#but the canon explanation is complete gibberish

[tiredandunfortunate]

I wish when they were adapting books they fixed some of the plot holes and worldbuilding errors, rather than adding more

The real problem with books-turned-movies isn’t “omg they didn’t include every single word in the book” it’s “omg they completely overlooked the main theme, threw out any significant allegories, took away all the emotional pull, an turned it into a boring action movie with a love triangle in it”

[dizzydancingdreamer]

The Servant and The Prince | Three

Part Three lovelies; do enjoy! I quite liked writing this part.

Description: This is very much a Cinderella trope because I cannot help myself and I am in love with Loki, chapter three

Pairing: Loki x Female!Reader, third person as I may adapt eventually with an OC

Warnings: Intimacy but not graphic, anger (is that a warning? I feel like it shouldn’t have to be said when it is a Loki fic, the man is canonically angry)

Tags: Fluff, not really angst but suspense

Word count: 4.4k

Disclaimer: I do not speak old Norse Lmfaoo this is purely the basics that I gathered and it 110% is grammatically incorrect so do not come at me for that I am admitting it

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Master List

“Please Surtr.”

Her voice rings through his ears on a loop, the most beautiful and agonizing melody that he has surely ever heard. She must be magic— something strong and powerful and like nothing he has ever seen before. There is no other explanation. It had been magic when she appeared to him, literally falling into his lap as if out of thin air. He is the god of tricks but even he cannot do that— he cannot make women that smell like flower petals land in his arms at will. He wishes he could— more than anything he wishes he could pluck her out of his dreams and bring her back to him. But he cannot because that was not a trick. That was something else entirely.

One moment he had been alone, mulling over his mother’s words from a few days prior. I think you might have a soulmate, my dear. He had been thinking about the information he had been scouring the castle’s libraries for about such a thing— information he was begging Frigga to tell him. Of course, in true Frigga nature she would not tell him. His mother is the most stubborn woman in the realm. Wonderful but stubborn. Only he could have an all-knowing mother who refused to share any of that knowledge. She told him it was dangerous to know the future— that it must happen as it will. What nonsense. How is he supposed to find her if he knows nothing about her?

The books were of little use to him as well. The information in them was outdated and flimsy at best. They consisted mainly of a couple second person accounts and scroll that he could translate if he was given a few days. Unfortunately time is of the essence and he does not have a few days. He barely has one day. One day to find his person or to give her up. And he thought he was the cruellest god. Apparently not. Anyway, that was where he was when she fell into his lap- mulling over a page of runes that looked more like gibberish than anything he had ever seen.

One moment he had been sitting at his desk, pretending like the sunshine on his hand was a product of any sky other than Asgard’s. The next moment he was being straddled by a misty figure that smelled like an afternoon in the castle gardens. He could not see a single detail about her— not her hair or her eyes or anything else— but he could feel her. She was warm and soft, her thighs heavenly around him. She was his own, little slice of Valhalla— a perfect fit. Frigga was right; all it took was a few seconds in her presence and he knew. She was his soulmate.

A soulmate who seemed like she was out to make him crazy for her, no less. Sure he could not see her but it was not hard to tell that her thighs around him were bare, squeezing him against her smooth skin with reckless abandon. It would have taken significantly less for him to go mad for her— honestly it would have taken nothing at all— but, Odin, if that was what she was going for then she definitely succeeded. He can still feel her warmth pressed against him, the way she had sunken down onto him immediately. She knew too. How much she knew he cannot say but she had to have known something- felt something— by the way she melted perfectly into him. She was his from the moment she appeared and she seemed to know it— embrace it. She acted like he was hers too and it was by far the sexiest thing he had ever experienced in all of his thousand years. That is surely saying something.

Obviously he did not just simply give in to her flowery aroma and Valhalla thighs- he had tried to speak to her. Many times actually. She just could not hear him. Of course it took him many times to realize that. He probably asked for her name and where she came from about a hundred times before she finally rocked her hips against his and tapped her lips with two wispy fingers. Be quiet you idiot, I cannot hear you. That is what he imagined she had said. It is what he would have said to himself if he were in her position.

He was floored, to say the least. He has never been floored before- not like that at least. Not in a good way. He stopped wondering where she came from after that. It no longer mattered from where on Asgard she had appeared, only how to ensure that she did not leave him again. He had been looking for her- scouring useless books and a stubborn mother- and then there she was, right before him, and he was determined to hold onto her.

Still, he had not leaned immediately into her touch. She had not made it easy on him, her gentle fingers reaching up to cup his face, scratching through the days worth of hair on his jaw. That was impossible to resist, he simply had to press his lips against her palm. The rest, though, made him go still, evaluating the situation. He had no clue what she actually wanted- how much she actually understood. He had grabbed her hips in reflex- a defense mechanism- she had appeared out of literal thin air after all. He had gone to move his hand almost immediately after grabbing her- well, once the shock had worn off. She was quite warm, though. Distractingly so. It takes a few seconds to push through that kind of daze. That was where things got interesting.

She had begun sliding off him. Maybe she had been in that same sweet daze too because, from what little of her he could see through the misty white haze, she appeared to be lost in her own little world. Her bottom lip was pushed out- colourless but plump- her soft body slowly shifting. There is no way she had noticed; she had made no move to catch herself.

So he did.

He is not really in the game of letting women fall into heaps on his bedroom floor, let alone one that makes his heart beat the way that she does. It was a simple action- all he did was anchor his arm more steadily around her body- but in doing so he unleashed a chain of reactions that, even now, he cannot fully comprehend. It is honestly quite mind boggling how everything played out. If Frigga had woken him up that morning and told him that his soulmate would jump into his lap later that day and then proceed to tease him for an entire hour, he would have laughed. No, he would have rolled over and gone back to sleep. The point is he would not have believed her. Frigga, his oracle mother. Maybe that is why she did not tell him.

So there she was, falling, and there he was, catching her, and somewhere in that small chain reaction he had pulled her higher onto his lap- again, to keep her from falling off him completely- and that is when her eyes flashed the brightest silver he has ever seen. It was only for a few seconds but it was there; he saw it! It had made him freeze. Not many things make him freeze. He is a god. But there he was, frozen on that stupid wooden chair with what he can only assume was the most idiotic expression any man has ever held. It had to be magic- there is no other explanation for the way his ability to breathe completely vanished. It was like her eyes mattered more than air itself.

Meanwhile she was moving her hips again and then her hands were digging into his shoulders. It was blissful- no that is not strong enough. Trekking through the woods alone is blissful; she was something else entirely. Of course he was still frozen- a damn statue- as his little soulmate squeezed those Valhalla thighs around him harder and sunk down onto him- right in that exact spot that made him wonder for a second if she was sent to him as a test of willpower.

But no, there is no way that was the case; not with the way her silver eyes sparked again and rolled back into her head like it was the first time she had ever felt something like that. Not with the way her misty lips had parted, some of the luscious color finally peeking through, releasing a sound that he would have gladly fought every other god in the realm to be able to hear. He could not help but reach out in that moment and touch her face. He had to make sure she was real. Yes, she was on his lap but that was not enough. He had to know for sure. As soon as his fingers had met her soft skin it was game over. She was real and she was there.

His hand hooked around the back of her neck easily, as though her head was meant to be held by him- the same way her thighs engulfed him perfectly. He nudged her gently- for a moment she had gone still. Asleep maybe. He wanted to see her eyes again though. He had not been disappointed when her eyelids opened to reveal a lightning storm of molten silver swirling in her irises. Forget Valhalla thighs; every part of her was carved from the stuff of the heavens. Still he glanced down to look at them, his eyes dancing over where her misty dress had ridden up to reveal two perfectly smooth legs. Magic, he had thought to himself again. Definitely magic.

He needed more.

He had to make her eyes spark even more. He had pulled her higher- closer- his hand squeezing her hip, pushing her into him harder. It worked. But not only did it work, it made something more happen. It made her speak. It made him hear her. Sort of. Not fully, her voice was muffled- like she was trapped under the surf- but he could hear some of it. The little sighs and whines. He could hear them and now that he could hear them he never wanted them to stop hearing them. It seemed like she felt the same way, her hands shooting out and dragging his face towards her, her muffled voice now frantic. There are very few things that he would have not done in that moment to understand what she was saying. Thankfully he had not had to do any of them. She had not given him the chance to do any of them.

He will hand it to his soulmate, she is a strong little thing. To be fair he had not been expecting for her to literally yank him closer to her, fisting his shoulders like she was on a whole different kind of mission than the one he was starting to believe she was on. For a moment there he thought he was going to stop breathing for a completely different reason. A deadly reason. But no, she was not trying to kill him. That is not to say that his heart did not stop- it most certainly had. How could it not? Her dress was fully around her hips now. That would make even the strongest man crumble. He would like to think that he is the strongest man but, honestly, in that moment he had to rethink that stance. He was not strong there.

Apparently he had froze again because the next thing he knew she was throwing herself at him harder, her flower scented body wrapping around him completely as she sank against his neck. She was not letting up- his heart was going to fail, he had been sure of it. He was going to die and she was going to disappear and whoever found him would be left to wonder what in Asgard happened in order to make the trickster god die with a shit eating grin on his face. How fucking ironic.

To think she had not even started torturing him yet and he was already imagining his demise. Looking back on it now he could laugh. In fact he does, a small chuckle breaching his daydream. If only he had known that soon she would press her velvet lips against his neck and steal the last drop of his composure. Maybe he would have been able to intercept it- to press his own lips against hers and feel that lighting sparking through her veins. If only foresight was as sharp as hindsight. What a terribly cruel thing it is to be able to know what he should have done only after it has happened.

Before he can fall deeper into the memory- that blithe experience of pressing her soft body into the very desk he sits at now- there is a knock on his door.

