#i am the lorekeeper

[mamasplat]

I am a simple young lady.

And a lesbian.

[aceofintuition]

Chapters: 18/19 Fandom: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Omega Ruby & Alpha Sapphire | Pokemon Omega Ruby & Alpha Sapphire Versions, Pocket Monsters: Ruby & Sapphire & Emerald | Pokemon Ruby Sapphire Emerald Versions Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Matsubusa | Maxie, Aogiri | Archie, Izumi | Shelly, Homura | Tabitha, Kagari | Courtney, Ushio | Matt, Groudon (Pokemon), Tsuwabuki Daigo | Steven Stone, Handsome | Looker, Kyogre (Pokemon), Higana | Zinnia Additional Tags: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, possession AU (sort of), Swearing, Nonbinary Character, Trans Character, Enemies to Friends, Humor, archie swears like a sailor ba dum tish, ORAS versions of the teams, but maxie has a healthy dose of RSE maxie's personality, and by that I mean low WIS and low INT, terrible mishmash of ORAS and RSE history with some original headcanons thrown into the mix, maybe eventually hardenshipping but they sure as hell aren't right now, a possibly surprising amount of fistfighting, Drama, Slow Burn, Sporadic Updates, i write when i feel like it, content warnings will be listed at the beginning of each chapter, steven stone is surrounded by idiots unfortunately for him, graphic depictions of violence is just for a couple scenes, that i wouldn't consider super graphic but are atypical of pokemon canon in their violence levels Summary:

Zinnia pisses off Steven for the very last time! Maxie sees shrimp colors.

Ω

[lorekeeper-backset]

Courtney and Zinnia with the "The Bad Bitch I pulled by being autistic" and "the autistic girl I pulled by being a bad bitch" t-shirts respectively.

[its-gonna-be-may]

Hi, hey, hello! Zinnia here! Yeah, I'm Zinnia! I'm Zinnia I'm Zinnia that's who I am!

Uh... May just flew off on Rayquaza and left her 'Nav with me...

So I guess... I'll just talk with you all...

[vellichorom]

Hello there! I have a few questions about the paraverse

firstly how do new narrators get there? Do they just get teleported there like in hfjOne hehe or is there a transport of some kind?

also does the paraverse have any kind of structures or different landscapes or is it just a white void? can they influence the landscape in any way or are build permissions off?

Lastly is there any logic to it all or is it just british chaos

sorry if it’s a lot of questions, I’m just so curious about this type of stuff

as MUCH as I would love to answer these questions in fine, excruciating detail, there's not necessarily a set location in which the Paraverse itself takes place. the Paraverse is both- the fun title for the community / " multiverse " of parable designs & AUs to come together for fun shenanigans, AS WELL as the name of a big fat excuse for us all to interact. AS SUCH, the Paraverse can happen wherever you, the artists, want it to!

maybe they all gather in an expansive white void, maybe they gather in the nearest coffee shop, or in a BIGGER rendition of The Stanley Parable office, it's honestly wherever you want it to be or whatever fits best for the interactions you'd like to have!

there's no official structures or any rules to this sort of thing, bear in mind, because it's more of just a moldable idea than anything else, so have fun with it!

& as for HOW they get there? also up to you! i've always left it ambiguous myself, although the idea was discussed once that thierry has customized doorways in his game to invade other, specific people's games / worlds ( i think he had something of a scary ass crawlspace to get through to get to CYM-K's parable rendition, once upon a time & another / just a flight of stairs down to get to the set of title_pending, ), or OTHERWISE just walked in a very specific direction in the void & ended up on The Other Side. OR a glitch in the system happened & oops! thierry's somewhere else now.

it's ALL whatever you make of it really! so hey, if YOU want your parable to get ONE'd into the system, GO for it, you totally not secretly a shattered oil lamp mastermind you!

[tetrameryxx]

Weebly is better than wix, neocities is the best. Wix is being boycotted rn & shitty so you should definitely move to another platform

Copy that 👍

[venalos]

@forjustice, cont.

The Risen Kushala Daora held his head high, undaunted by her withering snarl. She may be the chosen one of that big, green, superfluous worm for all Jupiter cared, she will forever remain an insignificant piece of meat in his eyes. She could even beat him black-and-blue, as unlikely of an event that may be (or at least he thought), and he would still view himself superior in every way.

"My... problem? Did you really have to ask?" Jupiter growled, in that primordial tongue only beasts could understand. "My 'problem' is that I still cannot comprehend why Marina would stoop so low as to choose you as her mate."

