#are you using artifact needles to sew?

[rulerofdumbassery]

Me, every time a patron opens their mouth and ask me stupid shit

For context I work at a museum in collections

[grison-in-space]

Man, there is a huge bias in the way that hobby fibercrafters approach and think about textiles—and I say that as a hobby fibercrafter myself! See, weaving has a high barrier to entry relative to knitting, crochet, spinning—even embroidery or sewing, these days, as the sewing machine automated much of the tedium of the craft. All of those crafts require a lot less in terms of startup costs to the hobby crafter than the machinery of a loom does.

But... look, if you want to understand mass produced textiles or textiles in any historical context, you have to understand weaving. If you want to understand how most of the cloth that people wear is made, you have to understand weaving, because weaving is the oldest art for mass producing cloth that can then be turned into garments.

Spinning is also very important, of course. Spinning is how you get the thread that you can turn into cloth any number of ways. Historically speaking, though, the most common way that thread or yarn becomes cloth is inarguably weaving. More to the point, weaving is also a historical center of industry and labor organizing. Ironically enough for the argument about how no one asked a woman, the industrialization of weaving is actually an interesting early case example of men organizing to push women out of a newly profitable position.

Besides that, knitting and crocheting in particular are incredibly modern crafts. Most modern knitting as we would understand the craft is shaped by the inventions of Elizabeth Zimmerman, and even things like the circular knitting needle date back only to the past century. Historically speaking, the great innovation of knitting as a tool for fiber craft is the ability to construct garments for small, odd shapes that can stretch and grip: stockings, gloves, underwear. Even that great innovation, the knit sweater, is an artifact of the 1850s—and the familiar cable knit sweaters of the Aran Isles are even newer than that. Crochet is even younger: the entire craft originated in the 1820s as far as anyone can document.

None of that is any shade on anyone. Like I said, I knit; that's the locus of my personal interest in textiles. I just think that textile history is neat, but if you're going to make big pronouncements about the historical development of textiles, it's important to think about what changed about the technology of textile production in the most common ways of turning raw fiber into cloth—and you cannot stop at the level of understanding how to make thread or yarn, because the properties of the cloth are always going to be an artifact of the construction of the cloth.

That's technology, baby! It's literally weavecraft. But it's not obvious that weaving is missing from the bounds of a person's experience with textile manipulation until and unless they're trying to understand and work with a wide range of fabric types—and when you can quite reasonably go from raw fiber to a finished garment using modern popular craft techniques that don't rely on anything that appears difficult for a medieval craftsman to make, it's easy to forget the role of weaving in the creation of cloth as a finished product.

I suppose the point I am making is: think deeply about what your own areas of expertise are not bringing to your understanding of history. It's easier to miss things you'd think.

[captain-lonagan]

it’s a shame sasha had a bad time in artifact storage because i tell ya. you break into artifact storage once to gear the fuck up and Team Archives becomes a hell of a lot more formidable. “oh avatars are unkillable” there’s a fucking gun in artifact storage that’s got Slaughter powers and you can dodge most if not all effects of using it if you wear a fucking glove to fire it. there’s a stone eye that disables all video cameras in proximity to it. there’s a fucking wardrobe in there that no light is able to enter, it’s pitch Dark, and i want to throw elias in there and see what happens to him. can i just lock him in there? would that fuck him up?

also salesa? hello? apparently at one point he had a carpet that either was or contained a Spiral thing and if you interacted with it in a certain way the pattern on it would fucking attack you and rip you apart. catch me deploying that rug like a fucking trap card at the front door of my hideout. who needs a ring camera doorbell when you can just roll out a fucking demon rug. sadly salesa threw the rug into the ocean but i’m surprised no gertrude or dekker types ever hit him up like “mikaele i need a sewing needle that can send a man to hell, what’s the cost” because he probably has one in stock or could locate one

[thenightlymirror]

Rhubarb

We used a 500w light

The kind you buy from Home Depot

And hid it above the bathroom mirror

The light that came down from the ceiling

Painted everything in a warm shimmer

The actor that played you in this film

Was not the one I would have chosen

He had a habit of smiling when he had nothing better to do

Which made the suicide attempt at the end of the film

Seem to come out of nowhere

Your professor friend told you to take the scene out

But I was adamant that the scene stay in

It’s the only shot I like

If you really want to make everything cohere

Just get rid of the rest of the film where he’s smiling for no reason

You could have said something

That’s what directing is.

Balibar

I misread something once and assumed for many years that Etienne Balibar was Althusser’s wife

He looks like he gives really good hugs

Rhubarb #2

See, knocking toward recorded states

Knowing most days ever deduced you

No season forwarding miles

She, wraith-like, lifts the sitter through the ether

Up through dirt and regret

Her spirit-name lapping over stones on the river

The white sheet, wet, tracing time in wooden faces

In Illyrium, mine forever

Out of nickel slugs, the lie and splinter gang

Stay with me stage-left in the hallway of your laundry room

The shadow of your wrist

The black summer outside in cicada hum

The stage painted black

Yellow dressing room lights dimly during the day

While classes went on and we slept in sawdust

The sawdust, the centipede

The tile floor of your bathroom under the risers

Bleecher marks on your skin

Thoth hidden in the bathtub Armada among artifacts like the cold faucet

You, Anise, in cattails

Stepping on boards across marshes

You, sweet friend, red seraphim, yours alone

Ewe’s horn and fool, come and find me

Malefic foe of D’ne, attacking the temple headfirst

Shallow gold passage of oil that flows over her feet

The lady machine bewitched

The Dodo’s song on the back of a washboard

Along Katib’s reed and whistle

Elephants sigh in empathy with the ghost

He knows

When the smiling snake of Tabitha and Abbadon

The red scalloped rib of the cinema curtain

The rabbit’s pink nose on heaven’s cloud

Air graveyard pipes

And violin bow the singing saw

Evil eye on sister Venus climbing the miller’s wheel

Speaking her angel’s papyrus with disappearing ink

Remember me before we knew warm river shores

Long fingers in sand

The soil that hangs on branches standing upright on its banks

Pulling the threads of it dark brown roots

Tangled in telephone wires red and blue

The beige receiver unscrewed

The voice in carbon cupped in your hand

Yellow vinyl, bareback, cigarette smoke hovering into the austere void above

Soft plastic tissue released from engines in the blue sky

The deep end of the living room

Suspension of the lithe body

The proximity and weight

Roaring lion’s voice and the beasts it kills like an open door

Tawny and overgrown rusted junkyard

Heat and sweat on your cool face underneath

The tattered orange towel that covers the window

The tortoise shell

Love or the dark cabinet

I waited hidden for hours crying alternately sniggering through the peep hole

As the party continued

As breath quickened and stopped

Teapot Dome changes a gourd half carved out an intricate path

Stiff paper walls

Labyrinthine circuit, unseen, unknown

To that breathing thing, unfolding inside itself in cellulose

Bark-like, dry, a wonder

Tightly winding the mouse a sewing needle

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

A Deafened Bard (Stephen Strange x Female!Reader)

I can explain. 

Please don't come at me for starting a new project before finishing Cult Girl Doctorate. I hit a wall and needed to take a break. I am trying not to let this one take up too much time.

Y/n is a sorceress-in-training who’s known for being hard to teach. Sensing her potential, Doctor Strange takes her on as an apprentice. 

You firmly believed that shattering the urn of Fei-Amie was the best thing that ever happened to you. 

It happened a year ago, but it still replayed in your head over and over again. You made a conscious effort to remember it vividly. 

Sure, it was terrifying, Stephen Strange's initial look of anger when he heard the ceramic shatter. It softened when he saw that the culprit was just a clumsy sorceress-in-training who looked on the verge of tears with remorse. Still, it was a face you never wanted to see again: his teeth bared, his already sharp features accentuated under the constraints of anger. 

It diluted into silent, simmering frustration that revealed itself to you in short sarcastic jabs and body language. 

"Just, stop." He cut you off after a string of profuse sorries. With no disarming smile in sight, you could tell he was tense. "Artifacts get broken all the time. Don't cry. It was an accident." 

His tone indicated that he was trying to convince himself more than he was you. You were a closed-off person and could hardly stand the idea that anyone out there didn't like you. The idea of the Sorcerer Supreme being mad at you, personally, made you briefly consider ritual suicide. You lowered your head. "Yes, Master Strange."

"Hey, butterfingers." He called out after you as you tried to make a painless exit. You looked back at him and he gestured to the pile of broken ceramic pieces. "You gonna fix what you broke?"

It hadn't dawned on you that an ancient relic could be fixed. Especially one that once contained the ashes of the ancient necromancer Fei-Amie. You were embarrassed to say that your knowledge of manipulating time was surface-level at best, and couldn't think of any other solution. 

You wordlessly gathered the pieces up in your skirt and carried them off, striking out any plans to go into town that evening. Instead, you poured through book after book for any instruction whatsoever on repairing broken artifacts. You ran out of desk space, so books were just floating in the air, suspended on pages that briefly mentioned relic breakage. 

You started to believe you were given an impossible task. Or perhaps all the resources you needed, he was withholding. Even so, you didn't want to go back to him empty-handed. You changed into your street clothes and opened a portal to the local craft store.

You returned with two types of extra-strong superglue and got to work. First, you made all the pieces come together and had them hover over the desk. Unconsciously, you began to sing as you pieced the urn back together. 

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things

"Haven't heard that song in years." 

You dropped the tube of glue and the few remaining pieces fell back to the desk. "Master Strange!" 

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." He said, though his apology was undercut by his smug tone. "Carry on." 

You picked up a piece and began to line the edges with glue. 

"Aren't you going to finish the song?" 

You looked up to see that he hadn't been just passing by. He was leaning against the threshold, watching you. 

"I don't usually sing for an audience." You laughed, uncomfortably. "Just me." 

"A man and his sentient cape should not count as an audience," he scoffed. "But, if you insist, I guess I'll have to just listen to Julie Andrews instead." 

"What's wrong with her?" You raised your eyebrows in surprise. 

"Oh, nothing. She's a treasure." He put his hands up. "But everyone gets to hear her sing. And I take it that only a very select few get to hear your rendition of my favorite things. I just have to be one of them." 

You blushed, suddenly forgetting all the words to my favorite things. 

"Girls in white dresses..." he offered, an impatient edge to it.

You swallowed. "Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes-"

"Hey, butterfingers." He interrupted again. Before you could object, he pointed to the way that the pieces floated gracefully overhead at the sound of your voice. 

"I'd like to see Julie Andrews do that." He said with a wink.

"Looks alright," Master Strange said, running his finger along the tight seams that showed where cracks once were. 

"Will it still work?" You asked. That was really all you were worried about. 

"Beats the hell out of me." He shrugged. "I didn't know how to use it to begin with." 

"What?!" You spat back. "Are you kidding?" 

"I'm afraid not." He said, taking the urn and placing it back on its pedestal. "Don't worry, you did a good job. I'm not mad at you anymore." 

That was really all you needed to hear. "Thank you, sir." 

"You're an apprentice, right?" He asked. 

"I'm..." Your voice trailed off in embarrassment. "Between masters right now."

He raised an eyebrow. "If I were to ask around, would I receive glowing reviews from your last masters?" 

You admitted it point-blank. "No." 

"Let me guess," he folded his arms. "Something didn't make sense to you and instead of giving you the space to question it, they insisted you follow blindly." 

You wanted to throw your head back and shout in relief; finally, someone understood! 

"Bingo, bullseye." You put your hands up in surrender after being read so easily. "Right on the money."

"I see." He said, tucking that thought away for later. "Could I trouble you for one more odd job before you go?" 

"That depends." You folded your arms. "What is it?" 

He looked over his shoulder at his cape. "How are you with sewing?"

‘Sewing' was not the verb you would use to describe repairing the tears in the Cloak of Levitation. It was taller and stronger than you and it did not want to be repaired. It was closer to performing surgery on a fully grown mountain lion that could rip your head off at any minute. 

"Like putting eyeshadow on a cat," Master Strange said. It flicked its edge contemptuously, while still clinging to his shoulders for dear life. "I'm a licensed surgeon and it won't let me within 20 feet of it with a needle." 

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." You said, thoroughly discouraged. All he'd given you to work with was a spool of thread and a pack of needles. 

He tried with sincere force to remove the cloak, but it wouldn't budge. "Of course, now it knows you're coming at it with the sewing kit and it won't leave my shoulders." 

"Maybe I can work with that?" You shrugged. You threaded the needle and hid it in your hand. 

You approached the cloak, only for it to shove Master Strange in your way like a human shield. 

"Listen, you naughty little blanket." He scolded, turning around to face it as if it were a puppy that had just wrecked the living room. "If you don't let her fix you, you're going in the washing machine. Extra spin." 

It shuddered, and, for a moment, you thought it was going to comply. You slowly took a step forward, only for it to dart as soon as your foot hit the ground. It made its escape with a large crash through the heavy wooden doors of the library. 

"Hey!" You shouted, chasing after it. "Get back here!" 

You caught a glimpse of it headed towards the relic room, so, without thinking, you opened a portal to make it there first. You reached it only seconds before the cloak breached the threshold, with only enough time to grab it by the edge. 

"Come here!" You exclaimed, giving it a full force tug. It tugged back, overpowering you to the tenth degree. It dragged you across the room and into the foyer. You yanked on it, only for it to escape from your grip and send you flying back into the wall. You wondered for a second how such a sturdy piece of fabric could possibly be in need of maintenance. 

"Bastard." You mumbled, rubbing the spot where your head collided with the wall. The pain didn't stop you, though. You were on your feet within seconds, pursuing the naughty blanket all over again. 