“Loki?” He is not even the slightest bit surprised to hear Frigga’s voice filtering in from the other side of the heavy wooden door.

He does not bother standing. “Come in, mother.”

His room fills with the squeaking of the door on it’s hinges and the soft sound of her heels click, click, clicking against the stone floor. He turns slightly over his shoulder, peering at the tall woman as she glides towards him. If he were not able to hear her shoes he would swear that she is floating, not actually touching the floor. She is much too graceful for her own good, especially given the clunky man she is married to. They definitely balance each other out, that is for sure.

Loki nods at her when she stops a few feet away from him. She glances around his room, her lips pressing together. He does not really know why- it is immaculate as always. Empty. Maybe that is the point, though. Maybe she wishes it was not. He wishes that at least. She continues to stare for a few more moments, her face shielded. It is unnerving, to say the least. He goes to offer her a greeting- to add some sound to the emptiness- but she beats him to it.

“You saw her.” She is still looking at his emerald bed.

His eyes widen. He blinks a few times to hide it but his mother never turns to look at him. Now she stares out the window, lifting one of her small hands to wave in and out of the light that filters through. He cannot look at the light for too long without his mind wandering dangerously. A wandering mind is never usually dangerous but around Frigga it is the most dangerous thing a person can have. He refuses to give his mother even more access to his mind than she already has.

He sinks back against the chair, schooling his features into a cool grin when she finally turns to look at him. “Saw who?”

Frigga rolls her crystal eyes at him, scoffing. “Do not play coy with me son. Now is not the time for games.”

His grin drops. Yeah, that is pretty much exactly what he is expecting her to say. Still he had to try. One of these days he will be able to bar his nosy mother from his thoughts. Not today, but one day.

“Yes, I saw her.” He grinds out. Sometimes speaking to her feels like when he was a boy having his baby teeth pulled out- irritating.

“Do go on. I somehow doubt that is where the story ends.” She leans her back against the wall near his window, her slender arms crossing over her chest, brushing against her flowing blonde hair.

He has to look away again, standing and turning to gaze anywhere but in that general area. There is too much electricity still- too much of her. He does not know what to say about her. He is not about to share the gory details with his mother. He refuses. If she wants to know that badly then she can close her eyes and conjure the image herself, she is more than capable of such a simple spell. For her it would be as easy as breathing.

“She just appeared,” he shrugs. It is the truth, after all. “Out of thin air. One moment nothing and the next moment-” he spins back to his mother, mimicking a small explosion with his fingers- “poof. A soulmate.”

Frigga raises a golden brow, her lips caught somewhere between a smile and a frown. “Poof?”

“A soulmate.” Loki finishes for her, shrugging again.

He does not understand it either. It is almost comical- two of the most powerful beings in the realm positively stumped over a disappearing act. This is child's play after all! Surely one of those books he had been scouring earlier would know something about this. If only he had known what to look for at the time. Vanishing soulmates. Invisible girl. Lightning eyes. Again, hindsight is a jest.

“Well,” Frigga muses, lines appearing on her otherwise flawless forehead as she paces a few steps, her heels click-clicking again. “What did she look like?”

This time he laughs. Now it is comical. “I have not the faintest clue.”

She freezes in her pacing, now half-way across his room, “what do you mean you have not a clue? Surely you must have seen her.”

He shakes his head again, his laughter a little more desperate this time. Suddenly it is not so funny anymore. It never was. He knows that. Better than anyone. He can feel everywhere her body is not touching his and it is a kind of agony that he had not known existed prior to this. He has been in battles before- had pieces of him sliced off and sewn back on- but this is different. You cannot stitch an invisible wound. There is no blood proof, no sign of injury, not even a limp. Just a man who feels like his insides are being ripped out of his body- like his damn organs are trying to find their way back to her; with or without him. He almost breaks down and pleads with them. Take me with you.

“Loki?” Frigga’s hand against his face breaks him from his daze. She is always saving him; it is infuriating.

His voice is just a whisper when finally answers. “No, mother. She was just mist. I could touch her but I could not see her. Well, not her appearance. I could see the mist.”

His mother’s hand on his cheek stills. “Can you explain the mist?”

His back straightens, the corners of his mouth turning down in a sneer he cannot force away. Usually he would never be so cruel with Frigga, no matter how badly he would like to. It makes him feel guilty- ashamed. He never wants to hurt her. Right now, though, he cannot keep the ice out of his voice. It is in his nature after all.

“It was mist. I really do not know what you want me to say. White mist. Clouds maybe. Is there anything else you would like to know, mother?” He squeezes his fist together, concealing where the tips of his fingers begin to frost over.

It is pointless- she would not have noticed anyway. She had drawn away from as soon as he started describing his invisible soulmate. Now Frigga’s face is stoney- her eyes glazed over. She is no longer in his room. He does not know where she is but he has seen this happen before. Not often enough to keep his heart from skipping a beat. His mother is fine but somewhere inside him that scared little boy debates tugging on her sleeve just to make sure.

“Hylli mær.” He flinches back when she speaks.

Her voice does not sound like his mother’s usual gentle tread. It is deeper- stronger- and echoes against the stone walls. Loyal maiden. Frigga never uses the old tongue anymore. She used to, when he was little. It was how he learned the language of the gods. She would sing him lullabies about kings and monsters, all in a language he could not decipher. For what seemed like the longest time he could not understand the stories. Then one day he could. It was as simple as that- as simple as a children's song. This is different though- she is not singing to him anymore.

Loki takes a careful step back towards his mother, noting how her eyes do not follow his movements. “Mother, what are you-”

Frigga’s eyes snap to him and he goes rigid, his words halting. Her gaze still does not reach him but the haunting stare on his mother’s face could very well fool most people. Not her son, but most people. It is still unsettling, the hair on the back of his neck raising. That might be from the way the ends of her golden hair begin to float up around her face though. Her pink lips keep moving but no words form. Loki takes one of her hands, tensing when her molten skin touches his freezing fingers. His touch makes her speak again.

“Silfr auga, ríkr mær.” Silver eyed, powerful maiden.

Her voice is louder this time, no doubt seeping into the hallway. Her hair now floats around the crown of her head and the flowing sleeves of her gown begin to rise as well. He cannot be sure what his mother is seeing but whatever it is does not seem like a walk in the gardens. Her skin grows hotter by the second until finally he has to drop her hand to keep from burning his own flesh. He glances down at his hands, noticing the azure shade rising to meet the new temperature and blanching. No.

“Stǫðva!” He barks, grasping his mother’s slender shoulders, recoiling at the sharp edge in his voice. He has to do it, he reminds himself.

Thankfully that is all it takes to snap her out of her vision. Frigga blinks rapidly, her golden hair dropping against her chest, her crystal eyes darting around his room before focussing in on him again. It takes a moment for her sleeves to drop as well but when they do he decides it is okay to let go of her.

“Loki?” She lifts a hand to her eye, rubbing a circle under her brow. “What happened?”

What? He cocks his head, his mouth opening. He presses it closed quickly. Once again he has no idea what to say. Does she not remember? He lifts his eyes to the window, trying to form a sentence that will make even a little bit of sense. He is starting to get really tired of not knowing what to say. Some silver tongue he is.

“Mother-” he keeps his voice gentle, a stark contrast to the last few moments- “you were having a vision. You spoke in the tongue of the gods. Can you remember anything you saw?”

There is silence in his room for a long moment as he watches Frigga’s finger stop, her lips pursing. In that moment he wishes many things. He wishes he could hear the click-clicking of her heels, if only to fill the quiet. He wishes he were back in the library, scouring for anything that might give him even the faintest clue as to what in Niflheim is happening to him. Most of all though he wishes he was curled up once more with the soft girl- his soft girl- her face pressed against his neck and his hands locked around her back. He does not even have to see her- he will take anything at this point. Anything for just a second of peace. He cannot recall ever having felt this damn tired before.

Frigga’s hands slam against his shoulders, her bright eyes wide. Her fingers tremble against his leather armor. “I remember-” she gasps and he tries to ignore the way her hair begins to rise again- “I remember! She is here!”

“What?” He chokes, his hands rushing out to grab his mother’s before she can pull away.

Something inside him snaps, his vision laser focusing on the woman in front of him. He is not giving her the chance to scamper away this time- she will tell him everything she knows. Now. He does not care that she is his mother. She said it herself; this is not a game anymore.

It never was.

“Tell me what you saw.” There is not even a hint of question in his voice.

“I did not see her, per say.” She responds, her brows narrowing, her eyes taking on that far away look again. It makes his shoulders soften- she is cooperating. “I saw the mist you spoke of though. I felt her. My son, she is strong. I do not know how I missed her presence when she entered the city. Her power is disguised I think- unlike anything I have felt. I do not even know if she knows it. She was following behind two people and in her arms were many bags. They have come for the festival. I could not see them either but they were passing the castle gates just moments ago. They are here-”

Loki hangs on to every word that flows from her mouth, picking the important details from her rambling. The more he hears the more his shoulders tighten again until finally his spine is as straight as a pin, his veins flowing with just barely veiled power. His fingertips are so cold now that he can no longer feel them.

Strong.

Power.

Disguised.

Castle.

Here.

As soon as that word slips from her tongue he is moving, spinning on his heel and all but sprinting out of his bedroom. He has no idea the direction to go or where to even begin looking for her. The castle alone is almost as big as the city. His mother had said she entered the castle though so that means through one of the gates. A picture of the large golden gates- the main gates- appears in his mind. That makes the most sense, the most people will be entering there. Before he knows it he is sprinting, his boots pounding against the stone as he pushes himself as fast as he can go. He will find her today, even if it is the last thing he does.

