#ruination spoilers

[bitty-was-here]

The high council of Helia after Erlok became Thresh

[harbingersecho]

it died inside — there's someone inside

[ufogoo]

at this point anytime succession ends an episode the end credits will always get me like this. nicholas britell you madlad

[melodic-haze]

remote vibrator in public w sub robin?? 👀

☆ — DEMO TRACK: sub!Robin x dom!Reader

☆ — TYPE: NSFW

☆ — CONTENT WARNINGS: Exhibitionism, mentions of corruption, semi-public sex mentions at the end

☆ — NOTES: Wait I didn't even realise I had essentially already done this oh my god 😭😭😭😭😭😭 anyway is a cheeky Robin ooc I wonder if it is..........my bad gang I actually haven't finished Penacony yet 😭 ik like spoilers

Such a move spells TROUBLE for a universal celebrity like her.............good thing she likes the trouble you put her through ☺️

You've seen how she dedicates herself to her multimedia craft, putting her all into performing arts for the sake of inspiring people and making everyone happy. Now, you want to see how she does with.......performing for a different reason :3

"Such a risk would be much more trouble than it's worth, you know."

"If it's 'so much trouble', then why are you smiling like that?"

"Maybe I just find your request amusing. You know that the press are determined to spot anything that may give them a good scoop."

It's not as if Robin was wrong—a cosmically-famous figure like her would be risking the possibility of complete and utter ruination with such deviancy, along with.. well, having to face her brother. And The Family too, but mostly her brother. She had the right to be worried.

..But, well, she doesn't really seem to be worried right now, despite her words. If anything, the expression on her face as she leaned on the wall and the slight fluttering of her wings showed a different feeling.

As if she were the cat that got the cream.

"Uh huh," you leaned back on the chaise with a knowing look, eyes narrowed and arms crossed, "what I know is you're not saying no..."

She lets out a false sigh as she pushed herself off the wall to head to you, "Aw, I thought I led you off my trail."

"Like you do with the press? Oh, please." You rolled your eyes, "I know you much better than that."

"You seem so sure."

"Am I wrong?"

"Mm.. no, I guess you're not."

Then she sits down on your lap and wraps her arms around your neck, the wings on her hips wrapping themselves around the both of you like a barrier that separates you from the rest of the world, "And neither are you wrong about my lack of your refusal."

Your hands snake themselves over to your lover's waist.. before moving down further and lightly squeezing her ass, "So that's a yes?"

"Mhm," she hummed, her voice reduced to a raspy whisper, "I could never resist you, sweetheart."

"What a coincidence—I could never resist you either. Must be a Halovian thing, with that halo of yours."

"Haha, who knows."

And that leads on to your present situation: Robin, as an important member of The Family and a famous singer, was invited to a gala as a special guest. Naturally, she attended and was thankful that they allowed her to invite a plus-one. Considering that Sunday had his own invitation, you were practically the most obvious pick out of everyone she could've chosen, both because you were her most important person.......and because this was a perfect opportunity for the both of you

So here she was, clinging to your arm as you talked to some.. some random who was (unsurprisingly) one of Robin's fans, one that's REALLY obsessed with her too, apparently. And really, she wasn't sure whether to thank you for giving her a different thing to focus on or silently plead to you somehow to cut it out, but she essentially clamped her mouth shut for most of the time you were there, not actually trusting herself to let out a coherent sentence

Not just with that one guy too, you do this through the night—your hand mostly in your pocket as you manipulated the controls of the vibrator within her, usually during inconvenient moments to mess with her a bit

During times you're left alone with her as everyone else goes to do other things and talk to other people, you taunt her of how if she doesn't hide it good enough then people miiiight start suspecting something's wrong ☺️☺️ and she wouldn't wanna ruin her career like this, would she ☺️☺️☺️☺️ oh that'd be such a huge shame ☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️

At first she does actually taunt you back, lightly boasting to you that it takes a lot more to faze her and that it's sweet of you to try...........but as the night progresses you find that she fires back at you less and less, your favourite songbird getting increasingly more quiet, just like how her panties are getting increasingly wetter. But she bares with it with a smile anyway, disregarding the rosy tint in her cheeks as simply applying too much blush HAHAHAHA

It's not just when you two are together either!!! You've both made sure that the toy has a big enough range that you can walk around without the connection being severed from the distance, so it was rather easy for you to manipulate it even while you were away from her. Oh, and how FUN it is, esp when you see her try to look around for you as her wings flutter restlessly

It's actually rather impressive to watch though—even when the night toiled away and it got increasingly harder for her to stop herself from cumming herself silly from sheer frustration, she keeps herself in check. It's almost as if she were completely unbothered, acting the perfect part as a beautiful socialite at a grand event as she sang with (very false) confidence. You would've been fooled......if it weren't for the fact that she had telepathised her need for you to just bend her over somewhere and fuck her dumb instead of letting her continue with this toy inside of her. You almost feel bad