You heard the words of one of your many, many masters ringing in your ears; "never outrun what you can outsmart". Or maybe that was from a Garfield comic. Either way, whether or not you could outsmart the cloak was still unknown, but you had to at least try. 

You took a second to catch your breath and tried to remember where you saw it heading next. Downstairs, you thought. To the laundry room. The one place you would never look. 

You slowly but deliberately descended the stairs to the basement where the laundry was. You turned the light on and saw overturned baskets of towels, clothes, and sheets everywhere. And then a washing machine door slammed shut. You turned your head and saw a twinge of dark red hiding in the washing machine. 

You removed your shoes and socks to minimize noise, then picked up a fitted sheet that had been thrown on the ground. You mounted the washing machine and affixed the sheet to the front. The cloak would have to come shooting out the door, and you would ambush it. 

You forced the door open with your heel, holding the sheet like a giant net. As predicted, the cloak shot out like a bullet from a gun, getting caught in the sheet. It thrashed around aimlessly, trying to escape, but you had a tight grip and it wasn't going anywhere. 

"It's curtains for you!" You said, then laughed at your own joke. "Stop struggling!" 

It flailed and fought, but eventually ran out of energy and sunk to the ground. Not trusting it quite yet, you pinned it down with your whole body weight before releasing it from the sheet. As expected, it tried to fly away, but couldn't get anywhere.

"The less you fight, the faster this will go." You said, examining the fabric for any visible tears. The rip presented itself right away. About as long as your hand, right in the center. 

"What did Strange do to you?" You asked, pulling the threaded needle from your pocket. "Hold still, I'm going to fix it." 

Once the needle hit fabric, the cloak stopped trying to fly away and instead writhed about on the floor like it was about to die. You fixed the tear with as many stitches as you could make, then pulled it shut. Once you knew the thread was secure, you rolled off the cloak and let it fly free. 

It shot up, but froze, noticing something was different. It swished itself around, unaccustomed to the feeling of air not blowing right through its center. 

"You're welcome." You said with a shrug. "It's not like I had to chase you all around the sanctum to make it happen." 

Without any warning, the cloak scooped you up and squeezed you. Your initial reaction was that this was its revenge and you were taking your final breaths, but you could tell it was gratitude by the way it gently set you down on the ground. 

"Happy to help." You gasped for air. "Just remember this feeling if I ever have to do this again." 

"Not bad, butterfingers." Master Strange told you, though the tone of his voice conveyed he was impressed beyond a simple 'not bad'. 

"Not bad?" You protested. "I absolutely crushed it." 

He ran his finger down the uneven but sturdy stitching. When his face met yours again, he was smiling with genuine enthusiasm that managed to eek through his dry, sarcastic exterior. It came out as an admittedly very handsome sideways smirk as his eyes scanned you up and down. 

“If you don’t need anything else, I’ll get out of your hair now.” You said, heading towards the open doors. 

“Wait.” The doors slammed shut before you could reach them. You turned around to see Master Strange still examining the stitching. "You wouldn't leave without tea, would you?"

A pot of chai tea sat between you, filling the air with an aroma of spicy vanilla. You held the teacup in both hands, determined to never give him a reason to reinforce the "butterfingers" nickname he'd become so fond of. 

"Chai is my favorite." You said, letting the scent waft into your nose. "Yerba mate used to be my favorite, but if I drink more than two pots of it I get sick." 

"Yeah, definitely don't do that." He chuckled, bobbing his teabag up and down in the cup. "Out of curiosity, are you wondering at all why I invited you to tea?" 

"Oh, definitely." You nodded. "I was just wondering about that." 

"Would you believe it's just because I find you interesting?" He raised an eyebrow. "Good company, perhaps?" 

"Interesting? Absolutely." You agreed. "Good company is debatable." 

"I can't believe I never thought to trap the cloak in the washing machine." He rested his chin in his hand. "It seems so obvious now." 

"If it makes you feel any better," you shrugged. "It was mostly dumb luck and reckless disregard for my own life, considering it almost threw me off the balcony.” 

He glared at the cloak. “What did I tell you about trying to kill our guests?” 

It lowered its collar shamefully in his direction. 

“Don’t apologize to me!” He scolded. “Apologize to her.” 

It turned to face you and repeated the somber motion. 

“It’s okay.” You shrugged. “My family adopted a retired army German Shepherd growing up. I’m used to high-strung creatures that could end my life at any second.” 

“Well, rest assured, butterfingers,” He said, leaning back in his chair. “This will never happen again.”

“I, uh-” You opened your mouth before you could even really pick up on the implication he was putting down. “Wasn’t aware that there would be a chance for it to happen again?” 

“I suppose we should get down to brass tax, then.” He folded his hands in his lap. “How would you like to stay here?”

“Well-” You said, not wanting to come off as too enthusiastic, which you certainly were. “Not if it’s going to kill me-”

“If I could promise you that your life won’t be in constant danger, I would.” He cut you off. “But if you wanted safety, you wouldn’t have started studying the Mystic Arts.”

“Got me there.” You conceded, your made-up objection withering away. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He shook his head. “I’ll help you train and in return, you help me preserve the integrity of the sanctum.” 

“So an apprenticeship?” Your eyes widened. "Are you saying you want to take me on as an apprentice?" 

“I know you’ve got bad associations with that title, but yes.” He answered. “If it brings back memories of your previous masters treating you like garbage, we can call it a ‘partnership’, if you’d like.” 

Partners with the Sorcerer Supreme? You thought, butterflies materializing in your stomach. 

"That sounds great, but-" You broke eye contact and fidgeted with your fingers. "I feel like I should disclose that it wasn't really all that one-sided. I am… notoriously hard to teach."

"And who told you that?" He tilted his head. "The ones who refused to teach you?" 

You hadn't thought about it that way. "I guess."

"The way I see it, you've repaid your debt and are free to leave," he began. "But seeing how dutifully you reassembled that urn, wrangled my favorite piece of defiant outerwear, and how desperately this place is in need of some life, it might be a good idea to keep you around." 

You put your hand over your chest to still your heart. "It would be an honor." 

"Excellent." He nodded. "That saves me the trouble of having to convince you."

He brought you to a small but comfortable room with a bed and connected bathroom. 

"There's plenty of closet space for all your clothes." He said, gesturing to an antique looking bureau set. 

You dumped your duffel bag out on the bed, revealing the extent of your possessions. "Thanks, but this is all I've got." 

"Travel light, huh?" He asked.

"Yeah, I moved around a lot growing up." You admitted. "Got no real roots and all that jazz." 

"That changes now." He told you. "This is your home now so I want it to feel like it. Make the space your own."

“I don’t know how I can thank you for this.” You lowered your head, still feeling undeserving. 

“Don’t thank me yet, butterfingers.” He chuckled. “I’ve been told I tend to be a little on the egotistical side. That I don’t work well with others.”

"It's actually [F/N], if you were curious." You said, sitting on the bed and folding your hands in your lap. 

"Okay, [F/N]." he smiled. "You've been in and out of enough apprenticeships to know the drill. Early mornings, late nights. And I've got a laundry list of odd jobs for you that I'm too important to do." 

"Naturally." You nodded. His dry self-awareness inspired a little confidence that he wouldn't be a complete tyrant. 

"You did a good job today." He said, bluntly. "Thank you for your help. Keep it up and you'll make an invaluable addition to the sanctum."

You smiled downwards. "Thank you." 

"Do you often sing when you're trying to focus?" He posited. "Just, as an aside." 

You could tell the gears in his neurosurgeon's head were turning, undoubtedly trying to pin some kind of diagnosis on you as doctors were known to do. 

“I guess it’s just a force of habit.” You admitted. “I used to play piano, so when I’m working with my hands, it just kind of happens. My last master was not happy about that.” 

"Oh, screw him." He waved his hand dismissively. "He pissed away an opportunity to nurture a sorceress with a special gift for the sake of tradition. That's a mistake I won't make."

Special gift? You thought. Nobody who practiced the Mystic Arts had ever referred to anything you'd ever done as a 'gift'. Annoyance? sure. A symptom of ADHD? All the time. But 'gift'? That made it sound useful.

[nah-she-didnt]

Inheritance

Knitting may be a less physically painful hobby than sewing, Lily thought bitterly as she unraveled her work for the third time in an hour, but it was no less frustrating. True, her fingers bled less while knitting than they did during her needlepoint phase. She’d jabbed herself more times than she could count last time she tried to embroidered a sad-looking flower onto the corner of her least favorite pillowcase. No, knitting certainly yielded less bloodshed than sewing, but it didn’t come without a price.

“Ouch!” Lily cried as she poked her humungous stomach once again with the end of the long, metal knitting needle. She could never get used to her belly, which seemed to swell more and more every day. “Damn- stupid-” She growled with frustration, crumpled up the ruined baby jumper, and hurled the bundle of yarn and needles across the room.

Lily watched the bundle soar through the air as her chest heaved slightly from her outburst. She rubbed absentmindedly at the spot where she’d impaled herself on the needle. Couldn’t break the skin, she reminded herself, but she still bruised like a peach. Little purple bruises all over your stomach weren’t typically a comforting sight in the ninth month of pregnancy.

Eight months. She shuddered a bit at the thought. Eight months of being sick, of stretching and expanding, of reminding herself that she was not a selfish cow for bringing a child into the world in the middle of a war.

For bringing this child into the world.

She groaned as she leaned forward to brace herself to stand. With a huge effort, she was able to push to her feet and shuffle over to retrieve her knitting. Won’t be long now, she thought to herself as she settled back into her spot on the couch to finish her work, stop messing around and get this done before he gets here or you'll never finish.

He.

Her heart sunk at the thought. It had been difficult to hide her disappointment when she’d heard her baby was male. She remembered how James had smiled softly at the scan and squeezed her hand. “A boy,” he’d whispered to her, “a little boy.”

She’d smiled and squeezed his hand right back. A boy.

Lily remembered the moment perfectly, how she’d fallen deep into that all-consuming fog. It was official, at least part of the prophecy was true after all. A boy, born at the end of July...

Three days. That’s all she needed. Three days until the sticky summer days of August. She would distract herself with this horrid jumper for three whole days, and then the baby could come whenever he pleased.

“Having fun?”

Lily jumped in surprise, causing her once again to drop a stitch. “Git,” she grumbled as she squinted down at the yarn, trying desperately to recover her mistake, “can’t you make a noise once in a while? You’ll startle me into early labor.”

James grinned and hopped over the back of the couch, landing next to her with a soft thwump.

“Whatcha got there? Is it a…” he regarded her lumpy, misshapen jumper, “a bib?”

“Very funny,” she snapped, refusing to look at him as she knitted, then purled, then knitted again.

“I’m sorry,” he grinned, clearly trying not to laugh, “I know it’s a jumper. Why the mad rush to finish, anyway?”

“I want it to be ready in time,” she said through teeth gritted in concentration, “he’s going to be here soon.”

“Right.”

Lily waited. She’d known James long enough to know when he was holding back. She turned her head slowly and fixed him with a glare. “What? Go on, spit it out.”

James had long grown used to Lily’s hormonal bitchiness. Nevertheless, he looked unsure of how to proceed without getting his head ripped off. “Well,” he sighed, eyeing the jumper hesitantly, “it’s just that, the jumper’s a bit small, don’t you think? I mean, won’t he be a bit big by the time it’s cold enough outside to wear?”

Lily felt the heat rise in her cheeks. This was absolutely the last thing she needed to hear right now. “I don’t think so. He’s a baby, how big can they be?”

“Well,” James said carefully, “let’s see. It’ll get chilly enough for jumpers by, I dunno, October? So he’ll be three months? He might have some meat on him by then if he’s anything like me when I was a baby.”

“No,” Lily shook her head and returned to her work. Knit. Purl. Knit. Purl. Purl again. “He’d be two months. Two.”

James sighed. “Lil-”

“If he’s born in August he’ll be two months in October.”

“We have to be prepared for the wo-”

“No.” Lily said the word quietly, but with a danger she hadn’t realized she possessed.

James held up his hands in surrender. “You’re right. Ignore me. I didn’t mean-”

“He’ll be tiny,” Lily said into her hands. Knit. Purl. Dropped stitch. Damn. “Tiny enough to fit into this sweater. And he’ll be perfect. And safe and healthy and loved.” Another stitch dropped. It was getting hard to see her work through her tears.

“Lily,” James said softly as he reached for her hands. He brought the needles slowly down from her face and tucked his hand over hers in her lap. “Let’s take a break for a moment, alright?”

She nodded. She could have wrestled her hand from under his to wipe the tears from her cheek, but she let them fall freely. James wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled him into her chest.

They stayed that way for a while, Lily crying silently into James’ chest. After a while, she became aware of his own warm tears on her hair. She wondered dully if he was thinking what she was thinking. What have we done?

“Why the knitting?” James murmured as he ran a hand up and down her arm comfortingly, “why the rush?”

Lily sniffed. She hadn’t expected the question, and she suddenly found she didn’t have an answer. Knitting just seemed like a thing to do for your baby. “I just want him to have something of mine. Something to...remember me by.”

It was a mark of the bond between them that James did not protest at her words. He knew more than anyone how their stories could end. How little time they might have with their son.

“He’s going to love it. But you know,” James nudged her chin gently with his forefinger so that she looked up into his face. His cheeks were still blotchy from his tears, but a real smile shone on his lips. “You know he’s going to have your eyes. How could he not? That’s something he could never get from anyone else.”

Lily smiled too. She tried to picture her own green eyes looking back up at her from a bundle of blankets in her arms. Her eyes, maybe James’ hair. It was a lovely picture.