It very well might be too, because the raven haired god rushes out of his room before his mother can finish the last of her sentence- “and she is in great danger.”

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: A Fight in the Shadows (1/16)

Summary: After her grandfather Grumman’s death in mysterious circumstances, private detective Riza Hawkeye receives a letter from him, instructed to be delivered to her after his demise. She is floored to discover he was the head of the Amestrian Intelligence Network, and the secrets he’s found out are deep and dangerous. He mentions a conspiracy within the military, and instructs her to gather together a group of individuals he trusts to assist her in continuing his work.

To say that they’re a rag-tag bunch is putting it kindly, but when they finally get their act together and delve into the mystery, they uncover something that will shake the very foundations of Amestris…

An espionage AU with some core canon elements.

Rated: T

==

A Fight in the Shadows

[AO3]

One

Roy

In all of her years working as a private detective, Riza had learned that one really ought to expect the unexpected, especially in a place like Amestris, and especially in a place like Central City. It took a lot to phase her; working on the principle that she had already seen everything there was to see and that whatever latest Central Weirdness was about to arrive at her door, it couldn’t be any weirder than everything she had already dealt with. 

That said, she really wasn’t expecting to get a letter from her grandfather a week after he died. 

Riza knew that her grandfather had died. She had been the one the hospital had called to identify his body, and she had certainly identified it beyond all reasonable doubt as Charles Grumman. Now, she had indeed come across cases of people faking their deaths before, but she had no reason to assume that this was what her grandfather had done. He had no earthly reason to do so. He had spent his entire life working as an unimportant pen-pushing bureaucrat in some backroom government department in Eastern, and he had died in a car accident. That was all there was to it. 

The letter, however, implied that there was definitely more to it than Riza anticipated. 

It was definitely from Grumman. She recognised the same handwriting that had left odd little flowery messages in her birthday cards for as long as she could remember. Sitting there so innocently on her desk where she had brought it in unknowingly with the rest of the mail, it seemed to be hiding a multitude of secrets. 

The most logical explanation, of course, was that it had been written and sent prior to his demise and had just been delayed in the post. There was nothing suspicious about that. 

Except, of course, for the fact that her grandfather never wrote to her except for the aforementioned birthday cards. And he certainly never addressed the letters as ‘private and confidential, for the eyes of R. HAWKEYE only’. 

Riza was beginning to think that perhaps he had faked his death after all. She sighed. Whatever was in the letter, she knew that the moment she opened it, she was going to end up getting into something far deeper than she had any intention of getting into anything, and it would be a one way trip. She would not be able to back out. A part of her was screaming to just burn the letter and pretend it had never arrived, and then go on with her day. Another part was telling her that whether she read it or not, she was involved now – Grumman had ensured that from the moment he had sent it. 

She snatched up the letter before she could second guess herself and sliced it open with such force that Hayate gave a worried yelp, perhaps concerned that she would turn the letter opener on him next. 

It was from Grumman all right. Riza sank down into her desk chair as she read the tightly packed text that proved to her once and for all that there were some unexpected things that really could never be expected, and that she had not, in fact, seen everything. 

To the outside observer, the letter would have been gibberish. It was gibberish to Riza herself until she remembered how much her grandfather had always loved word games. He had been creating codes for her to play with ever since she could read and write; it had always been their little thing that they could bond over, something that she could keep secret from her father and have as wholly her own.

Grumman hadn’t written to her in code for a very long time, not since her teen years, but she had still kept all the ciphers he had created with her, including the most complicated one that she had been so proud of creating. She recognised some of it in the letter, and she settled down with a pencil and the main cipher, beginning the painstaking task of decoding it all character by character.

With the deciphering complete, she read the letter through three times before the true meaning of it really started to sink in, and she knew that Grumman had definitely got her involved with something she could not back out of, and she was already in it up to her neck. 

At least she was now fairly certain that he had not faked his death, even though she now knew that he was not, and never had been, an unimportant pen-pushing bureaucrat. No, no. In life, Charles Grumman had been the head of the Amestrian Intelligence Service. 

In short, her grandfather had not only been a spy, he’d been the most important spy in the country.

At least that explained his preoccupation with secret codes. It hadn’t just been an odd fancy to keep her entertained. He had been training her up to follow in his footsteps and ensuring that if something ever happened, like it had indeed just happened, then he had someone he could trust and a code no-one else knew how to break.

Riza leaned heavily on the desk and began on the letter for the fourth time, still not quite believing what she was reading. 

My dear Riza,

If you are reading this letter, then I am dead. The circumstances will probably look like natural causes or an accident, but they will have been anything but. I am leaving this letter in the care of a trusted associate, to be delivered in the event of my untimely demise. 

I don’t know if you ever suspected the true nature of my profession at any point, but the time has come to be candid with you. I am, and have always been, an intelligence operative. I am a spy for the Amestrian Intelligence Service, and it is as a result of this intelligence that I have found myself in a very dangerous position. 

I know it is unfair of me to put this onto your young shoulders and put you into this same dangerous position, but in this profession you learn to trust few and trust even fewer with your life. I think I may have trusted the wrong people, but I have always trusted you. You are a bloodhound, Riza, and I know that you will sniff out those responsible for my death and continue the work that I have started, exposing the terrible truth that underpins the entirety of Amestris, because I know I have only just begun to scratch the surface of what is going on in our country. 

There are a few individuals whom I do trust to assist you, and I advise you to find and make use of their many and varied talents. To make things easier, I have also sent a letter like this one to the first of these contacts. I don’t know if you have kept up with the career of your father’s former student, but you must have heard in among of the renown of the one they call the Flame Alchemist. Roy Mustang is in fact an intelligence operative like myself and is my most trusted subordinate. He has his own off-book network who should provide you with a wide range of skills you may need. 

If all has gone to plan, Mustang should be arriving in Eastern on the day you receive this letter…

Riza remembered Roy Mustang. They’d practically lived in each other’s pockets for the two years that he had been apprenticed under her father, learning the secrets of flame alchemy. There had been talk of him joining the military academy (and of course, her father’s reaction to that particular suggestion had been well-documented), but when the time came, he had chosen a different path, and after his training was finished and he had left the Hawkeye home for the final time, Riza had not seen him again.

A part of her had always wondered what he had ended up doing. After her father’s death she had not kept up with the gossip and rumours in the alchemy circles. After everything that had happened, she had wanted to keep as far away from it all as possible. Almost unconsciously, she reached around behind her, touching the small of her back as if she could still feel the sharp sting of the needle there as her father bound her up indelibly with his research. 

So no, she had not heard of the renown of the Flame Alchemist. At least now she knew what Roy had been up to in the intervening years. She had been glad when he had decided not to go into the military, but at the same time, the line that he seemed to have walked instead seemed scarcely better. 

Riza shook herself. She was one to talk; her own profession didn’t exactly bring her along the most morally upstanding path, and there was a good deal of espionage in what she did on a daily basis, although following cheating husbands and finding evidence seemed pretty tame compared to national intelligence work. Still, she was in no position to judge what Roy and her grandfather did. 

Roy… It must be nearly ten years since she had last seen him. It was his hands that she remembered above everything else. She had always tried to put that down to an upbringing steeped in alchemy; whilst some people noticed height or build or hair colour or eye colour, alchemists tended to look at hands as the first thing of note. Their hands were their craft, after all, be they gloved or tattooed or bare. Roy had typically worn spark gloves towards the end of his training. Her father, ever the traditionalist, had disapproved at first, but had eventually been talked around to the practicalities of not needing an ignition source on hand all the time - or rather, having an ignition source literally on hand all the time. 

At the beginning, though, when he had still been learning, his hands had been bare, his fingers long and tapered. They were always warm, his hands, and Riza had never known if that was from the flame alchemy or if he was just naturally like that. She remembered the touch of his fingertips on her back, and immediately felt her cheeks colour up. There had been nothing like that between them, but since Riza was the canvas for the full array and her father had destroyed the rest of his research for fear of it falling into the wrong hands, she had felt that Roy needed to see it. 

He was still the only person who’d ever seen her bare back, and she didn’t think she’d ever forget that little gasp that he gave when he saw it: admiring the beauty of the craftsmanship and shocked that it had been crafted on living skin - her living skin - at the same time. 

She’d been seventeen then, embarrassed at being half-naked in front of a boy, even if they’d been friends for over a year and he couldn’t see anything from the front. Even more embarrassing was how much she’d found that she really wouldn’t mind feeling those warm fingertips in other places. 

Riza groaned, crumpling Grumman’s letter up into a ball and knocking her forehead against her desk a few times. She hadn’t thought about Roy for years, and she had long since got over her silly teenage crush on him, figuring that of course she’d ended up feeling that way about him because he was the only member of the opposite sex other than her father and grandfather that she ever had any interaction with at the time. It was bound to happen from the sheer novelty value if nothing else. 

She really didn’t need to be reminded of it now. Not when she was about to get unwillingly dragged into the world of international espionage and investigate her grandfather’s murder. The last thing she needed to be thinking about was whether Roy’s hands were still as warm as they had always been before.

Riza sighed, pushed all thoughts of Roy Mustang very firmly out of her head, and straightened out Grumman’s letter again, tucking it into the chest pocket of her shirt. Every single spy novel she’d ever read (now her grandfather’s extensive collection made a certain ironic sense) was telling her that she ought to burn it, but she was not in the habit of memorising letters having only had them in her hands for a few minutes, so it would have to stay on her person for now. Besides, she might need to compare notes with Roy. Drat, now she was thinking about him again. 

If he was arriving into Eastern, where she was to go herself in just a few short hours, then Grumman had probably instructed him to go to the funeral, so at least Riza wouldn’t need to look for him since her grandfather had given no further hints as to where he might be found. Hopefully, Roy would have a few more clues as to what needed to be done. The rest of the letter had detailed several more people that Grumman wanted her to recruit, and she would likely need Roy’s connections to do so. This was not a simple investigation by any stretch of the imagination. 

