxfords, or in the case of Three and Seven, little mary-janes, and set them into clearly labeled cubbies. 

The traffic outside was beginning to pick up. The City was known for mild traffic at all times except for morning and afternoon rush hour. 

“Four, that’s my cubby! See it’s got a number three on it! That’s mine,” Three was possessive over anything labeled hers. 

“But I wanna use cubby three,” Four whined. 

Isabel quickly needed to put out the small fire. “Four, put your shoes in your cubby, please,” she said in a warning tone. Four quickly followed orders and moved to his desk. 

“What are these for, Ms. McDailey? We aren’t allowed to use scissors,” One was looking at her with confusion. His hands itched for the desk, but he did not touch the supplies she left. 

“Good question, One,” One preaned in his seat, “today we are making paper snowflakes to decorate the classroom with. You each have the supplies needed to do so,” she moved to the front of the classroom.

“Watch very carefully. I don’t want to repeat myself. Take your piece of paper and fold it like this so that one corner reaches the edge. The paper now looks like a mini-guillotine blade. Can anyone remember what a guillotine is?” a lesson last week was about weapons that behead people. 

Six raised his hand. Isabel nodded at him. “It’s the big machine that has a blade that comes down to behead someone who is stuck there on purpose, right?” 

“Correct. Very good, Six. Now that you have your mini-guillotine blade, take your scissors in your hand and cut off the part that does not have any overlapping paper,” Isabel demonstrated the folding and cutting part, “so when you unfold the paper, you will have a perfect square. Let’s start with that. On your desks, fold your paper like I showed you and then hold it up,” Isabel directed.

The children made adorable, concentrating faces while they set to work. Five was going slow and trying to be careful when compared to Seven who folded her piece about the same tempo Isabel did hers. Seven’s came out nicer than Five’s. Seven had an eye for symmetry. Maybe that’s her power? Being very symmetrical? Isabel therorized. 

So far, only One, Five, and Six had their powers manifest. One was super strong. At times, she would go to him to open jars or lift objects around the classroom. Six had a portal to eldritch monsters in his stomach. His control was wonky, but so far, the monsters were too small to harm anyone. Then there was Five. His power was spatial jumping. Five couldn’t control his powers either. When he was sick, he would sneeze and suddenly not be there. If he felt strong emotion, his hands would glow blue and he would scratch at them. Linda hated chasing after him, but she did buy him a pair of mittens so he would stop scratching and biting his hands raw. 

“Good job everyone,” a few of their folds were crooked, but she wasn’t chasing perfection, “now take your scissors in your writing hand. Use the small hole for your thumb. Place the paper on the desk and carefully cut off the rectangle on the top.”

Two was best at this task. He cut his paper with perfect precision. 

“Okay, now unfold the triangle and you will have a perfect square,” she held hers up. 

The children looked at their squares with awe. Their cuts weren’t straight, and in the case of One, Three, Four, and Five, they didn’t fold the paper correctly, but they were passable. 

“N-now wh-w-wha-wha-what?” Two had an impossible stutter. Nothing she or any speech tutor did helped it. She decided to ignore Four and Five giggling at him. 

“Now, Two, we fold it in half whatever way you would like. I am going to keep the same fold from earlier. Make sure that it’s even! Now’s the fun part. Take your scissors and cut around the fold and edges. Be sure to keep the halves together and do not cut too far across the fold. If you do that then you will have two half snowflakes instead of one big one,” she broadcast her movements and snipped her snowflake while taking quickly. 

“Cool!” Five exclaimed when she unfolded her paper to show them her finished product. 

Isabel watched them struggle to maneuver the scissors. As long as no one was bleeding, she didn’t care. ‘Take the job’ her mother said. ‘Only seven, it will be easy’ her mother was a dirty liar. 

Watching these repressed, loud children was a toll on her psyche. They were like normal children, but wrong. She wanted them to be happy, but with the environment they were in, they would never be happy. She could see that in the single-minded determination that possessed all seven. 

The outside traffic was getting heavy. Rush hour. 

Normal two year olds don’t know what a guillotine is. Normal two year olds don’t have nannies buying them the things they need like mittens and left-handed scissors. Normal two year olds don’t have powers. Normal two year olds can’t make paper float. Wait-

“Who is making the paper float?” Isabel struggled to keep calm. The paper snowflakes were spinning around in the air. And little Seven’s eyes were glowing white. The snowflakes danced and moved around the classroom one to the beat of the traffic. 

Seven beautiful snowflakes each with a unique personality whistled around while the children laughed. 

Isabel sighed. Another power. She needed a drink. 

“Issa snowstorm! Can we have hot chocolate?” Seven was forgetting to speak properly in her excitement. 