Keyword: almost, especially when you decide to get braver and mess with her a liiiiittle bit more. And she would've been fine with it!!! At least, if it weren't for the fact that this was with HER FUCKING BROTHER LOL

Halovians, the musical and emotional creatures that they are, can probably communicate via special frequencies right?? At least, that's my personal hc, like you can't actually use a radio to intercept it and listen in bc it's like a Halovian-specific kinda thing that can only be read through their halos. Idk how they work lol don't sic me

Anyway through that logic, I feel like Sunday picked up signals of distress from his little sister. He's probably more sensitive to her frequencies too, with how yk. They're related. Like sharing genetic code except it's like if you look at a sound visualiser and see multiple lines at once and the Oak siblings have that one similar line or smth. So he can tell that SOMETHING is wrong with her, just not what specifically (esp when Robin's probably trying her best to block out signals of her lust from ever notifying her brother that smth more is happening)

"Are you certain you're feeling alright, Robin?" Sunday's voice held a sense of urgency and protectiveness, as expected of the one that had been there for her as the one constant before she had left Penacony, "I can tell that something is off.. and your feathers are a bit ruffled."

The worried emotions he had sent to Robin, along with a request to pry into her psychical wellbeing, didn't help the singer at all in terms of calming down—the possibility of her beloved brother becoming unwillingly privy to the fact that her inner workings are so utterly perverse and corrupted scares her. The fact that you had slowly switched the vibe's speed between an agonisingly slow pace and an upward climb as the exchange went on added to the torture.

Though compared to the rest of the night, this time actually felt like you were taking mercy on her, with the way you hadn't decided to suddenly ramp the intensity up out of nowhere.

(And there was that twisted feeling inside her that actually liked the thought of being an R-rated spectacle in front of all these people around them still threatening to take her focus away.)

To keep up the charade as she continued to block Sunday's attempts in peering into her enotions, she could only do what she did best; perform. So she nods her head with a smile, though the latter action didn't really need that much acting, "Yes, I'm feeling alright. I appreciate the concern, brother, but nothing's wrong. Perhaps it's just exhaustion—I don't know how you.. mm.. how you deal with it all the time."

"I could say the same to you," he reciprocates her smile, if a tad bit crooked from his worry, "I think it takes a lot of inner strength, to take on the attention of a universal crowd. Luckily, I know you can more than handle it."

The blue-haired sibling hummed, her smile widening from her brother's confidence, "It's because I know I have you to fall back-- on..!"

The grey-haired sibling furrowed her eyebrows in turn at the sudden yelp, "Are you quite sure you're okay..? You're worrying me, dear sister."

...

Yeah, no, she couldn't carry on such a conversation like this.

Another nod as she digs her nails into her palms in an effort to redirect her thoughts from the overflow of slick in the apex of her thighs, "Y-Yes, I'm fine... I think I just need to take a walk around to.. calm myself. I feel rather warm."

He doesn't reply immediately, leaving Robin in suspense. Could he have figured it out?

..Turns out no, as he lets out a small sigh, "Alright, just remember to tell me if something's wrong, yes? I don't want your comeback here to be an unpleasant one."

"I will, thank you."

She turns around in a hurry—though not that much of a hurry, lest he either gets more suspicious or she somehow makes the toy's effect worse—and leaves, making a beeline for you before grabbing onto your wrist and dragging you off before you could say a word (though the small smirk on your face said all you needed to say).

And Sunday clocks the two of you leaving the main hall together with a raised brow. His initial instinct is to go investigate himself—he knew better than to believe his sister's act, of course... But he thought better of it.

He had an inkling that perhaps this wasn't something he should involve himself in.

And his gut feeling was right, esp when Robin dragged you out and into the first private, empty room she found, pushed you down and started grinding onto your lap like a bitch in heat 🥰🥰🥰🥰

People are going to talk for a WHILE about your sudden disappearance, the both of you KNOW this very well, but right now? Robin doesn't gaf, not when her mind's been reduced to a horny mess as she begs you to finally get her off yourself. Whether you do or you DON'T??? Up to you LMAO

Either way, it's DEFINITELY something unforgettable........and dare I say, tellingly exposing of what your songbird likes 🫶

"Why do I deal with such risks again?"

"Because you love me?"

"..Mm. Yes, that's true."

"Wait, really? That's giving me too much power, birdie."

"And that's perfectly fine," her lips curl into a light grin, "There's nobody else I'd rather obey."

