#new favourite corvid. just LOOK at those eyes.

[chinquix]

Racquet-Tailed Treepie, Kaeng Krachan National Park, Thailand

[otterskin]

Finnesang - Prologue : Two Birds, One Song

All published chapters on AO3 - but here’s Chapter One, just to hook you.

Blurb: Odin is missing a raven. Without Muninn, Odin isn’t quite who he used to be. The only thing more dangerous than a man with secrets is one who can no longer keep them.

After a near-perfect Coronation years ago, Thor's become exactly the kind of king he believes his father would be proud of - if his father were still the man Thor thought he was (if he ever was).

Loki knows his place - servant of Asgard, advisor to his brother, and caregiver to his ailing father. Important roles, defining ones - and yet he feels forgotten. Sometimes literally.

Being forgotten is fatal when all that you are is someone else’s lie.

PART ONE:

UNMADE

ᚲ ᛟ ᚹ

The RAVENS

Once we were ravens, and that only.

To be ravens is a good thing. Ravens can fly. The Sky belonged to us when we danced in it. At night we'd steal the stars away when our black bodies blotted them out. We did not belong to the Earth or the Sea, though we took the bounties of both. Some would call us thieves for that, but we were ravens only, and accountable to no-one.

And yet we were not content. We wished to have more.

We wished to be more.

When we heard it first, we could put no name to it. It was a sound, many of them, wound together in a tangle - and yet it could be followed.

So follow it we did.

We soared through rain and thunder, through blazing sun and piercing wind. Always, it moved forward, as living things must. We followed. We could not bear to live again in silence.

We beat our wings in time with its tempo and our hearts beat in time with its base. There was nothing but the song and the journey to possess it.

We followed it through forests, through villages, through cities and out into the sky again.

We saw a figure walking through clouds. He looked like one of the people who lived below - he was covered in scales like them, had four purple eyes like them, dressed as they did. But at once we saw that he was not one of them. None of them could walk the skies as easily as we flew in them. None of them sang as he did. He was a new thing, and we wanted to have him.

We danced about him, and he laughed in wonder at us.

He paused in his song to call out to us, as raucous as any lowly crow, “What are your names, then?”

We jeered. Play the sounds, creature.

He took up the thing of sticks and strings from around his neck and strummed it.

We ventured nearer, needing to feel the pulse of the tune. One of us landed on his right shoulder. One of us landed on his left. Through our toes, we could feel the rumble of his flesh, the rumble that became the sounds we would soon learn to call ‘music’.

"Hearing, I ask, from the ho-o-ly races

From Norn’s eyes, watching high and low

I will soon relate, to this tree of faces

Old tales remembered from long, long ago…”

We did not yet know what words were, but still we jittered to encounter them. The scales that disguised the singer as one of the people of below fell away, revealing pale, pinky flesh and worm-like toes where wing feathers should be. His eyes were now only two, and they were very, very blue.

"Have you no names, then? I’m between names myself at the moment. A fair number of them just…did not work out. Perhaps you can help me think of the next one.”

Before we could berate him for stopping, he continued to sing.

"I asked for companions, the Norns sent me birds

I asked them for names, but they gave me none

I suppose since I am the master of words

It falls to me to give them both some!"

He reached out to stroke our chests with a finger. It was warm. We didn’t dislike it.

“I may have made those lyrics for you, but the tune is not mine. I really should not be singing it. Yet lately, I cannot seem to get it out of my head…

“My father was a fine singer himself,

Though only when he sang with my mother.

They sang this for me when I was my first self

When I still had a sister and brother.”

The music ended. We looked at the creature. He stared hollowly out across the green skies as if he did not like the colour of them.

“It seems that no matter where I go or what I call myself, I am burdened with memories and thoughts. Not just of what was, but what could have been. Do you know what that is like, my feathered friends?”

He seemed unhappy. That was no good - his song had brought us joy, and it would not do for him to have none of his own. We called his music to our minds and cawed to it best we could, harsh and throaty.

His eyes brightened. “You are very clever, aren’t you? You’re different from the birds on Asheim. Though not so clever that you’ve yet to realize what sordid company you’re keeping now.” He strummed his instrument with a grin. “I’ve thought of names for you. You shall be Huginn and Muninn - Thought and Memory. But names are not free, my corvid companions. Upon your wings I will settle a burden, so that I might journey lighter…”

He touched a wing-toe to his head. It began to glow, bright and silver. When he withdrew the toe, it came away with a long strand of silver. It broke free from his head, and at once began to wiggle like a worm. We could not help but swallow eagerly in anticipation. He offered the worm to the first of us on his right shoulder. Without hesitation, it was devoured. He put his finger to his head once more, and this time drew out a golden worm. This he offered to the second of us, on his left shoulder. Once again, it was devoured.

He continued in this manner until we were full to bursting. The silver and gold writhed in our guts, hot and cold, filling us with emptiness and sorrow, with warmth and joy, all at once. It was only then that we realized we were no longer only ravens.

Our minds were pulled away from our bodies, away from the green skies of our home. We were taken into another body, under a different sky, in a distant time.

There, we were a boy. There, there was a garden…

It was a beautiful place.

A tall, red-bearded man held hands with a woman. Together they worked the land, pulling and pushing earth and water. Beside them were two children, a boy and girl. The girl coaxed plants from the soil, and the boy called animals to live in them.

The eyes we ravens watched from were distant, hovering far above the scene.

The man looked up at us. He opened his mouth, perhaps to call us down, to join them -

But all that came out was a terrible, wailing scream...

ᚼ

The ravens awoke, groggy with sleep. The baby’s wails echoed down the dark hallway, piercing even the great golden doors meant to shut away the rest of the world.

Thought looked at Memory. Memory looked back at Thought.

“You go,” croaked Thought.

“Muninn went last time,” complained Memory.

The wailing grew louder. It was a noise somewhere between a wolf having their teeth pulled and a crash collision between two speeding metal boats, complete with the two pilots arguing over whose fault it was afterwards. It was the very opposite of music.

“Huginn turn,” insisted Memory.

Huginn huffed, puffing up his feathers and shaking the sleep off of them. He flapped down off his golden perch and onto the bed. There was only one occupant, still slumbering on one side. On the other, the furs were flicked open. Huginn thought to look at the remaining shoes. The slippers were still there, but Frigga's boots were gone. Muninn remembered that she often went to the Garden at night - the only time she really could. She would not be back until sunrise.

Huginn hopped over to the remaining lump of furs. He pulled back the edges of them, revealing Odin’s face. He looked so very different from the creature who had walked the skies of the ravens’ homeworld. The red colour had long leached out of his hair, and his soft face had sprouted a grey beard and moustache to match it. At least his eyes had stayed the same - until a few nights ago when even one of them was taken from him.

Muninn recalled that he’d told them it was a trade of sorts. An eye for a baby. Huginn thought that was a rubbish trade. Odin's right eye had never screamed at them, which made it better by far.

Not wanting to waste any more potential sleep time, Huginn pecked near the newly-empty eye socket. At once the lump of furs erupted with a curse, sending Huginn flying into the air.

Odin attempted to insult his birds again but was drowned out by the baby screaming its boat-crash-wolf-yelp cry. So instead he sighed, beckoning to his birds to follow him as he lumbered out into the hallway.

Muninn tried to hide his beak under his wing and pretend he hadn’t seen the gesture. Huginn circled back and harassed him mercilessly.

“Need both,” Huginn tutted. “Always two ravens.”

Muninn relented, and soon both birds perched on Odin’s shoulders: Huginn on his right, Muninn on his left. As light as they were, Odin still moved slowly. He’d had very little sleep since returning from the final battle. The war itself hadn’t been particularly relaxing either.

Huginn felt the thought bloom in his mind as it occurred to Odin. How easy it seemed when I first took the child. Just seeing a friendly face after being abandoned had been enough to quell its cries.

They entered the nursery. Immediately the cries doubled in volume.

"Shhh-shhh-shh-sh.” Odin attempted, but the child only stopped its tears to hiccough loudly and suck in more breath, ammunition for further cacophony.

Hastily, Odin seized at a bottle waiting in a basket of ice and tried to stopper the babe with the bottle’s teat. Its mouth clamped shut and refused the milk, turning this way and that to escape.

“Still?” Odin asked it wearily.

I thought I saved you. But if you do not eat, all I have done is prolonged your death.

The thought tasted of hopelessness. It was not a favourite flavour of Huginn’s.