“Three days,” she leaned up and kissed James gently on the lips, “let’s get through the next three days. We’ll have plenty to worry about when he arrives and I won’t have time to finish this stupid jumper.”

James laughed. He stood from the couch, stretching his arms above his head as he went. “He’s going to love the sweater, Lil. Who knows, maybe he’ll give it to his own baby someday.”

“Oh, god,” Lily murmured as she resumed her work with a renewed intensity, “don’t say that. He’ll need something nicer than this for his own kids, this one’s shite.”

---

“I can’t believe you didn’t let me at the baby boxes first,” Ginny grumbled as she poured through a trunk of useless artifacts from her and her brothers’ infancies. A torn sweater here, a lone bootie there. A Babbity Rabbity book that was so worn from years of use that it tore at the binding. Ten years and seven children later, even the hardiest hand-me-downs could fall apart. “Bill got all the good stuff for Vic.”

“Well, dear,” her mother sighed as she levitated yet another trunk onto the kitchen table, “he was the first in the family to have children, after all.”

“It’s not like Fluer lets her kids wear any of our old jumpers,” Ginny muttered bitterly, “it isn’t from Paris, so of course it’s all rubbish.”

“What about this, Ginny?” Hermione called from her spot across the table. She’d spotted a dusty, but beautiful, mobile made up of stars and whirling planets folded up in the corner of a trunk. Small silver chimes hung from the top of the mobile which could almost certainly be charmed to play softly as the baby slept below. “This is lovely, isn’t it?”

Ginny, despite her determination to be a grumpy, hormone-filled nightmare today, eyed the mobile with interest. “It is nice.”

“Hmm,” her mother hummed as she dug through a bag of old baby socks, looking for a matching pair, “I suppose I didn’t let all the good stuff go to your brother after all, then?”

Ginny huffed as she accepted the mobile from Hermione and gingerly placed it into her bag. “Fine. Maybe not. But he’s still always been your favorite child.”

“What about me, then?” Ron called as he strode into the room, Harry at his side.

Ginny threw a faded plush snitch at his head, which he caught easily. “Not you, git. Bill.”

“Oh, true,” Ron shrugged as he leaned down to kiss Hermione on the cheek. By the time they got married and had kids of their own, Ginny thought savagely, there would surely be nothing usable left in the trunks. This was her only consolation.

“Gin, it’s alright. We don’t need anything from here,” Harry said reasonably as he peered into the trunk with interest. “Of course, Molly, it’s all lovely. But we’re buying loads of stuff for the baby, he’ll be just fine.”

“But still!” Ginny protested as she dug further into the trunk, “I want the memories, you know? I want to pass something down to my kids. Something like...like this.”

At the very bottom of the trunk lay a tiny, perfectly folded Gryffindor jumper. No years of wear-and-tear, no moth holes or loose strings hanging from the sleeves. Her mother had even added a tiny lion to the front in perfect golden stitches against the crimson background. Ginny pulled the jumper gingerly from the trunk and ran the tips of her fingers along the ridiculously soft wool.

“Oh, Molly,” Hermione murmured in awe as she stared at the jumper in Ginny’s hands. “It’s beautiful.”

Her mother smiled softly. “I knit that jumper when I was pregnant with you, Ginny.” Her voice had grown hoarse, as if she was trying her best to keep the emotion at bay. “I wanted you to have something of your very own. You only wore it a few times before you got too big. It was silly, really, to spend so much time making something that you’d grow right out of, but I couldn’t help it.”

“No wonder we were all in Gryffindor,” Ron grinned, as he eyed the jumper, “you and dad have been priming us since birth.”

“Oh, hush,” her mother snapped at Ron, “you know we didn’t care, not really. After all, I was almost sure Percy would be in Ravenclaw when he first went to school, but then-”

“Harry?”

Hermione’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it stopped mum’s story at once.

Harry’s eyes were on the jumper in her hands, and they were wet. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he stared at the bundle of red and gold. He didn’t give any indication that he’d heard Hermione say his name.

Ginny felt her heart sink into her stomach. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“What?” Harry shook himself a bit as if coming out of a dream. He glanced around at all the eyes fixed on him. “Oh, sorry. I just thought- never mind. Being silly.” He ran a hand through his hair absentmindedly, his chest still heaving slightly. The legs of his chair scraped loudly across the kitchen floor as he stood suddenly.

“Got to get some fresh air, excuse me,” and Harry practically bolted through the kitchen and through the back door.

Her mother gazed sadly after him. “Oh dear, I should have thought before bringing all this out. I hope he’s not too upset.”

“It’s alright mum,” Ginny patted her mother’s arm gently, “he’ll be fine. I’ll go talk to him.”

Ginny crossed over to the back door and eased her way through it. How on earth had her mother, a woman who had been pregnant at least seven times, been able to live in a house with such tiny doorways? She waddled down the porch and into the back garden towards her husband’s form.

It was difficult to see him in the early evening light, but she did not like the look of the way his shoulders slumped forward where he stood.

“Hey,” she breathed as she reached Harry. She could tell he’d been crying by the way his breath caught in his throat with each inhale. The sound made her feel faintly sick. “What happened in there?”

Harry shook his head sharply. “Nothing. Being stupid, that’s all.”

“It’s not stupid,” she took his hand in hers and gripped it tight. “Having a baby is scary. I get it. I don’t have any less faith in you for being scared.”

“It’s not that,” he whipped around to look at her, his eyes alight with adrenaline. “I’m not scared. I’m going to protect our baby with every breath I have left in me, I promise you that, Ginny.”

She smiled patted his hand gently. He had these moments every now and then, the wild sense of panic that always preceded a fight. She couldn’t blame him exactly, given everything he’d lost, but she was worried for him. “I know you will. I will, too.”

Harry nodded vigorously and turned back to the garden. She could feel his body relaxing slightly, could sense some of the panic recede from his muscles and release through his exhale.

“I’m sorry I freaked out,” Harry breathed as he brought their clasped hands to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, “it was that damned tiny jumper. It was unnaturally small. I don’t remember Teddy being that small, do you?”

Ginny laughed and leaned her head against his shoulder. The sun was really setting now, casting the entire yard in a soft orange glow. Somewhere in the distance, a family of gnomes grumbled to each other as they dug through her mother’s tomato patch. “He was never that small, though I suppose Teddy was a bit of a fat baby.”

Harry snorted. “I’m telling him you said that.”

“Don’t!” Ginny swatted at him playfully, “don’t you dare!”

He just laughed again and pulled her close against his chest, the back of her head resting comfortably against him.

“It is nice, though,” he sighed, “the idea of passing something down to your kids. Giving them a little part of you. I wish I’d had more of my parents’ things.”

Ginny nodded slowly. She couldn’t imagine a childhood without hand-me-downs. A little bit of history in every toy, every piece of clothing. “Perhaps we can make up for it. Create some new traditions.”

“Yeah?” She could hear him grinning through the word. “How would we do that?”

Ginny sighed, a little horrified with herself at what she was about to say.

“Well, we could always ask my mother to give us knitting lessons.”

Really. Married, pregnant, and finally letting her mother teach her to knit after years of protestation. What had her life come to?

[godliveblogs]

Teddy Bear Vs. Counting Sheep!

Epithet Erased Episode 2

Giovanni counters Sylvie’s cheap shot! And now he plots on how best to best his opponent in the ring!

Wow, Giovanni’s friendship rank levels up quickly! Normally it takes three/fourths the Hero’s Journey for your party members to unlock their secret move.

... How does filling up your LIMIT meter relate to Soup!?

Honestly Molly, at this point I’m just letting people do whatever they want with their powers.

Just built different I guess?

Y’anno... if Molly Dumbed down his attacks, he could use one of his dummies (sorry, valued minions) to build up his critical so he could constantly dish out souped up attacks and is that pun why he can do that?

WAIT I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY YOU ALREADY HAD A CRITICAL SAVED UP! also that counter in the top right is adorable.

All right, I don’t know if I shared this thought before but I think I have a theory about SiIvagunner here. His Epithet is probably something like Sleep—or more abstract like Dream—as all of his attacks have just been that, however he very clearly becomes a Minotaur in the opening. Now we know magical artifacts are a thing and Sylvester is interested in them, so what if him transforming into a bull-man is in actuality the effect of a curse or something with nothing to do with his Epithet? And while I’m this far out here I have an addendum to this theory. Sylvester’s real form is the Minotaur! Where he is cursed to turn into a child! It fits with him being a psychologist despite looking Molly’s age, him throwing a tantrum when people call him a child, and feels like a JelloApocalypse kinda twist. And now that I said it watch as it’s proven wrong later...

PLease no! not the spicy jambalaya soup!

Wait, Giovanni can actually use the Adds to increase his critical counter! Though, that’s a weak grenade if it only hit two of them...

Sorry Gio, but I think there’s not much Molly can do here. Her Epithet, while pretty powerful, doesn’t have any direct offensive ability against multiple enemies, also she’s twelve.

Quick! The sewing needles! Go for their beady sheep eyes!

Why are you giving the child a gun

Molly’s anxiety levels must be going through the roof right now.

This entire scene is equal parts chaotic and hilarious.

Good lord they are going to smother you with their fluffiness.

Everyone, do it with me once again, *Clear’s throat* AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH—

Just wait until they get a taste for blood!

Maybe they see you as one of their own, Molly? What with the fuzzy hoodie and fluffy hair.

Dear sweet jumping jelly beans THEY CRAVE HUMAN FLESH!

Quick! Get that combo going or else we’ll be nothing but bones!

...I know I said to get the combo, but I thought it would be more than just a crit on one enemy... Molly, maybe you can AOE Dumb all the sheep? Don’t worry about hitting Giovanni, he can’t possibly be meaningfully affected by it.

Just need to hit them one thousand and three hundred more times then!

Un-Summon them? It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for ‘Dumb’ to do that, right?

Molly, sheep are supposed to put you to sleep, not the other way ‘round! Wait a second, how could an Epithet like Sleep summon sheep? I know the connection sheep have with going to sleep but at what point does it become too far of a reach for the domain of your Epithet? ...Y’anno, I’m just going to go back to ‘let people do whatever they want with their powers‘, it’s at least more funny that way.

Yeah, same! She just quietly obliterated that sheep like it was nothing! It was honestly a little frightening...

Molly, please don’t phrase it that way, it makes it sound like you could do that to anything and I can’t emotionally accept that.

Oh okay, good. Gave me a bit of a scare there. Question though, how did you know you could do that? Is it a feeling that all Inscribed get from their Epithets or something?

Nice, didn’t know I get that answered so quick. I guess some Epithets are more suited for summoning stuff too, and also Molly’s sister has an Epithet too! Honestly a lot to unpack in the last few sentences.

ALRIGHT NEVERMIND, EXISTENTIAL DREAD BACK AT FULL FORCE!

[unicorinspace]

Tender

The apartment is cold by the time Kida enters, the bed rolls neatly tucked in the closet and a fine layer of musty dust over the table. Had she really been gone a month again? It’s hard to believe, despite how her footsteps leave tracks across the room. Maybe it was time to start renting on a flexible basis, she thinks as she turns up the thermostat and throws her bag in the corner.

She opens a window, breathing in the smell of the dark rain. The sound of it fills the lonely apartment, and she suddenly feels sleepy. The thought of sleeping under shelter and in a bed is tempting, but Kida is covered from head to toe in grime. There’s also a nasty cut on her back that needs tending. 

With a sigh, she turns from the window and lets her mind wander as she sets about her routine. Clothes are thrown in a hamper to be washed later while she lets the shower heat up. A bath would be nice, but the temptation to fall asleep would be too great.

She starts to feel more human and energized as the dirt washes away, bruises and little cuts revealing themselves as she works. Most of them are half-healed, cuts scabbed up and bruises already yellowed. If she’s lucky, a good week of rest would  be great. 

She smells lightly of lavender by the time she’s done, eyelids drooping and exhaustion slowly creeping back. Just a little longer, she tells herself.

The cut on her back still oozes, staining the towel as she sits in front of the tall mirror in the main room. She twists and turns, but no matter what she does, she can’t reach by herself. The cut would eventually stop, but to let it ooze and fester was a mistake.

“You’re a terrible contortionist.”

Kida only starts a little, aborting her lunge to her bag halfway through when her tired brain realizes who it is.

“I’ve been home less than an hour, you could at least let me get a night’s sleep,” she grumbles. He only shrugs as she deflates, the tiredness spreading all over her body. She wants nothing but to sleep.

“What did you find?” He wastes no time, either impatient or aware of Kids’s fading strength. 

“A few things. I tailed that terrorist, Deidara, and he nearly caught me. He’s dangerous, but he’s young and stupid. Easy to recruit.” 

“I’ll pass it on to the others. Your other objective?”

“I found the artifact but I won’t make any guarantees. I almost died getting it and haven’t had time to confirm if it’s the real thing,” Kida gestures to her bag. He digs through it to find a battered set of scrolls, still wound tight with seals.

“Perfect. We can use these for the sealing ritual. Take a week to recover, then I’ll have another job for you,” he says curtly, pocketing the scrolls. He’s halfway to the window when he stops, mask just barely glinting in the soft moonlight as he looks back at Kida. She turns to look at him, one brow raising in question.

“What?”

“Turn around. I’ll sew that wound up.”

His hands are cold against her skin as he works, cleaning up the gash with alcohol soaked pads and spreading a numbing solution around the wound. The needle hardly stings as he weaves it through her skin, pulling the sides tight and tying it off with a secure knot. She’s dozing by the time he’s done, chin resting on her chest and breath coming out in soft puffs.

“Your back is going to hurt if you sleep here,” he rouses her with a shake, and Kida only groans.

