#fable ( conversation )

[mouse-drawings]

Vasya is, technically, not a licensed therapist.

Based on a conversation my friend and I had in Discord one time. Vasya stands for me and for my friend I used her bugsona!

[m0rninglatte]

When you can just make silly goofy jokes about one fandom and then slide another one in there when talking to your friends /silly:

[ @04dislexicdoughnut17 ]

[the-sunshine-dims]

I bet Icarus is ganna think about the conversation they had with Rae a lot when they find out about Enderian's death, about how Enderian was trying to be a mom to Rae, was trying to be better, about how Rae almost had what Icarus had even if it was tainted,

About how their dad took even that chance from Rae, even if they hated Enderian, and probably would never stop, she was still something, for Rae.

about how once again they hurt Rae, about how they couldnt stop, becuase it couldn't be Fable's fault, how could it be? it was always Icarus's

[oatberrytea]

[velaraffricate]

AGH the pain of wanting to translate stuff into your conlang but having no text to translate

[he-who-held-the-sky13]

The random conversations I have

*me and @cosmicthestar having a silly argument over me watching fable angst, specifically user comm unreachable*

Cosmic: I WILL TAKE YOUR FABLE CARD

Me: NO

Cosmic: I WILL

Me: I WILL REPLACE YOUR EYES WITH RAMEN

Cosmic: WHAT?!

[st-whalefall]

Ok actually-

Let’s get into it. Lost Fable Primetime is back on

What does Ozma take away from his experience being resurrected-murdered-resurrected again-murdered again by the Brothers Grimm?

Because this is a huge foundation of my read on Ozma as a character

What he comes away from that experience knowing is Fear

Fear of the gods of light and darkness, fear of their total control of life and death and fear of their indifference for the existential horror of being ragdolled between them in a godly squabble.

Fear of being in their hands. Again.

Fear of helplessness and inevitability, which he projects onto the Brothers Grimm.

This is only further cemented by what the gods do in reaction to human rebellion. Which is the total obliteration of the species.

Now, here is where I think a few folks are likely to disagree with me, but I think the lost fable doesn’t just put things into perspective for Oz by making him relive the whole terrible thing.

But actually, Ozma sees a few key events for the first time with his own eyes. Events that he’d only been told before and had to speculate on previously. (Events still skewed by his own perception of them)

Case in point, the events that played out after his first death, and then the subsequent aforementioned holy reconstitutions-incinerations.

The rise and fallout of Salem’s rebellion.

Oz is aware of the sequence of events, but the parts he was there for (resurrected-murdered-resurrected again-murdered again) he was understandably disoriented, afraid, and confused.

“Where am I? What is This?! WHERE AM I!?”

(It must have been like coming up for air after being under water, gasping for breath, opening your eyes for a second, and someone grabbing your hair and pushing you back under. Drowning.)

(That’s what the god of darkness and the god of light did to Ozma when they had their little feud over life and death after Salem’s prayer. Playing with Ozma’s soul like a tennis ball hit back and forth.)

Ozma wasn’t there for everything after that.

I don’t think Ozma doubted what Salem told him about the actions of the gods (he fully fucking believed her when she told him that they killed all the people of the world; the why is what’s murky for him) but seeing it?

Seeing the moonfall…

Is it any wonder that he runs from it all and locks himself away inside Oscar’s head after?

My man does not think they’re gonna make it. Ozma believes that the return of the gods is inevitable and the only way the people of Remnant survive is complete and total obedience to the gods and their fickle whims.

And Ozma knows that’s impossible.

[philoktitties]

less than one week from the dickathon….

[radioactive-earthshine]

Always am delighted seeing someone read SB94 but then I remember how dark and gross it is and I always wonder how much I... should say. Because right when you think it can't get worse it does.

[entityforged]

for @fooleds

it feels uncharacteristically cruel for insoo to text fable about a potential date with someone else, but the mere idea of it makes their heart sink. it's not until the other texts come flooding in that they're pulled from their masochistic imagination and realize who he was talking about, and they—

well, they have to lie on the floor about it for a few minutes before they can respond.

[ sms -> 🫠 ]: .........that was about me? [ sms -> 🫠 ]: you wanna ask me on a date?

[mantisgodsdomain]

Writing Scarlet is fun because in almost any situation where he has to interact with people over an extended period of time, his social skills will actively start to decay as he gets out of the area of "things he's practiced in and can bluff through in his sleep" and into the area of "having to deal with people who he has talked to more than once who can do things like spot inconsistencies and develop ideas and impressions about him".