[thegreatyin]

god. the scoundrel seeing their own double thriving and literally sabotaging their own happiness by uprooting them and forcing them somewhere else. somewhere they weren't meant to be. ruining their own life all because they just couldn't let their own grudge against themself go. im gonna be sick

alright the switch to anti-liberationist comes Very Naturally for the scoundrel but the rp logic for moving to marigold will. take a bit more thinking

[brujahinaskirt]

I will never shut up about how Kingdom Come: Deliverance is the most tenderly written game served to the most loutish horde of jackasses. I think it is possibly one of the greatest pieces of popular fiction made about feudalism in recent history, even if it's not always the most historically accurate.

And that's because the whole damn thing is about the profound, authority-enforced inhumanity that self-propels feudal order... but this time, it's written from the perspective of, for lack of better word, "humanity undermines, and humanity wins."

Love wins, if you want to be cheeky.

This was originally meant to be a reply to @feelinungry's excellent post on the subject, but it outgrew itself and got super bloated, so I'm plopping it in its own post to not be obnoxious...

KINGDOM COME: DELIVERANCE MAJOR SPOILERS BELOW

And the reason all this about humanity and love is so important to the core of the story, to the very backbone of the narrative (even beyond the plot), is that it exists in opposition and to the impairment of the feudal system. Kingdom Come: Deliverance means to teach us, by way of deeply dramatic plots following individuals, how feudalism works and why it worked the way it did. And why and how that system fails.

The vehicle by which the game does this is by showing us, over and over, how the stratification of feudal class is eroded and sometimes outright dissolved (either in general, as with Henry and Hans, or when it matters most, as with Radzig and Henry) by plain and simple love.

Feudalism, like most class-stratified systems, relies upon 1. dehumanization of those beneath one's appointed status; 2. fealty (mock-love) to those above one's status, their title-appointer class; and 3. the maintenance of a deep separation between these artificially bestowed statuses, as enforced by church (as in word of clergy, not word of god) & state (legal rules and law). Those words and laws existed to propel the system by divide-and-maintain (of the workforce populace, placing it firmly below the next class in line, etc.) in the service of unify-and-profit (for the ruling class).

Sigismund & his invading army are wholly separated and adherent to the feudal theory, even if they have flouted codes of warfare & inheritance; they are presented to us as the main dehumanizing force of the story world, a wave of Order that indiscriminately burns opposition flat rather than an individual leading a royal coup, a cyclical destruction that paves the way for the next flavor of rule to continue the feudal system ad infinitum. They're thoroughly separated from the story even when they are burning down a village in front of our eyes and generally move as one, with Markvart occasionally stepping out of that mass of Feudalism and its antihuman nature to give it a face. They're more a force of nature than an individual as far as the narrative goes.

And we are meant to understand that in sharp contrast to the "close" story, the cast we get to know and watch as they attempt to answer this force of nature. And the second we see these characters get close enough to each other, by raw proximity, to poke a pin into the wineskin of feudal order as dictated to them by authority, it bleeds--everywhere. Not in the sense of ruination but in the sense that a tiny wedge of empathy cracks open the dam and leads, yep, to rehumanization--and love, the most human driving force there is.

And that changes everything, for everyone. Not just internally, as with a character's personal development arc (i.e., Hans learning why his duties, which he resented and viewed as an impingement on his freedom when dictated to him by authority, are incredibly important for real people who experience pain) but externally as well (as @feelinungry so elegantly points out in the original post).

Over and over, at every stage of the story, it's the rehumanization of and by these decision-makers (at a family level, at a community level, at a regional level, at a national level) that cracks the feudal cycle, even if in very small ways. Hans really brings this back home in a petri dish in late game, after the siege, when he complains to Henry about the noble's code (letting Istvan go) potentially leading to pain and disaster for the common people Istvan's machinations are likely to harm in the future. He chafes--and we chafe, and so does Radzig, and so does Divish--against feudal stratification because he has learned a general empathy through loving an individual, and that has in turn reshaped the way he sees the world.

And that's exactly why and when feudalism begins to fail, and why it thrashed itself the way it did, from the enforcement of sexual mores (though this wasn't exactly like it is in movies) and gender law to terror upon its own populations.

And it's the crucial understanding I think we begin to forget after being exposed to so much Hollywoodification of history, where the oppression always exists for cruelty's sake alone rather than in active and deliberate service to a political construct.

And I think it's why we've "lost the plot" so horribly when it comes to understanding that people in history were still people, not monolithic one-mind entities (as the feudal system demanded they be). And why we somehow forgot that such people fall in love, in all kinds of love, in a way that has never given a damn about authority. And that this in turn undermines supposedly supreme authority, even divine authority, and will always continue to do so, as long as people are people.