The babe reached out, seizing at Odin’s hand even as it ignored the bottle it held. Odin scooped the child into his arms, jostling the ravens as he patted its back. Nothing seemed wrong with it; its changing cloth was clean, its guts clear of gas. It was not even alone anymore - and yet it still would not stop crying.

“Go outside?” suggested Huginn.

“Remind baby of home,” agreed Muninn.

Odin nodded, eye still droopy with sleep.

They stepped onto the balcony. The night was clear and brimming with all the lights of Yggdrasil. As hoped, a chill was in the air.

And yet the baby still cried, digging into Odin’s beard as if trying to crawl away from the cold.

The old god sighed. “What am I to do?” he asked his ravens.

“Always, Odin ask only himself for counsel,” chided Muninn.

“I tried to turn to Frigga,” Odin protested half-heartedly.

Muginn cocked his head in judgement. The raven did not need to remind Odin of what he had done to Frigga. A flicker passed through both their minds: the memories of her face when he’d returned, bearing a strange infant to replace the one she so recently lost. She’d been waiting to share their grief - and Odin had instead asked her to disguise it, much like the false child he’d pressed to her breast.

“Odin did not think that one through,” observed Huginn.

“No. He did not,” agreed Odin, rubbing at the gauze over his socket again. He sighed.

Even Frigga’s reaction had been a friendlier welcome than he’d gotten from his own son.

I don’t know why I expected a warm welcome on my return - how could he even recognize me? He was but a babe when I left. But to see the boy instead glare at me with such suspicion, to insist on standing between his own mother and father...

But was the boy wrong to try and protect Frigga from me?

The first thing I did on my return was to break her heart.

“I am a wicked man,” Odin sighed.

"You are required to be a good king above being a good man. The two are often mutually exclusive concepts.”

Odin turned his head slightly to frown at Huginn. “That voice…”

The babe kicked him hard in the chest, trying again to squirm free of Odin’s grip.

Without thinking about it, he started to hum, bumping the child up and down as he did so.

Miraculously, the tiny creature quietened. Unscrunching its face, it peered up at him and his ravens. It seemed mesmerized by the tune.

Odin would have been glad of it, had he not recognized just what he was humming.

He stopped.

The babe immediately crumpled up again and began to fuss. Huginn, too, dipped his head in disappointment.

Despite his audience’s clear call for an encore, Odin did not pick up the tune again. Instead, he summoned the milk into his hand and tried again to feed the child. “Come on, boy,” he muttered, trying to turn its face back out from his chest. “I know it’s not as good as giant’s milk but we haven’t had any volunteers.”

His attempts jostled the ravens about on his shoulders, causing them to flap and squawk. Huginn wondered how comical they would appear to anyone walking in on the scene. Odin, King of Asgard, Conqueror, feared throughout the realms, encumbered by clingy ravens and an obstinate baby.

“Eat - the damn - milk,” Odin muttered, accompanying each word with the jab of the bottle.

“Baby liked that song,” Muninn recalled.

“Sing next time,” urged Huginn, a spark of independence clashing against Odin’s clear reticence.

“I don’t know that I can," the man muttered. “I haven’t sung in years,”

“Odin sang for many years before,” Muninn said slowly. “Muninn would know if Odin forgot how.”

“See? So sing now!” demanded Huginn.

The other raven looked away from his brother. “Muninn doesn’t like that song. It hurts.”

Huginn looked over at Muninn, scandalized. “We ravens like the song!"

But Muninn just fluffed his feathers again and wouldn’t meet Huginn’s beady eye.

The babe knocked the glass bottle from Odin’s hands. It hit the stone floor of the balcony and broke open.

Odin nearly cursed again, catching the ugly word with one syllable already hanging out of his mouth. Spending years around soldiers instead of the Court and his family had roughened his vocabulary. That was what he used his voice for, crass words and orders to make war. Not song. That belonged to a version of himself he’d long put behind him.

He would go and get a nursemaid and damn the consequences, he would go and fetch Eir and have her diagnose the child, he would go -

The baby detonated with a keening scream, piercing his eardrums and threatening to further shatter the glass bottle with its ferocity.

He would go mad if he didn’t do something right now.

Well, go madder. He must have been mad already to have taken this child in the first place.

It shouldn’t have come as easily as it did. For one thing, his voice had deepened significantly since he last said these words, and it strained at first, trying to hit the notes that used to be within easy reach. But even before he dropped to the next octave down, his seidr was stirred, flowing outwards with the euphony. In many ways, this had been how he’d first learned magic - how he first learned to speak with the air and sky, and all the intricate veins that threaded the universe together. A thousand strings to be plucked and molded into melody.

“Hearing, I ask, from the ho-o-ly races

From Norn’s eyes, watching high and low

I will soon relate, to this tree of faces

Old tales remembered from long, long ago.

Of old was the age when Ymir yet lived

No sea nor waves, nor sand was yet there

Earth was not yet, nor heavens forgive'd

All that was was the gap to nowhere.”

Muninn shifted uneasily. Memories of millennia were tangled inextricably in every bar. But to the babe, it was merely noise, clean and new and without connotation. Spellbound, it fell still in Odin’s arms.

“Lead me home, my mothers of yester

Lead me to my heart and its way

Free me from a body that festers

Free me from the urge to yet stay.

Take me from this o-ode to slaughter

Take me from Hel, though I may belong

Lead me to my sons and my daughters

Lead me home to the heart of my song.

Shield-time, sword-time, we enter the gold halls

Wind-time, Wolf-time, ere the world falls.”

Muninn thought of Bor, Father of Odin. He once said this was a sad song.

But did it have to be so for everyone who heard it? Odin wondered. Could it not be something else for this babe?

It could mean safety, comfort. It could mean that this child had a home…at least for a little while.

“Little while?” Muninn croaked. “How cruel.”

The All-Father ignored him and continued to sing.

“I remember yet the giants of yore

Who gave me bread in days gone by

Nine worlds I knew, Nine worlds at war

Nine voices became one battle cry…”

There were many ways this story could go. If it weren’t for me, this babe’s tale would have ended shortly after it had begun. What could be less cruel than the gift of possibilities?

“Muninn cannot remember the future, only past,” Muninn scolded. “Odin cannot know if saving baby means good or bad. It just is.”

“Even bad better than nothingness,” Huginn dissented. “This good deed.”

“Deeds have reasons why done,” Muninn muttered. “Were reasons good?”

Huginn turned his back on his brother, disgusted with his treachery. “Odin not parley with ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Odin just is. Muninn play silly games.”

“Only one rose from the sea of blood

Broken were oaths, words not what they seemed

Before the breath of liars, we scud

Shaped, like clouds, by forces unseen..."

“Odin make promise by taking baby,” insisted Muninn.

“Odin makes no promises,” Huginn hissed.

“I know the horn of Heimdall, well-hidden

As lost as the things it’s meant to return

What would I ask, if it were mine to be bidden?

Would I make new or ask to unburn?

Alone I waited when the Old One sought me

The Terror of Gods gazed in mine eyes:

‘What dost thou want? What comest thou to see?’

Dost thou look for something living or died?

‘Before thou ask, be aware there is cost -

An eye for an eye, a thought for a thought

If I am to return that which you lost

Be aware that the price is the same as the bought.

'Would you know yet more?

Knowing that wisdom is weight?

Would you know yet more?

Knowing no knowledge will sate?

Would you know yet more?

If you knew that knowing meant a forever war?’”

The babe was staring at Odin with rapt attention as if there was nothing in the universe more awe-inspiring than an old man mumbling his way through a doom-stricken ditty.

Odin tended to be the most powerful person in any room - or planet - or galaxy, really - that he happened to walk into, and so he was used to rapt attention. But there is nothing quite like being the end-all, be-all centre of existence in the eyes of an infant. For one thing, people tended to get nervous when the most powerful person in the galaxy walked into the room. This babe just wondered. It would have marvelled at him just the same if he were a moderately-successful goatherd.

This child knew so little of the world. So little about Odin. Hardly any different from most grown men, in that respect. How precious that ignorance was. How unfair that after all the world had done to this child in his short life that that innocence should be placed in Odin’s hands.

Moved to pity, Huginn bent down to preen at the babe’s few dark hairs. Muninn took off from the other shoulder, heading back inside.

“Lead me home, my brothers of yester

Lead me to my heart and its way

Free me from a body that festers

Free me from the urge to yet stay…

Take me from this o-ode to slaughter

Take me from Hel, though I may belong

Lead me to my sons and my daughters

Lead me home to the heart of my song.

Shield-time, sword-time, we enter the gold halls

Wind-time, Wolf-time, ere the world falls.”

