I'm in the process of proofreading my Comte 7th bday event translation. However. I had to say it because reading the english version of the Impossible Choices event KILLED ME WHERE I SAT:
VIDEO GAMES WERE A MISTAKE I CAN'T UNSEE IT 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Also because it was hot as hell:
I think Comte deserves to be a little violent. As a treat (for me)
I will also never get over Vlad going AND MAKE IT STRAWBERRY at pretty much everything and Comte just "Can you be an adult. About anything. For like 3 minutes." Meanwhile I'm with MC where I just find it lowkey hilarious. Realizing now as I write about it that Comte, Vlad, and MC just feel like Comte and MC are the dad and mom humoring an overzealous child, and something about that is freaking uproarious to me. I was sitting there like "where have I heard/seen that tone in Comte before" and then it hit me like a ton of bricks (as if he doesn't run a whole house, don't look at me I'm a 🤡)
I find it all kinds of adorable that Comte's playful and silly only when he's alone with MC, makes it feel special in a way--like he's comfortable sharing because it's her. I also think it's cute because he often manages to find a way to spin it into something that ends up being fun/sweet/thoughtful towards MC, which is just delightful. I feel like when Vlad comes in he gets a lil grumpy and jealous and retreats into himself a bit, like his private time with MC was stolen 😚
I still chortle about the Honeymoon event where Vlad gave MC a bouquet of flowers to celebrate their wedding day, and the way it felt like Comte wanted to trash them 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 it was so unbelievably funny. Like it was so clear he didn't want to ruin MC's gift, you know, be mature and let her have this. But also. REEEEEEEE M Y MC 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Deleted footage of Comte the second Vlad offered her flowers:
Also, spoilers for the Epilogue that left me clutching my pearls MC GIANT MOOD, I LOVE HIM:
ME TOO, ABEL. ME TOO [SOBBING]
78 notes
·
View notes
“Concerned for my safety.” The wizard echoes, fingers tightening around the spyglass they’ve been using in place of a wand for the past year. “Where was your concern for my safety when you sent me off to fight a war singlehanded and alone?” Their tone is soft. Conversational. Merle Ambrose does not flinch.
“Please, tell me what happened, do not spare a single detail.”
And they don’t.
They weave the felling of the shadow palace as it ought to be weaved, in darkness and blood and discarded web. In unmade worlds and the snapping of tree roots. In opponents twice their size, half their skill, in winning through bared teeth and broken skin.
They do, in fact, spare Ambrose a single detail.
They do not tell him about their request to Raven.
They do not tell him how it felt to watch the shapeless winds of the void between worlds tear Morganthe apart.
She had been his apprentice, once upon a time.
The wizard can offer him that one, singular kindness.
If nothing else.
“This news of Old Cob is troubling, but we shall just have to wait and see what tomorrow brings. New adventures for us all, yes?”
“Am I free to go?” They do not hide the chill or bitterness in the words. “It’s over.”
Merle Ambrose does not flinch.
“Yes, yes you may go, please get some rest. You have earned it.”
~*~
The wizard does not get some rest.
“Professor Drake?”
It’s off hours.
Cyrus Drake is in the Myth tower, where they had once dueled him, years ago now—before they were sent to the heat and tragedy that was Dragonspyre.
“I was not informed of your return.” It’s formal, it always is, but the wizard manages a half smile. “I am pleased to see you have made it back predominantly unharmed.”
“Are you free?”
“I am.”
“Can I show you something?” Cyrus’ lip curls in a way that the wizard recognizes, and they correct themself before he can patronize them. “May I show you something?”
Words are important in Myth magic. To nobody more than Cyrus Drake, who seemed too often to wonder if things would be different, had he only found the right words.
“Are you meant to be resting?”
“I am always meant to be resting or fighting. This is as close to rest as I’m going to get for a while.” They respond, allowing the hollow tone to take over their voice. Allowing the empty spaces where they had freshly leeched magic show. “Once we’re there, we can sit, I’ll drink tea, pretend I’m doing well.”
The wizard takes Cyrus to their castle. The myth castle. The castle sitting atop a cyclops that might be alive and might not be. The one crawling with automatons and unicorns and every wayward sprite they’ve ever picked up. Where the small green dragon they’d tamed in Avalon sleeps by the river when they do not ride it. Where they host the trophies of the times when victory tasted sweet and real.
The castle that houses Malistaire’s memorial.
Cyrus doesn’t ask why they made it.
Doesn’t balk at it.
Does run his hand along the edge of the stone, and the carved relief of Malistaire and Sylvia.
“When did you make this?”
“After,” The wizard says softly, “just after—you sent me to the dorms and, well I ran to Northguard, I couldn’t rest, couldn’t stop—”
“—I understand.”
They sit together.
They drink Hespermint tea and listen to the breathing of the cyclops above.
Eventually, the wizard has calmed their nerves enough to voice the thing that is weighing on them.
“I don’t want one for her.” They say softly, staring at the memorial, at the fresh flowers, the crystals bursting from the earth. “I wanted her dead. I wanted to hurt her. It’s—I’m not a kid anymore, I can’t pretend I’m doing this without understanding, I wanted to make her feel like I did, I wanted to make her pay—but I—I’m not supposed to.” They are going to cry and they don’t want to, they blink it back, grip on their teacup far too tight. “I chased power I shouldn’t have—I messed up again and let out a—a monster—I couldn’t think beyond wanting revenge for Azteca, for Pacal and Zaylin and Tezcat and Neza—for watching Dyvim die and for having to swallow Shadow and—” A sob is working its way up their throat and if they aren’t careful this will shatter them.
“You spent two months in the burrows and barrows of Khrysalis.” Cyrus interjects as the wizard gulps down air, “Isolated again from your classmates, your friends, those who can ground you. It is… easy, to get swept up in the tide of getting even. Especially when one is alone.”
“You didn’t.” They manage to mumble.
“Ah, but I am rarely left to my own. I have… children to teach, collegues who deign to check on me at irritating hours, and an apprentice who has flourished despite having been unable to appear in class more than twice a term, too busy getting themselves dragged into oncoming conflict.”
The wizard’s gaze snaps up at the word apprentice.
“I would have done more for you if it were in my power to do.”
He’s being nice.
He’s not supposed to be nice.
He’s Cyrus Drake.
He’s supposed to be lethal and logical and at best polite, but not nice.
The wizard laughs, and it’s hiding a sob.
Read the rest here <3
29 notes
·
View notes