At the very least Jupiter was honest. He shook his head, his mere presence giving off a gust of wind strong enough to knock any lesser beings straight on their backs.

However, even Jupiter had to begrudgingly admit that Zinnia was no lesser being. Even if he would prefer facing death over saying it out loud.

"Had she finally gone mad at that precise moment?"

[furbypaw]

just how many stars will i need to hang around me to finally call it heaven?

(redraw of this)

[ask-lorekeeper-zinnia]

Favorite dragon type that’s not Rayquaza or part of the Salamence line?

Hoenni Noivern. It was my second ever Pokemon, after all.

[syrinq]

yeah i really love it when you want to build a website and learn coding and programming and scripting and set yourself on fire and the experience is basically just this

[amessageonthewind]

Zinnia knows what she likes...but that means making a meaningful lasting connection to someone and that's absolutely terrifying to her because her purpose in life is what motivates her and gives her life meaning and it's to sacrifice herself.

So much of her identity is wrapped up in being a Lorekeeper. The last of her people. To be the one to summon Rayquaza and save Hoenn from another meteor. Something she probably assumes is a one-way trip.

Having a partner she genuinely has a connection with would complicate that a lot.

She'd feel guilty. And afraid of what that would mean for her. She wouldn't want to burden someone else with her lack of purpose as without that calling and that destiny, she doesn't see much of a path for herself.

She is very wrong and I am going to prove that she deserves to be loved and she deserves to mean something to someone and she deserves to have agency over her own destiny in life.

[mamasplat]

I think about this scene a lot, like an unhealthy amount

(It goes even harder at night time)

[peopleareaproblem]

"It's the only name I can say."

So last ep, Kalina dropped this line after saying "Ragh Barkrock" again. She's really trying to get the Bad Kids to deduce who she could be referring to via Ragh. We've found out about the Spy's Tongue Curse since she last dropped Ragh's name, so it's clear that she's implying that she cannot say the names she wants to say and is dropping Ragh's name as a clue. I've been seeing a lot of theories about this line that are convinced it's implying Lydia Barkrock. I disagree: I think she is referring to Arianwen, Jace and Porter. Here's why.

First of all, and most obviously: Kalina says Lydia's full name in Sophomore Year episode 6.

Kalina: But you do have some time to talk it over because I'm gonna head out and kill Lydia Barkrock. So take care.

I don't think Brennan or the D20 Lorekeeper would have missed this. Kalina doesn't have a Spy's Tongue Curse with Lydia.

Secondly, the gang already investigated Lydia and got relevant clues from her, and Brennan did not encourage suspicion towards Lydia in any way. This repeat of the clue really feels like a "you guys didn't get it yet" type thing. Last time they assumed Lydia and that wasn't it. Try again.

Thirdly, Ragh's only real interaction with Kalina is about a single time he saw something he shouldn't have: Jace, Porter and Arianwen talking to someone invisible (Kalina) on Prom Night. I believe that if the Bad Kids just asked Ragh what Kalina could possibly have meant by "Ragh Barkrock" and "It's the only name I can say," he would absolutely bring up this fact. But they haven't!

That's why I am convinced that Arianwen, and to a lesser extent Jace and Porter, are who Kalina was referring to.

Below the cut are some bits of the trancript from Episode 4 of Sophomore Year, where Ragh reveals this to the Bad Kids.

Ragh is describing the aftermath of the fight with Kalvaxus:

Ragh: I ran into the school. And I went and I saw there was this conversation, and I was going, 'cause a lot of the teachers had been trapped in the crystals and had come out again. And I saw Jace, the sorcery teacher-- Adaine: Mm-hmm. Ragh: Talking to this woman that I didn't recognize. She was an elven woman, she was wearing sort of like black, dark robes, it looked like, they were very light. She was blonde, she had glasses. Adaine: She look like this? [points at her face] Ragh: She look like you? Adaine: Mm-hmm. Ragh: I mean, yeah. Yeah, she looked like, yeah, she looked like you. But older. She didn't look like-- Adaine: Right. Ragh: Um, you know, I mean, elves never look that old, but she looked like, you know, not a high schooler. Um. Jace and them were talking, and they were talking to somebody else who I couldn't see. I just assumed somebody was like, invisible. Um. Later, um, Jace and Porter came and talked to me--

Ragh goes on to describe Porter healing him, despite Ragh not feeling "that injured, honestly", and after that he can see Kalina despite not being able to see her moments before:

Ragh: And after that, I was like walking home, and I saw this cat woman, this tabaxi. And she came up, and told me all this stuff about my mom, and she said if I ever talked to anyone about it, she would kill my mom.