The song was nearly complete now, and Odin was surprised to find himself slowing down, as if unwilling to let the moment go. Each time he returned to the chorus, there seemed to be some strange reciprocity from the babe. Though it could not sing, its fledgeling magic nonetheless reverberated with the melody, like the threads of a spider’s web plucked by the breeze.

"The serpent is bright, but now I must sink

My father of yester is leading me home

The sky becomes light, no more must I think

of old tales remembered from long, long ago.

It didn’t seem till now...

...so long, long ago."

It was done.

Muninn returned, bearing with him a fresh bottle of milk. He dropped it into Odin’s waiting hand. The babe seemed loose, almost liquid in Odin’s grasp, though its eyes were still bright and alert. It didn’t fight the bottle this time - but neither did it suck at the teat. Odin sighed.

“Did I ever know what was in giant’s milk, Muninn?”

The raven considered, then shook his head.

“Can you think of anything that would convince the child to drink, Huginn?”

The second raven considered, then shook his head.

“Fat lot of good you both turned out to be, eh?” Odin sighed, but there was a smile in it.

The king tried to return the babe to its crib, but its fists had knotted painfully in place in his beard. It was no use; he’d just have to take it to bed and hope it would behave until morning.

When he settled back into his half of the mattress, another pang of guilt crossed his chest.

I should be with her.

Instead, he pulled the blanket back up over himself and carefully tried to lie down without disturbing the infant.

“Give her time,” he said, though the babe was already deep in sleep. “She’s a warm heart and love to spare. She just needs time to say goodbye.”

The babe gurgled. Then, unmistakably, it hummed. Clear as the skies when Thor was in good spirits, it was the song Odin had imprinted on him, already echoing back. He listened to it make its way through the tune. At points it would stop, as if waiting for something; it took Odin a little while to realize that, even in the depths of sleep, it was waiting for a response. He’d hum back to it, sometimes along with it, creating a strange little harmony.

“We’ll make a proper Asgardian out of you yet,” he chuckled, and for a moment he could imagine that Frigga had merely gone to freshen up, that the babe was everything Odin was pretending it was, that his family had been spared their latest tragedy and all was, for that moment, well. He could forget all the inconvenient parts of reality.

The world could just be him and his borrowed boy.

He could stop the crying.

He could make things right.

“Could. What a damning word that is.”

Odin cracked open his eye and saw him in the corner of the room. Wrapped in shadows, and just as immaterial. His beard was a deeper red than it ever had been in life, and the curve of the downward-pointing horns of his helmet outlined his harsh face.

“Could is a word for regrets. Regrets are the stories we wished we lived. You were always too fond of stories. Stories are not real.”

Odin shut his eye. “Neither are you, Father.” He didn’t need to open it again to know that Bor would no longer be there. It was just a passing thought.

But the spell had been broken.

The bed was cold. His wife was still gone to the Garden to mourn over her true son while he coddled a painted imposter in what should have been her sanctuary. And even then, the babe was still sickly, still hungry, and he had nothing to fill him. He had made nothing right, only forgotten that everything was still wrong.

“Huginn - Muninn,” Odin called. “Go to Jötunheim and observe the children there. Learn what they require to suckle and grow, and return soon.”

The ravens bobbed their heads in acceptance of their task. They took flight.

The skies of Asgard roiled with starlight, but the clever birds knew which precise point of light was Jötunheim’s sole sun. Together they flew, side by side, into the ether. Light streaked, sound ceased, space bent around them, and they tore through -

We tore through…

We did, didn’t we? We ravens went to Jötunheim. We did - we saw and learned and we returned…The child lived, thanks to us…So why, why did the light and the sound continue, becoming darker, malevolent, angry? Why did it shout and accuse and become oh so terribly sad even as raging fire swept about us, between us, blackening the blackest of feathers and consuming, consuming, it was in Muninn’s mouth, it was in his stomach, it was devouring him from the inside out and he was in pain, such terrible pain and I, I the raven needed to go to my brother, needed to save him, but the moment we became I it was already too late.

Muninn was gone. A hole where a raven should be. I screamed for him, but a raven’s voice is not music, and it could not call him back.

I flew on.

My thoughts were dark.

Such angry, grieving thoughts.

My blood was dead. Taken from me. Stolen. By an enemy beyond my reach.

But not all my enemies were so.

Where was I going?

Somewhere cold, somewhere far away - and why?

To see the giants, the red eyes in the blizzard.

To Jötunheim, to the giants, to war -

As Asgard had done time and time again.

Yes, to war!

To war!

ᚼ

Huginn awoke with a start. Red light was streaming through the window behind him, courtesy of the sunset. He looked across from his golden perch to the empty one on the other side of the bed. As it had been for decades, it was empty.

So was the bed.

Huginn blinked at it. The sheets had been flung from the bed with force.

The door remained shut, likely still locked. But, as the breeze from the open window reminded the raven, that was not the only way out of this place.

With a flurry of greying feathers, Huginn took flight. He passed out the back of the golden room and felt the wispy touch of shattered spells try to catch at his feathers, to no avail.

The rook circled Asgard, wings straining, searching, searching.

He heard him before he saw him - the whistling of wind around the corners of the city and the low, dull roar of the stars as invisible strings drew from their raging hearts. Footfalls echoed mightily off the golden buildings, and at once Huginn knew they could not be dissuaded from their path.

There was nothing a raven, even one who was not only that, could do.

There was little anyone could do, really, but there were some who would try anyway. Inconveniently, today had to be the day they weren’t on Asgard.

Huginn braced his aching pinions, fixing his beady eyes on a star in the sky the way other ravens fixed on the glimmer of a mussel in the water.

He flew into the sky, following the faintest sounds of a half-remembered melody.

***

This and the rest on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638704/chapters/51598693

[shadowjack12345]

Old Dogs

I promise I’m working on the (long overdue) next part of Three’s Company, but I needed to get this idea out before I carried on with it.

The old man watched the world go by from his preferred spot in the park. They had replaced his favourite bench years ago, the one in which he'd carved his name all when he was young, and the smooth, artificial surface was impervious to something as mundane as a penknife. He watched as the people milled around - some things never changed - in an array of hues and races he would never have considered possible. At this point, Earth was a full participant in wider interstellar politics, meaning humans spread out into the universe, and the universe came to Earth. Blue, red, pink, purple, orange. Aliens were so common here now that no-one paid them much mind, and no-one gave a second thought to a green-skinned old man on a park bench.

The air shuddered. His pointed ears twitched, still more sensitive than most even when dulled by time. Some things never changed. Villains still plotted. Heroes still fought to stop them. He turned his left hand up and the device around his wrist projected an image of the local news above his palm. This was a new guy who had already started to make a name for himself: Carnus. And he was a Red user, with skin to match - he had animal powers, which was especially irritating. Still, the local Titans were there already, and he let a little pride inflate his chest

.

There was the current Kid Flash. And the new Wonder Boy. And the newest Robin, a girl this time. Ah. And there was the man's Grandson, Crow. He watched as the boy enveloped himself in wings of black energy before charging at their enemy. It was an old, familiar dance, and he waited for the familiar ending. But it didn't happen that way. To the man's clear distress, Carnus quickly and savagely tore into the Titans and batted them aside, shifting into one form after another, all carnivores.

"Oh sprak," a young woman said as she plopped down on the bench beside him, staring at the same footage in her own hand. "The Titans are getting scorched! They need backup or something," she muttered. This was a terrible idea. It was an objectively terrible idea. It couldn't possibly end well.

"They need backup," the man said to himself.

"You say something?" said the young woman, still watching. She looked around when no answer came. "Hello?" She heard the beat of feathered wings.

"The much-vaunted Titans. Ha!" Carnus spat. "You're no match for the power of the Red, and I am its champion, Carnus!" He stood, laughing, gloating over his fallen enemies. Only when his own died down did he realise someone was laughing along with him. He turned and saw a withered, green old man, his fingers on the pulse in Crow's neck.

"You think you're the champion of the Red?" the man asked, pushing himself to his feet with both hands on his cane. "Now that's funny."

"Foolish old man," Carnus growled before shifting into a panther and lunging forward. The old man, to Carnus' amazement, shrank into a hummingbird and darted aside while Carnus' jaws clamped around the cane. The bird flew above him and morphed into a hippo, which crashed down on Carnus. The hippo became a bird again which hopped away and shifted into a tired old man, hands on his knees as he breathed heavily. Carnus took his human shape.

"You're a Red user... You're the Changeling!" he snarled.

"Took you long enough," Changeling chuckled.

"You are old and weak and stupid," Carnus barked.