This is what it always comes back to. Always. From Henry's parents and their mysterious bond with Radzig informing the protagonist's journey from "the past"--to Henry & Hans falling into stupidly fierce soulmatehood with each other in the present--from Istvan & Erik's destructive fuck-the-world romantic love on the "enemy" side--to Divish's humbling, humanizing realization that he loves Stephanie in some way, he really does, despite the chasm of age/gender enforced upon them by their adherence to feudal order that doomed their romantic love to failure.

People will always love each other, even when the world orders them not to, even when faced with death and worse. People will always, given proximity and shared experiences, learn to see each other as human again. KCD reminds us of that. It's why the "slow" storyline exists and why it works.

And that is why this game is so fucking fantastic, and why the genpop fandom has utterly failed it.

[orchid-n-petals]

So I've already shared parts of this on a discord server, but I have to scream about Ketheric Thorm on here as well. Obviously spoilers about the character under the cut! It's a long one.

The entirety of act 2 is about him, right? Jaheira, Shadowheart and numerous other NPCs shit on him for his fickle faith. First Selune, then Shar, then, as we meet him, Myrkul. You hear about his changes of faith on a whim, you hear that he's the person responsible for the shadow curse, he is painted as a villain, plain and simple.

You can figure it out pretty early on that Isobel was resurrected and that she is his daughter; the detail as well that he wants Isobel alive is so on the nose, it gives him away completely but there are still a few questions that remain unanswered, mainly about his faith.

And then you get to the mausoleum and the picture assembles; this entire tragedy, the death of hundreds if not thousands and the complete ruination of a landscape was all, ALL because you had this absolutely wrenched, heartbroken father who had lost everything and nobody answered his grief. He was left woefully alone, the Goddess whose daughter his daughter was involved with did nothing to save Isobel.

Imagine outliving your wife and your daughter. Imagine dedicating your life to fight the Lady of Loss, your Lady of Silver's enemy, and then be left so completely alone and in silence with your grief, with your loss. It's so, so poetic how and why he turned from Selune, and it's so understandable as well; he broke. His spirit completely broke. He couldn't deal with that void of having lost the only two important people in his life, seemingly undeservedly so. He was going mad with this and a lot of his ire was likely targeted at Aylin who, in his eye, represented Selune; she's literally her daughter, after all, and it was implied that even before the deaths of his family, he sort of saw Aylin courting Isobel as Selune taking his daughter from him, despite his service. This relationship was clearly not seen by him as a boon of "giving his daughter to the Moon-maiden".

His ways in the past clearly didn't spare him from tragedy and having to cope with it (which he clearly didn't, he snapped under the weight of his grief). He was clearly angry and unable to do anything, furious and helpless, which is a dangerous combination. A good part of his first change of heart must have been fuelled by a sense of revenge.

But then Shar didn't provide any balm to his aching heart either. If you read his letters in Grymforge and in act 2, he is so focused on enacting the will of Shar because he believes that healing lies in oblivion. Everything would be easier if he could just forget, if the damn world could just forget, if nothing was remembered because without Melodia and Isobel, nothing was worth remembering.

Then came Myrkul. Literally the only god who was not only able, but WILLING to give back his daughter to him. Imagine spending your all, EVERYTHING you have to serve two gods who would not give a single shit about the greatest suffering in your life. You were basically nothing, your loyalty didn't matter for shit, everything that was taken from you amounted to no recognition whatsoever: you should simply cope and seethe. Your grief will not simply go unanswered (which is not inherently antagonising) but ignored.

And then comes this supposedly evil entity who can alleviate your pain just like that, snap of a finger and it's a done deal.

I am so serious when I say that I believe Ketheric's main incentive was to extend Aylin's immortality to Isobel as well. You can read in her diary that she feels a taint after having came back, and there are things not even Selune can cleanse, but at this point, Ketheric doesn't care about Selune, vengeance is secondary if not tertiary, he's done that war during his Shar years and what did it give him? Literally nothing.

He doesn't even care about the fact that Isobel is still her cleric. He cares about the single most important fact: Isobel is back. Life is worth living again, there is something for him, and it was not Selune or Shar who gave it to him but Myrkul, and for this singular gift, he would raze the world for the Lord of Bones. Like people can clown on him for being disloyal but the man has the loyalty of a dog bonded to its owner.

He is powerful and is willing to go to insane lengths for crumbs. What is raising a single life for a god? Nothing. It has happened and it will happen again. But Ketheric will go to the ends of the earth to serve the single god who actually listened to him. The one god who didn't ignore him.

He knows that what he does is not the morally upright thing! He is so insanely self-aware that allying with Orin and Gortash and doing this entire plot with them only to then betray them is morally reprehensible at the best of times, he knows that people hate him, etc-etc. He was a Selunite at one point and he's not stupid. He just doesn't care; it could be literal Asmodeus and he wouldn't care as long as he got what he wanted, no matter the price.