“No, Number Seven. We have something far better than chocolate,” When did Sir Reginald enter the room?

The snowflakes moved towards Sir Reginald. They attacked him. Sir Reginald grabbed them out of the air and ripped them apart. No chocolate. No more snowflakes. 

Isabel sighed. Another lesson, ruined. 

[nobodyslaughing-blog]

TIMBER AGENTS: Adventures in the Overgrowth - aka my fake anime aka Discord RPG Setting Dump 2

Timber Agent was a long running 80s Light Novel series that was adapted for tv in 1996. It was famously what Akira Toriyama worked on in between Dragon Ball and Dragon Ball Z. Great designs didn’t save the show though and it was canceled after one season, before the main characters ever became the titular Timber Agents.

The show became a cult classic during a short run on Toonami where Steve Blum made his second famous role as Valiant Star. Even though the Toriyama designs weren’t close to the Light Novels description it stayed in the public mind enough to get a reboot in 2016 called Timber Agent: Adventures in the Overgrowth done by Studio Shaft.

After the first season sold gangbusters in both Japan and in the West a second and third season were announced. On top of that the original author is planning for six more chapters and “possibly more”. With nostalgia we might finally see Timber Agent fully animated as it rightly should be.

Obviously this didn’t exist…instead this is my “Shonen Battle Manga Setting” for Mutants and Masterminds. Here’s the setting.

One thousand years ago magic returned with a crash as the Old Gods fought massive beasts in their last battle. Cities flooded, earthquakes ate entire nations, and all electronics were changed. Some were merely broken beyond repair while a few became ingrained with magical power. The robotic armies of man were given free will and the mech suits used by human soldiers were cursed, each with a different curse that affected their users. In the end man retreated from the cities and started a small life.

One thousand years later, the time we play in, society has built itself back up. (Kingdoms will be posted later)

Magic started affecting humans in odd ways. Some were born with magical abilities, usually one single power or several small weak ones. Humans born with these powers are called Gems and their “purity”, aka the level of power they wielded, was measured. From weakest to strongest they are called Stones, Sapphires, Rubies, and Diamonds. The name was adopted due to anyone given the gift having gem eyes, each level named after the eyes that develop.

The Robots ended up having a massive war that lasted a hundred years. Half wanted to help humanity while the others wished to rule them. A few even wanted to eradicate them. In the end the good Robots won but they could not bring themselves to kill their brothers and instead put them to sleep, hoping that when they wake they will understand empathy. Most of the heroic Robots went into a sleep mode also, most for their own reasons. The few that kept awake helped humanity in small ways, keeping their creators alive when they would be dead. Humanity has all but forgotten making Robots and view them as rare powerful gods and revere them as such, though they tend to not enjoy being worshipped.

Mech suits are called Machine Armor and each has its own temperament connected to their curse. Some require bloodshed to run while others need long rituals for daily use. Some have odd weaknesses such as not working in shadows or not being able to harm wood.

Elves - Otherwordly abominations whose beauty is so great a single glance makes you mad.

Talpi/Moles - Small wrinkly men with big claws and bigger whisker mustaches. They use their claws to dig massive underground cities. They eat rocks and metals and live in structured clans waiting for the day that Old Wodd, their creator, comes back. They gain sexual traits for childbirth and lose them whenthey give birth. Child Talpi are small worms and generally number in the hundreds and are kept in shallow pits and given rotten meat, it’s easier for them to chew, for a week before they are considered “children”. Usually only five or so survive to “childhood” and Talpi don’t really consider worm-talpi to be sentient until a week. Talpi also raise and herd giant insects for all parts of life. They use silk strands from spider-cows for their clothes, ride giant beetles up walls, and use giant worms for meat. Surface Talpi use their giant insects as both riding animals and weapons.

Giants - Multi-armed hairless men who stand ten feet tall or even taller. They hate humans because they were given the gift of magic while they were cursed to never be able to use it. They are inherently stronger than most other races and usually are just bandits. Some drink the blood of the sleeping Midgard Serpent to gain horrific powers. Some say they used to be Aesir, the warrior children of old gods, but the blood must have been diluted from a thousand years of breeding. Now they measure their families closeness to deity-hood by the number of arms they have.

Trolls - Big smelly and silly trolls live in swamps and sewers and eat rocks and metals. They aren’t very smart and tend to be kind to travelers. Evil wizards like to warp their minds and use them as monsters.

Draugr - Undead creatures consumed by obsessions, these obsessions usually influence their physical form in some manner. They enjoy causing pain and chaos no matter their obsessions.

Tariaksuq/Shadow-people - A race of people as varied as humanity. They can’t be seen if someone stares straight at them.