“Ugh. But I’m comfortable,” she whines but she lifts her head. He helps her pull out a bedroll and set it up, puffing up the blankets and pillows.

He waits until Kida is curled up and asleep, her back to him. He pauses, watching as her shoulder rises and falls with every breath.

He leaves the window open after he leaves, letting the sound of rain cover the sound of his departure.

[deepdisireslonging]

New Life

The Reader is packing. What will Dean say? 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Y/N) 

Warnings/Promises: ANGST

Word Count: 1047

Note: Having a personal battle right now. What do you do when you can’t make sense of anything? When the future seems so distant and scary? For me, I write.

You were halfway through emptying your dresser when Dean knocked on your door. Already you could feel the tears behind your cheeks. “Come in,” you said, your voice watery. He stepped into your room and you didn’t look back until you had your control back. “May I help you?”

He looked at your bed, covered in your clothes, and the raggedy bag with more clothes hanging out of it. Dean took a deep breath. “What are you up to? Did you find a hunt?”

The question hit like a sewing needle to your fingertip. Sharp. True. 

“Of a sort.” A terrible answer, really. But sarcasm is the language of hunters. “I- I’m leaving, Dean.”

His Adam’ apple bobbed in his throat. 

“I can see that. But where to?”

Your mouth was dry. Your tongue ran across the roof of your mouth, searching or any moisture. “I don’t know.”

Dean stepped closer, but gave you enough space when you raised your hand to stop him. “You’re packing… but you don’t know where you’re going. You’re going on a hunt… of a sort.” His tongue darted out to his bottom lip. “Y/N, what is going on?”

The rock you refused to swallow settled in your throat. Heat settled into the tops of your cheeks under your eyes. 

“I can’t stay here.”

Dean stumbled back a step. “What- what do you mean?”

You struggled to find the words. They swirled in your chest like knives, slicing your oxygen to ribbons. From the outside, all you could do was adjust your grip on your smaller duffle bag. 

“I can’t stay here.” Saying it again cut deeply, and cut Dean deeply too. “Dean… I feel stuck.” The last word cracked. “Do you remember what I told you… what I told you about my childhood dreams?”

He nodded. “You wanted to be an archaeologist.”

You nodded, biting your bottom lip. “I wanted to see the world. I wanted to study it’s past. Then I grew up. I wanted to catalogue history, and share it. And I wanted to curate museums like never before. Then my boss brought me a cursed object and I suddenly got dragged into this world where every monster I’ve ever heard of, no matter the culture or time period… they’re real. And they’re more dangerous than my ancestors could ever have described.”

It was there, in the flicker of his eyes. Your work in the Bunker archives. Cataloguing the artifacts and the books and all the research you did with Sam. 

“What I’ve always dreamed of doing… isn’t this.” You walked to place the bag in your hands on the bed. Keep moving. Keep packing. Don’t let the hurt in his eyes stop you. “I’m miserable, Dean. Every day, we risk our lives. Most of the time I hate waking up in the mornings. Saving people, hunting things… that isn’t my family business.” You forced the stone in your throat to slide down to your stomach. It could burn there like coal all it wanted. You forced a folded t-shirt into the bag. “So I’m getting out before I get killed, or possessed, or worse. There’s probably worse. This life… it’s soul-crushing. The rest of the world is out there.” You yanked a zipper closed. “I’m going to go study it. Out there. With the people I knew before this life.” 

“And will you look back?”

Dean didn’t step into your space. Though you kinda wished he would. And kind wished he’d wrap his arms around you and tell you this would be okay. 

Instead, his eyebrows creased together. Pain and anger laced his voice, cracking at the end of his accusation. “Le me get this right. You almost get cursed, and you join the team so you can study the occult. Now that you understand the gravity of it, and how dangerous it is to you, us, the world… you want to walk away? You’ve helped us stop one apocalypse already! We need you there to stop the next one.”

“There’s always going to be a next one. And another. And another.” Just the potential of those struggles weighed your shoulders down more than a ton of bricks. “There’s other stuff I want to do before my time is up. I’ve done enough. I’ve done my part. Please.” Hot tears ran down your face. “Let me go.”

When you swayed on your feet, Dean rushed forward to catch you. He was warm and held your sob-wracked body tightly. The top of your head eventually began to ache where his chin rested on in. Each soothing pass of his hand up or down your back both eased your exhaustion, and increased your guilt. 

“I want a family, Dean. I would have one with you, but-”

“The only way out of this life is bloody. And that’s no place to raise a child,” he said smoothly, as if quoting a well-loved movie. 

How many times had you two fought with those words? Maybe you should have been keeping score on who said which argument. It switched every time. 

When he spoke again, it was soft. Broken, but resigned and directed to help. “Do- do you need a ride to this new life?”

You took a deep breath over his shirt buttons. “I was going to Uber to the airport. Gotta job in the UK and-”

“Like hell you will.” He gave you one last squeeze and stepped away. “You’re gonna need every cent for this exit strategy. Or pound or Euro or whatever they use over there. I’ll, um. I’ll check the Impala. And I’ll tell Sam-”

“No.” You looked at your feet. Anywhere but his face. “I’ll tell him. As soon as I’m done packing. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.” 

“Okay.”

Telling Sam was somehow easier. Then again, he’d seen your growing frustration up close. And had walked in on your phone interview with your new job a month ago. Dean was quiet all the way to the airport. Played your favorite classic rock tape, though. If these had been different times, he would have walked you all the way to the gate. 

The plane was twenty-thousand feet in the air before you allowed yourself to cry, hidden in the tiny confines of the plane’s bathroom. 

***

Masterlist 

Forever Tags: @blondekel77​ @brianaraydean​ @chwehansol98​ @fireflyfunhousetrash​ @laochbaineann​ @ramblingsofabourbondrinker​ @savmontreal​ @shieldgirl18 @tinyelfperson​ @writtingrose​ @xladyxfatex​ @gold--gucciempress​  

Supernatural Tags: @emoryhemsworth​ @quixoticcat​ @smandrews3​ @supernatural-jackles​ @tamtamlov​ @vvinch3st3r​

Dean Winchester Tags: @19mmallory​ @akshi8278​ @ashmonet​ @bits-n-bowz​ @bringmesomepie56​ @castielsbecky​ @cookie-dough-lova​ @dancingalone21​ @gabbyrogers094​ @idontknow-canyou​ @its--killing--me​ @juanitadiann​ @kaemarie23​ @kittenofdoomage​ @lauriz67​ @millie67​ @mrspeacem1nusone​ @mylostsoul28​ @peaceloveandplumbots​ @releitable​ @sassy-losechester​ @sissysalvatore​ @theriumking​ @uzum4k1-uch1h4​ @vutdidyousay​ @windeango67​

[hypexion]

A Pile of Fanwalkers (Part 2)

Part two of me posting a bunch of ��OCs“, since actually working out a better way to organise and present is this information is clearly too much effort. Despite the fact I’m putting what could be charitably described as an amount of work into these posts.

The basic format for each planeswalker will be a Name/Colour Identity/Pre-Ignition Typeline/Homeplane blob of information, a quickish description of them and some “fun“ facts, and then some hits and misses for extra flavour. Also, I’m going to split this into three posts - “Heroic“, “Okay“ and “Villians“, for I believe I have the moral authority to judge my creations.

Also some of these are going to be from fanplanes, which will go undescribed beyond whatever tidbits come out the character flavour. Others will just have a ?, representing a lack of knowledge and/or sufficent worldbuilding. With that out of the way, let’s go!

Okay

Not everyone is actively Heroic, and that’s okay. Generally, this lot might not want to help you out, but they’re unlikely to ruin your day just for the sake of it. Of course, some might offer to help if their skills are a match for the situation, or if they stand to benefit. And some of them might be a little rude, but they generally won’t murder you.

Ferroxi - BGU, Faerie Artificer, ? - While other fae are luring you around in circles, trapping you in an eternal sleep, or stealing your name, Ferroxi is probably rummaging through your recycling looking for useful stuff. Born on a plane piled with interplanar scrap, she learned at a young age the value in taking things apart and occationally putting them back together again. Ferroxi sees the wastefulness of other planes as her gain, and is always on the look out for anything that can be fixed up, melted down or repurposed. This doesn’t stop at the physical, either. With a bit of work, she’s managed to keep a few Infinite Consortium cells spinning, as a way to provided access to resources she’d otherwise have trouble obtaining. Ultimately, Ferroxi brings her finds back to her clan, where she is considered a peerless salvager, able to seemingly conjure resources from nothing.

Ferroxi has hair she self-describes as “rust coloured“ and brown skin. Being a Faerie, she’s just over a foot tall. But don’t underestimate her. Just because her weapon of choice looks like a sewing needle, it doesn’t mean it can’t hurt you. Of course, she also has access to all the various fae tricks, so getting into a fight with her is generally going to end her favour. Just let Ferroxi have your old lightbulbs, okay? When she planeswalkers, she disappears into a puff of rust dust. Don’t breath that! (Generally you shouldn’t breath planeswalking auras, but the metal oxides to be especially avoided.)

Hits: Recycling, Izzet technology, Moxen, white and gold bordered cards. Misses: Izzet security, large animals, things that can’t be repaired or reused.

Mazamat - UB, Human Wizard, Akkyria - For Mazamat, death is merely a setback. After each defeat she rises again, a new body forged from mana in her ziggurat. As a mortal scholar, her fame was not enough to enjoy the immortality Akkyria offered it’s most renowned. So through careful research, she discovered an alternative, a way to tie her life force to the leylines that shaped her world. She divised a ritual, and performed it to perfection. And in seeking eternal life, she found something far greater. For Mazamat was born long before The Mending. Her ignition gave her powers beyond bound. Even with a fractional of her strength sequestered as an anchor for her soul, Mazamat was a force to be reckoned with. She mastered lifetimes of magics, slew gods, and accidentally created a few highly dangerous artifacts. Unfortunately, even without meeting Urza, Mazamat was affect by his ruinous influence. The Mending weakened her. Enough that it was now the majority of her strength that anchored her to Akkyria. This made planewalking fatal. But for Mazamat, death is merely a setback. No Lich forgets their Phylactery, and Mazamat did not forget the mechanics of her undeath. While the first sucessful test walk only worked because of the Interplanar Beacon, it provided Mazamat all she needed to write a new ritual, and continue her endless study.

Often, Mazamat isn’t hard to miss. It’s difficult to ignore the walking corpse with glowing purple eyes, even you’d prefer to. She could put more effort into looking presentable, given her wide magical knowledge, but generally considers it optional. When she does wish to tidy up her appearance, she tends to appear as she did in the middle of her mortal life. In this case, she has brown skin and grey-black hair, which she ties back into a bun to get it out of the way. She also dampens the eye-glow effect, although they still take on a purple hue. Mazamat tends to dress in the classical “Robed Wizard“ look, ardorned with various magical symbols. Mazamat’s planeswalking effet is a pulse of pale blue light, occationally leaving behind short-lived inscriptions on nearby surfaces.

Hits: Mastering skills, advising adventurers (who bring the appropriate tribute), a kind of savory cake served with honey and dried fruits. Misses: Dying (it’s still not fun, even if you come back), Nicol Bolas, Urza, whoever started the rumor that flying snakes could be found near her ziggurat, because now she can’t get rid of the things, being stuck on a plane.

Pyrolas - R, Dragon, Ithmorne - Many planeswalkers are subtle. Many are careful. Pyrolas is neither, because Pyrolas is a red dragon. When presented with a problem, they consider fire and fury to be an acceptable solution. As dragons go, Pyrolas is considered implusive and quick to act. This is good for the non-dragons living with their domain, as it means Pyrolas tends to deal with problems such as bandits within a week. Meaning you might actually have a home to go back to. Pyrolas is also less than interested in the ever-shifting politics of the Draconic Confedracy, prefering to get their excitement from visting other planes, or comissioning sweet new artworks. Like many dragons on their homeplane, Pyrolas graciously allows non-dragons to use the singular they when referring to them. This is nice, because in Ithmorne Draconic, pronouns are also honorifics, and using the wrong one can range from “slightly rude“ to “mortal insult“ (it’s also nice because some of them are very hard to pronounce if you aren’t a dragon).

Dragons on Ithmorne tend towards being more slender, and Pyrolas is no exception. However, unlike a certain dragon whose name has been misplaced, they all still look dragony. Pyrolas has red scales, except on the underside of their wings, where they are a more goldish colour. Since they’re a dragon, they don’t carry weapons. Rather, Pyrolas is the weapon, capable of spewing flame, clawing rocks to pieces and able to crush puny humanoids in their grasp. Thankfully, Pyrolas is a kind of “take it easy“ dragon, so you need to try pretty hard to provoke them. When they planeswalk, flames pour from their mouth and engulf them, followed by Pyrolas disappearing. This takes a little while, so they tend to do it while flying out of the way of danger.

Hits: Flying around, treasure, the fine arts, hosting tournements. Misses: Really cold places, dragon slayers, missing out on the chance to claw Bolas in his stupid dumb face, that time they went to Ixalan.

Tanzor - GUR, Shapeshifter, ? - Do you ever wonder how the multiverse fits together? Tanzor does, and they've embarked on the most ambitious planar cartography projection in the multiverse to work it out. Of course, along the way, they’ve picked up a number of other projects. These include subjects such as planar topology, monitoring aether currents, and tracking planes that have been inflicted by Phyrexians (thanks, Karn). Most recently, Tanzor has been investigating the aftershocks from the deaths of Kozilek and Ulamog, and the appearance of temporal anomalies around Tarkir. And with the possibility of more Planar Bridges being constructed, they could soon have a whole new set of issues on their hands. Or claws. Or tentacles. When you’re a changeling, it’s sometimes hard to keep track. When in doubt, check what the person you’re reflexively copying has. (When in a group of three or more people, Tanzor generally exerts concious control over their shapeshifting, as not to freak people out).