He is probably the only one from the three of the chosen who has complete clarity over his situation, he almost sways (if you pass the check during his confrontation), he is not an inherently evil man blinded by power.

But he is inherently loyal to those deserving, and as of the story's standing, completely broken by his grief. In his eyes, at this point, the only one deserving loyalty is the one who actually listened to him. Isobel lives. It doesn't matter that she hates him, that his entire life has fallen apart, that literally nothing else that is good has come of it, because Isobel lives.

I don't think he regrets a single thing. His consciousness might tear at him at the end, but I believe he would do everything over again, exactly as he did, because in the end, his daughter was brought back. Because what would a grieving, broken parent give to bring back their child? Everything. Absolutely everything. And it's such a simply given answer, no second thoughts, no doubts.

Nobody can tell me that this man is fickle. Nobody. This man was willing to burn the world to the ground, create a Boudica destruction layer all by himself for the one single thing he wanted. For any God that would listen.

I don't know, I just have a lot of thoughts about his character.

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #38 – Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion

Didion is one of those canonical authors I always feel like I should already have read at some point (isn’t that what high school English class was supposed to be for). Of course this was a very vague feeling, and not attached to a single scrap of actual information about her and her work beyond the general time period and cultural milieu – so I grabbed this from the library and started it entirely blind (partially my own fault for skipping the introduction by a different and much worse author tbf). Fascinating book, artistically successful and emotionally affective, but not one I’m able to say I really found enjoyable, or even necessarily beautiful (it’s no Giovanni’s Room, to compare another bit of canonical latter-20th century high literature).

The book follows Maria Wyeth, an (increasingly former) actress in 1960s Hollywood, through her slow decline from up and coming starlet and wife of a prestigious young director to an enforced retirement as an isolated upscale sanitarium/hospital resort. Which is hardly a spoiler – the book starts at the end and jumps through the timeline freely, and in any case the whole thing feels telegraphed to the point of inevitability. Maria’s life in LA is contrasted with how she grew up in a tiny desert town in Nevada, so small it at some point stopped existing, and in the process more or less gives you the narrative of her life.

Which is as close to a plot as the book has, really. Maria and her internal monologue are the near-sole focus, and her view of the outside world and what’s happening around her basically always says more about her than the world. Watching Maria’s life falls apart really is watching a car crash in slow motion – you’re never really surprised at any point, but the shearing metal and flesh are hard to look away from.

The book’s very much capital-l Literature, here meaning that the style and prose is at least half the reason to read the book. The story’s told through short vignettes (I’m not sure a singe chapter was more than ten pages, whereas the vast majority were two or three) and the deliberate, generous use of white space, both figurative and literal. Maria is pretty relentless in her self-deception and lack of self-awareness, and in any case is quiet elusive and vague with descriptions of people and events – reading between the lines is quite necessary. This overall really does work for me - the imagery is vivid and memorable, and Maria’s head is a compelling and believable place to be.

It’s also just intolerable. I have no particular issue with deeply unsympathetic, tragically unselfaware, or wince-inducingly self-destructive characters, but Maria sure is all three of those to a degree I rarely see. More than that, she is just profoundly passive. It is, for me at least, far easier to be invested in operatic delusion and hubris leading to ruination than a just resolutely thoughtless and pettily cruel person letting her life rot around her. Which is a failure of literary empathy on my part, probably, but did make this a somewhat frustrating book to read. You’re left want to scream at Maria to just do something (anything!) that she isn’t led to by people around her like an ornery goat to water.

This is probably exacerbated by the supporting cast. Who are all very much portrayed as hopeless, clueless gamblers and unprincipled, hypocritical Hollywood decadents,, absolutely – but despite that, keep trying to reach out and offer her lifelines or support. Which is mostly surprising because she might literally not say a single kind word to another human being in the entire book, is relentlessly caustic in her internal monologue, and sure isn’t doing favours or advancing the career of anybody. The real tension of the book ends up not being whether or not she’ll destroy her life and more how long before everyone around her just lets her.

It’s a blisteringly cynical novel overall, really – both in its portrayal of individual characters and of society as a whole. I joked while reading it that it felt like American Psycho without a Patrick Bateman, and while that’s a bit too far – everyone’s still very recognizably human, most of whom do care about at least a few things besides status symbols and dick measuring contests – but the portrayals of Hollywood and Wall Street certainly feel like they rhyme.