Riza dragged herself away from her desk, Hayate padding along at her heels as she went to pack a bag for the trip to Eastern. Grumman’s funeral was the next morning. As much as she wished it was sooner so that she could get some answers, she also wanted to put it off as long as possible. 

What had he got her into?

X

The funeral was a fairly standard affair. Riza was Grumman’s closest family left, and even then, they had not been all that close in recent years. She didn’t recognise any of the other people gathered around the grave and making a polite show of mourning, but she assumed that they were people who had known her grandfather. She idly wondered how many of them were spies, or if they were all under the impression, like she had been, that he was a harmless old man sitting in a back office somewhere. 

As she’d suspected, Roy was there. He didn’t join the main group, hanging back in the shade of a tree and watching from afar. He hadn’t changed much. His face and shoulders had filled out from the slightly gawky nineteen year old he’d been when she’d last seen him, but he was still instantly recognisable as Roy. He wasn’t looking in her direction, more staring into the middle distance, and Riza wondered if he had noticed that she was there and recognised her. She didn’t think she’d changed all that much either. Her hair was longer now, but that was about it.

A small part of her, in the back of her mind, was annoyed that he’d turned up and was so obvious, because now she couldn’t stop glancing over at him every five seconds and she couldn’t concentrate on the service. Not that she’d really been concentrating on it before she’d noticed Roy. Something in the back of her mind kept telling her that whoever had killed her grandfather might have sent someone to his funeral to make sure that he was actually in his grave, and now she was looking around at all the unfamiliar faces and wondering which of them, if any, she should trust. 

At last it was over and people started moving away from the graveside. Riza hung back for what she hoped was a respectful amount of time, making small talk with the minister, and when she did finally walk away, she saw that Roy was waiting for her. She made her way over to him and they moved away from his tree. He smiled as she approached. She remembered that smile.

“Hello, Riza. It’s been a long time.”

“Hi. Thanks for coming. How’ve you been keeping all this time?”

“Oh, you know. Here and there, this and that.” If there was ever a more ‘if I told you I’d have to kill you’ answer, Riza had yet to hear it. “Keeping busy. What about you? Grumman told me you went into private investigations.”

“Yes. It’s interesting work. I’ve always been fascinated with solving puzzles. I suppose that’s why…” She tailed off, and there was a long pause. How did one go about starting a conversation about secret messages and secret agents with a secret agent? Thankfully, Roy saved her the trouble.

“I assume you received a letter.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What did you do with it?”

“It’s… on my person.” She didn’t tell him she’d stuffed it in her bra as the most secure place she could think of.

“Fair enough.”

Riza stopped suddenly, causing Roy to stop as well and turn back to her.

“Should we really be discussing all this out in the open like this?”

Roy nodded. “It’s the best place to discuss things. There’s a reason why all the important conversations in the novels take place on park benches or looking out over rivers on misty bridges. The misty bridges are a bit romantic, but it’s always better to talk outdoors. It’s easy to bug a room and listen in, but it’s much easier to see if you’re being watched or followed out here in a nice, quiet, open location.”

That made sense, and Riza fell into step beside Roy again as they continued to walk through the cemetery. There was no one else around.

“Have you got any idea what’s going on?” she asked. “I’ve got a list of people who can help, but it’s not going to be much good if I don’t even know what they’re supposed to be helping with.”

Roy shook his head. “No, you probably know more than me at this stage. My instructions were just to help you in any way I could. So, I guess my services are at your command.”

“Grumman mentioned you had a secret network.”

“Yes. I’ve already contacted them. They mostly work out of Central, as I believe you do too. We can meet them in a few days. I have a safe meeting place there.”

“Oh. Ok.” At least Roy seemed to have his side of the plan all figured out. Maybe once she met this mysterious network and worked out what skills she had at her disposal, she’d have a better plan for what to do next. 

They fell into silence for a long time again. Ordinarily Riza knew the basic etiquette for making small talk with someone you hadn’t seen for a decade. You asked about their family, you talked about the weather, you nodded politely in all the right places. But Roy was more than someone she hadn’t seen in a decade, and both their lives were so steeped in subterfuge and solitude that nothing seemed right as she thought it. That was probably what led to the next words out of her mouth.

“You know, I think that you’re actually the worst secret agent in the world.”

Roy laughed. “Oh really? And what makes you think that?”

“All the time you were standing under that tree, I couldn’t take my eyes off you, and I’m sure that there were a few other people who couldn’t either. You weren’t exactly inconspicuous. I thought spying was all about blending into the background.”

“It is, until it isn’t. Sometimes you need to be noticed and draw attention to yourself. Besides, there are two ways to follow someone. The first way, they never see you. The second way, they only see you.”

Riza felt her blood run cold, and she looked over her shoulder. There was still no one around besides her and Roy; everyone else had gone the more direct route out of the cemetery after the service was over. 

All the same, his words were not at all reassuring.

[sheliesshattered]

This Isn’t A Ghost Story - Chapter 7: The Museum

Whouffaldi non-canon AU. 8 chapters, will be about 32,000 words when complete. Rated Mature for heavier themes in earlier chapters, please contact me privately if you’re worried about triggering topics. Clara Oswald/Twelfth Doctor. Mystery, pining and angst with a happy ending. Available on AO3 under the same username and title. Updates every Friday.

This Isn’t A Ghost Story

Chapter 7: The Museum

13 May 2021, Cairo

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that the museum stay open late for us, today of all days,” Clara said quietly, as they strolled side by side through the nearly empty Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. Even after so many years travelling the world together, she was still cautious about attracting any undue attention from curious strangers, aware as always that no one but her could see or hear her ghost.

“We’re lucky enough as it is that they’re open until nine p.m. on Thursdays,” the Doctor replied. “If the thirteenth had fallen on a Monday this year, we would have been stuck visiting before sunset, they close so early. In 1921, the museum was only open that late because of the party celebrating the new exhibit.”

“You know, until we started planning this anniversary trip, it hadn’t occurred to me that the thirteenth of May that year was a Friday,” she said. “So much for the unluckiness of Friday the thirteenth.”

“Actually, the ancient Egyptians considered thirteen to be a lucky number. To them it symbolised immortality, resurrection, and rebirth.”

“Well, there you go,” Clara said, laughing softly. “Or rather: here we are, a hundred years later. And you’re sure we met at nine?”

He nodded. “The lecture on the exhibit ended just before nine, and we met a few minutes later, as everyone started to disperse into the surrounding rooms. It was half past ten before my colleagues from the dig site were able to pull me away. Unfortunately the museum won’t let us stay that late tonight, but at least we can mark nine p.m. in the right place.”

“One hundred years,” she said, directing a quick smile his way. “Things have changed a bit since then, I suppose,” she added, looking around at the few remaining tourists, half of them reading information about the exhibits on their smartphones. She self-consciously adjusted the small bluetooth headset she wore for show, but no one seemed to be paying her any attention, thankfully.

“They have and they haven’t,” the Doctor shrugged. “The building itself hasn’t changed significantly since I first arrived in Egypt, and the public remains fascinated with the archaeology and the history of the region. Obviously the exhibits have been rearranged over the years, newly discovered artefacts added, but honestly it still looks quite like it did then.”

“I meant more the people than the place. I seem to remember the party in ‘21 being a bit more of a formal affair.”

“They still host black-tie parties here, now and then. We could come back for one someday, if you’re feeling nostalgic.”

“Might be worth another trip to Cairo, if we can figure out a way to get an invite,” she said. “Do you remember what I wore that night?”

The Doctor kept his gaze focused ahead of them and his face carefully blank, but Clara swore he would have blushed if he could. “Yes,” he said shortly.

She laughed fondly and leaned into his shoulder briefly, charmed by his awkwardness even after six and a half years of living as a married couple again. “You’ll have to describe it for me sometime. In a more private location.”

He hesitated then said, “We won’t be able to stay here long tonight, anyway. Play your cards right and I’ll describe it for you in detail once we get back to the hotel.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, mister,” she said, grinning.

They lapsed into comfortable silence as the Doctor led her confidently through the halls of the museum, ending in a smaller room tucked away from the main flow of the central corridor. They had the room to themselves, and Clara let herself relax, shedding her perpetual wariness of someone seeing her interact with her ghost.

“Oh, this wasn’t here before,” the Doctor said as they entered, sounding surprised and pleased. “This is lovely.”

“What is it?” she asked, bemused by his obvious interest.

“It’s a reproduction of the burial chamber of Thutmose the Third, which is in the Valley of the Kings, near Thebes,” he said, looking around at the illustrated walls and the stars painted on the low ceiling, his expression like a kid in a candy shop. “That’s the mummified pharaoh himself, just there,” he added, nodding to a glass-enclosed display case in the middle of the room. “And I imagine the other artefacts are from his tomb, as well.”

“The ceiling is just like my ring,” she noted, glancing up at the spindly stars against the dark blue and fiddling with her wedding ring, its stone opaque now in the diffuse artificial light.

“It was a popular artistic element in the Eighteenth Dynasty,” the Doctor said absently, as he leaned in to examine an intricately carved scarab figurine on display. “Thutmose the Third was the step-son of Hatshepsut, after all, whose temple I took you to see after you found me in Thebes.”

“I forget, sometimes,” Clara said affectionately, “that this is what you spent your life working on. Your true academic passion, above all your other many interests.”

He shot her a quick smile. “It’s why I was in Egypt in the first place, that night in 1921.”

“And you’re sure this is the right place?” she asked, looking around. “The room where we met?” Like the rest of the museum and Cairo in general, it felt vaguely familiar, but nothing specific jumped out at her.