This indicates that Porter infected Ragh with the curse, on purpose. Probably to allow Kalina to threaten and manipulate him so he wouldn't tell anyone what he saw. She really doesn't want him telling anyone that he saw Arianwen there.

Ragh: She told me if I ever mentioned to anyone what I had seen about that elven woman-- Adaine: Mm-hmm. Ragh: That she would kill my mom.

They have a short conversation about wether Jace is suspect, but dismiss it. Adaine shows Ragh a photo of her mother and he confirms that it is the woman he saw.

[punjab-official]

🤝

I am normal about Zinnia. Having a folder dedicated to images of a character is normal and fine.

Okay to be fair, most of these are just here cause I needed them for one thing and then left them to languish in my hard drive.

[ctimenefic]

just had to write this out of my brain, I'm sorry pierresteban lorekeepers if I have fucked up the dynamic, I'll go back to my corner at once

2k of post-Brazil stuff tentatively titled something like slow lane, fast lane, parallel lines

Pierre didn’t pack a podium-worthy outfit for the triple header. Certainly not for Brazil. A party outfit, sure, in case Charles did well – that’s still fucked, a crumpled bundle rank with sweat at the bottom of one of his cases, shipped back home without him two weeks ago after Austin. He hadn’t seen this coming.

No one had seen this coming. 

He has to settle for a creased button up, undone so far the team will be able to see his heart still thudding against his ribs, hours after the last bubbles swirled away into the standing water on the track. It’ll do; he tries to smoulder into the mirror, but he can’t stop smiling. It’s just going to get soaked with sweat anyway, in whatever bar backroom they’ve secured. It was Harriet, he heard, shaking with hope from the moment the red flag came, ringing round Sao Paulo venues with broken Portuguese and her heart in her mouth.

It is strange, being alone for this clutch of minutes, to shower and shave and press cologne against his skin like anointing oil. The team had been all around him the moment he was out of the car, all the way to the hotel. Esteban next to him for hours, hip to hip. Pierre had been warm, despite the rain, the perpetual grey of track and sky.

The shirt is not so white that he’ll look filthy, later, if he’s touched. He undoes another button, just in case. Kiki said, once - if he won, and she wasn’t there. Then it was fine. She’d been joking, maybe, but he hadn’t pressed her. There are many beautiful men and women in Brazil. 

He goes down to the lobby early, already sick of the quiet. He wants the roar back, the force of it against his skin. He wants hands on his back, fingers on his neck, in his hair. Three girls from the team are huddled waiting for a taxi, by the doors, but they hover six inches away now, like without their uniforms he’s unsafe to clasp. Apart, again. 

Pierre drifts away, to the spot where the lobby leaks into a bar and - George Russell is there. As out of place as usual, squinting at his phone, folded up in an armchair that’s too low for him. It turns his knees into a ski slope. He only looks up when Pierre gets right up beside him; then he unbends upright, gets halfway to a handshake before he’s gripping Pierre’s shoulder instead. “Good racing, today,” he announces, like he hadn’t said it hours ago, dripping wet and still horribly sincere, all his natural animosities tucked away.

“Thank you,” Pierre replies, automatic. “I did not think Mercedes were slumming here though?” It is a fine hotel, but not so very nice. The lifts are slow. And Mercedes take up space. They have a sponsor deal, he thinks; some foolish video Charles had sent him last year with a string of emoji. 

Russell snorts. “No. Meeting Alex for our sad bastards dinner.”

Of course. Because for Mercedes, fourth is a disappointment. Which trophy did Russell imagine he’d be snatching today? Pierre’s? Max’s? He hopes Alex charges his meal to Russell’s card. 

“I am going out with the team,” Pierre offers. Immediately feels foolish. He meant- the point was to not invite Russell. It is fun, usually, being rude to him, watching his jaw tic. He is very English about it. 

Now, though, he seems unfazed. His eyebrows jump just a little. “I gathered.” 

His gaze drops briefly down the deep V of Pierre’s shirt. It is perhaps not an achievement with the most notorious homosexual on the grid, but still. There’s some satisfaction to it.

“Where are you- oh!”

The cooldown lap had felt a hundred years long, after an impossibly drawn-out race. Pierre had felt like he could count every drop of spray between his and Este’s cars. 

It is a little like that now, watching Russell’s eyes slide over his shoulder, the way his face changes slowly and utterly. Cheekbones lifted, so his eyes get a little smaller, the start of crows feet at the edges. The top of his face starts smiling before the rest catches up. His shoulders roll too, back and down and open. It happens in a blink, and yet it changes the whole shape of him. Like sunlight through clouds. 