[the-sunshine-dims]

mmm; not to feed into the kaleidoscope thoughts but - M being the first one to get Quixis to actually talk to Rae (or just, someone in general, but probably Fen or Rae) in person. the first person person and not just God. it's a thought I hold very gently. (Malitae becomes a wingman but for friends and conversations real??)

my thoughts,, their so kaleidoscope

the way M would know just how to reassure Q, both hiding for so long, M not showing what they look like either, and so xe would understand so well, and they would know just how to back them up, in reference to the wack- and everything if need be, but their just there, there for Quixis.

[aquilamage]

also now that I’m ready to start doing character pages if there’s any character(s) you’d like to see sooner rather than later now’s your chance to speak up

[intankhasanah]

Good Deeds

"They said every good deed will be rewarded, but there is none come", the caterpillar grumbled

"Are there any bad things that happened lately?", the ant responded

"Waiting for the reward is more than bad. IT IS THE WORST!", The caterpillar couldn't believe the ant didn't pay attention to her.

"I mean, something bad like a disaster? Losing things, falling, getting hurt, sick, something like that?", the ant made her statement more specific to deal with the caterpillar's temper

"Well, no. But every day feels the same. I'm bored", the caterpillar couldn't help herself out of her misery

"Maybe, if you allow me to elaborate my perspective, no bad things can also be a reward for your good deeds, don't you think so? Things could get worse, but it didn't. Don't you think that's also part of your reward?", the ant tried to shed light on the caterpillar's self-made misery

"If you put it that way..it makes sense. But don't you think I deserve a better life?", the caterpillar bargained

"Of course you do! The absence of bad things as the reward for your good deeds will make your day better! You'll live your life easier than having a series of unfortunate events that might drain your energy. That privilege is an opportunity for you to try something new, something that excites you. Excitement can make you feel better. Hence, the better life!", nothing can beat the caterpillar's self-pity than the ant's optimism.

"I mean..that's not..well..", the caterpillar realized she was too tired to complain more. She has lost much of her energy pitying herself. She got none left.

"I'll show you the new garden filled with many pretty flowers that just appeared last night. Come with me, you need to recharge yourself with the beauty of life outside this place. Who knows good things already waiting for us there", the ant remembered her intention to come to the caterpillar's house. She wanted to cheer up her best friend and help her find her sparks again.

[bugieeeee]

Damn today really went from pretty ok to actually top 3 worst days this year in like 20 min

[pellucid-constellations]

Fable - During

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel was too late, and something was brewing. The fate of your wings rested in the balance and there was nothing left of him to reconcile with.

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Angst, injury, violence

a/n: This is part of a mini-series but each part can be read on its own/out of order. The next part is going to be long guys <3 Thank you for reading all of this angst!!!

Series Masterlist (all parts ♡)

~~

The ground beneath Azriel’s feet must have disappeared. 

He was unstable, falling, plummeting into an unknown abyss. 

When he looked down, Azriel saw the plush carpet at his feet, but as he replayed Rhysand’s words—four words, echoing—the blur behind his eyes made the physical obsolete. We can’t find her, Rhysand had said, followed by a multitude of questions from Cassian that Azriel could not hear. Everything was buzzing and the carpet was gone. 

Where was Lucien? Azriel remembered that Lucien was to go with you. Where was he? 

He had to be dead because if he were alive and you were missing, Azriel would kill him himself. 

“Lucien,” Azriel spoke, his voice rough, interrupting the conversation he had not been part of. 

“What?” Rhysand asked. 

But Cassian ignored his High Lord’s confusion. “She was never bringing Lucien,” he growled, throwing his brother a sneer. “She only said that to make sure you went on your date. I told her I should’ve come. I told her—” 

Azriel had lost his breath. He was grappling for it, trying to make sense of Cassian’s words as his lungs began to burn, but you wouldn’t do that, would you? Why would you lie to him? Over something like this? 

“Cassian, enough,” Azriel gasped, the buzzing of his brother’s voice a constant barrier in the losing battle within his head. “Who’s looking for her? Where should we go?” 

Azriel was dressed in a ridiculous button-up shirt with slacks that now felt too tight on his legs. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms and his shadows took advantage of the open space, trailing up to protect him from nothing. Because nothing was here—he wasn’t in danger. 

You were. 

Azriel had only gotten through drinks with Elain before the call from his High Lord sent him into the sky. He couldn’t remember if he apologized. Azriel’s shoes were pinching his feet. 