“Quite sure,” he said, meandering around the edge of the room to join her again. “A friend of mine stood in that archway just there, off and on for the better part of an hour, trying to get my attention while I studiously ignored him.”

“Naturally,” she said lightly, “being that you were otherwise occupied with an intriguing stranger.”

“Luckily for me,” he said, smiling down at her.

“So, what are we looking at here?” she asked, gesturing to the complex mural of stylised stick figures that adorned every inch of the walls of the room. “Put that doctorate of archaeology to good use and tell me about this, as we count down to nine p.m.”

The Doctor stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her, and Clara leaned into him, glad for the relative privacy of the enclosed space and the rare chance to touch him while they were in public.

“It’s the Amduat,” he told her, his voice soft near her ear. “Which translates to ‘The Book Of What Is In The Underworld.’ It’s a funerary text that details the sun god Ra’s journey through the land of the dead each night, from sunset to sunrise, on a river that flows from west to east. It’s found painted in the tombs of several pharaohs and on various papyri fragments. The text is divided into the twelve hours of the night, the different gates that Ra — and the recently deceased, who travel with him — must pass through to reach rebirth with the sun at dawn.”

“The twelve hours of the night?” she said, glancing up at him. At his nod, she recited the last eight lines of the poem from memory:

He whispered, “And a river lies Between the dusk and dawning skies, And hours are distance, measured wide Along that transnocturnal tide— Too doomed to fear, lost to all need, These voyagers blackward fast recede Where darkness shines like dazzling light Throughout the Twelve Hours of the Night.”

“...Seriously?” the Doctor asked when she finished, his voice sour. “We’re standing in the middle of the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities and you’re subjecting me to Ashbless of all people?”

Clara laughed. “You say ‘The Twelve Hours of the Night’ and my mind spits out that poem. I studied English literature at university, it’s a reflex, I can’t help it.”

“You know, I’m not convinced he actually knew the first thing about Egypt, much less the Amduat. Most of the rest of that poem is complete gibberish.”

“He did live here in Cairo for a time,” she said reasonably.

The Doctor sighed in exasperation. “It’s two minutes ‘til nine,” he said. “Are we going to stand here and debate nineteenth century poets of questionable literary value, or can we enjoy the moment?”

Laughing again, she turned her head and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Yes, let’s just enjoy the moment. Who else gets to celebrate their hundredth anniversary, after all?”

“Technically that’s not for another two years yet. And we’d have to go to Glasgow,” he added, and Clara knew without looking at him that he was making a face at the thought.

“Our wedding anniversary, sure. But I meant the anniversary of when I fell in love with you.”

The Doctor was quiet for a moment. “You think it was that night?” he asked softly.

“I know it was,” she answered in a similar tone, squeezing his hands where they were clasped low on her stomach. “I wouldn’t have followed you to Thebes otherwise. It just took me a while to put the word to the feeling.”

“You were — what was the phrase you used? — an intriguing stranger for me that night. But when you showed up at the dig site, that’s when I knew.” He took a deep breath and sighed it out, stirring strands of her hair. “I also knew you were less than half my age, far too beautiful for the likes of me even if you hadn’t been, and extremely unlikely to return my feelings.”

“And how’d that work out for you?” she asked playfully.

“Quite well, as fate would have it,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his tone.

Before she could reply, she felt him go rigid behind her, then sway in an alarming way. “Are you alright?” she asked, concerned.

“Bit lightheaded all of a sudden,” he said. “I think I ought to sit.”

She helped him to a bench at the back of the room, grateful that his hand remained solid in hers. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Possible explanations crowded her mind for why a ghost might feel lightheaded, none of them good.

“What is it?” she asked him, worry twisting her gut.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice distant. “I feel strange...”

Clara knelt in front of him looking up at his face, so familiar and beloved, now alarmingly pale and drawn. Somewhere in the distance she could hear an announcement, repeated in multiple languages, that it was nine p.m. and the museum was closing. She ignored it and focused on the Doctor, and on her fear that something had just gone terribly wrong. There was a sudden knot in her stomach, a growing dread that this happy semblance of a life they’d managed to build together the last six and a half years couldn’t possibly last.

“Is this it?” she said, and she could hear the panic colouring her voice. “Have we run out of time? A hundred years exactly and I’ll have to lose you all over again?”

“My Clara,” the Doctor murmured, his low voice cutting through her frantic rambling. “All I ever wanted was more time with you...”

“No, you’re saying goodbye, don’t say goodbye!” she cried, cupping his face with one hand. The pain of that possibility rippled through her, the unimaginable thought of facing a future without him. “Don’t go. Stay with me,” she said desperately. “You promised. You promised you would stay.”

He found her gaze, his eyes red-rimmed as tears began to form. “Clara.”

“Everything you’re about to say, I already know,” she told him before he could say anything else, afraid that at any second, he would fade out of existence right in front of her. “I’ve always known. If this is it, if this is all the time we get—” Her voice cracked, her tears overwhelming her, and she shook her head. “Until the stars all burn from the sky, that’s how long you’re stuck with me. That’s how long I’ll love you. I will find you again someday. I promise.”

The Doctor took her hand from his face and kissed her knuckles tenderly, and she clung to the solidness of him, trying to commit it to memory one final time, in case this was the last moment of this life she had left with him. He had been abruptly stolen from her once before, on that horrible night in 1927, and suddenly the agony of that was fresh and new all over again, threatening to swallow her whole.

“I love you, my Clara,” he said despite her assurances that she already knew. He squeezed her fingers, and raised his other hand to wipe a tear from her face. “I’ll love you ‘til the end of the universe.” His gaze held hers, blue eyes flecked with green that she would never, ever forget. “And I know how much you like to be right,” he went on, his voice gentle. “But just this once... Do you think you could bear it if you were totally and completely wrong?”

She blinked up at him, tears catching in her lashes. “What?” she asked, uncomprehending, as he moved her hand to press flat against the left side of his chest. It took her a moment to understand, to register the strong and steady heartbeat under her palm, utterly strange and unexpected after so many years grown accustomed to the lack of it. She stared at her hand in disbelief, then raised her eyes to his face, realising that he no longer looked nearly so pale. “How?” she demanded.

He shrugged, smiling softly at her. “Honestly? I’ve no idea. Lucky thirteen, perhaps?” he suggested. “I can’t claim to understand it. But it feels so distinctly different from the last ninety-three years, I can’t really question it, either.”

“We get more time,” Clara breathed.

“We get more life,” he corrected. “A real second chance. Somehow, we’ve passed through the twelve hours of the night, and now the sun is rising again.”

She stared at him for a moment, her heart still stuttering in shock at the sudden reversal of their fortunes, then leaned up on her knees and kissed him soundly, reveling in the living warmth rolling off of him. Her living, breathing, very much not dead husband. The reality of it was better than anything she could have wished for, and she clung to him, hardly believing what had just happened.

“Sir, ma’am?” called an unfamiliar voice as they broke apart. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s after nine p.m. and the museum is closing.”

“Quite alright,” the Doctor replied, his gaze never leaving Clara’s face. “It’s time we were getting home, anyway.”

--

Chapter 8: The Temple

[shadowfae]

One of my friends a while back asked for the explanation of how Chaos worked in Lore (my Ranisson / AdventureQuest Worlds canon) and what it’s like in a hivemind, so I gave them an explanation over discord dms. Since I don’t feel like writing up another post about it, I’m just going to copy paste under the cut. Bolded was their second question. It’s not formatted for an actual post, being in all lowercase, but eh.

As always, I take questions if any are thought up. 

magic in lore works like a tiered triangle, in four tiers. the first tier up at the top is raw, pure, balance magic. it's very, very unstable and volatile, exceedingly rare, and kills most people to get near. i only know of three people who could use it, and only one who did so in a proper, balanced way. (his name was warlic. his magic ran in reverse - the more he used, the more he'd get. he was very very good at his job.) underneath balance on tier two are the two binding elements, order and chaos. they do exactly that, they don't really exist on their own but they can be used to hold other elements together. if met together without anything to hold, they cancel out. my theory is that if the two coexisted in a world properly and naturally, they'd remove all magic from the world entirely. hence why there are two versions of lore: the one i was in, and the one we called the mirror realm. (the mirror folks called us the mirror realm and they were the normal ones. as one does.) order existed in the mirror realm, chaos existed in ours. underneath them in the third tier are the eight 'pure' elements. they're called pure because people didn't know about the tiered structure until drakath's husband (he's important) figured it all out. you got water, fire, wind, earth, light, darkness, lightning, and ice. ice would be more accurately called chill, and fire more accurately heat. water's opposite is actually lightning, not fire. if you take one or more tier three elements and slap a tier two on it, you get tier four: every other element that exists. if you combine darkness and fire with chaos, then you get a type of death energy. bind them with order you'd get something else, change either element or hell, even the ratio of them relative to each other, you'll get something else.