"Hey! I am two of those things at most," Changeling griped.

"Enough! Your time is over. Your death will signal the beginning of my time, the time of Carnus!"

"You, uh...  you really like your name, huh," Changeling drawled.

"Show me your power! Show the world you are no match for Carnus!" With that Carnus shifted and grew. And grew. And grew. He took the form of some alien creature, a biped with thick, grasping arms that stood as tall as most of the buildings around them. Changeling sighed.

"If you were my student, I'd remind you that power or strength isn't the key to victory unless it's wielded with equal skill,"

"I am no student!" Carnus thundered, the creature's voice booming.

"No. But I can still teach you something." Suddenly, Changeling started to shift. And grow. Green poured out of him, it spilled into the sky above and grew so its shadow encompassed the entire city. Then it kept growing.

Aboard the Justice League satellite, alarms blared and beeped as the fight in Jump City raged on. The woman on watch, semi-retired in her mid to late fifties, was known as Corvid, and she watched in open-mouthed horror as a creature appeared and grew so large as to block her view of the entire City, only to keep growing.

"What is it?" she heard. The current Batman was next to her, and his voice made Corvid jump.

"I'll try and find out," she said. She closed her eyes and let her empathic senses reach toward the creature, trying to sense its motive, where it had come from, how it... "Oh. Oh no," she said, her voice trembling.

"Corvid? What is it?" Batman asked. His eyes widened a little when Corvid turned to face him with very uncharacteristic tears in her eyes.

"It's my father."

The Carnus creature looked up at his foe, some sort of massive insectoid creature, with a long, segmented body that seemed to reach the clouds. Multiple legs were folded under its belly, and great, transparent wings rested along its back. It blotted out the sun. With a low, distant, indecipherable rumble, electric arcs coruscated across the giants eyes, and a jagged bolt of lightning cracked the sky, striking Carnus in the chest. With a cry, he fell backward and shrank back down to himself, smoking and defeated. The giant blurred and shifted, and its entire form poured itself into the shape of an exhausted old man who stood just in front of the injured Carnus. When the shift was complete, he fell to his knees and winced at the pain.

"The Red is a power that can't belong to someone like you. The world can't afford it," he gasped. Carnus looked up, shaking his head weakly.

"You... you wouldn't kill me," he said, without much certainty.

"No, I wouldn't. But I can't let you keep it," Changeling said. Carnus tried to sit up but barely moved.

"You can't do that," he whimpered. "No one can, not even the Red's champion." Changeling smirked.

"Want to see a trick my wife taught me?" he said. He shuffled a little closer and clamped his hands on either side of Carnus' head, leaning down to stare into his eyes.

"Please..." Carnus whimpered. Changeling looked regretful, but didn't remove his hands. His eyes started to glow and Carnus squirmed feebly.

"Azarath. Metrion. Zinthos." Carnus' body was suffused with red light and Changeling released him, sitting back as the light coalesced above them. When the flow from Carnus stopped, Changeling raised his hands and the energy rushed into him. There was a lot, Carnus' connection to the Red had been strong and profound, but to be honest, compared to the vast energies the Red had poured into him over the years, Changeling barely felt the difference. He leaned to one side, his hand on the ground. He leaned a little more and let his body lie down. The sound of Carnus crying sounded muffled. He blinked up at the sky  as dark shapes appeared in it, too blurry for him to identify...

Garfield Logan woke up in bed. Not his own. Last he remembered, his wasn't surrounded by so much medical equipment. And his head felt like a bass drum after a concert.

"That was very dangerous, you know," he heard. His heart swelled and he grinned. Corvid. Rachel.

"Hey, pumpkin," he said. Corvid sighed but failed to hide her own smile. Crow was stood behind her. "Hey, pumpkin junior." He waved.

"Hi grandpa," he said shyly. "Um. Thanks. For saving me and my friends."

"You're welcome, kid. Now unless there's something medical stopping you, you better give me a hug," Changeling laughed. With another, less shy, smile, Crow stepped closer and leaned down to hug his grandfather, who hugged him back. "Oh, that's a good one. Good thing I'm already in a hospital bed seeing as you probably just cracked all my ribs." Crow shook his head and laughed. Even at 17 years old, he couldn't resist his grandpa's dumb jokes.

"I uh, I healed you up best I could," Crow said. Changeling looked up at him with wide eyes.

"You got your healing working? That's great!" he cheered. Crow flushed a little under the praise.

"Yeah. Yeah, I did. Anyway, you'll be sore for a while but you didn't actually have any injuries apart from some scrapes on your knees. You were mainly just worn out. Sorry I couldn't do more."

"You did plenty. Thanks. Your friends all okay?" Changeling asked.

"Yeah. I healed them too, a little. It still takes it outta me," Crow admitted.

"You'll get used to it. You'll do fine," Changeling assured him. Crow opened his mouth to speak again but Corvid spoke first.

"Crow, would you please give us a moment?" she said.

"Uh, oh, guess who's in trouble," Changeling stage-whispered. Crow snickered for a moment before seeing his mother's face and leaving quickly. "What's up, pumpkin?"

"You know you aren't supposed to use your powers any more. The doctor said-"

"I know, pumpkin. I know. I decided it was worth the risk," Changeling interrupted. Corvid shook her head.

"If Mom was still here-"

"If your Mom was still here, she would have beaten me to it and you know it," he laughed. Corvid let herself smile.

"Yeah. Yes, I suppose you're right," she admitted. "Thank you. Thank you for saving my son."

"Any time," Changleling answered, more seriously but still smiling. Corvid pushed some of his thin hair back from his forehead.

"Still a hero, huh? Mom would be proud," she said.

"Thanks, honey," Changeling said.

"I'll let you rest for now," Corvid said, stepping away. "Maybe... maybe you could spend some time with some of our recruits. We have a few Red users, and it seems like you still have new tricks to show off."

"I think I'd like that," he said quietly. When Corvid had left, he looked up toward the ceiling but didn't see it. "Sorry, Rae. I'm gonna keep you waiting a little longer - I think this old guy still has a little story left in him."

­END

[justironqrowthings]

YOU WERE MY SUNSHINE

IRONQROW - JAMES IRONWOOD × QROW BRANWEN

YOU WERE MY SUNSHINE 

ALTERNATE UNIVERSE - TRAITOR JAMES

P.O.V. - JAMES IRONWOOD

TRIGGER WARNINGS - Major character death, mentions of drinking, depression turned anger

You are my sunshine

It was nearly a year after his mission started. Almost twelve full months James had gone without seeing Qrow’s precious smile. Hearing his laugh. It was agonizing. He trusted Ozpin, he really did, but when it came to Qrow’s apparent disappearance, he began to doubt. He doubted that the mission should have been solo, that he should have been allowed to join his precious bird on such a rigorous scouting mission. James understood whole heartedly that he had duties as General and Headmaster within Atlas, but that still didn’t make him any less worried or make him not want to be with Qrow at all times, in life and in death.

So, James sat in his office, within the CCT of Atlas academy. He was flipping through random news channels just to see what was going on around the world. James stopped on a channel from Argus, seeing that there was breaking news. 

“Qrow Branwen, a veteran Huntsman from Vale was recently found dead in the old ruins of Brunswick Farms. Officials say that there was a group traveling to the Kingdom of Mistrial and passed through the ruins of Brunswick Farms. They say that the Grimm known as the Apathy killed him. He most likely was fighting the Grimm, as his weapon was found in scythe form and flecks of black dust was found in his cape. Our condolences to his family and all those who knew him.” The newscaster spoke solemnly.

No. This couldn’t be happening. Qrow was okay. This was a nightmare. James quickly got on his computer and checked every single source he could find. They all said the same. Qrow. Apathy. Brunswick farms. Dead. 

My only sunshine.

James was pacing around Ozpin’s office. There was an impromptu meeting called for the inner circle. One Qrow should be at James thought to himself. He thought about how he planned on proposing to Qrow. Halfway through his absence, James realized he was dead set on making Qrow his for the rest of their lives. So that he knew Qrow would always come back. But now? Now he couldn’t. James paused his pacing and took a quick drink from his flask filled with the same whiskey Qrow adored. He gripped the flask, but was careful not to dent it. It was an anniversary gift from Qrow. Their one year...They had gotten to three years. Three years of pure fun, love and joy. Now, those years had come to an end. He would never see Qrow smiling at his nieces or laughing at a joke. Nobody to excitedly talk about a new project with, like project P.E.N.N.Y...James came to a conclusion. He concluded that he was absolutely furious. 