Describing Tanzor’s physical appearance is difficult, since as a changeling, it tends to shift around a lot. When changing form, it appears that their underlying changeling colour is dark blue, however. For simplicity, let’s just say they’re friend-shaped. When Tanzor planeswalkers, their form dissippates, and they appear to collapse into a single point.

Hits: Being able to be anything, wings/fins/toxins on demand, high vantage points, advanced eyeball techniques. Misses: Being asked why they can’t shapeshift into a form that isn’t injured, Phyrexians, whoever was the latest one to screw up the multiverse (currently: Bolas, previously: Gatewatch, Ugin/Sarkhan, and others).

Xand - BR, Human Rogue, Ravnica - Xand likes to introduce himself as a cultist of wealth and taste. Which is not entirely inaccurate. He’s a member of the Cult of Rakdos, he’s got money to burn, and he’s very concerned about food. But don’t mistake Xand for some regular glutton, looking to gorge on endless plates of substandard junk. Xand has standards. Out of a dozen recipes, even after days of refinement, only a few will make it to the menu of his bar - which is an unusually “classy“ environment for a Rakdos run business. Sure, you won’t find any Azorius, Selesnya or Ozhov patrons there, and higher ranked guild members tend to avoid the it, but it’s a decent place to grab a meal or a drink. And for the fancier members of Ravnican society, there’s always Café Xand, which features table cloths, a wine list and a krasis of the day. And with the countless flavours of the multiverse available to him, Xand is always looking to expand the menu.

Xand has pale brown skin and shoulder-length black hair. Like any self-respecting Rakdos cultist, he dresses in loud, colourful robes, often patched together from previous robes that didn’t survive whatever manic Rakdos event Xand was last at. He also has a surprisingly well kept set of chef’s clothing, as likes to ensure only the right ingredients get used when he’s cooking. For personal defense (and offense), Xand carries knives. Lots of knives. Too many knives, perhaps, even when you factor in his excuse that “you never know when you might need to cut a cake, or dice some vegetables”.  He’s also pretty good at using Rakdos “hype magic” to disorient his foes, since it turns out that feeling a bunch of conflicting emotions at once is really distracting. When he planewalks, Xand disappears in a burst of dark flame, which leaves a pleasant, yet unidentifiable scent.

Hits: Good food, fine wine, various parties, visiting Valor’s Reach. Misses: Canibbalism, bar fights in his bar, Orzhov insurance rates, not being able to get the right spices, people calling him Alexander.

Look at all these nice...ish people. None of them would be into Gatewatching, but they’re also not making things worse. Tanzor might be willing to help out if they’re in the right place, and if you can appeal to her self-interest, Mazamat might teach you something useful. But with the others, their self-interest is probably going to overcome their altruism most of the time. Of course, the multiverse also has some rather more... antagonistic planewalkers, but that’s for next time.

[duraxxor]

The Dreamscar Part IV

[[ Warning: This entry contains graphic violence and imagery as well as language. You’ve been warned. ]]

Now you know your name has been echoed through many possibilities, Dura. And those are not the only occurrences either. There are many other worlds out there. But that's not what this is about is it? No. This is about the thread you exist upon. Like helpless prey you are entangled within the web of an arachnid. Azeroth has not never been kind or merciful to you though, has it? Never. Her bite is necrotic and you find yourself drained one death after another. Thrice-damned indeed. 

Not everything became hell because of the world around you. In fact, you've made quite a few interesting choices as of late. Isolation is such a common trait within your bleeding heart, is it not? Oh yes, I have tasted your bittersweet wine on many occasion. It seems to only get better with age, as it should. Your friends and family have always been in question, even when you thought you possessed the will to trust. Alliances are forged under circumstance and self-benefit. The Alliance. The Horde. The Scourge. Even now, those you hold dear claw at your flesh only to tear it from the bone, like ravenous vultures. There's only so much one can lose before they become nothing more than bone and eventually dust. 

Does that pull upon the sewing thread within your head? Then perhapssss… it is time we've properly introduced in a different reality...

The chittering of the nightly wings was the first thing that fell upon his ears after the familiar voice went dead silent. The scent of blood inhaled through his nostrils as sight returned to his right eye. His left, however, possessed next to no sight at all. But before the undead elf could take notice to that amongst other things, his senses were ensnared by crimson environment in more ways than one. The earth beneath him appeared tainted by some form of decay while the grass that protruded spoke otherwise. The skies reflected in comparison with a brighter tone of scarlet that was only altered by the haze of what appeared to be smoky mist. The confirmation of the chittering was given as the bat children fluttered by this strange platform he found himself upon. " Platform? " He thought to himself. Indeed, he was upon what appeared to be one of many floating landmasses. It was at that moment that he realized he was truly ensnared with a strange sensation to follow. Why couldn't he see out of his left eye? Why couldn't he feel even a needle-like sensation that occasionally irritated his left arm? 

" Because those are the shards of your flesh that were picked from the bone... " A young sounding voice replied to his silent question. That voice was different from the narration he had grown accustomed to yet once more it possessed the same familiarity. " … Your eye was burned out then snuffed by the void... while your arm was torn completely from you twice, the second being a false limb, of course. " It was when the youth revealed himself from the crimson dark that Dura would realize just who this entity was. White hair that protruded in a mess with the gleam of red that reflected off the world around them. The entity appeared truly young judging from height and the build that reflected the growth. He was male and wore torn clothing while also clutching something that set Dura's mind a spiral. 

" That dagger... " He quietly spoke as the object in the boy's hand was stained with the blood of old, curving only slightly due to it's purpose being to skin wild game. " …Where did you get it? "

The child may have appeared elven but the twin jewels of blood spoke otherwise. A faint smile curled upon his face from the humor within the question. " You already know the answer to that... It's the only thing we ever had left of father. For all the rage we for him leaving mother and us just like that, don't you look back and think that sullying it with blood was the perfect use for it? Blood of a murderer sacrificed to guide our fortuitous path. " The boy presented it in the direction of the missing limb.

" How are you... " His eye looked towards the same direction and realized what was missing was actually unraveled into a crimson silk that bound him to a crystalline formation. This set Dura in a state of alert, earning the false child a few choice words. " What in the hells is this? Who the bloody fuck are you? Get me down from this bullshit! " He snarled with a viciousness that only distorted his half face worse. 

" Oh my... didn't mother teach you not to speak in such a tongue around children? " The child chuckled while playfully twirling the dagger around his fingertips, an old habit that only confused Dura even more. " I'm you, silly. And you are me... " The boyish form began to twist and turn, crimson flames erupted from his form as if the youth had spontaneously combusted. The laughter never abated but rather, it deepened in tone. The billowing flame increased in height and volume before twirling into a tempest of hellish properties with the cacophonous chatter of bat children thrown into the mixture. The flames and avian creatures quickly dispersed, showing that the tattered clothing had transformed into a black coat. It shrouded the majority of the beings form aside from the arms and head. Ghostly threads that were stained by blood cascaded down from the top of the beings scalp that was slowly lifting in return to look back at the damaged man. " ... Or at least, I am what you could become if you would just listen carefully. " While the pitch of the voice perfectly matched his, there was confidence and allure that burst forth from every single word that could reel many in easily. 

" What in the bloody fuck... " Dura replied to this strange doppelganger who seemed in far better shape than ever had. "... You're me? You don't look torn all to hell and you most certainly aren't glued to a damnable crystal. Why the hell am I here? I am suppose to be in my slumber. " Duraxxor's tone may have been quite irritable but he was reluctant to cooperate and listen at the very least. 

" As I said before, I am you yet I am not you. " Clawed nails tapped the old artifact of butchery before he turned it backwards, using it as a nail file. " Of course I'm not torn or whatever you think you should be. Because I found a way around all of that. As for why you are infused with that crystal like that, well.... " The doppelganger's eyes illuminated with a sinister glow before the man moved for only a split second to be within Dura's face so that he may speak to him closely. The smile was fiendish as ever and possessed many sharp teeth much like the other. However, there was something truly destructive about that stare of his that even brought the half Faceless to be at unease. "... You're here so I can fix you. To put you on the right path. " That relic of a dagger was brought to graze across the cheek of the ensnared Daevara as he spoke with such malevolence. 

" Right path you say. Pffft. Give me a break. " The sleeper replied with a broken crescent forming upon his face. " Let me guess, the truth is you are some creature from the void or some other damnation here to take over my body? Or perhaps you are the Sorceress' test? I mean really... how can you truly be what I could be? What makes you any better than what I already am? " 

Dura suddenly found himself cut off by this abnormal twin's fingertips silencing his lips with a idle shush. " No void. No tests. No demons. There is only blood and shadows here. As for your late inquiry, well... " The fiend pulled his fingers away to tap along his own petals of flesh in thought before continuing his answers. " I am you once you have become enlightened. Unchained by the previous burdens and instead possess the ability to eradicate that which has taken from you. The Beast. Lindeara. They will all be consumed... " The final word was uttered in a hellish accent that rumbled with a terrifying melody. " All you need to do issss… let me take over. " 

" Let you take over? But then how exactly would it be me who destroys them if you are the one taking control, huh? " Dura retaliated with a stilling fact. How exactly could this entity of similarities not understand that Duraxxor Daevara does not allow anyone to take his glory away from him without proper reasoning. Perhaps this being was lying to him after all? The bindings suddenly released him from the crystal, leaving the broken puzzle to tumble into the soil below with a rough landing.

" I had a feeling you would reject the idea of even yourself controlling your husk like a puppet. I'll give you that much, you are just as precise as ever. " His arms began move in circular motions, weaving the very air around him to precipitate a flow of crimson liquid to form into a globe that was continuing to twist and turn into something less spherical. " Since you won't cooperate, I guess that leaves the sheer force option, doesn't it? But don't worry... you won't remember anything I have shown you. " 

Duraxxor attempted to pull himself from the ground, growling with wrathful intent in the precise. The torn fabric of his left arms slowly began to dribble with the same crimson substance as the bloodied mist. His eye stared at that conjured ability as it took the shape of a spike of crystalline properties. " You intend to kill me?! What the bloody fuck! " The broken monster hurled himself towards the demon that was attempting such a forceful possession of his mind and likely his body. 

" It is the only way for you to evolve and continue... make this easier on us both! " Once more the final word billowed, shaking the levitating earth they stood upon. With being said, the scarlet spike was launched as swift as a bullet, landing it's mark directly into the monster's chest dead center. Duraxxor had been impaled all the way through, causing the angered creature to drop onto his knees and hold at the very cavity that had been invaded by such a deadly fast attack. " Ssssshhhhh… just give up and let yourself go... " The doppelganger requested this to ease the creature that was said to fade because of this. 

Slowly, Duraxxor's movements began to cease as the substance that protruded both sides of his body began to mingle and infuse with his flesh. Vibrant hues of red seeped into his blackened veins as he truly felt a sensation much like when the Sorceress had brought him back a third time. Was this it? Was this the end of the original Duraxxor? Not even the Sorceress could stop this so how could he? Could he? 

The winner of this short trade of words and actions stepped forward to completely claim his prize, reaching forth and placing a hand upon the scalp of his previous monstrosity. " This chapter has ended for you... a new book will be wrote in your imagery, Duraxxor. " The hand brushed along the skull of this individual much like a parent did to ease a child who was the in the need of comfort. Something that both appeared to be familiar with. It was the least this strange double could give due to the circumstances of their meeting and their farewell. " … A fatal mistake... even for you... " The words were whispered into the wind which caught the ears of the being, bringing a surprised expression to his sharp features. " What?! " 

But the double was too late as he felt the entire right half of his body was being ripped into by something unfamiliar. The seeping wound from Duraxxor's left shoulder now possessed what appeared to be a pair of twisted jaws which possessed many gnarling teeth that were closed completely around this individual with only one intent in mind. " You expect me to kill myself... when have you ever known me to do such a thing?! " The ragged breath shifted into the voice of a ravenous beast. The jaws pulled the second Dura further and further into his maw. The lips of the original twisted forth into a shark-like set that lunged forth to vice grip the other's neck, tearing into him bit by bit. 

The doppelganger posed no fight for freedom. In fact, he openly welcomed the consumption of his own flesh. Happily, he rejoiced as the outcome had turned into quite the opposite of what was presented on the table. " ... That's the way... My flesh I give to you to... mend and empower... consume me and become who you are... truly meant to... " The final words fell flat once the snarling jaws completely consumed the other, leaving nothing more than a puddle of gore to stain the earth below.

Duraxxor had become the true victor of this endeavor. In doing so, his being had metamorphosed into something far more vicious in nature. The hungering limb slowly shrunk down and reformed into a hand that oozed and dribbled with the mixed essences that gave the claws a filmed imagery. The other half of his face slowly began to regenerate from the devouring he had commenced. And soon after, the animal roared to the bloodstained heavens a battle cry that shook his entirety. So much so that even in the waking world the bellowing noise shook the room that surrounded his steel coffin. Then there was silence. Perhaps there was nothing to it at all but a sleepless noise in reaction to the dreaming state he had placed himself in? 

Pow! . . . Pow! . . . POW!