that's how magic works. but it also works in tandem with people. the magic system was set up probably by lorithia, a creation-aligned goddess who's worshipped religiously but it's more cultural than religious tbh. she set in place three spots for mortals to take up regarding magic: the avatar, the champion, and the orb-bearer. the avatar of a given tier two or three element exists once, and only once. they're naturally immortal but can be killed, and once they're gone, you'll never get another avatar of that element without lorithia interfering, or something. their second in command is the champion: there's always a champion, or someone intended to become them. they hold the throne while the avatar's out, and while you can be both avatar and champion, avatars aren't that common and we don't know much about them, so. under the champion is the orb-bearer: the orbs exist for tier-two elements, and act as the conscience of the element. if you want to pick a fight with lightning itself, go find the orb-bearer and go yell at them, i guess. drakath's husband was the avatar of chaos. his name was daniel arkhane, and i refer to him only as the avatar because it's rude to say anything else. i'll specify if i mean another avatar, but literally no other one ever showed up in anything i had anything to do with afaik so i don't care about them. he became the avatar because for his final project in warlic's class at his university, he was handed a classgem (concentrated bits of tier two-to-four elements that tune your magic to that 'class', very similar to an rpg) of mysterious origin and told to figure out what it was and everything to do with it. except that classgem was pure tier-two chaos, which realized it was handling someone whose magic ran in reverse and who could probably handle balance magic without dying, and he ended up avatar. he took the natural chaos in the world and went about engineering it, seeing what he could do. he was pretty angry at sepulchure for trying to colonize his people (the lunaris sentinels, they're a canon thing) and killing his adopted mother, as well as everything sepulchure's ever done to drakath (it's like what dragonfable tells you, but with way more trauma), and he never got too far in it because sepulchure's raids dropped a building on him. the chaorruption i've got tells me his skull got crushed in, which i didn't need to know but okay sure. drakath is the champion of chaos. he took the avatar's research and went farther with it, until he had something past raw magic, that could actually take a form, and he went about using it and experimenting with what it could do. he wanted the war to stop, and figured if he had a classgem of the championship of chaos (as being the champion requires the classgem of the championship, and those fuckers teleport if they think they're not getting found), he might actually make it work. so he created a version of chaos magic that wouldn't kill you if it took you: it would just bind you to it. say you're a paladin, with a classgem of a paladin class, which is water-air-light bound with order? yeah, now he's binding water-air-light with chaos, and you're still a paladin but now you're chaorrupted. if you used raw chaos with water-air-light, you wouldn't get a paladin. idr what you'd get but it wouldn't be that. his version literally corrupted it magically. now, all the tier two and three elements can corrupt, if you tune them right. i've seen magicorruption from other elements and it's never fun, but drakath's chaos did it in a way that could be fun, if you were the right kind of person. drakath was, effectively, a uni student in his mid twenties who had seen too much and was basically a punk with anarchist leanings. so he needed an army to stop the war, and he needed to not get caught, and so he took those nobody would miss. those a moment before suicide, those who worked in swordhaven doing what nobody wanted them to do (gamblers, prostitutes, etc), those who were getting hurt. he took everyone that might be happier with him, and left nothing but a trace of his chaos magic - which was bright as fuck purple goop that sent you into a coma if you touched it and got infected when he didn't want you to. he made an army of the people nobody on either side wanted, and nobody save for a few adventurers noticed, because nobody cared. he also ended up with a few people from other worlds, because he wasn't the avatar and couldn't control it completely. (i showed up later. i have ranisson's memories and she has mine, but we're separate people who spent a bit of time swapping bodies for a bit. hence why we're now 'kin with each other. one of my longtime mutuals was also in this position. his name's lance and we're still bffs.) and then he went and chaorrupted alteon, straight up murdered sepulchure, and started an alliance between what was left of their armies as everyone turned on him. smug tall bastard. guy was 6'7" and already saved the world when sepulchure told him to gather all the orbs and he fused with the dragon of light to bind them to keep from basically nuking the world. that dragon was the aforementioned fluffy. he then lost the orbs in a volcano and we never went back for them, rip. but here's what chaorruption does to you: it's a hivemind, in the way that everyone's hooked up to a peer-to-peer database network. telepathy across the entire network. if you know a Fact, everyone knows the Fact. people know automatically what triggers those around them, without consciously knowing it: you just know not to bring it up if you get close to the topic. if you try really really hard, you can swap identities with others. this proved very useful when we had most of the army turn into drow (dark elves, who were virtually extinct) at the order of chaos lord vath, a pissed off drow who grew up with dragons after dwarves basically genocided his people. he wanted more drow like him and for a time we could make that happen for him, so we did. it also had the avantage of nobody knowing who the fuck actually just killed their little sister: all they knew is that a chaos drow did it, not that it was actually johnny mcgee who's actually a water draconian. we all knew who each other was, but nobody else did. it also meant that with our telepathy, we could and would confuse the fuck out of everyone. we could chatter and cross language barriers. didn't matter if you were yelling gibberish at me, i'd know through the chaos what you meant to tell me. if you explained some concept i'd never understood but another chaorrupted person would, then so long as i was actively using my magic and chaorruption, i'd be able to do it. not as well as the person who understood it normally would, but i'd be able to do a passing job. so what we'd do is yell everything at each other in various languages and out of order, and we'd know what was going on, and nobody else would. it really did reinforce the idea of chaos- if you weren't in the know, it was nonsensical and impossible to follow. we could change an entire strategy of attack in about five seconds, because the chaos was faster than we could be otherwise. the only way to defeat us was straight up overpowering us, which only happened if we couldn't move as fast as you could. it happened, but eh. so basically i'm very used to a hivemind and there's nothing quite like it. it's actually terrifying if you're not properly one of us, which is what minos went through in that fic - he was part of the hivemind, but he wasn't part of chaos, hence why it was killing him slowly from the inside out. if any of us had found him, we would've dragged him in to get initialized and he would've probably been fine. but ah, everyone i know who hears me talk about chaos knows it as this great, really nice thing, and i wanted to drive home that for everyone else, it was fucking terrifying. but for me? it was great, and it's such a huge part of what and who i am that i feel it'd be impossible to not notice if you knew what you were looking for, yeah?

"I'm curious though, does that mean that in the hive mind, you could change your appearance through chaos magic? Or was it a skill shared throughout the hive mind? I'm also curious as to what you mean by swapping bodies?"

if someone else had what you wanted, yes! you could kind of mix and match? like, if someone had straight snow white hair and yours was bright green and curly, you could take their hair entirely, but you couldn't get a light green or curly white hair, or straight green hair. but you could take just their hair and someone else's eyes. and if they changed their hair to someone's red buzzcut, you couldn't take their hair at all unless you own the red buzzcut, in which you can just swap with each other. if you wanted to make a triangle of swapping you could, but it'd take actual engineering of the magic versus just deciding to. and if you weren't using your magic actively you'd go back to your actual form, hence why if we died we'd transform back. and as far as the magic was concerned, your identity was just another feature. a trans guy and a cis girl absolutely could swap genders if they wanted to. but that part was kind of experimental, meant for those who generally had so much trauma they couldn't be themselves at the moment and needed a break, and there was bleedthrough. if you swapped to get someone else's gender, you were likely to get chunks of the rest of them, too. people absolutely tried to swap traumas and it kind of worked, though it wasn't very commonplace. and you couldn't just take, you had to give whatever you were replacing. so if you wanted to get rid of your curly green hair, someone had to take it, or you had to talk to someone who specialized in engineering (chaosweavers) to permanently alter you, replacing what you had with raw chaos. it wasn't perfect, but if you had raw chaos instead of something else, it would effectively spit out what a fully-chaorrupted person might look like. it had a template. spiky black hair, grayish-violet skin, bright purple eyes with white or black sclera, open sores with a layer of dragonscales underneath instead of flesh, purple blood, way too many teeth, around 5'8"-6'2", muscular builds with thick legs and upper arms. occasionally extra eyes. since this made for a better disguise than the drow thing usually did, a lot of people opted for that when they had traits that nobody they found really wanted. though if someone did eventually want the trait that the chaosweavers removed, odds were good they'd wake up with it unexpectedly and it'd be permanent unless the chaos was removed from them entirely. it was always fun to wake up in the morning and wonder if today was the day you rolled on that 5% chance you look different now. i don't remember if anyone was against it, but it was definitely unexpected, tbh

[and another tangent a few messages later]

people really liked their motifs in lore. like, morality was... surprisingly different. there was no "you're a good person" or "you're evil", because people referred to swordhaven as Good and shadowfall as Evil. you could be a kind, really nice person who was Evil, but by our terms, not necessarily evil. are you evil if you don't kill people, even if your friends all do and you're cool with it? are you good even though you throw people out of your city for trying to do illegal things just to survive? these aren't questions that you'll find in lore at all. your personal morality means nothing, it's what faction banner you're under. the only time that stuff matters is if you're an adventurer, because they only ally with who gets them the resources they want. (heroes are a type of adventurer, they have prophecies about them and are regarded as not real adventurers, because they didn't get a choice. i knew quite a few heroes who refused to say they were because the prophecy was secondary to their adventures.) adventurers are all over the place, but morality as a personal thing as we know it was... basically nonexistent? it was really different

[vydante]

ey babe! i jus wanna ask, how’s restart? ya wanna share any plans you have for it for the future? and btw, i love the story and your writing!

Hi hun!

It’s- honestly?

Ch.11 went a whole different route than what I was planning on doing (hell, I’ll even put the TWO whole ass drafts under the read more; warning, it’s SUPER long and I’m never using it so no losses on my part) but I’m happy it went the way it did haha. I finished it in 2 solid days, even if it took me months to update.

Uhh, as for future plans...?

*SPOILERS FOR RESTART? But not really?*

Next two chapters we (SHOULD BE, NO GUARANTEES) are gonna be dealing with CA:TWS... Then, right afterward, we may or may not have a filler chapter, and then we’ll dive into a certain Sokovian base (wink wink). As for AOU... Hm. ;)

AAAH I have so much stuff I wanna tell you guys about :,)

Well, so far that’s what I (canonically) have lined up.

As for other junk: I have 4 specials drafted, 2 What If’s (not canon, but mainly for filler and exploring unused ideas :D) and like, a couple out of place chapters that I wanna slide in the future arcs.

BTW, I have a question to ask: if I had any trashed drafts or whatever, do you guys wanna read it? I’ll post it all in one post (other than Ch.11, I don’t have any other trash right now, but still), probably here.