Pierre doesn’t need to look round to guess what he’ll say next. “There he is,” Russell adds, regardless. “Have a good evening, Pierre.” He strides off before Pierre can find the right sniff for such an abrupt dismissal. 

He turns to wave at Alex, but he’s already turned back towards the lift, shoulders up around his ears until Russell slings an arm over them. He hears Russell teasing: “Don’t be a lazybones, Albono, you’re on the fourth floor, we can walk it.”

And then they are gone, and the girls from the team come to collect him for the car, and they are squashed up close enough that he does not have to think about it for too long. Just long enough. 

How many people look at him like sunshine? He had friends like that, once. More than one of them, once.

Tonight, he will say something gracious. Tell Esteban he raced better. That Pierre could not have caught him if he tried. (Perhaps not if he tried. Perhaps that is ungracious. Perhaps he should not remind Esteban that he is the better teammate. That he is keeping the team.) He has a whole taxi ride to find the right words, the olive branch that Esteban will not reject, or discard, or ignore.   

They will hug, and it will not be the last time. The Haas is not so bad; that will help. And ten, or twenty years from now, Pierre can walk into a room somewhere in France, some gathering of old men who raced fast cars, and someone will smile to see him. 

It is twenty minutes to Harriet’s bar. By then he can see it; where in windswept Normandy it will be. Snow on the ground and overcast. He will keep most of his hair, he decides, somewhat against the odds; he gives Esteban a little gut but fewer lines, no jowls. Silver in his stubble, but not his hair. Comfortable shoes. Bracelets on their wrists. 

The bar is good, for a last minute get. The staff on the door know his face, gesture him through. There are beautiful people in clusters, grapes on the vine, ready for picking. And on the dancefloor, Alpine, Alpine, Alpine. In the centre of it, Esteban, tall even there. 

There’s a whoop from near the edge of the throng as someone spots him - one of the pit crew, Marc. It spreads, fast, a sea of heads turning his way, a cheer Pierre thought he might not hear again. They tug him in, hands on his shoulders, back, feet already bouncing, the strange wistful sadness in his stomach already lifting as he raises his hands, shouts with joy and-

Esteban looks across to Pierre and smiles like clouds parting.

---

The carpet in the hotel stairwell has a dizzying pattern, geometric but impossible for the eye to follow. Or perhaps only impossible for someone who has been awake for 24 hours now, staring at it in the half-dark of emergency exit signs. But Pierre has to try, has to trace the thick black lines up and left and down over and over, or the choking gluk sounds Esteban is making round his cock will drive him mad. Tip him over ten seconds into the best-worst blowjob of his life. 

They had taken the stairs because it would be quicker than the ancient lifts. Not quick enough, for Esteban. Despite the risk, Pierre does not want to make up the distance. He wants this to last.  

Esteban pulls off for a moment; his smile is a slice of white in the darkness. Pierre doesn’t mean for his hand to drop to his face, thumb along his bottom lip, down his chin, but it does so anyway. He catches Esteban’s spit on his thumbpad; sucks it into his own mouth. There’s salt to it. 

“You are very wet for me,” Esteban murmurs, matter-of-fact, and Pierre gives up on the carpet, shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back into the corner with a thunk. He has been wet all day, drenched in rain and champagne and sweat. What is one more? He can feel it, the way precome rolls down the underside of his dick to Esteban’s fingers, until Este’s tongue drags back over him, a long side up the inches he cannot fit in his hand. 

(“It’s bigger,” he’d said, and Pierre had failed to hide his smirk. He hadn’t made it up, tripod. And Esteban’s hands are bigger now, too.)

His shirt is undone, bunched at his elbows where hands - some familiar, some strange - had dragged it down to trace the shape of his shoulders, the rise and fall of his arm muscles. He’d tugged it back up in the car back, but not enough to stick, not with Este’s long fingers at his neck. It makes him feel on display now, naked from his thighs up, Esteban’s dark head the only modesty he’s been afforded. 

He’s cold where Esteban had slicked down his happy trail with his tongue. It makes him shiver when Este gets back to bobbing back and forth, and his hair whispers over Pierre’s stomach. He has been touching him all night, never a hand off him, and yet Pierre is still so sensitive to each new collision. He can feel Este grin, smug, around him, like he’s noticed. It doesn’t rankle like it should. 

Esteban divebombs down Pierre’s dick again, and he comes before he can get out a warning, choking on thick air, hot and tight in his lungs. Este surfaces seconds later, cracks Pierre’s mouth open with a finger and thumb on his jaw, and feeds him his come in long, loving licks around his teeth. He’s still got his other hand wrapped around Pierre’s softening dick. As Pierre blinks up at him, stupefied, those clever fingers slide to cup his balls instead. A single digit taps at his taint. 