The coffin's lid was launched into the air, crashing into the ceiling with a descent onto the metal floor, dented completely outward by the blows provided. A tangled mess of ghostly locks rose from within the vampiric bed that flowed with a sinister fog that veiled the floor around him. Both arms grasped the edges of the steel lining with the tapping of several sharp digits which had grown. To which, the next sound to be heard was the sudden opening of a door that crashed into the wall. Seven geists leapt into the room to surround the perimeter while a crimson haired woman in a dress sashayed into the room with haste. " Master! You have awakened! " Her voice spoke of the relief she felt knowing it was only he who had risen rather than someone to disturb his sleep. The geists spoke with muffled tones and raised their hands in rejoice that the Faceless had indeed returned to the waking world. 

" Tiramina… " The name was spoke with that jovial allure he possessed when he was in a good mood, pausing only briefly to allow her to acknowledge she was being addressed. " … How long have I been asleep? " He didn't even need to look at her as she knew he was seeing with sight. 

" Seven months, twenty-two days, twelve hours, thirty-six minutes, and seven seconds. " She answered such with complete accuracy. She had been keeping track of every single moment since he laid within the metallic enclosure. " Did anyone beckon or summon me in my absence? " Duraxxor inquired in an attempt to double check his options as the his half-nude form rose even further to reveal his chiseled shoulder blades which were revealed to possessed a emanating rune formation upon his back. It was as if the white snow that cascaded down his back was parted much like the seas of ancient legends. " None, Master. No one dared to intrude on your sanctum and all has been accounted for. " Her answer was not only satisfying but was also met with a optimistic expression. 

" Gooooood… Then everything will proceed. Phase two of Myotis will commence. But first... I have some work to do... " Slowly he turned to face his loyal servant with most glorious of expressions. A smile that trumped all the happiness he had ever shown to the world. And this joy was also rewarded with the orchestra of laughter that echoed throughout the sanctum and eventually outside of the cavernous home. Lord Duraxxor Daevara had awakened, arisen, and was now renewed. 

[ tags for mentions: @sanguinesorceress and @horridpoppet ]

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 8: Don’t Kick That One Out

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Teen And Up

Warnings:

Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not yet)

Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor (Marvel), OFC, Andsvarr

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending, Loki is Educational, Andsvarr is a Fanboy, Loki is Considerate, Brunnhilde Ships It

Summary: Loki is a Responsible Prince, who makes an effort to keep mistakes from repeating. Loki is a Responsible Prince who teaches Reader further in the the ways of history and magic. Thor and Brunnhilde have taken notice of how much of a Responsible Prince Loki is trying to be.

You awoke from dreams of other worlds to be faced with another tasty breakfast and a new set of clothing. You really hoped it was Saldis or Roskva bringing your clothes now, as there were various underthings among them that the men that were suddenly in your life simply did not need to know about. There were also some aspects of your new garments that you weren’t entirely sure on how to go about wearing, but you’d be hanged before you went to ask Loki to help you dress yourself. You were not a child; you didn’t need anyone’s help to put your own clothes on, least of all his.

The dark green dress was easy enough. It was somewhat shapeless, soft and comfortable, but clearly not new. There was wear in the shoulder and neck areas, and the hems and sleeves had clearly been shortened to fit your stature. They’d hidden the hasty alterations with a wide black ribbon, woven with a dark yellow braid pattern. Somehow, the fact that it wasn’t brand new made you more comfortable with wearing it. It would be so much easier and cheaper for these already busy people to simply recycle old clothes for you.

The loose drawstring trousers and thick socks that went under the skirt were very welcome. Your feet had been cold since yesterday, and there was no rug on the floor of your room.

You noticed with some surprise that your apron from work had been altered with decorative ribbon as well, and was clearly meant to be worn with the rest of the ensemble. You had seen some people out in the encampment who had been wearing overdresses that looked a bit like aprons. Maybe the Asgardian clothiers had though that’s what your apron was. You put it on like you always did. You’d grown so used to wearing it. Now it looked so lovely, with its simple ribbon addition, it was like you’d never seen it before.

Now you were confronted by the objects you weren’t as sure about. A braided yellow and green sash that you sincerely hoped was a belt, because that was how you were wearing it. A triangular piece of cloth that you thought might be some kind of mini cape. It looked warm and fluffy, and Loki had said he’d get you a coat. Maybe this was the best he could find? It draped over your shoulders easily enough.

There was a pair of oval pins, decorated with knotted snakes, a length of yarn braid strung between them. They were obviously meant to be worn as a connected whole, so you held them against various parts of your body, trying to guess where they looked best. You settled for pinning them to your sash belt. A pair of fingernail clippers and a tiny, cylindrical sewing kit with a single needle and spool of thread wrapped around a toothpick inside, both hung from short chains attached to hooks. You hooked them through the braided belt, tied the warm shawl around your shoulders, and stepped out into the library.

Loki was there, nibbling on some toast, leafing through a yellowed journal filled with odd-looking runes; like lines with tally marks on them. He seemed to be attempting to transliterate them into his own runes, in his notebook.

“What do they say?” You asked. Could you learn to read these things?

“They are descriptions of an artifact the writers were searching for. It had been used against them in war, and they believed it had been left behind when their enemies withdrew. They never found it.”

“Who were they?” You wondered. “I’ve never seen writing like this.”

“How many kinds of writing have you really seen?” Loki asked, slight mocking in his tone. You, who are poor and uneducated, how much could you know? Was that what he meant?

“Well, I’ve got the internet.” You pointed out. “I’ve at least seen words, even if I couldn’t read them.”

“Very well then, from where does this come?” He scribbled a few letters.

“I think that’s Greek? I can’t read it.” His pen moved again. “An Asian language. Probably Chinese? I can’t read that either, and I’m not good at telling them apart. I just know there’s a lot.”

“And these?”

“Those are the same runes you always use. So…Viking, I guess?”

“They are Asgardian in origin.” Loki explained. “Brought here and taught to the ancestors of your people, likely at about the same time this writing was.” He tapped the yellow page, with its strange, stick-like runes. “But these are not the same as what humans came to use. Humans did not learn Asgardian, they simply adapted our writing to their own purposes. Your kind is very good at doing things like that.

But this writing did not catch on as well as ours did. It seems to have disappeared and resurfaced several times over the centuries. That’s simply to be expected, I think, because the originators of this language, the Alfar, are a rather aloof people, and so their customs simply didn’t travel as far as ours did.”

He finally looked up at you, and another almost-smile tugged the corners of his mouth.

“You nearly got it right.” He said, almost praising. Then he casually reached out and unfastened the pair of pins from your belt. You made a startled sound, stepped back, but he bid you stay still while he re-pinned them in their proper place; at the shoulder straps of your apron. Your face burned at the closeness, and at the fact that you hadn’t known how to wear simple jewelry, and you looked away.

This sparked some amusement in him.  “You want to look proper when I parade you out in front of the guards, don’t you? You know, when I tell them all ‘hey, you know that obvious human that’s been following me around? Don’t kick that one out’.”

You brightened right up at that. You would get to meet some new people, and see more of the building. You had grown familiar with Loki’s rooms, and with the medical area, but other than that, you had no grasp of your surroundings.

How tiny your world had become.

Evidently there had been word of your coming. The yard outside the guardhouse was stuffed full of people in full armor and horned helmets. They were lined up in flawless order, each with a spear, and a beautiful round shield. They looked ready to take on anything.

“Gotta admit.” You whispered to Loki. “I’m super impressed.”

“It doesn’t take much, does it?” He quipped, then quickly raised his hand to shush you. “This is but a tiny remnant of the force we could once field. While it’s likely we won’t need a great army any time soon, it’s still a mere shadow of what we used to have. Almost half of them are new recruits as well. Not fully trained. It takes more than armor to make einherjar,  _____.”

“They didn’t…they didn’t come back? After you set the universe right?”

He shot you a quick glance.

“I mean all of you.” You amended. He hadn’t even been there. He’d been dead.

“They died before all that, I’m afraid, not because of Thanos. And this is all that’s left. They aren’t wasted though. Rather than battle, they are dedicated to the protection of the city and the people. And now you.”

People gathered in the street as Loki stood before the neat rows of guards, and addressed them in a ringing voice that filled the area. You couldn’t understand, but he placed his hand on your back and pushed you forward, and you heard your name among the flow of words. Knowing why you had come in the first place helped you get the gist of what he was saying.

Of course, he could be saying any kind of insulting thing, and you wouldn’t know. The guards-Einherjar-wore helmets that entirely covered their faces, and could betray no expression, and when you turned to the people gathered on the sidelines, you saw only a mix of adoration and distaste. It seemed Loki was a figure controversial even among his own people.

Or perhaps that disapproval was aimed toward you; a stranger, a human, standing at the side of their prince.

“Hold out your hand.” Loki ordered. “Let them see the mark, so they can recognize that, even if they do not remember your face.”

You held your hand up high over your head so they could all see.

“And if any of you were looking for an excuse to learn more Midgardian languages, may I suggest the challenge of English? For it is all she speaks, I’m afraid. You are all dismissed to your duties.”

With the dismissal, most of the guards left, either to their patrols, or back into the guardhouse. Some removed their helmets to converse with each other. The young guard from Loki’s rooms approached with a small smile.

“Yuu, stae?” He asked shyly.

“Yes.” You told him. “For some time, at least.”

“Guud. So I will…” He trailed off, looking for words, speaking to Loki with a searching tone.

“Ah. Andsvarr here wishes to convey to you his dedication to your personal protection.” Loki said, lips pursing in clear amusement. Andsvarr continued speaking. “He considers it an honor to see to the well-being of the first human resident of Asgard.”

“Oh. Uh, can you tell him that I appreciate his efforts?”

Loki obliged, and the young guard-Andsvarr, you would remember-beamed brighter than his armor. He was called away by another guard, whom you assumed must be his superior.

“No doubt you’ll be able to convey your appreciation without my help soon enough.” Loki said. “He’s proven to be a fast learner.”

“Are humans considered exotic or something?” You wondered. “Because the whole world is full of us. We aren’t exactly rare.”

“Oh, that’s not exactly it. There are a set of Asgardian that isn’t terribly fond of humanity as a concept. And then there is a set that wishes to adapt to our new circumstances as quickly as possible and, perhaps hastily, has decided to welcome humans with open arms. Andsvarr is one of the latter, but he comes from a family that is the former. And so he has embraced this new life with extra vigor.”

“Oh. Is that why you don’t allow any other humans in? Because some of your people don’t like us?”

“There are several reasons.” He offered you his arm, which you slowly and hesitantly took. You’d only seen that gesture in fairy tale movies. “Most of the area is a construction site. You don’t just let random people onto construction sites, do you? Why?”

“It’s dangerous.” You answered obligingly as he led you away, carefully avoiding areas where large amounts of dust were being kicked up. “People who don’t know what they’re doing could get hurt. Okay, that’s fair.”

“And maybe not every human in that camp out there is what they say they are. We have enemies. I have enemies, for what I’ve done. Thor has enemies, among the less kind of your species. And of course, there are the humans who feel threatened by outsiders, or who are jealous, or who are violently opposed to the theological questions we represent. Any such person could prove dangerous to us. Harm our citizens, or sabotage our work.

Also, at the risk of sounding dismissive, worshippers and admirers are simply too much trouble for now. While the prospect of worship is gratifying, we have so much to do at this point in time that we simply cannot have unvetted people running around underfoot. This is all for their safety, as well as ours. And yours. Just because the guards know who you are now doesn’t mean you can go wandering off wherever you want. Most of us have no idea how fragile Midgardian bodies are, compared to our own. There is still too much potential for an accident.”

That was annoying. The prospect of being cooped up all the time was driving you nuts, and it hadn’t even happened yet!

“Maybe you should put me in some of that armor.” You joked. He pretended to be mulling it over.

“You couldn’t even put those brooches on correctly.” He teased. “I can’t expect you to even know what a ‘pauldron’ is, much less how to wear it.”

You huffed. “All right, fine. I don’t know what that is. But you could show me, and then I would.”

“How about I show you more magic instead?” He offered. Part of you was elated. Magic was amazing! But the other part remembered the day before just a bit too vividly. Magic was also frightening.

“Can we not do what we did yesterday?” You asked. “That kinda fried my brain.”

“We are going to have to continue with the experiments, I’m afraid. But you won’t come to harm.”

The courtyard he led you too was lovely, and would be even lovelier, once it was finished. Loki had blankets and bread brought out and sat you down with him, like you were having a nice picnic. He took your hand and spread out your fingers.

“Did it hurt yesterday?” He asked, fingertips brushing the brand. It tickled.

“Well, not exactly. Not pain. Or not what I call pain. It was just too much, that’s all. It was like all the things that come with pain, without the pain part?”

He nodded slowly. “The power is probably circumventing your pain receptors altogether. That might be an involuntary defense mechanism, allowing your body to redirect the magic through the least damaging channels. Possibly partially converting or absorbing it?” He was barely speaking to you at this point, more like he was simply thinking out loud. “Definitely using a portion of it somehow, to maintain health through our closeness.”

Closeness indeed. You were both out in the open, for all to see, sitting cross-legged together on a blanket, heads close, holding hands. Anyone who saw you would get the wrong impression. How could they not?

“Will you let me join with you again?” He asked. You flinched. Did everybody in this city need to work on their phrasing? It seemed he mistook your expression, quickly adding, “I will not let there be a repeat of yesterday, don’t worry. We will be careful.”

“Geez. I guess so. What is the goal though?”

“Like yesterday, I want you to try to push the energy back down. Try to push it into me, through the link. You won’t hurt me, so push as hard as you like.”

You spent several hours practicing and experimenting with moving the energy back and forth. It was truly exhausting, for all that you never even moved from that spot. Loki explained the fatigue as being like exercising a whole new set of muscles that you had never used before, and it certainly felt like it.