Though the implicit politics of that cynicism do feel do feel very different here. Very possibly because the back cover called it something like ‘a blistering satire of the excesses of the ‘60s’ (paraphrasing from memory), but the book definitely ended up feeling very (socially) conservative, full of worries about broken families and marriages of convenience and just generally decadence. The whole plot where Maria gets a motel-room abortion to deal with the consequences of her affair which almost kills her, sends her spiralling into months of total, life-ruining depression, and destroys her relationship with both her husband and her paramour feels like something you’d only see coming out today in explicit pro-life propaganda, for example; certainly it’s a trope I’ve seen complained about more than (until now) I’ve ever actually seen done. The fact that Maria’s foremost redeeming feature is always her love for and desire to be with her (disabled and permanently hospitalized for vague reasons), and that the climax of the book is a suicide directly caused by infidelity, also. None of which should exactly be surprising, really – a book almost as old as my parents has dated opinions on social issues! - but for some reason I always expect canonical authors to have been free-wheeling libertines and bohemians.

Speaking of being written nearly sixty years ago – the time capsule quality of this book is positively fascinating. Which I say whenever I read something from before the millennium, but still – the ‘60s are still so profoundly mythologized I do love the chance to see anything written about them at the time, if only for ‘the past as a foreign country’ tourism reasons. The Hollywood of exploration, drug abuse, meaningless sex, vicious gossip and every combination of the above feels like it could almost be written about today, right up until the point where an easy divorce means finding an amenable judge and finding a witness to corroborate the husband’s admission of wanton emotional abuse (which becomes a stark reminder of how horrifying even a historical five minutes ago was when you consider what happens if you can’t meet any of those conditions). The illegal abortions, the utterly casual homophobia, the auteur theory being a hot new thing, the cult of the open road. It all adds up to an interesting effect.

Speaking of the cult of the open road – Maria’s only real sense of peace, happiness and self-control in the entire book is when she’s spending all day cruising the highway at dangerous speeds just for the sake of it, without itinerary or destination. No real coherent point to make, just that there’s something truly and incredibly American about that? The descriptions of the Nevada desert and highways, too.

But yeah, an expertly written novel that’s positively lovely in places (the opening monologue is near-sublime, for example), but not one that really awed or oved me the way some other literature has.

[dgrailwar]

Round 8, Day 1 - ALL TEAMS (but mostly Team Pretender) - [ TRUE NAME DISSOLUTION ]

Team Pretender chooses to trigger the Pretender's True Name Dissolution! Oberon's gameplay style, personality, skills, and perhaps even the current state of the Grail War will cha--

"Ahh… you're sure? This would be a pretty nasty spoiler… I mean, might spoil things in a pretty nasty way."

"Well, if you say so. Let's put up a curtain, just in case anyone wants to remain in this illusion of bliss."

Ah. So you decided to keep reading? Good. I hope you're ready. Because in exchange for visuals, you'll have to live with words.

You watched as the form of 'Oberon' began to decay, his form withering and rotting away into dark, pulpy matter. The process was vile and agonizing, the smell of sloughing sinew and blackening bones filling the forest. The bugs crawled to the disgusting carcass, worming their way in, making nests and feasting greedily as the fairy king dropped to the earth, his body no more than a dark puddle that slowly grew in size, before rising.

Rising, and rising.

A swarm of darkness, rising and rising.

A vile king, an abyssal worm, rising above the digital space.

An empty entity that loathed existence itself. An eternal pit that swallowed worlds.

And as naught but innocent bystanders, the Masters could only watch in horror, for how could they have known this would happen?!

Hah!

Yeah, right. That's horseshit.

Of course they knew what would happen. They just didn't care. Not about the others, or how things would change. That's human nature, you know? Ruin things because it seems interesting at the moment. That's the simple fact of the matter.

They probably looked on proudly. 'We did it!', they would declare, 'We summoned such a mighty and powerful Servant, and none will stand in our way', they probably proclaimed. Or, perhaps even more naively (and perhaps even worse), 'Our friend now has the power to win'! Blegh. Anyways.

Then, as the audience is given a beat to grapple in the horror of the scenario, in a manner of surprising comedic timing they would check their Command Spells… and they would be gone.

'Gone? How could they be gone?', would be the question buzzing in their minds, panic beginning to settle in. Of course, the answer was simple.

That giant abyssal creature did not exist, and yet did exist. A 'hole', only truly meant for a Lost World.

Anyways, do you want a big explanation on how each Servant suffers and dies under the curse, and how the Grail crumbles and withers into itself, reverting to nothing, and how the magical energy suffused by this dark entity breaks free from this digital prison, dooming this world? I mean, I could. Sure.

But why bother? It's basically settled. Here.

What was that thing that Shakespeare had Puck say at the end of that bullshit play?

"If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream."

It's over. You can leave now.

The dream is done.

The Abyssal Wyrm comes and everyone dies. Meaning you've reached a...

I said you can go.

Leave, shoo. Go away.

There's not much past this, so bye.

…Hah! Fine. I lied. I mean, obviously. What a shit ending that would be otherwise. Let's keep it 'sporting', then. This whole farce makes me want to puke, so I need to let out my anger on someone before this ends. Ah- wait, this is narration. No more 'I'. Let's stay detached, lest this become a monologue.