“Dry here,” Esteban muses. Pierre’s mouth falls open, panting. He thinks his come must still be gleaming on his tongue. He can still taste it. “We can fix that.”

And then there is light, crashing through the dark, as the door to the stairwell on the floor above opens, and the perpetual glow of the corridor shines through. Pierre clutches Este to him like cover. The bastard still has all his clothes on, at least, even if Pierre’s bare thighs are obvious either side of his too-skinny frame. 

The shaft of light falls a little to their left, not quite a spotlight. Perhaps they will not be noticed. Perhaps there is still enough luck for one more miracle. 

Soft steps, on the stairs. And then-

“Fuck,” someone hisses from above them. 

Not someone. Familiar. Far too English. 

Someone who should not be in the stairwell of the Williams team hotel at 4am. But. Pierre is in no position to throw stones. His stones are still in Esteban’s large, warm hand. 

Esteban is being no help. He snickers into Pierre’s neck for a moment, so lightly his lips barely leave his skin. Then: “Take the lift, George,” he calls, apparently deciding plausible deniability is for other motherfuckers. 

His voice is a little rough. Well-used. 

Russell, at least, understands how to play the game. It is silent, except for the hurried steps up and away. The whine of the door. 

“Shit,” Pierre groans. Esteban’s finger presses again at the space between his arse and his balls. “Shit,” Pierre says again. It echoes differently. Higher. 

Esteban is snickering again. “Always so dramatic,” he chides. But his hands are gentle as he pulls Pierre’s slacks back up his legs; does up precisely one button on his shirt and slides his palms down the sides like that will make him presentable for the CCTV in the corridor. “Come on, two floors more to mine. I shall have to fuck you in the morning, you are too spooked now.” 

Pierre doesn’t like the needy sound he makes; Esteban’s eyes gleam. He won’t beg for it, but: “When is your flight?” Pierre’s is late, commercial. They book different flights, more often than not. Esteban’s gaze wavers for a second. But only down to Pierre’s mouth, his navel, and back up. 

“The same. It is the same. I asked- said to change it. After. At the track.” Este must bite his lip – his bottom teeth disappear for a moment. Pierre wants the light back, wants to see his face. “We were-” he says the rest with his hands, palm to palm, parallel – two cars moving in sync around a curve. “And in the cooldown. You smiled at me.”

“I smiled?”

Este huffs. It is just enough like his cruel silences to make Pierre feel alert again, hands twitching to grasp a wheel he cannot see.  “I cannot change it back. It will be sorted by now.” 

There is an inch between them that has not been there all night. Esteban’s weight shifts, like he means to step back further. Pierre has to lunge for him, cram their mouths together. They had not done this at the bar. Touching, yes, everywhere they could get away with, but this was different. Private. 

Este whines a little into the kiss. His fingers get grabby again.

“Fuck me now, and later,” Pierre demands against his mouth. Esteban nods; in the dark his lips leave a smear against Pierre’s temple. 

His echo sounds like a promise. “Now and later.” 

[essektheylyss]

Open, non-exhaustive list of content I would read/watch in a heartbeat about the political situation in Rexxentrum post-Solstice:

One-shot or mini-arc of the Nein going full National Treasure level heist on the Cerberus Assembly records management department before a Ludinus simulacrum can reach the burn boxes

Faux Trump aide exposé-style novel of Athesias Uludan compiling and publishing The Dirt in the aftermath as part of his apology/comeback tour

Colville-run Dirty Dozen one-shot or EXU of Oliver Schreiber dragging some particularly unruly ex-Scourgers out of semi-retirement (read: house arrest) to take Ludinus out once and for all in exchange for full indemnity

Found documents a la Midst appendices of the Cobalt Soul documentation and evidence compiled about the incident

The Archmage: An Autobiography by Martinet Ludinus Da'leth (discovered and published posthumously) [1500 pages and riddled with exaggeration and inaccuracies, the last 20% has clearly been written by AI a simulacrum]

Lorekeeper rundown Youtube video from Dani Carr

Yet another novel: Wildemount's most (in)famous and (un)reliable documentarian smelled a story (Taryon's version)

Literally just a main campaign episode of the Nein infodumping to Allura at a war council meeting with the Hells present. I need this information so badly. I am fucking begging.

This sounds like it runs the gamut in level in terms of seriousness but I would like it stated for the record that I would unhinge my jaw to consume any item on this list.