“I had just lost connection with her when I called you. I sent her to the northeast camp. There’s a possibility that—” 

Azriel was traveling through the shadows, darkness consuming him before Rhysand could finish his sentence. He should have grabbed Cassian for backup, but that was a thought Azriel would only have much, much later. 

His mind was on you—only on you. 

That wasn’t unnatural for Azriel; you were one of the most important people in his life and you had been in trouble before. Life-threatening, war-induced trouble, but somehow, this felt different. 

You had been distant lately. 

Azriel had noticed, but Azriel had also been so zeroed in on getting Elain’s attention that he figured he would have time to check on you in a few weeks. 

When he landed in the camp, the foreboding quiet made him consider that he might never get to check on you again. Illyrian camps were never quiet. There was always shouting or fighting or nagging mothers getting after their young. But the insects in the bushes could be heard in this camp, and Azriel paused amid his racing heart to make sense of the noise. 

And then he heard the scream. 

Your scream.

And he was running. 

His shoes groaned as they pounded into soft dirt and you screamed again. Azriel had never heard that sound come from you. The way it erupted into the air—it was as if it was ripped from your throat, evoked from nothing but agony. 

He pushed himself harder, faster, until the screams became closer and a small hut materialized on the horizon. The image of the quaint house brought Azriel relief, but that relief was short-lived because your screams had become tired in his journey. With each step, your voice broke more and more and Azriel didn’t even feel angry. 

The rage he expected to feel was consumed by the terror that gripped him. 

He ripped open the door and that terror only increased tenfold. 

Azriel was usually focused during battle, his mind razor-sharp. He was known for calculating every step, for remembering each life he took, and being able to recount each slice of his blade when asked for a report days later. Azriel was a warrior and a spy. 

But Azriel could not remember his actions. 

From the moment he opened the door and found you on the ground, surrounded by enemies and so broken, he lost the ability to calculate anything other than death. 

He figured a few must have gotten away because he vaguely registered that the door made a sound. But over the screams, that sound was inconsequential, and with the image of you before him, lying in your blood, chest only minutely rising and falling, everything else was inconsequential. 

He only remembered that the rage finally found him. 

Only when bodies littered the floor did the anger make way for the visceral fear that came with reaching for you—grabbing you as you let out small, weak sounds and took labored breaths. 

“Y/n?” Azriel stressed, eyes roving over your figure with haste that his hands couldn't match. He had to be careful; so much of you was broken. “Y/n,” he spoke again, as if the echo of your name would somehow fix you, snap you out of the hurt. 

Azriel’s breath quivered. His scarred hands hovered over your skin now, afraid to touch you more than to bring you into his arms. His fingers shook. Your wings—it was your wings. 

“You’re okay,” Azriel affirmed, whispering only to himself. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” 

Salt tainted the surface of his tongue, and Azriel then recognized that he was crying. Fat, heavy tears blurred his vision and fell into his mouth as he repeated his mantra into the stagnant air. 

Your wings looked beyond repair. When Hybern destroyed Cassian’s, the roots remained. The delicate flesh was burned and torn, but regrowth was still feasible.

Only small pieces of the membrane along your back remained. 

Azriel’s soul wept. 

You groaned, and Azriel stopped his inspection of your back, his hands brushing your hair off from where it stuck to your skin. 

“Y/n?” he tried again. “Can you hear me? I’m—I’m going to bring you home, okay? You’re going to be fine, I promise.” 

He shouldn’t have promised that. His voice broke as he spoke the words and Azriel knew he shouldn’t have promised that because you only let out a broken rendition of ‘my wings?’ that Azriel had no response to. He only squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to your temple before shadows consumed him once more. They had been rampaging around the pair, whispering worried, angry words in Azriel’s ear, but they remained faithful. 

They brought you home. 

Mor screamed first. 

He assumed everyone would be out looking for you, but Azriel hadn’t broken the connection to Rhysand’s mind, and they had been expecting him. His family stood before him as your blood stained the rug of his High Lord’s favorite sitting room. Rhysand was missing, gone to retrieve Madja, but Azriel was only looking for those he knew could help you. 

His throat caught on air as he frantically searched for Feyre in the room. When he saw her wide eyes, he let out a desperate, “Help her,” that sounded nothing like him. His High Lady’s shoulders rose and fell with hurried panic as she came forward and then hesitated. 

Azriel heard someone vomit in the corner of the room—Cassian, he thought—and Mor came to kneel beside him. 

“Feyre,” he sobbed. “Please. Please, try.” 