You make me happy,

After James had come to his conclusion, he thought long as hard. He came to yet another conclusion. Ozpin had sent him on that mission. Ozpin was the reason he was near Brunswick Farms. Ozpin was why his beloved Qrow was dead. What James realized he now had to do, was avenge his beloved. While yes, he could easily plan it, a day where Glynda and Raven were out on a mission, get Ozpin in the back of the head, one bullet, that was it. No, instead, James thought he would betray Ozpin. He would seek out the enemy, abandoned everything he had worked for, give up every bit of information he could, he would offer his services willingly. Yes, James thought. Ozpin will pay for what he did to his favourite corvid, he would pay.

When skies are gray.

It had been a few months since James resigned from his remedial job of Headmaster and General, leaving the mantle up to Arthur Watts. He never cared for Watts. He only cared for Qrow. James had finally made it to where Salem was hidden. After months of stocking things up in a ship, asking more than a few questionable sources, he had finally made it. The first step to making sure my dear Qrow will not have died in vain James thought to himself, gently gripping the remains of Qrow’s cape that was permanently sat upon his shoulder. He slowly slid his finger across Harbinger, having stolen it from Ozpin when he didn’t willingly give it to James. 

James’ ship landed in front of the lustrous castle, a scorpion faunus immediately running out, brandishing blades around his arms with his beady tail flicking in unatrual ways. James figured he looked hostile, Salem and her grunts most likely knew who he was, so he gently dropped both his pistol and Harbinger at his feet, putting his hands up. The faunus quickly took the weapons, James growling when he slightly mishandled Harbinger. 

The faunus led James into the meeting room after putting a bag over his head. He forced James to kneel before he violently ripped the bag off. 

“Why do you kneel before me today?” A tall woman, death white skin and Grimm-red eyes asked coldly. She was slightly glaring at him, obviously not liking how he was present. 

James cleared his throat before he looked at the woman in the eyes.

“Queen Salem, I kneel before you, offering my services. Ozpin wronged the man I loved. I cannot stand for that and let my beloved Qrow die in vain. I offer up all the knowledge I have gained from being within his meek group over the years. I swear I will do all you ask if it means I can avenge my Qrow. All I ask is that I be given some freedoms with missions or a right to request somebody else kill a target.” James explained. 

He held eye contact with Salem while she silently thought, unmoving. 

“You can be a General of some of my Grimm Armies. Now, what can you tell me?” She asked, motioning for James to rise.

James rose up and the faunus, Tyrian, he heard Salem call him, handed the weapons back. James’  blank face slowly twisted into a sick smirk.

“Where should I start?” He asked lowly.

Yes. James thought. He would get his revenge, and oh how he couldn’t wait. He would lead an army of Grimm and get his sweet revenge, Ozpin would pay, and he would be able to love Qrow for all eternity. 

You’ll never know dear,

Years later, Salem had sent James on a mission to Atlas. Simple, get information he could find from anybody about General Watts, try and find more info on Qrow’s niece, who he and Salem had agreed he didn’t have to kill. They had a mutual agreement, and surprisingly, respect. She let him not have to kill any children unless absolutely necessary, especially Ruby or Yang. But, he would have to get as much information on anybody when ever he was ordered to do so. While he wished Ruby didn’t try and take up the mantle of Remnant’s next best scythe wielder after her late uncle, or that she hadn’t inherited Summer’s silver eyes, she had. And she didn’t know it would be her untimely demise. Maybe it was a theme within scythe wielders, that they would suffer a terrible fate. First, Maria Calavera as the Grimm Reaper, then, his beloved Qrow Branwen on a scouting mission, and Ruby Rose was inevitably next. 

It was sad, to James. Such a small girl who he had met quite a few times in her adolescence, her mother married to Taiyang and Raven. He wondered what inspired her to be like Qrow, to use the scythe as a weapon instead of a sword or a gun or something else. Still, it was nice to think he wasn’t the only one trying to avenge Qrow, even if in the end he would have to keep doing it when Ruby was forced six feet under.

The one time, James was in the wrong place at the wrong time, he had been hiding out in a forest in Atlas before he ran into Raven and her crew of teenagers. Teams RWBY, JNR, Ozpin’s reincarnation and an old woman who he seemed to recognize as the Grimm Reaper. 

“James..?” Raven stuttered, trying to wrap her head around the fact that she stood in front of Qrow’s old lover. 

James blinked rapidly before he saw Ruby and Yang’s eyes widen 

“It’s Uncle James! Where have you been all these years?” Yang asked, a small smile breaking out on her face. 

James noticed Oscar looking panicked for a moment before he pointed at James.

“Don’t trust him! Ozpin is saying he betrayed him!” He accused, obviously scared.

Raven looked deeply upset, going to try and talk James back into joining them, he knew more about Salem than any of them! But before she could, James turned around and ran. He didn’t need to hear an entire speech about how Qrow wouldn’t have wanted him to do what he was doing. That he would have wanted him to help defeat Salem. But James didn’t care. He wanted to avenge Qrow, and that’s what he would do.

Inevitably, the group caught up with James before he quickly shot at a few of them. Those shots started an entire fight, James nearly losing if it weren’t for the Grimm he could summon at will and command to do his bidding. He felt bad using some of the younger Grimm to his advantage, but then he remembered how mindless they were. Going to an Academy really was useful when fighting for Salem’s cause, especially knowing the ins and outs on how Huntsmen learned about the Grimm.

The altercation ended with Raven quickly summoning a portal and getting everybody to safety within the city. Cowards. James thought. He stopped the Grimm that still stood from fighting, killing the ones that he didn’t feel like having repaired, saving a lot of time before he jumped on the back of an Alpha Beowolf and commanded it to take James to where Tyrian would be waiting for him. James knew there would be more conflict with his old family more, but even so, this was just the beginning. 

How much I love you,

Teams RWBY, JNR, Oscar, Raven, and countless more people had arrived in Salem’s land. This was definitely frightening. They had all four maidens on their side, after Neopolitan had killed Cinder and taken her maiden powers. They had all four relics, and a lot more than that. James stood beside Hazel, both knowing they were the first lines of defense against so many Huntsmen and Atlesian Knights. James had already summoned his army of Grimm, knowing more were sprouting from pools near the castle to keep it safe as long as they could. 

While fights between Grimm and Huntsmen broke out, Ruby had specifically sought out James. She stood in front of him before she pushed her red hood off of her head, looking at the remains of Qrow’s old cape that had sat upon James’ shoulder for years. Ruby then looked back up at James and forced him to make eye contact.

“Yang and Mom told me. You were Uncle Qrow’s love..” She began, her eyes narrowing in pity.

“But you left, after he passed away. You practically ran away from the other people he held dear..you took a huge amount of things my Uncle loved..his flask, his cape, an old locket, his weapon..” 

“Why did you do that?” Ruby asked, squaring her shoulders while she waited for James to answer.

“Somebody needed to wake up and avenge my dear Qrow, and I had to be the one to do it. Nobody else stood up to the job, nobody else was willing to work to ensure he didn’t die in vain. So, I did.” James easily explained, gently gripping the bottom of Qrow’s cape in his metal hand.

Ruby glared. That was definitely unusual. She fully glared at James before she brandished her weapon in scythe form.

“You aren’t the only one trying to keep his memory alive. But you are the only one who did what he wouldn’t have wanted.” Ruby stated before she charged at James.

Their fight lasted a long while. James was doing his best to fend Ruby off with Due Process before he was nearly forced to bring Harbinger out and use it as well. His use of Qrow’s old weapon definitely did shock the silver eyed girl, giving him a chance to attack. Just before he could land the blow, both Ruby and Raven had landed one shot each. Ruby had shot James through one of his lungs, Raven shooting him just below where his heart sat. 

He slowly fell to the ground, dropping both weapons and falling forward into the dirt. How fitting. James thought. The older twin sister of his late lover who always threatened that she would have no issue hurting him if James had ever wronged Qrow and the successor to Qrow’s mantle of most skilled scythe wielder in all of Remnant. Yes, how fitting. How fitting it was that James was about to die at the hands of his would have been Niece and would have been Sister. Yes, James was by no means scared of death. He never had been. He did however, wonder during his last moments. Would he get the chance to see his beloved Qrow one last time?

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

“Hey, Jimmy. Ya’ miss me?” 

[thegodskeeper]

You said you wanted people to talk to you! 🤔 how about asking about your divination methods? Anything new?

31 Days of Witchcraft (Day 7) - Do you practice divination? If so, what techniques?

Prompts are from here.