Now, let's settle the matter of where this story stands.

There was the melting, the decay, the ruination of the idea of 'Oberon'. Check.

The insects feasting, nesting, and crowding on his decaying body, a ritual to send his body to the earth, and arise anew. Duh.

The vanishing Command Spells, as you realized that your connection was nothing more than a scam. Of course.

The giant abyssal creature looming over the horizon. Obviously.

That stuff happened. Remember it.

But the Servants didn't die (yet).

The digital space wasn't swallowed by darkness (yet).

All isn't lost (yet).

Those were lies. Though, if I'm the one saying it…

Ah, whatever. Now... how did these sort of things go for the others? Right, right.

Behold, the vile king of the abyss. He who resides wherever 'emptiness' lies. The wrath of the Planet, given form and cursed with eternal loathing and hollow truth. He who only should have existed within the confines of the Lost World, as he has no role within human history. He, made of lies, sheds his farcical shell. He who makes you go 'Oh, we, uh, should have summoned the Archetype of the Planet for this one' with dumb mouths agape!

Behold, the end of worlds and dreams. The one who fells the morning lark. The one who consumes the evening shroud. The one who devours the twilight.

Behold--

The Extra Class of Endless Deceit, Pretender!

[scrunglepaws]

Tried to fit all my fic ideas on one page, but I still forgot some because they're like... scrawled on random pieces of paper all over my house/in different notebooks/ect. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I tried!

The little branchy-offy things are prequels/sequels of that particular series. Bleeped out things I thought might be spoiler-y to ongoing series. Things with * are super WIP-y titles because I dunno what to call them.

More ramblings under the cut! (Nothing spoilery for the ongoing series; just vague things!)

No Heroes Zone // - I have a lot more generalized worldbuilding, character notes, ect than actual stories. The story ideas are mostly vague/short... Though, I suppose I could stand to write some super short fics. - The exception is an angsty sonighty fic that's basically done, but I just have to fill in all the inbetween, connecty bits. And decide how sonighty-y I really want to go with it. That ship came outta nowhere, I tell ya. - NHZ is really mostly Tails (and Metal) angst, tho. The other day I was thinking about how he tries to latch onto Shadow and even Metal in the absence of having Sonic and was like "Wow, Tails, clingy much? What are you, Nine???" then I felt really bad. T-T; He just misses his brother...!

Kaleidoscope // - The name of this fic is based on an art piece I've been wanting to do for forever: A kaleidoscope of Tails/Nine/Mangey, looking at each other and seeing them each from their own perspective. Because that's the theme of the whole story, funky scifi weirdness aside. But uh, 1) didn't have a decent digital art program for a bit and 2) I'm not good enough at drawing the subtle differences in their appearances to really make it hit how I wanted. Also 3) Tails looks basically the same to all three of them, lmao. - "Mangey Remembers" is Mangey's backstory and "Loneliness*" is... Less of a backstory for Nine, more of a brief showcase of his character in general. Because we already know Nine's whole deal from canon. Same reason Tails doesn't have a backstory- he's supposed to be canon Tails. - "Starless Sky" and "Ruination*" are both poteeeential sequels, but I'm not set on doing them. Ruination would just be a short, noncanon "what if?" bad ending for the heck of it.

Someplace AU (Aquarius) // - Also halfway calling it Aquarius for now because I ended up continuing the first part of the story under that fic name.

- It was originally more focused on Sails, hence Someplace being a play on No Place. But now it's about equally Kit and Sails. I ended up getting SO MANY effing ideas for these dudes, man. ;w;

- "Hollow Existence*" isn't a specific story, but just a sprinkling of scenes/backstory bits that detail why Kit is the way he is. Mostly his relationship with Surge growing up.

- "Sails' Tales" is likewise a collection of random Sails backstory bits. I have a lot more specific/fleshed out things for him, though. BUDDY, did I have fun with the No Place lore. Also, his relationships with Catfish and Black Rose are so cute... ;A;

- The bits to the right are basically going to be chapters in Aquarius. They're vague enough not to be spoilery (other than the blipped ones...)

- "=D?" is a sequel that I'm very excited about. Probably shouldn't say much beyond that.

Everything Else // - CaveTails is a Journey to the Center of the Earth-esque silly, silly thing. That could maybe become a bit more serious? BAsically, I was thinking "Huh, kind of weird that my main kittails fic is with Sails. That'd be funny if I did ones with Nine and Mangey, too. Just for the lulz. Especially the Mangey one." This is the Mangey one. xD Except he's sort of like... Tails AND Mangey at the same time, character-wise? So? :? Also, potentially some wholesome Sonic+Tails moments because I weirdly haven't written any of those yet.