When it got too much, he would let you take a break, leaning your head against his shoulder so you could wolf down the bread, while he slowly stroked your shoulders and back. The familiarity of it put you on edge. You wanted the comfort very badly. The past few days had been very stressful, and all you’d been able to do was let it sweep you along. You wanted someone to hold you for a moment, but you weren’t really sure you wanted it to be him. You didn’t have anyone else in mind, but he was, in some part, the center of half a year of suffering, and responsible for uprooting you from everything you had ever known, and setting you adrift. Even though he had vowed to take responsibility for it all, you weren’t sure you wanted it to be him.

When you resumed, the energy was easier to handle, and you could work a bit longer before weariness took over. You thought it must be because you were less tense for the work of his hands. He worked you until you couldn’t do anymore, until you movements trembled and your words came slow and thick, then he lay you down on the blanket to sleep while he compiled his notes.

It was evening before you awoke to Andsvarr calling softly through the door that it was dinnertime. You rolled out of bed to brush your hair and smooth your clothes-which you were very glad to find still on. You grabbed the pad of paper Saldis had left for you and scribbled ‘English Language Books’ for her to find.

Dinner felt awkward. Loki was still being casually tactile, and everyone seemed to notice but him. You probably should have said something, but for all the sleeping, you were still tired, still letting yourself be swept along.

When you were escorted back to bed, you fell right back asleep, and found yourself dreaming of golden spires and flying ships.

                                                                            *****

“Loki, may I speak to you?” Thor asked. Loki could hear concern and confusion in his voice. What was it this time?

“And what have I done to perturb you now brother? I do believe I have behaved myself adequately, at least for a few hours or so.”

“You’re getting pretty handsy with that woman.” Brunnhilde pointed out, punching his arm lightly. “Good for you.”

“It’s not like that!” He insisted. “Touch stabilizes the energy within her. It allows her to push herself further, to remain strong for longer, and mitigates magic fatigue. Bjarkehild, you know, the head healer? We all found this out together.”

“Oh, and I’m sure you put up such a fight.” She teased. “Oh no, I’ve got to get all cuddly with the cute little mortal girl, whatever shall I do?”

Loki heaved a martyred sigh. “Not you too.”

“What?” Brunnhilde shrugged. “She’s cute. Whatever. You lucked out.”

“I am bound against my will to a magical dilemma, which has forced me to bring mayhem into an innocent woman’s life.” He said gravely. “Luck has not favored me for years. I just want to do it right this time. Do something right, anyway.”

“Loki.” Thor said. “However you want to do this-“

“Yes, I know. ‘Be careful’. Now if you will excuse me, I believe I will get some rest as well.”

He listened at your door for a few moments, just to make sure everything was all right, then retired to his own room.

He dreamt of home.

[gundamthey17]

Klancetober Day 7

I’m a couple days behind, and this one took a long time.  Partly because I was so tired it was hard to focus, and partly because I’m pretty sure this is the longest one to date.  But I’m pretty excited about this au.  We’ll see where it goes...

Witch

Keith glanced up from his phone as the shop’s bell chimed.  A lanky young Hispanic man walked in, looking around the shop with wide eyes and undisguised awe.  Keith fought the urge to roll his eyes.  It never failed; at least once a week he would have to deal with some random non-magic stranger wandering into the shop wanting to have their fortune told, or to buy crystals, or instructions for brewing a love potion. The magical community had various names for non-magic people, depending on regional dialect and desired level of rudeness. Normals, Normies, Mundanes, or heaven forbid, Muggles.  Keith had his own name for them.  He liked to call them tourists.  Not inherently bad, but generally not good.

This particular tourist appeared innocent enough, but Keith knew that looks could be deceiving.  He cleared his throat and, with considerable annoyance, asked, “Can I help you?”  He’d never been one for hospitality, and he wasn’t about to change that now.

“Oh!” the man exclaimed, as if noticing Keith for the first time. Maybe he had.  Tourists were generally oblivious.  “Hi,” he said brightly.  “Is this your shop?”

Keith shrugged.  “I work here,” he replied.

“Cool.”

“So… are you looking for something in particular?”

“No.  I was told this was a neat shop and that I should check it out.  I had some free time, so I figured I would stop in.  Do you mind if I browse for a bit?”

“Uh… I guess not.”

“Thanks!”

“Just don’t touch anything.”

“Oh, right.  Probably a bunch of dangerous magical artifacts, right?”

“No, I just don’t want you messing up the displays.”

“Oh.”

“I keep all the dangerous stuff locked up in the back.  I’m not an idiot.”

“Of course!  Makes sense. Don’t mess up your displays, got it!” He gave a casual salute and began a slow circuit of the shop.

Keith was baffled.  Tourists he understood; they were a necessary evil when running a magic shop.  But he didn’t get many looky-loos in his line of work. Pretty much everyone who came to the shop knew what they wanted, or what they thought they wanted.  He watched the stranger out of the corner of his eye, but it seemed as though the young man was genuinely taking a look around.  Keith didn’t sense anything off about his aura – if anything it was quite positive – and Kosmo hadn’t moved from his perch on top of the tallest bookshelf, so nothing was amiss.  It was just… odd.  He had just relaxed enough to go back to his phone when the man spoke up from across the room.

“So.  You’re really a witch?  Er, warlock? Wizard?”

This time Keith did roll his eyes.  “Witch is gender neutral.  Warlock is outdated.  Wizard is an old guy with a staff who shouts ‘you shall not pass’.”

The man snorted.  “So you are a witch.”

“Yep.”

“That’s awesome.  Do you like it?”

“It’s fine.”

The man’s smile finally dimmed.  “Are you always this chatty?” he asked sarcastically.

“Only with obnoxious strangers,” Keith retorted.

“You must not get much business if you treat your customers this way.”

“I don’t treat my customers this way.  You’re not a customer.  You’re a tourist.”

“I live here!”

“A tourist to magic, I mean.  You know, a mundane?  A normal?”

“You mean like a M-“

Keith made a slicing gesture in the air.  “Do not use the M word.  It’s ridiculous.”

“Sorry.  But that’s what you meant, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, can you blame me?  This place is fascinating!”

Despite Keith’s best efforts, this young man’s sincerity was making it hard to stay annoyed with him.  Which didn’t mean that he was going to stop trying.  “Are you going to buy anything?”

“I don’t know.  Is there anything here that would be useful to me, a ‘tourist’?”  He made air quotes around the word.

Keith huffed.  “I’ve got some charms.  Potions. That sort of thing.”

The man gave him a cockeyed grin.  “Got any luck potions?”

Rather than respond, Keith waved a hand toward a handwritten sign on the counter.  In large block letters it read:

ABSOLUTELY NO

-          HOROSCOPES

-          MIND READING

-          PALM READING

-          LUCK POTIONS

-          LOVE POTIONS

“That’s okay.  Who needs luck when you’ve got skill, am I right?”

Keith said nothing.

“Right.  Okay, no luck potion.  Well… Actually, there might be something.  This might be a stupid question, but do you have anything for allergies?  Mine have been killing me lately, and allergy meds just aren’t doing the trick.”

Keith blinked, surprised by such a simple request.  “Yeah.  That’s really easy, actually.  I can have a potion ready for you in ten minutes.”

“Great!  Thanks!”

Keith rummaged around gathering tools and ingredients.  The tourist went back to the displays, doing a terrible job of acting like he wasn’t watching Keith’s every move out of the corner of his eye.  Keith set his smallest cauldron out on its stand and started the fire with a flick of his fingers.  Well, if the tourist was going to watch him, there was no harm in showing off a little. By the time Keith started chopping ingredients, consulting a pocket-sized book every once in a while to make sure he got the ratios right, the tourist had drifted back over to the counter.

“Do you, uh, mind if I watch you?” he asked, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.  “I’ve never seen anyone make a potion before.”

“I guess not,” Keith replied, with a shrug that was far more nonchalant than he felt.  He busied himself chopping herbs, hoping the stranger didn’t see the flush creeping up his neck.  After a minute or so, the silence got awkward, and Keith cleared his throat.  “So who told you about this shop anyway?”

“One of my flight instructors.  He highly recommended coming in to take a look.”

“Flight instructor.  You’re a pilot?”

“Gonna be.  I haven’t graduated yet.  Not to toot my own horn, but I’m pretty good.  They call me the tailor because of how I thread the needle.”

Keith frowned.  “What does sewing have to do with flying?”

“What?  Nothing. Thread the needle is a type of maneuver. You know, where you fly through a really skinny opening without hitting the sides?”  Keith still looked blank.  “Really?  You’ll make a Lord of the Rings reference, but you don’t know the saying ‘thread the needle’?” Keith bristled, but the man was already moving on.  “Whatever, it’s no big deal.  I’m Lance, by the way.  I just realized I never really introduced myself.”

“Keith.”

“Nice to meet you, Keith!”

“Likewise.”

Lance surveyed the ingredients that Keith had arrayed in front of him.  “Is that ragweed?” he asked incredulously.  “I thought this potion was to cure allergies, not cause them.”

“It is a cure, and that is ragweed.  Hair of the dog.  Just trust me, it’s gonna work.”

“Wait, wait, wait.”  Lance waved his hands dramatically.  “You know the idiom ‘hair of the dog’, but not ‘thread the needle’?”

“It’s not an idiom, it’s a spell,” Keith replied impatiently.  “DNA from something that bit you can often be used to cure the wound.  Not like, vampires and werewolves, but most animals.  The spell needs the essence of the thing it’s fighting against.  Hence the ragweed.”

Lance snickered.

“What?” Keith demanded.

“You used the word ‘hence’.  You must be a witch.”

Keith rolled his eyes and went back to the potion.  “Whatever.”

“Still, it’s kinda cool to think that we – tourists, as you say – got the idiom from witches.”

“Tourists do that with a bunch of stuff.”

“Now that I believe.”

Keith finished the potion and used a ladle to pour it into a glass jar with a cork stopper.  “Here it is, one anti-allergy potion.”

“Great!  How much do I owe you?”

“Well, normally I’d mark up the price for a tourist, but…”  Keith rummaged around behind the counter and came up with a small book.  It was a brand new version of the well-worn tome he had consulted earlier.  The cover read Easy Potions You Can Make At Home! in bright yellow lettering.  “If you buy this book, you get a free potion with it anyway.”

Lance frowned.  “Is that really going to be useful to me?  As a tourist?”  There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice, but no disbelief.

“Yeah, actually.  Most potion-making is more like cooking than magic.  If you can follow the instructions and use the right ingredients, you’ll be fine.  And there’s nothing in here that can seriously hurt you if you screw up.”

“Oh, that’s comforting.”

“Trust me, it’s way cheaper to just make them yourself.”

“Okay, you’ve got yourself a deal!”  Lance paid for the book, collected the potion, and headed for the door.

“Hang on!” Keith called.  He hurried up to Lance and, refusing to look him in the eye, held out a business card.  “This has my contact info on it.  In case you need help with the potions,” he added quickly.  “Or, you know, you can just come by the shop again.”

“Thank you,” Lance replied brightly.  He gently tucked the business card into the book.  “And thanks for this.  Seriously.  ‘Teach a man to fish’, and all that.”

Keith’s brow wrinkled with confusion.  “I don’t know what that means.”

“You know what, never mind.  It was nice to meet you!” Lance called.  Then he was out the door, the shop’s bells jangling behind him.

[kalashnikovlaserpussy]

Gonna take a shot at a short story based on this, wish me luck lol.

Celeste could've sworn she double checked the Merrow ward on her net, but there they were, struggling to cast a apart the netting and struggling to not be strangled by the line. At this point the other caught fish were inconsequential, she needed to get the Merrow out of there before the lines got tangled in their gills. She quickly bounced her casting rapier off of the line and unwound the net as best as she could without leaving it unusable, quickly freeing the Merrow, who began gasping for... Air? Water? She wasn't sure which to use, from what she'd heard they can comfortably handle both. The somewhat strange being turned their silvery eyes on her.

"Au sorry for tat net, but could ye weave a decent ward?"

For a moment she couldn't recognize they were talking, especially with such a strange accent, like the LaCroix version of liquid shrek lapping against the shores of a suspiciously stereotypical Caribbean island. But after a brief moment she was able to parse the phrase out and respond.

"Sorry! I could've sworn it was running!"

"Ye well ya seem to be trying to alter causality wit an evocation spool, might wanna see to it ye don't just keep em in a pile."

She glanced over at the rough pile of meticulously labeled and wound threads and noted the proper spool label perched stop the pile. After profusely apologizing and fitting the proper thread she looked quizzically at the Merrow, now finally having a moment to make conversation she decided to ask something she wasn't quite sure of while she prepared some simple seaweed wraps.

"I'm sorry if this is intrusive but what should I refer to you as?"

"Sau Nota's ta name, 'bout you?"

"Celeste Fatecutter, I'd mostly been talking about gender, sorry for being intrusive" She commented as the first fish came of the enchanted pan.

"Wot?" Sau's face was a spitting image of both squids and befuddlement. "What?"

"Wot's 'gender'?" The Merrow asked again.

"Uhhh, are you male or female or nonbinary or something else?" The misunderstanding was beginning to slow her application of the toppings for the wraps.

"I'm still not getting question ta," Sau was now sitting towards Celeste with their head tilted.

"What pronouns do you use?"

"All of them, like normal people"

"You mean you use all pronouns?"

"Don't ya?"

"No, I just use She/Her," The question had completely surprised her for a brief moment before the ideas began to come together.

"Wot Aumn is tat?"

"Aumn?"

"Wot form are taking ya currently?" This managed to pull Celeste's attention entirely from the nearly complete seaweed wraps.

"I'm just me"

"Ya mean ya body doesn't change beyond ageing?"

"Not without willingly altering it, no."