Hi anon! Very good timing on this question. I do, and since you asked…. well, this is gonna be a bit of a long post, and I figured I might as well use it as a sort of information dump for people interested in free or paid readings from me! I dabble in a lot of different types of divination, but the three that I have the most experience with are:

Tarot - I have read tarot for about ten years, and I have a bit of a magpie tendency to collect decks that catch my eye. I tend not to be the sort of person to build elaborate spreads, but I recognize that a large part of that is ‘oh no, my comfort zone!’ so it is something I’d like to work on in the coming months. I do really enjoy creating spreads, however. When reading tarot, I read reversals, which I’ve recently learned isn’t a common thing to do, but they seem natural to my practice. My two favourite decks are the Sweeney Tarot and the Numinous Tarot.

Runes - I have the most experience with Elder Futhark, though I also know some of the Younger Futhark. This is a method I would like to really take the time to focus some more on, because although I find it very natural I am still learning a lot of the correspondences and meanings. Something that I’m planning on doing in the new year is writing (and sharing) my own rune poems. This is something that I ‘need’ to focus on in my capacity working with Odin, as it is something he would like to me to learn. I have also been studying the Hellenic runes, and have for some time been working on what I’ve tentatively called my Zoological Runes. (Feel free to ask me if you’d like to hear more about them!)

Dreams - Not all people consider the study and ‘reading’ of dreams (oneiromancy) to be divination, but I do. It’s something that I’ve been interested in for almost as long as I can remember in my life. I have always had very vivid dreams, and I’m usually quite attuned to what my subconscious is trying to tell me. I have a very different method of analysing dreams, as instead of going purely by the textbook ‘dreaming about X means Y’ technique that a lot of people do, I simply draw on those. I also look into metaphors and things like local or spiritual correspondences. Eg. If a person worked with the Morrigan and dreamed about corvids, that would be likely to be linked; also, if you had been binging Dragon Age before bed and dreamed about your love interest, that also… makes sense. Sometimes dreams are JUST dreams, of course.

Other types of divination that I do on a semi-regular basis (or have at least dabbled in) include: cartomancy (other non-tarot card-based divination), shufflemancy (using your music library as a divination method), bibliomancy (using ‘random’ passages of writing - I like to use my own stories for a more personal approach), dashomancy (I often consider the appearance of lightning on my dash to be a sign that Thor wants to talk) and tasseomancy (reading coffee grounds, milk foam or tea leaves). I have also been wanting to look into divining with dice - particularly the ones I use for roleplay, as one of my characters is a diviner - and incorporating the Pathfinder RPG’s ‘Harrow’ divination into my practice.

[so-shiny-so-chrome]

Witness: Tyellas

Creator name (AO3): Tyellas

Creator name (Tumblr): thebyrchentwigges

Link to creator works *https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyellas/works?fandom_id=51060

Q: Why the Mad Max Fandom?

A: I’ve been a fan of postapocalyptic scifi since my teens. But it took me until Fury Road to really fall in love with the world of Mad Max. Living Down Under probably helped. 

Q: What do you think are some defining aspects of your work? Do you have a style? Recurrent themes?

A: For Mad Max, my style varies very much based on the character point of view. Max's terseness is very different from a History Person's verbal rambling. Recurrent themes for me...Some of them tie back to canon, like the fragility of Wasteland technology and the quirkiness of human nature. There's a lot of geology and a consistent thread of land-based spirituality - an Antipodean influence, there. 

Q: Which of your works was the most fun to create? The most difficult? Which is your most popular? Most successful? Your favourite overall?

A: Most popular overall – Definitely “Gastown Nights.” Max, Furiosa, sexual tension, adventure in a setting with the Wasteland wildness turned up to 11 – what’s not to like? Most fun – Writing fluff is always fun, even if the world’s falling apart around it. “Very Max, Much Wasteland, Such Dog,” my take on Max Gets A Dog, and “If You Give a Pup a Flamethrower” stand out to me. Most difficult – Several of my Miss Giddy stories were harrowing, “Weave a Circle,” “One Way Ride.” At one point writing “Weave a Circle” I glanced in a mirror and was shocked – shocked! – to not be looking at the face of a tattooed 76-year-old. 

Q: How do you like your wasteland? Gritty? Hopeful? Campy? Soft? Why?

A: Gritty as, mate, but always with that glimmer of hope. Because that's how it would be.

Q: Walk us through your creative process from idea to finished product. What's your prefered environment for creating? How do you get through rough patches?

A: I may jot down a story’s core idea, then let it ferment a few months. I might think I’m writing something just for myself, then it will take on a life of its own. When the time is right, I’ll think and plan around it, then do an outline. I like Kurt Vonnegut’s advice that a character in a story should want something, “even if it’s just a glass of water.” A glass of water is a big thing in Mad Max! For a writing environment, I’m very lucky – I have a home office, a desk chair, a desk specially set up for writing. If part of a story is giving me trouble, I’ll treat it like the eye of the storm. I’ll write around it, write down to it – I’ll write everything but that part! Once the frame is in place around the difficult part, that helps.

Q: What (if any) music do you listen to for help getting those creative juices flowing?

A: For Mad Max, Ocker rocker classics from the 70s and 80s. Songs by Goanna, Cold Chisel, Dragon, AC/DC. New Zealander Neil Finn's song "Sinner" always makes me think of Max. 

Q: What is your biggest challenge as a creator?

A: Finding time when I have inspiration, and finding inspiration when I find time.

Q: How have you grown as a creator through your participation in the Mad Max Fandom? How has your work changed? Have you learned anything about yourself?

A: I've grown so, so much as a writer. Descriptions, plot, research. Getting over myself and putting that crazy idea out there - and learning that it was worthwhile if it found one reader. Personally, I decided I would probably survive an apocalypse, which is always good to know. 

Q: Which character do you relate to the most, and how does that affect your approach to that character? Is someone else your favourite to portray? How has your understanding of these characters grown through portraying them?

A: I took the long road around to this one, because it took getting into the Mad Max fandom for it. I'd say I relate the most to...Aunty Entity. She's determined, she's creative, she's femme, and she has excellent taste in henchpeople. Oddly, I've never written about her, for all that I have screeds about Furiosa, the Vuvalini, and the History People. Aunty Entity has aspects of those three. My Furiosa is calculating, fierce, stony, and, after the Fury Road, willing to make terrible decisions for a long-term goal or a greater good. After a mostly Citadel life, she’s used to better living, and both disgusted and horrified/saddened by how others are getting by.  

Q: Do you ever self-insert, even accidentally?

A: All the characters we write about are our shards and our reflections. I do have a draft of a piece for a Self-Insert week that never took off, where I hitch a ride in the Nullarbor desert with some Buzzards.

Q: Do you have any favourite relationships to portray? What interests you about them?

A: I've written smut, and in my fics both canon characters and OCs get laid and find love. "Citadel Nights" is a novel-length fic about love and sex in the Mad Max apocalypse. But the most enduring relationship in my fics, one that all characters deal with, is...their own one with the Wasteland. That post-apocalyptic world around them. For some it's chaos and ruined dreams. For some it's horror yet opportunity. And for some of them, it's simply how it is. My story quartet "Wasteland, Seize My Bones" delves into this in all kinds of ways.

Q: How does your work for the fandom change how you look at the source material?

A: For Mad Max, I seek it out and look at it in more detail. Some of it takes some finding. It took me a while to track down the novelization of "Beyond Thunderdome". There were some jaw-dropping interviews with George Miller back in the 80s!

Q: Do you prefer to create in one defined chronology or do your works stand alone? Why or why not?

A: I can't help creating in one defined chronology. That's just how my imagination works. Every Mad Max story of mine fits into a timeline. I've sketched out that timeline over two notebook pages, like the nerd that I am.

Q: To break or not to break canon? Why?

A: For Mad Max, I'm usually in line with canon. Mad Max canon itself is so rich, flexible, and berserk that most of the plots and actions I wanted to write fit right in. Like most fan creators, I did make it gayer.

Q: Share some headcanons.

A: Oh, so many! Have three: - Furiosa wears her keys on the left: Max wears his on the right. - There are two popular headcanons around Miss Giddy: long-term Citadel denizen or Wasteland Survivor Having Adventures. I like the second one better. - Immortan Joe and the Bullet Farmer had a thing going on for a while there. 

Q: If you work with OCs walk us through your process for creating them. Who are some of your favourites?

A: There are OCs and there are "characters who had three frames in the movie/outtake." Very often I'll create an OC to fulfil a plot moment and then...they're not done...they tap my shoulder with more stories. I have a list of my Mad Max original characters for reference. I need it because I have *forty-nine* of them. Wretches, War Boys, Milking Mothers, Wastelanders, antagonists. My favorite OCs are the ones I've spent the most time writing about - if an OC of mine has a POV story, you know I liked them. Or somebody else did and made a request! 