Anyways. Below cut is the cut draft PT.1 for Ch. 11. WARNING: it might be super incoherent.

Admittedly, Project Renaissance was a huge file.

Of course, it wasn't just all about one particular thing. No, there were files and files that lay underneath it, but even then each one was just as large as the other.

There were ones like 'World Domination', where it was just filled with new projects and products for Stark Industries, like prosthetics (SI really branched into the medical field after your dad made Rhodey his leg braces) and newer editions of tablets, phones, and laptops, too. Hell, even your car and motorbikes blueprints were on there, too- something SI had never dived into up until you had taken over. Improvements in cleaner energy were also there, but that's been the main target for SI for years, so that didn't really count.

Then there were files like 'Supernova' and 'Milky Way', which were a bit more important than others. Project Supernova had to do with Extremis. You wanted to stabilize it as much as possible, then throw it into the darkest corner possible and never have to look back at it; you only wanted it to serve as a... The last resort, of sorts.

Yeah, sure, Tony had a stable version of Extremis locked and loaded, hidden deep into the Tower's database, but it was barely usable. And as for Project Milky Way, it's more or less a Stark Internship program. It'd be really beneficial to high school (and maybe middle school) students, so you suppose...

("More like an excuse to properly recruit that Parker boy," DAHLIA snarks. Brat.)

But what had your constant attention were the big dogs, which, if you remembered correctly, should be happening quite soon.

Files like 'Snakes In The Grass' (S.H.I.E.L.D.-RA), 'Hot Tub Time Machine' (Sargeant Barnes), and 'On Your 6' (Project Insight) all had your attention right now, and for obvious reasons, as you nervously glance at your calendar.

3 more months. 

That was about all the time you had left before the big day was supposed to happen, and you were nowhere near as prepared as you should be. 

Sure, you had lots of contingency and protocols planned out already, but there was only so much you could predict what would happen. 

God, it sucks that you're not 21 yet, because your mind sure is buzzing for some Jäger right about now. You're not an alcoholic by a long shot but... You glanced at a picture of you and your dad.

You sure as hell understood alcoholics, though.

And for that, you needed to get your hands on B.A.R.F. All you need is to remember that one guy's name...

"DAHLIA, pull up the files for, ah... What was his name? Quin... Quincy? No, no... Gw- Quenti- Quentin Bank- Beck? Beck.��Quentin Beck- give me his file."

"I was worried you were having a stroke."

"I will if I don't see his file in T-minus 1 second."

You wiped your jittery hands clean of any leftover muck, definitely feeling 5 shots of espresso and 2 hours of intermittent sleep finally taking its toll. You glanced through the files that she had pulled up. There were the basic files: his biography, works, and reports, but those weren't what you were interested in.

"Filter it for anything regarding- uh- B.A.R.F. Like- eh- Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing."

All of the files slimmed up to where it was all organized in one, neat folder. You quickly skimmed through all of it, but it all seemed to be experimental work. For now, anyway.

"Progress on B.A.R.F.?"

"Mr. Beck and his team are currently

There he was, in all of his glory. Though he was immaculately dressed in all black, just as you remembered when you and your dad had to clean up the mess that was the fight on the highway. 

God, he's even bigger in person.

"Identify yourse-!"

As much as you didn't want the room to look like a hospital room, you hadn't exactly had all the time in the world to prepare the room for the man of the hour. 

Still knocked out, 

"Hey, Jon Snow. You 'wake?"

Taking a closer look at him, he looked a lot more worse for wear than you had remembered him being. Then again, the Barnes you saw was completely free of the brainwashing, a-la Princess Shuri and the Wakandan scientists.

(You knew eavesdropping was wrong. It didn't need an explanation as to why.

But despite all that, you made no effort to walk away from listening to the conversation that was going on between your dad and Prin- King T'Challa. It was obvious to you and your dad- along with anyone else with a brain in their skull- that the ex-Avengers (or, at least, Barnes)- was in the nation that was Wakanda. You didn't know how your dad had managed to skirt around that with T'Challa, but you didn't really care.

You just wanted to know what they're gonna do about it.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Dr. Stark? While I know that I, along with Mr. Barnes as well, would appreciate your more than generous offer... I also understand that there is... Tension between the two of you..."

Generous offer?

What the hell is T'Challa going on about? What offer?

"Just... promise me one thing."

"Just... I don't want him to- to try and find me. And if you can't do that- then... Then at least make sure he doesn't get near (Name)."

You bristled.

What?

"(Name)? Your son?"

"Yeah."

"If you could oblige me, may I know your reasoning?"

You strained your ears to the best of your abilities, but even your dad's murmuring was too intelligible for you to make out any words.

"I... I see... If those are your terms, then we will graciously accept the use of your Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing technology for Mr. Barnes's recovery..."

What?)

Your dad was more than happy to not take partial credit for Barne's recovery, so long as it was kept a promise that Barnes stay every little bit away from him (and you, surprisingly enough).

So, it was really unfair that you pitted 2023 Barnes against...

That.

Blank eyes stare directly in front of him, and interestingly enough, he doesn't make an effort to look you in the eye. He's strapped in his chair for extra precautions, but the lingering resignation in his eyes, no matter how blank they are, makes you want to vomit. It makes you sick, knowing that after each mission he's sent out on, he's probably getting strapped back into a goddamn chair and getting his whole hard drive wiped and reconfigured...

You glanced away from him, subtly bringing your hand up to your mouth. You coughed, praying that nothing comes up to your mouth as disgust fills your gut.

"Mission parameters incomplete."

His voice was quiet, for what it was. You weren't sure what you were expecting, but the softness of it was a surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"Mission parameters incomplete."

"Ah, man..."

"Yeah, no, how am I not surprised...?"

"Uh, hm. Hm, hm, hm..."

You pursed your lips.

He visibly perked up- either that, or you're kind of losing it.

"Oh well, that doesn't matter, I can fill the air with my gibberish anyways."

No response. Just a bleary and blank stare.

At least he was looking at you.

You smile.

"That's fine. Either way, as long as I have a say in it, you're not going back to HYDRA. I'll make sure of that, Barnes."

[canonstitute]

a pup named scooby-doo, ep. 1 (rambling/meta)

(look yes I know I made a blog to talk about cartoons because I can talk about them so much just shut up and let me memorize another 40+ years’ worth of a new canon because KND didn’t ruin me enough)

A Pup Named Scooby-Doo [S01E01] – A Bicycle Built for Boo!

Canon misc.

Coolsville, USA

The Daily Babbler (building parodying Clark Kent’s office Daily Planet)

Scooby Doo Detective Agency - small treehouse/clubhouse with a sign out front with the name next to a white fence. tree is impossibly tall and the actual clubhouse is small and nested at the very top

Some resemblance to Kids Next Door treehouses

not specified (yet?) whose yard the tree’s in if anybody’s (no houses in shot, clear on multiple sides with grass)

Clubhouse has crude rooftop “observatory” in the back with a huge makeshift telescope - trash can base + mounted pipes with lens

COMIX (title)

(“Haunted”) Ferguson estate

Gang gets picture in Daily Babbler

Fatty’s - Malts, Fries, and Burgers

Weirdo Woods - purple and swampy but mostly clear at ground-level (no plants) with some sinister trees; area completely out of view from neighborhood

Plot / Episode misc. [under cut for length]

the first episode is like the day after christmas or maybe the week after bc there’s a wreath on the door and there are christmas lights on Shaggy’s house - but only Shaggy’s house

could be before Christmas instead of after if his family celebrates early, but seems to be implying the Rogers don’t care enough to take the lights down after the holiday in a timely fashion

shaggy is too familiar with Scooby, his “personal alarm clock” when talking about his daily routine (waking up / paper route) for Scooby to have been a recent Christmas present. but if Norville’s had Scooby since they were both babies (toddlers?) as implied in a flashback from the sequel shows’ birthday special, Scooby should be well grown to size even if Shaggy’s only eight or nine here and he’s probably older

Shaggy’s room has monster posters

Dog door much too small for Scooby (probably growth spurt)

Cherry 1959 Star Fire (?) Special

Characters and episode roles established rather immediately, Daphne’s gig > Freddie’s > plot hinges on silent Velma to notice something for progress

Shaggy has a paper route, not much indication in this episode of how old he is. Scooby is older than his later nephew Scrappy was in his appearances but not fully grown yet

Red Herring does seem antagonistic of group and isn’t a tired running gag yet so Daphne does go off on him

Freddie aggressively threatens Red after being taunted

Velma pulling tools out of nowhere. Power sander, metal detector. stays quietly in background and finds bike w/o dialogue and helps others when asked

Fred gets beaten by the bully (run over on bike) only after losing a huge bravado - stood up to Red and sanded Red’s bike but was sheepish finding no evidence it’s stolen

Shaggy reading comic book and not helping afterward; contrast nurses Daphne (dabbing alcohol) and Scooby w/dress and doctor Velma - yes they all have the outfits

Kids are on break from school; plot starts early morning and continues remainder of that day

Weirdo Woods. Purple and swampy but mostly clear foliage-wise with some sinister trees here and there Red Herring’s “Secret Hideout” in Weirdo Woods is, uh, surprisingly close and easy to lose the neighborhood from

Velma speaking is the cue for a clue,random physics / data “genius” gibberish on screen as she types, somehow produces image of bicycle on portable computer

VELMA’S OBSERVATIONAL SKILLS REVEAL TIRE TRACKS ON PREVIOUSLY UNMARKED SIDEWALK

background track (just people singing “Scooby-Doo” and its variants over and over to a specific tune)

hee hee hee Daphne is holding Fred’s shoulders in this scene Velma has a motor skateboard, fast /reckless driver

Shaggy’s so light Scooby-Doo can drag him around by his own leash

Daphne dispenses the Scooby snack

Split-up is lampshaded, Velma goes with ShaggyDoo

………omg Velma and Scooby both dive into Shaggy’s t-shirt (with their heads peeking out the top) to hide from the ghost

Meeting the medium: Shaggy again becomes Scooby/Velma’s hiding place, Daphne is completely dismissive and Fred’s just mildly puzzled as always

“Alien agent from Mars that’s come here to steal bicycles in a plot to take over the world” -- it is absurdly weird for Shaggy to be giving Fred a reality/get-it-together check, i don’t care how young they are

Among Fred’s mentions: martians, spies, Fort Knox, costume, plot to take over the universe

Shaggy is the member of the gang most excited (ecstatic, even) to find all the cash. WNSD I believe had him coming from money if not to the degree of the Blakes, but he’s not unphased by it at all (Daphne is)

Shaggy gets overexcited and says he’s going to buy a million bikes. All kids can be like that but maybe his parents don’t buy him much in the way of toys / indulgences.