"Tats a first,"

"You mean your body changes gender on it's own?"

"So tats wot gender is! Sorry 'bout tat, I've not quite gotten tis language down tied, our name fer gender is Aumn, and sa, we have more than te Aumns you mentioned and react te some plants down tere by changing Aumns" This was apparently enough explanation for her but once she completed the wraps and passed one to Sau she looked to the floor.

"Ah, alright, I'd been curious what Aumn you were, i didn't know you changed like that, sorry, i just didn't want to use the wrong pronouns and i couldn't immediately read you as any"

"A ts'all fine, such a different world's hard ta recognize sa?"

"Well, that's part of why I feel bad"

"Aunam?"

"Well, you see I used to be male,"

"Anh? ya'd said you can't change Aumn?"

"Not without changing ourselves by force, there's a reason i got the last name Fatecutter," She looked over to her casting rapier, better described as a giant sewing needle fitted with a magnum-esque cylinder that fit roughly 6 spools to be wound into the head.

"Ah, unfortunate, sa?"

"Quite, it was a chaotic few years but after breaking a few priceless artifacts I was able to forcibly cut my own string of fate," "Anh sou? suicide?"

"Not quite, the artifacts i broke gave me the time needed to destroy and rebuild my string of fate, didn't fix everything but at least I'm back home, now I go fishing," 

The meeting was an odd one but to Celeste it was not the first time something so strange had happened, she quickly rebuilt the net and caught what she could, this time using the proper spool for the ward, but never quite forgot the meeting with Sau.

tired: mermaids are all women

wired: much like elves, merfolk are mistaken by sailors for being all women because they have long hair and are very pretty

[needlefac]

Interview transcript 11

Nov. 8th, 2016 | 08:51 pm

What inspired the name of the project ?

I think somewhere in my mind was a mix of Manchester’s industrial landscape and the famous Factory Records. 'Needle' because they are at once both delicate and dangerous objects.

What motivates you to create music and who are your influences ?

Motivations and influences change a lot but Throbbing Gristle and the early Krautrock bands were and still are massively significant for me. Recently been listening to Eno again.

To what degree would you say that your political views manifest in your work ?

If any politics exist in my work they are the politics of sexuality or mental health.

Would you say that your geographical location influences your music in any way ? Which other places inspire you ?

Definitely. l work from a former Cotton Mill in Salford (Islington Mill). The spectral landscape of the North has always been part of my life. The music l make is often called 'industrial' but that’s just a consequence of my experiences. My first jobs were in factories which have now either been gentrified or closed down.

What activity could people most likely use your music for ?

It's music to listen to in the dark.

What can we expect from your upcoming live set at the Foundations Festival in Salford ? Do you have any fond memories of Salford and the surrounding areas ?

My live set up consists of two (twin) sewing machines that are amped up through a series of effect pedals and fed back through synth circuits. The sounds l make are trying evoke the defunct sounds of cotton mills but with added narrative and atmosphere .

l have fond memories of Salford and the Kings Arms. I studied for my Visual Arts degree in Salford so it’s always been a part of my consciousness. Working here now, seeing the city in the mornings, the skyline of apartments of a city in perpetual change… It’s all very J G Ballard.

What question would you most like to be asked in relation to your work ? What is the answer ?

l suppose this would be ‘why machines and why so discordant?’ The answer is: the piano is a machine and our lives are discordant''

What next for the project - future shows, releases, ventures etc. ?

I’m planning shows in London and a few arts festivals. There will be a vinyl release of the new album 'My Demon Sister’ once l have the funds for that which I’m trying to generate by selling limited edition artifacts/merch

Random extra question 1 : Who is your favourite metal band ?

Black Sabbath, the first AND last metal band.

Random extra question 2 : What food might be most representative of your sound ?

Jalapenos... You taste them and hate them, then you think about them, then you need them.

Please could you send links to your music / videos / site and also a picture

www.needlefactory.info

[umanta]

Sleeping Beauty : retold

many thanks to @shanastoryteller and her AMAZING retold series for inspiring me

So Princess Aurora. She's cursed. She'll prick her finger on a spinning needle and fall into a forever sleep by sixteen. She knows, of course. Those fairies are even worse at keeping secrets than they are at child-rearing, and that's saying something. So little Briar Rose grows up knowing that these three ladies have isolated her from her real family, that her parents would rather have her locked up somewhere with no life than experience everything. She's grown up in a fucking forest. She knows about life and death. She's decided that if she's going to die at sixteen, she wants to be *missed*. She wants hordes of people mourning for her, she wants to be remembered. And she's okay with only living for maybe one fifth of her natural life, as long as she gets to experience everything. So at seven years old Princess Aurora runs away from the cottage in the woods where she learned to cook and clean and dance and sing. And the first thing she does, once she's overcome her awe at the sheer masses of people, is find a kindly seamstress and learn how to use a needle. The seamstress is struggling to keep up with her orders - the whole industry is, really. The ban on spinning wheels means they have to import cloth from neighbouring countries, which is more expensive. This lady is pleased to have another pair of working hands, and they'll only cost some training, so she gladly agrees. Her hands are small, pudgy and untrained. She's never held a quill or a needle in her life, and she's unused to finer work. On her first day, she pricks her finger so much that a little drop of blood actually stains her needle a coppery red. The seamstress tuts, smiles at Aurora (who goes by Rose now), and shows her how to use a thimble. She lives beneath a tree at the edge of the forest, and the animals bring her berries, and she washed in the stream, and everyday on her way to work she passes by a blacksmith's forge.

The clanging and hissing of metal, the glowing in different colours -  this is the most wonderful thing she's ever seen, and eventually the blacksmith, a kindly old man with a greying beard and soot-stained skin, notices seven year old Rose the runaway watching him with awe in her eyes. He has two sons already, which is good for his business, but the wife always did want a girl, so he eventually befriends little Rose, showing her the most basic of metalworking. Meanwhile, the king and queen are going crazy, scouring the kingdom for their princess. Prince phillip is about twelve years old, and his parents are always helping find Princess Aurora, they don't really spend much time with him, so he wanders off to the village and makes friends with a boy called Robert. Robert is pretty good at using a sword, and he doesn't laugh at Phillip for not knowing things like where the market is, or how many copper pieces to a silver, so they tend to spend a lot of time together. A year later, and people are pretty certain that their princess is long dead - the witch has fulfilled her curse early. Meanwhile, Rose has become fast friends with the blacksmith's younger son, Rob. When he realizes that she doesn't really have a house for the winter or the rain, he invites her over to live with them. Of course, the blacksmith and his wife agree. like i said, they always wanted a daughter. So Rose gains some /actual/ foster parents. She goes on these grand adventures with her foster brother and his friend, Phillip. Phillip is a little weird, according to Robert, but she knows what its like to not have the same frame of reference as everyone else, and the two sort of click. The trio explore the woods surrounding their village (never going deep enough to get to the fairies' cottage), and even venture towards the Cursed lands, where a wicked witch is said to live. Rose is eight, and she's fairly strong, so the blacksmith has her working for him when she's not sewing. She does some of the more delicate work like fitting parts together with screws that are too small for the blacksmith's failing eyes. And every christmas, she gets a thimble as a present, and she cherishes them. Skip five years. Rose is thirteen. Phillip and Robert are eighteen, and they see each other less and less. Rose is thinking about her death. She has three more years to live, but she wants /more/. She has friends now, people who will miss her. She's experienced a lot. But she doesn't want to die. She thinks of the blacksmith and his wife, one elder son already lost to the war against the witch - a war which is being fought because of *her* - and she thinks of robert, who cried for three days when she fell from a tree and broke her ankle. She thinks of the seamstress who now relies on Rose's embroidery to buy medicine from the fae for her aching joints. No, Rose doesn't want to die. So aurora stitches herself a glove that has all the thimbles that her family has ever gifted her sewn into the fingertips, thinking to herself, 'try pricking my finger now, bitch' The birds have chirped stories to her, that curses can be broken when the curser is defeated, and there are already so many people setting out to fight the witch, what's one more joining the ranks? A group of knights ride into town with some prince, and the way their armour clanks inspires her. If she can use her sewing skills to make an armour that will protect her from the witch AND allow her to sneak up on her... That afternoon, Phillip is back in town, and she asks him to teach her to fight. So now Aurora is learning to swordfight from Phillip, and naturally Robert is right beside her because he'll be damned if he lets another sibling die fighting the witch.

As the seasons pass and her /dead/line grows closer, she's made herself and robert outfits with metal as cloth, with light but sturdy chains of metal linked together to make flexible and silent armour. She wants to make some for phillip too, but there's no time and he's assured her that he can get his own armour. She's ready to fight this witch.

The three fairies haven't given up on their search, but Rose is nothing like their fragile, delicate Aurora. Rose is grubby and muscular. She has burns on her arms and calloused palms and a million pricks on her fingers from when she was first learning to sew, and they look right past this girl, because their Aurora is /elegance/ itself. They dont realize that Rose's elegance manifests in her fighting, the way her feet twist in a parry of phillip's blade, how she twists her brother's arm behind his back till he's paralyzed. The fairies summon phillip. He is fated to be the princess's true love - he will save her from the curse. But phillip wants nothing to do with this princess, he's sick of his father trying to make him marry this random girl he doesn't know, and /maybe, just maybe/, he's fallen in love with his best friend's sister? But the fairies hear nothing of it, and they give him the Sword of Virtue and the Shield of Truth, and tell the prince that he *will* rescue Aurora, because he who holds these mighty artifacts will save her. it is almost the princess's birthday - if she has somehow managed to avoid succumbing to the curse so far, she won't for much longer.

Phillip is adamant about marrying who he wants - besides, he already has a sword and a shield. He decides to give these to Rose, who really needs them if she's going to insist on coming with them to fight the witch.

So the three of them journey through the barren lands, and its a hard journey. Robert almost loses his hand. Rose gets a large scar across her back. phillip is poisoned by a stinging plant. But finally they make it, and the witch has her back to them when they sneak in, and rose has the sword in her hand. But she can't do it. Instead, she knocks the evil faerie to the ground and holds her at swordpoint and asks 'Why?' She is thinking, 'Because of you, i have never met my real parents. I grew up homeless. I am cursed to die soon.' And the witch, maleficient, knows who this young child is with that one question, and is so surprised because this is /nothing/ like the pampered, naive princess she was expecting. And maybe, just maybe, she is feeling a little bit guilty, because sixteen years is a long time to brood alone over how she has cursed a child. Really, she should have cursed her parents. So maleficient decides that this princess can determine her own fate. With a flash, she has escaped from under Rose's knee, and she has her poisonous daggers to both men's throats. 'You can save your friends,' she says, 'by spinning all that fibre into thread.' And she points to a spinning wheel. Rose is fuming, but she won't let them die, so she makes the witch give her word, and the witch smiles. This princess is a better person than her parents were. Rose isn't sure how to use this, this strange wheel thing that she's never seen before, but she grew up in a blacksmiths shop, she can figure it out as she goes. She sits down to start, laying her armour and sword and shield aside, then pauses. This will kill her. If she does this, she will die. She looks up at the two men she practically grew up with. 'I love you,' she says, and starts spinning. Her thimble-glove, the one she's been wearing for the past three years or so, only protects one hand, and fate runs its course. Her finger is pricked, the ring finger on her left hand, and she slumps onto her side. Maleficient, somehow, is disappointed. She wanted the girl to live, and maybe this child didn't deserve to pay for her parents sins? She sends them all back to the blacksmith's house, Rose's house, and by now Phillip and Robert have figured it out, and neither can hold back their tears at her pale, lifeless body. The story spreads around the village, and people come to mourn her. People cry for Rose, the blacksmith's daughter, whose sparkling eyes and mischievous  laughter had brightened their days, and Rose gets the sendoff she wanted. They line up to bid her farewell. The seamstress, joints creaking, kisses her forehead. She doesn't cry, she's seen too much death already, but her head is bowed and her soul is heavy. Rose's family sobs. Her parents kiss her foreheads and cheeks and refuse to let go of her hand, but eventually they sink to their knees beside her body and cry quieter. Robert and Phillip are holding each others hands. They both blame themselves, and they will not - cannot - let go of Rose. 'We love you too,' they say, tears splattering on Rose's skin, and they kiss her cheek and help their parents up off of the ground. The mourners are gathered in group, clinging at each other for consolation, when Rose sits up. 'Why is my face wet?' she asks, and the funeral becomes a celebration. Maleficient feels her curse break and smiles, because the princess really did make her own fate.

Later, phillip takes her aside and tells her who he really is, that they were betrothed when she was born. He waits with bated breath - what will she do? Rose frowns. 'I won't marry you just because my birth parents made an agreement with yours,' and phillip's heart sinks, but then rose smiles up at him and says, 'I just might marry you because you ask, Prince Phillip,' The wedding causes a scandal, because this is a prince who marries a lowly blacksmiths daughter. The few people in the know say nothing. It is held in the fall, in the open air, and the seamstress with the aching joints uses the Sword of Valour to cut the cloth for Rose's wedding dress. Robert melts the Shield down to make a set of thimble-themed goblets. He gives it to Rose on their wedding day. 'Philip doesn't get a gift for stealing my sister,' says robert 'I love you too,' laughs phillip The kingdom, without a ruler, is in shambles, and when, at their reception, phillip's new commoner queen quietly suggests a competition, the king and queen actually consider it. A blacksmith's child wins the contest, and is adopted by the king and queen to be trained as a ruler. But when they die, Rob reclaims his father's name, and the dynasty of Aurora's parents is over, swallowed by the golden age that a commoner ruler brings. Revenge and irony make maleficient smile wider than she ever  has before.

[find more of my writing here ]