Mor was crying. Cassian had wiped his mouth and come to stand beside Feyre, but everyone was too afraid to touch you. You rested in Azriel’s arms, but even his palms remained face up and did not connect with your skin. He would break you more, he was sure of it. Your wings bent at odd angles and hung from your body by only tethered threads and no one knew what to do. 

Azriel thought that dying would be better than this. 

His button-up was stained red. 

“Fuck.” Rhysand’s voice rattled the air in the House. At some point, Feyre had broken her hesitancy and kneeled before you, a gentle glow emitting from her hands as she tried to stitch together the broken remains of your skin. When her mate appeared with the elder healer, she turned wild eyes towards him. Rhysand stood frozen, mimicking each person in the room, but he was the High Lord—a composed leader—so his reverie lasted only seconds before he was sent into action. 

“The table,” Rhysand demanded. “Lay her on the table.” 

No one moved. 

Azriel couldn’t stop looking at you. 

Madja then spoke, no, demanded, “Now.” 

The table was cleared, everything swiped to the floor with abandon. As gently as he could, Azriel rose from the floor on shaking legs and heaved you up with him, offering soft apologies as you cried out. He wished you would pass out from the pain, be free of it all, but the agonizing reality that you might not wake up struck him harder. 

“I’m so sorry, y/n,” he whispered against your hair. His body ached. Azriel leaned you against the table as the other members of his family turned you on your stomach. He kneeled to meet your lidded gaze, your face pressed against the wood. “Madja’s going to fix it, okay?” 

The healer was giving orders—Cassian to get water, Mor to support your head, Feyre for support. It was all a buzz in Azriel’s ears. He licked his lips and tried to meet your eyes, but they were trailing off, unfocused. 

“Y/n?” he tried. “Angel?” A name he had dropped once Elain came into the picture. Your lashes fluttered. His attention peaked. “It’s okay, angel. I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry—” 

Azriel was torn from his position on the ground, a heavy hand shoving him up and against the wall. His shadows remained caressing your skin, but a fist met Azriel's face and he lost sight of you. 

“This is your fault.” 

“Cassian!” Mor called, desperately pleading with no one. 

“It is,” Cassian seethed, his arm pressed to the Shadowsinger’s throat. “If he hadn’t been searching for something with a woman not even meant to be his, he would have been there. She would have said anything to ensure your happiness. Anything, Azriel.” 

Azriel blinked and Cassian’s face was inches from his own. “I didn’t—” 

“You have been blinded, brother. You’ve been blind for years and now this is the price.” 

“I don’t—what are you saying?” Azriel pleaded, trying and failing to look over Cassian’s broad wings to catch a glimpse of you. 

“Cassian, this is not the time,” Mor scolded, but the anguish burned so deeply in Cassian’s eyes that Azriel could tell he wasn’t hearing her. 

“She gave you everything,” his brother continued. “She—” 

Your scream punctuated the building tension in the room. Cassian whipped around and Azriel used the opportunity to shove him away, the Shadowsinger racing to your side once again. But, once again, he was pushed away. Rhysand held his shoulder back this time, shaking his head with a furrowed brow. 

The screams echoed in the room and they hurt. 

They hurt everyone. 

Feyre and Mor stood beside Madja, the three of them set to the fruitless task of saving your wings. A small part of Azriel spoke the truth that they were also just trying to save you. You had lost so much blood and he still knew nothing of your other injuries. 

“Rhys,” Azriel begged, beseeching him with his gaze. 

But Rhysand only shook his head once more. “They need the space.” 

“She needs me.” 

Cassian scoffed and ground his jaw, but a glance in the general’s direction found only tears and the quivering of his lips as he pressed them together. 

“You need to let them work.” 

“This is my fault,” Azriel spoke, his tone dead, lost within the echo of your screams. “I was seeing Elain,” he admitted. He met Rhysand’s eyes. “You told me not to. She lied so I could go.” 

Rhysand didn’t even look disappointed. He didn’t look surprised. He only ticked his jaw to the side and breathed deeply through his nose as your screams filled the room once more. 

Azriel flinched. The soles of his shoes were caked with blood and cracked along the stitches. 

Rhysand would have the right to be angry. He had the right to send Azriel away and force him to sit in uncertainty and the consequences of the night, but Rhysand found something familiar in the Shadowsinger’s eyes—something different. Something that Rhysand could find in himself if he were to search his mind from the night he thought Feyre to be dead. 

Impossible, the High Lord assumed, but you were still screaming and there was no time to inspect the intricacies of Azriel’s reaction. 

So Rhysand only held back the maelstrom of his own emotions, his sister broken on the table just feet from him, and kept his response to that of a leader. 

“Let them work, Azriel.”