One time characters - undercover U.S. treasury department agent (?) Shirly Mcloone, Mr. Conrad - Daily Babbler

Daphne seems to cotton on second (after Velma) & delivers the explanation for the boys so Velma doesn’t have to talk too much. Daph knows money and she’s sharp, that’s for sure

Shaggy watches his friends eat ice cream in broke desolation and actually states he needs a new job now, because apparently his parents aren’t inclined to give their kid a dime for ice cream after solving a federal criminal investigation

The ghost was obviously the only guy besides a last-minute insert so I don’t have much to say about the ending, but can I just say these chase sequences where the characters do Peanuts dances randomly between shots set to episode-specific songs about the monster of the week? They’re fucking bizarre.

[teamwynn]

The Night Voice Retrospective, Pt. 12

[Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 11.5 | Part 12]

Well, here we are. The final scene. The last precious few moments of the saga. And they are, naturally, utterly wasted. Please, join me in reviewing this thrilling conclusion, and marvel at how dead I am inside.

Welcome Home, Wherever That Is (I guess we’re just done now)

Okay, so now that Team Wynn is fucking decimated with one exiled, one dead, and one suicidal, let’s see if Team Magiere can swing a happier ending. Let’s return to where the prologue left off.

The unbelievably good news is that Team Magiere is still all together. And I mean that “unbelievably” literally, because Chap is now about 50 years old, which is 350 in dog years. I’ll chalk that up to being majay-hi or Fay or whatever, but Jesus. Chill, man. Anyway, they’ve returned home where Leesil--in this book’s shining moment of having someone actually be in-character--apparently just keeps adopting, like, hordes of children. This horde includes Wayfarer, but Magiere’s already made it clear that she was going to adopt Wayfarer, anyway, so no surprise here. It also includes, at this point, at least 6 unidentified boys. And we receive confirmation from what was hinted at in the prologue that Wayfarer and Osha, at some point between the main ending and the epilogue, got married--

Okay, you know what. You know the fuck what. Fucking.

I need a moment.

…

Okay.

So, if the series tried to pull this kind of thing in Between Their Worlds, I probably could have bought it. Without the knowledge of The Dark and the Dark through The Night Voice, I could have bought that Wayfarer and Osha were able to work their way through the bullshit that Osha pulled on her. If it had skipped from BTW to this epilogue, I could have reasonably believed that Osha apologized and made up for abandoning Wayfarer at the end of BTW and that she would forgive him.

But! That’s significantly harder to swallow knowing what we know from the rest of Series 3, which is:

Osha’s     motivation for abandoning Wayfarer was entirely centered on his effort to     get Wynn to make out with him again and no other reason

Osha     deadnamed Wayfarer multiple times in FaLS

Even     after Osha appeared to learn his lesson about why deadnaming Wayfarer was     wrong later in FaLS, he continued to do it in TNV

Wayfarer     pretty explicitly indicated in TNV that she no longer had a crush on Osha,     and not only that, but that she didn’t want to be friends or even speak to     him anymore

Their     last on-page interaction before the epilogue is Osha freaking out over     Wynn being blinded while Wayfarer is right there and basically going, “I     mean, I’m risking my life in the middle of the battle too, but yeah, no,     keep throwing a fit about this like Wynn’s the only person in mortal     danger here. Asshole.”

So how did we get from that to married? And could it possibly get worse?

Why do I even pretend to ask. Of course it could. This scene is like 3 pages long, but it somehow packs even more bullshit into fewer words than the previous scene.

So, not only are Wayfarer and Osha inexplicably married, but when Magiere asks about how Osha is doing, Wayfarer indicates in no uncertain terms that he’s still hung up about Wynn--30 years later and after seemingly not ever speaking to her in that entire time--and that he might be dying from that weird elven sexual-imprinting thing because of it. That’s alarming news! How is Magiere going to react to that?

Why, naturally by laughing it off and making oblique references to Osha’s current profession, which is something that is entirely unexplained, though it’s doubtful an explanation would clarify the nonsense that is Osha the Reindeer Farmer or whatever the fuck he’s doing with his life. Again, Magiere’s reference to his current occupation is pretty fucking vague beyond that it involves those magical deer that Osha hated. Oh, that wacky Osha! Always playing with deer and literally dying of heartbreak! What a scamp!

There’s not really much more detail beyond that for either Wayfarer or Osha’s endings that I haven’t already covered, except for these uncomfortable observations about how they fit into Team Magiere’s family structure:

Wayfarer,     who had a massive crush on Leesil in Rebel     Fay, is now calling him “Father.” NO THANKS.

If     Wayfarer is Magiere and Leesil’s daughter and Osha is her husband, that     makes Osha Magiere and Leesil’s son-in-law. What. The fuck. How is that an     actual thing that happened in canon???

Okay, now that we’re all sufficiently grossed out, let’s go more over the core team’s ending. Of course, returning to Miiska is something that has been a long time coming for Team Magiere. They haven’t been home since Child of a Dead God, when Magiere and Leesil had their wedding surrounded by loved ones and held the reception at the Sea Lion Tavern, the Ground Zero of all this vampire nonsense. So their ultimate return home should be at least as celebratory and communal as that, right?

Obviously this scene is set some time after they arrive back home, so it makes sense that they wouldn’t necessarily still be partying about that, but there’s still something suspiciously… I don’t know, absent about their homecoming. Like… all the people. And the town. And the tavern.

Did… did they even go back to Miiska? The town and the tavern were both mentioned by name at least once (maybe exactly once), but there’s not really any sense of the characters actually being there. And none of the townspeople (those minor characters from Dhampir, etc. that I mentioned a few posts back) are present at all, even though a number of them should still be perfectly alive to share in this happy (?) ending. What we get instead is Magiere and Leesil existing in this textureless void with their family of nameless, faceless young boys and Wayfarer on the side predicting the doom of Osha as well as Chap (both of whom are off-page this whole time, mind. Oh, did I forget to mention that Chap doesn’t even appear in the epilogue, despite somehow unbelievably surviving the entire saga? Because he doesn’t.) But Magiere gives about as much of a fuck about any of that as she did about Wynn dying, which is to say, not at all.

So, what is… even happening here?

Well, aside from Wayfarer helpfully reminding everyone that Death Comes For All, Magiere is just kind of blandly resigning herself to the reality that that includes Leesil, and that someday it’s just going to be her and Chane, eternally avoiding each other. (And Pawl, too, but obviously I’ll give Magiere a pass on not bringing him up because she never even found out that Pawl existed.) There’s also some weird musings on Magiere’s part about the fact that Chane probably has a soul, which has never been in question before so I don’t know why she’s so amazed by this probability. Like, vampires having or not having souls have never been a part of the lore in the series, and even if it was it doesn’t pertain to anything now. And for some reason she essentially lies to Leesil about not killing Chane--it’s neither clear why Leesil is gunning so hard for Chane to be dead at this point, nor why Magiere was unwilling to admit that she didn’t kill him again. She just kind of avoids Leesil’s questions about the matter and goes on blandly commentating for a few paragraphs about Osha and Leesil’s army of children. But I guess Magiere is happy with her existence in this vague void, waiting for the clock to run down on all her loved ones, comforted only by her smugness from seeing Chane cry. And… um…

No, seriously, what is happening here?

Did the epilogue already waste up all its emotional weight on contriving Team Wynn into the most melodramatically tragic situation possible that it’s just completely burnt out here? This whole scene just feels like a shadow-puppet of Magiere strolling across a completely blank background going, “I have family, death happens, sad but also happy, END.”

You know what, Magiere? You know what? I’m glad END. This book couldn’t fucking END too soon. Over 400-pages of complete fucking gibberish to cap off my favorite series of all time, because it wasn’t enough for the Noble Dead Saga to END poorly, but it had to make a goddamn show of it. I am genuinely amazed at how little this book delivered on actually ENDing anything. The number of plot holes and loose ends and retrograding character arcs is truly impressive, and on top of all that, this book had the audacity to not be audacious with all of that. This wild departure from the rest of the saga couldn’t have included alien invasions or dinosaur clones or any shit like that, no--this book managed to be an utterly convoluted counter-narrative to all the books that came before it while also maintaining a complete cardboard blandness. Truly astonishing that a book so contrived could also be so utterly ankle-deep shallow. This book fucking tangled itself in knots with teleportation trees and dog armies and battles in the center of il’Sanke’s mind and whatever the fuck either the wraith or the necromancer were doing in this book at all, and at the end of all of that, Magiere’s happy ending is just being kind of quietly pleased that her husband isn’t dead yet.

I am beyond myself in amazement. And I am so, so fucking tired.

Well, that’s it for every plot point in TNV that sent me into a frothing rage. Tomorrow I’ll be writing up a conclusion to all of this, because god damn I need some proper closure somewhere.