Ijiraq/Shape-shifters - Monsters who masquerade in human form. They can change their bodies to suit their needs and are strict carnivores. They enjoy the taste of children most.

Qalupalik/Boogeys - Beautiful women who are always covered in water. They have long nails that can cut stone and are also carnivores. They tend to be less monstrous than Shape-Shifters but a few will go down the darker path and steal children. They love the water and some even have a magical ability to control it.

Blotsno/Frosties - Frosties are a kind race of magical people. They were born when Asgard fell on Earth in the far reaches of Antarctica. Frosties tend to stay to themselves and most only worry about breakfast, lunch, dinner, and tea time. They form large homes in snow drifts and love twinkling lights because they remind them of the stars. They have a long history of artists and will write songs, paint pictures, and create plays all about the Aurora Borealis. The females tend to look like snowmen while the males are look like they are carved out of ice. They are born in tiny ice eggs that the women lay. Their special type of magic allows them to easily move small objects and even boil water and fry meat without heat.

Goblins - Goblins come in hundreds of variations but the most important part is they are carnivorous, treacherous, little imps who delight in torture and are only motivated by an empty belly and inventive ways to kill things.

Languages - Norse: Old Norse with additions of English and Mexico. Farther east it’s mixed with Korean and Chinese. Spoken by everyone but Moles, Frosties, Giants, and Trolls each have their own dialect. Everyone knows a version of it, it’s basically Common. If you take Comprehend Languages you also learn every dialect.

- Coyote: A mystic language held by all animals given to them by the trickster shape-shifter Coyote. Shadow-people, Shape-shifters, and Boogeys all have their own dialect of this. Comprehend Animals gives you all of this.

- Machines all have specific language-like codes. Comprehend Machines give you all of this.

- Rot-Speak: Draugr come in hundreds of variations and many can speak Norse, but the maddening language they share is given with Comprehend Spirits.

The Old Gods were good Gods though not always nice ones. Each race has been touched by one of them. Even dead the Gods are worshipped and the many small magical creatures they had made in their long life respect prayers to their deity.

Old Wodd was their leader and father to most of them. He made the Talpi as a gift to his son Bjorn who loved insects. Wood spirits follow his prayers. All creatures answer prayers for wisdom and leadership when send with his name.

Little Vadr was their trickster and a bit of a bastard. Even then he still fought against the Leviathan when the Last War came. He made the shape shifters, the boogeyman, and shadow-people. Spirits of books and secrets listen to his prayers. Coyote answers his prayers for him but chooses only the most tricky and thieving of them.

Bjorn the Bear was Old Wodds favorite son. He was the strongest and the Giants say they were his children, though nobody believes them. He enjoyed small things and fought to protect them. Old spirits of stone and steel listen to his prayers. Any prayer for strength is answered by spirits if sent with his name.

Holda the Black was the oldest daughter of Old Wodd and enjoyed darker things. She helped Little Vadr make his Shadow People and generally hid until the Last War.

Young Sybil was the youngest daughter of Old Wodd and was the most beautiful by far. She was lost to the Elves, never to come back.

Old Mag is the wife of Old Wodd and mother to all races. She made the Blostsno’s to take care of the world when she would die, though Bjorn gave the men great strength. Most believe she was the reason why humans gained magical abilities. Any prayer for protection is answered by spirits when said in her name and magic items charged with her prayer can tell when Elves are near.

During the Last War the Gods fought Leviathan, a massive continent sized serpents, and his many children. Though they slew his children the body of Leviathan fell on the world and was not dead. He sleeps, wrapped across the north, and it’s blood corrupts anything it touches. This has risen legions of Eldritch horrors and some giants even trek across the planet to drink its caustic blood. Those who survive find themselves filled with dark and horrific strength or mutated into powerful monstrosities.

Leviathan ate the World Tree when the Last War happened but a single mysterious man, known as Father Root, took two seeds and replanted them in the center of the world. These two seeds grew to be the Tree of Life, always in bloom, and the Tree of Death, always bare. These two Trees gained a sapience and created the Order to protect the world if ever the Leviathan woke again. In time every kingdom learned of the Order and took their warriors, called Timber Agents, and their actions as law. One thousand years later they are known as the group of the most powerful mortals in the realm and the treasure from their adventures passed onto the Order itself. In exchange for their service Timber Agents are given riches, are above the law in every but the most dystopian state, and contacts in secret groups that would never speak to a lesser mortal.

Every five years the Gauntlet of Wood is held to find new warriors for the Order. Hundreds of people attempt to pass it but those who pass each year are barely a handful of the contestants. It is deadly, it is cruel, and in the end your death is more likely than your passing.