Q: If you create original works, how do those compare to your fan works?

A: My original works seem positively sybaritic compared to my Mad Max fan works! 

Q: Who are some works by other creators inside and outside of the fandom that have influenced your work?

A: There were all these different creative factions – Maxiosa shippers, War Boy lovers, the Gigadumpster focusing on the villains – having fun. That in itself was inspiring. For a while I was unable to read @sacrificethemtothesquid ’s Length and Breadth of Fury Road. Its gravitational field of influence was that strong for me. And I adored the story “The Bullet Farmer’s Daughter” for its ruthless postapocalyptic extremes. For Max and Furiosa and their particular dynamics and madness, I’m influenced by J.G. Ballard – his compelled postapocalyptic wanderers, his cool, in-charge women. For my History People writing, influences include Margaret Atwood, Ursula Le Guin, and Neal Stephenson’s “Anathem”.

Q: What advice can you give someone who is struggling to make their own works more interesting, compelling, cohesive, etc.? 

A: The time you spend planning your project helps bring it to life. Thinking, plotting, outlining, deciding your ending and working up to it. If something seems crazy or self-indulgent, but *feels* real or right, there’s emotional truth and weight behind it. Readers will sense that and respond to it. Write it and see what happens. Thanks to our protagonist of few words, Mad Max writers suffer less from verbosity than other fandoms. Still, keep a sentence 20 words or fewer: keep a paragraph 6 – 8 sentences or fewer. Your reader will stay more engaged with your writing. 

Q: Have you visited or do you plan to visit Australia, Wasteland Weekend, or other Mad Max place?

A: I'd love to go to Wasteland Weekend sometime, but I live in New Zealand. It's been great to meet up with some fellow Mad Max fans in Australia, and to have Mad Max-like moments when I'm visiting there.  Walking down an industrial street, lost, when a gang of masked bikers roar by, disrupting the crows into their own corvid cries...

Q: Tell us about a current WIP or planned project.

A: I've got two Mad Max WIPs that will be done, come hell or high water. I'll share their titles: "In the Heart of the Wasteland Sun" and "A Favourite Has No Friend".

Thank you @thebyrchentwigges

[bluraaven]

Smoke and Mirrors

El Abuelo is the most notorious of crime bosses, and it falls to Special Agent Reynauld Maurouard to take him down.  His only lead: Dismas, an ex-bandit whose outfit was in the mobster’s hire. Things go downhill from there.

Chapter 2

"I thought you wanted to quit?"  

Dismas jerked and cursed when the cigarette he was about to roll slipped through his fingers, spilling brown tobacco leaves into his lap.  

"Shite!"  He turned to glower at the woman who smirked at him from behind a glass full of what Dismas hoped was wine, and not blood.  With Audrey, you could never be sure. "What's wrong with ya?"

Audrey shrugged and sashayed over to kiss his cheek in welcome.  Dismas got a whiff of the heady perfume that surrounded her like a cocoon, the effect of which was only slightly spoiled by the alcohol on her breath.  Audrey then gracefully sank down onto the seat his feet had been up on just a moment before.

"I thought you were on a date tonight," Dismas asked, eying the blonde's high heeled boots which reached just above her knees, and her form-fitting dress.  With her nails painted black and dark red lipstick, she looked like she had stepped out of one of those old spy movies; the ones where all the men wore coats and hats, and the women were as likely to seduce the protagonist as they were to poison him.  He liked Audrey, she was one of his closest friends – not that he had many of those – and he enjoyed working with her, but that did nothing about the fact that she was batshit crazy.  

"I was," Audrey confirmed, brushing the matter aside with a wave of her hand as if it were no more than an annoying fly.  She swirled her drink around before taking a dainty sip.  She must have brought the wine herself.  With the exception of beer, Boudica would never touch anything under forty percent.  

"You were what?" the woman in question asked, coming in just in time to overhear the last part.  

"On a date, darling," Audrey replied, and fished a pack of thin cigarettes out of her purse.  The smokes were more expensive than the ones Dismas could afford, which did not stop Audrey from making pleading eyes until, with a sigh, he tossed over his lighter.  "I'm sure you remember what that is like."  

"Barely," Boudica replied drily, and Dismas watched his two best friends exchange kisses in greeting.

They couldn't be more different in appearance, the dame fatale and the rocker girl who repaired cars for a living. Just like Audrey, Boudica was tall, but unlike her, she was also muscular and wore leathers and tattoos instead of silk and jewellery.  Boudica owned a garage where she ran a small business of repairing and selling cars, and in the evening when all the work was done, it was open to friends.  It was and a good place if you wanted a drink or a chat, and she let Dismas borrow her tools whenever he needed to fix his bike.  

She had a boyfriend whom Dismas had not seen around today.  Secretly he was glad, because there was something about Tardif that had Dismas convinced that he was a serial killer.  

"How is my favourite grave robber?" Boudica asked, grabbing herself a bottle of beer that she deftly opened with a screwdriver, before plopping into the beat-up leather couch and putting her boots up on the table.  

"I'm an archaeologist!" Audrey protested in fake, albeit perfectly credible outrage.  She tilted back her head and released a plume of aromatic blue smoke towards the ceiling, her posture somehow even less ladylike than that of her friends.  

"What's the difference?" Boudica asked, taking a healthy swig right from the bottle.  

"The difference between archaeology and grave robbing," Dismas explained before Audrey could, "Is that they need to be stiff for more 'n a few centuries –then if you dig them up, it's considered scientific excavation."  

"So which one's your job and which one's your hobby, now?"  Boudica asked Audey with a grin.  

"Judging by what pays better... ," the blonde snorted, then suddenly shot upright, one hand disappearing inside her purse.  With a cry of victory she held up a small item so that it could catch the light of the naked bulb overhead.  "Look!"  

"What's that?"  Boudica asked, leaning closer to have a better look.

Dismas recognized the trinket in Audrey's palm as one they had collected on their latest stint.  It was a ring in the form of a raven.  The corvid carried a crest that depicted a tower on a field of red and gold.  A fine piece of craftsmanship, but way too ornate and old-fashioned for his taste.  No wonder Audrey loved it though. She collected mementos of her midnight outings like saner people might collect stamps or cards of their favourite sports team.  

"Gotta do some research on who this crest originally belonged to," Audrey said, fondly looking at the ring before trying it on.  "Think they'd want it back?" she asked with a cheeky grin, holding out her hand for all to admire.  

"No," Dismas immediately threw in.  "It's ugly."  

Boudica laughed as Audrey pouted, pocketing her little treasure again.  "What did the Chief ever do to you anyway?" she wanted to know.

"He took my money," Audrey hissed, her painted eyes narrowing dangerously.  

"Don't you mean your ex-husband's money?" Dismas asked.  Audrey's husband had been some business mogul, a CEO of one syndicate or another. Like all of them he'd been running a crooked shop – unlike all of them he'd been caught.  Dismas had seen the bloke only once, and frankly he was glad he wasn't going to do so again.  Someone in prison had seen to that.  

"We had a deal!"  Audrey fumed.  "I was going to file for a fault divorce, which meant I was due most of our martial property and alimony!  Of course, no one told me that I would only get what was left after the fiscal authorities confiscated every last penny."  

Which, as far as Dismas remembered, amounted to a quite sizable debt.  "Why did ya trust the police anyway?"  

"What else was I supposed to do?" Audrey fumed.  " Did I know that pig was a mobster? Of course I did!  Should I have gone to prison alongside him?"  

Dismas shrugged.  He did not blame Audrey,  but he also did not pity her.  After all, she had never lied about having married her ex only because of the money and social status it had given her.  "Well, better luck with the next one."  

"Oh, I don't want to remarry," Audrey declared proudly.  

"You sure?  Might be more money that way."  Out of the corner of his eyes, Dismas caught Boudica shaking her head and running a finger over her throat.  

Audrey smiled indulgently, but Dismas could see a spark in her eyes that confirmed he had overstepped some line. "And when will we finally get to meet Mr. Paixdecouer?" Audrey asked in a voice as sweet as nightshade essence.  

"Fuck off," Dismas grunted, regretting ever having told her his real name.  

"Speaking of lovers, future and past," Boudica made an attempt to steer their talk to safer waters, "Have you seen or heard from Louet?  He wanted to meet me, but didn't show up, and I haven't heard from him since.  I think he said he had something for you, Audrey."

"Oh?"  Audrey perked up, but Dismas wasn't paying attention to her.

It wasn't like Louet not to come to a meeting.  He was one of the few people that could be really relied on.  Dismas shifted, a spark of worry gnawing at him.  He wasn't on the straight and narrow by any means, but he was a different man now than he had been during his time up North.  Back then, he had lived for the thrill of life, the rush of a raid.  But with the anger and vigour of youth spent, the lust for adventure abated, and recklessness gave way to caution.  

Experience had taught Dismas him that banditry was going to lead him to an early roadside grave, and age made him value stability over a quick profit, even if it was in the form of shitty day labour.  s

As far as he knew though, Louet was still involved with some of the local gangs, smuggling goods and information.  Unlike Dismas, he still liked what he did, but then Louet had always believed himself invincible.  It was part of what Dismas had loved so much about him.  

 The conversation turned away from Audrey's love affairs and filthy lucre and to more everyday things.  Boudica suspected Bigby, an employee of hers who was responsible for the paperwork, and whom Dismas remembered as a morose gothic kid with lanky hair, to be smoking pot.  As long as he stayed away from any real drugs she was willing to close an eye – the type of customers that she had certainly didn't care either.  

Audrey in turn bitched about university life, about her colleagues, and how their funds for a project she had been applying for were being cut again.  "I swear," she said, "Either they give me tenure, a raise, or the Dean's gonna have to buy himself a better car insurance. Again."  

A feral grin suddenly lit up Boudica's face.  "Well, Tardif and I were planning a trip to Fraehaven anyway."  

Dismas was well aware of where Boudica's main income came from.  A quick exchange of plates, some readjusting of the odometer and a paint job was all it took for a car to be ready to be sold to a new owner.  Up North, if you knew the right people and diligently paid your bribes, this could even guarantee you a living.  He himself had provided plenty of spare parts and even some of the vehicles for a share of the revenues.  

Audrey elbowed Dismas in the side, jostling him out of his thoughts.  "What do you think?  A few more cars and you can forever say goodbye to that dratty motel and find yourself a proper place to stay in."  

Dismas suppressed a flinch at Audrey's chosen topic instinctively hunching over.  "I'm not in the market."  

Audrey wasn't so easily dissuaded. "It doesn't hurt to look, you know? You might just find a place that you like."  

"If I find a place I like, I'll let you know," Dismas retorted, annoyed with her relentlessness.  Out of everything she could latch on to, why did she have to choose this?  Why not his clothing, or his hairstyle?  "Motel's gotta do for now.  And it's cheaper than paying rent."  

"It's filthy."  

"Would you look at that," Dismas sneered.  "The woman who digs up corpses for funzies is complaining about dirt.  Ever considered I might like it filthy?"

He didn't.  He loathed it; everything from the cold lamps with missing shades, over the flaking tapestries to the cheap furniture marred with burn holes like pockmarks.  Dismas did not want to think about what manner of vermin lived in the cheerless grey carpets, where or who the stains on his bedding came from.  

Audrey raised like a perfectly plucked brow as if she had read his mind on the matter, but she did not comment.  

Of course Dismas would be delighted to leave that shithole.  And when he felt bold and dared dream big, he even imagined what it would be like to have a real home.  A nice, cozy place to call his own.  But the truth was that unlike miss professor, he did not have a prestigious, decently paying job.  

In fact, he did not have a regular job at all.  He drifted between working at gas station a couple miles out of the city, selling cigs and wank mags to passing truckers, to being a burglar and car thief.  Sometimes Jubert would let him work behind the bar, or as a bouncer on others, but nothing he had ever done would make the best impression on a CV.  

No law-abiding person was going to employ him, not for a wage he could live from.  Dismas did not have citizenship, a passport or ID card.  It said something about a person when getting fake documents was less of a hassle than getting the real deal.  

He could probably get one made up North, but he wasn't going back up there.  Dismas had been with the outfits for too long to return to the North, and he couldn't go further South if he didn't want to tangle with the Holy Church of Light.  

So he squatted in-between, with no insurance, no prospect of pension, no access to healthcare – hell, even the card in his mobile was prepaid.  Dismas might be blessed with the constitution of a horse, but what when he got older? He did not want to spend the rest of his life doing one miserable day job after another.  

Most of the time he managed not to think about the future (or his lack of one) at all.  He'd gotten very good at that.  

Motels at least made things a tick easier.  They never asked questions and they did not want to see identification papers, as long as you were good on cash.  

Audrey knew of his position.  It was a sore topic between them.  He knew she meant well.  It wasn't her intention to nag him about his way of living. Hell, she would probably give him the money he'd need to get an apartment.  She had offered only once, but he had never asked.  

There was a part inside Dismas that resisted the idea of accepting help.  He loathed owing people.  He had seen firsthand what a simple favour could lead to, and he had already done things for money he would regret to his dying day.  

"Well, it's been nice to see you but we'll better get going," Audrey said and stood, stretching.  

Dismas began to nod along, before the meaning of her words actually reached his brain.  

"Where are you going?" Boudica asked and rose too.  

Dismas would love to know as well. He didn't have to wait long to find out.

"Jubie's.  Dismas promised me a night out. "

Dismas brows rose.  He had done no such thing, yet Audrey had lied without so much as batting an eyelash.  

 "I wasn't aware you had planned on me taking you out for drinks," Dismas said once they had bid Boudica goodbye and had made their way outside.  

Audrey shook her head and raised a hand to shush him.  "I wanted to tell you first," she said, appearing to be in a hurry to get whatever it was that was bothering her out.  "Thought you might appreciate it."  She took a deep breath, then dropped the bomb.  "The police got Louet."  

"Fuckin' hell!"  Dismas cursed through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the ice-cold fear that suddenly gripped him.  "How do you know?"  

"Para told me."  

Para?  Dismas was confused for a moment, before he realized that it had to be Audrey's lover. "Your girlfriend?  She's in the police?"  

"Forensics," Audrey corrected, one hand grabbing the lapel of his jacket.  "You should leave, just for a few days."  

"No way."  

"If the police finds your whereabouts– "  

Audrey did not have to finish. Dismas knew full well what awaited him, if law enforcement found him.  

"Louet's not going to talk," he stated with as much conviction as he could muster.  Perhaps it was naive of him to think so, after all, they weren't a team anymore.  It was every man for himself, but he still needed to believe it, for the sake of having something, anything, to believe in.  

"That's not what I've heard," Audrey said bitterly.  "Of course, if he snitches on me, I'm going to have to kill him."  

Dismas was shaking his head, trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of order.  And then it hit him:  Audrey knew someone on the inside.  

"Why can't she get him out?" he enquired, drawing to a stop.  

"Who?"  Audrey blinked, confused.  

"Para," Dismas clarified, "your – something."  

"Oh, I don't know," Audrey sighed.  "Maybe because there is a fundamental difference between passing on snippets of knowledge when we're in private and breaking out a wanted criminal straight out of high security ward which – wait for it – is located right under the station."  

Dismas grunted and began to pace again.

"Why don't you break him out himself?" Audrey muttered.  "Aren't you the man with the magic touch when it comes to security?  Either they'll get you and you'll make things quicker for yourself, or they won't and you'll have what you wanted."  

"What's gotten into you tonight?" Dismas paused long enough to get a good look at his friend.  

"Oh, I don't know," Audrey snapped.  "Maybe I don't want to see all my friends land in jail!  You know," she began again, much calmer this time, "you can stay with me.  Just for a while and then we'll – "

"Look, I – I gotta go, yeah?"

Occasionally, Dismas wondered if he was just too proud or too thick skulled.  Would it really be so bad to bite the bullet and move in to Audrey's loft? He knew her well enough and she had more than enough space.  But he could not in good conscience stay when every step he took over her polished hardwood floor made him feel like he was leaving a stain.  

"Dismas –!"  

"Love ya too, hun," Dismas said, hurriedly kissing Audrey's cheek.  He heard her growl in frustration, saw her throw up her arms as if to say, 'I surrender'.  

His heart was thundering in his chest and his keys jingled in his hand.  Dismas had already broken every traffic regulation at least once, but never before in a single ride.  If they had gotten Louet... Audrey was right about one thing; he needed to move.  

Dismas accelerated, feeling the noose draw tighter.  

He drew to a sudden halt a few blocks away from his motel.  For a second he had the impression of having stepped into a discotheque.  There were no sirens, but blue lights flashed everywhere and the parking lot was taken up by squad cars and people in uniforms. 

AN: You can also find the story here, on AO3!