- "Kids" is just a continuation of that goofy Tails Doll+Cream oneshot. Just small ideas for another chapter or two. Cute friendship, fluff, and lots of comfort to make up for the hurt in the first chapter. :3;;

- "Alien*" is what it says on the tin. I have a couple different ideas for how it could go. One of them boots out Silver entirely and had Metal in his place. xD But I might have enough material to write an alien Silver AND alien Metal fic. We'll see whenever I get around to it. :3

- "Nine's Shadow*" is something I've wanted to write ever since I made that joke oc, Stales the Fox aka Zombie Tails variant from the Grim. Probably just a oneshot (or a few short chapters) fic that mostly focuses on Nine being "all alone" after the ending of Sonic Prime.

- "Why is Babies?*" is the second idea I had for a fic. It's just Shadow being awkward and not knowing how to look after a chunk of the main cast that are suddenly tots for unknown reasons. It's very lighthearted, comedic, and cute. Originally a Shadow+Metal fic until I learned more about Eclipse and just HAD to include him. Dude is literally a struggling single parent in canon, how could I not include him in a story about his brother going through something similar? xD Also, I might call this fic "Rascals" as a reference to that one Star Trek episode with a similar premise. Because! Star Trek. 8D

- "The Fifth Element" ... I have put off posting anything about this fic idea for so long because I'm EMBARRASSED IT'S SO STUPID AND CORNY DON'T LOOK AT ME,,, In case you're totally lost, the 1997 film of the same name is my. Favorite movie. So naturally, this was my first idea for a fic. It's so all-over-the-place tonally, though. Obviously, got a LOT of silly, especially the parts that follow the movie almost exactly. But I also added a lot of original bits that help flesh out the characters' relationships. The protag is Shadow, who is very, very soft and introspective in it. Which, like, how did that happen??? But I love it. Metal is his co-lead and is mostly goofy because he's a fish out of water. Sonic is VERY, VERY goofy like goddamn (he's Ruby Rod- if you know, you know). Then there's just the silliest shit ever like Silver. Silver is Shadow's cat. It's stupid, but it's also fun, and maybe even matters to the plot. You don't know. Blaze is the president. Dr. Starline, Surge, Eggman, and The End are in it. Tails has the smallest part of any of my fics, but I think I cast him well. I need to stop now or I never will. Don't look at me. xDD

~

But yeah, as I said, I forgot a lot of other ideas. A few more (still forgetting some, I'm sure): - "Creature from the Black Lagoon" ft. kittails - Steam Powered Giraffe-vibes 50's thing w/ Tails, Cream, and automatons of Kit, Surge, Metal, Belle, Gemerl, ect - Tails Doll trying to be a Real Boy(tm) - Kittails-focused folklore AU with Kit as a kelpie and Tails as a normal mobian. Bunch of other people as fae creatures and villagers, including Starline as the main villain. - Maybe a whispangle oneshot from the above au (Tangle is a mobian, Whisper is. basically a magic wolf? xD) - Knuckles/Tails role-swap

[scribeofmorpheus]

Var Lath Vir Bellanaris

PART 1: Vi'Revas Warnings: Veilguard spoilers, Solavellan spoilers, angst, yearning, the feels! Words: 2.5k, not proofed, straight word vomit. Sequel to: Harellan (post-Trespasser) & Not Some Fanciful Story Recommended song: In Cold Light NOT PROOFREAD

The sky was blackened. The spire covered in the entrails of Lusacan, the last Archdemon. So much of that moment reminded her of the final push at the Valley of Sacred Ashes, of the last fight to save all of Thedas.

“Bind yourself to the Veil,” Rook’s voice carried as clear as a bell. “…stop it from falling.”

Revas’ blood turned to ice, a gasp fighting its way out of her quivering lips.

This wasn’t how she’d imagined her future, crippled, heartbroken, beaten-down from losing friend after friend to the blight in the south. She hadn’t expected to survive her encounter with Corypheus all those years ago, but she had always imagined hope would endure if she fell in that battle; hope that there would always be a promise of tomorrow.

There was none of that now.

She’d felt it when she walked the streets of Tevinter, seeing so many feet sway above the hanging post, nooses digging through skin. Cries of loss trickled from near every home and it was worse back home. The Free Marches. The Dales. Denerim. There were no more roaming halla. The aravels were gone. Cities, older than she would ever be, were lost to the blighted growth of endless decay, lost to the sourness of rot and the heat of death. Skyhold remained. And the sick, the poor, the wounded, they all flocked to her walls. Last she was there, they had turned the rotunda into an infirmary. She’d watched as countless strangers and friends had erected a wall of remembrance over the frescoes.  Drawings, letters marked with the names of loved ones, red hand prints, every creative indicator of loss was mounted on those walls, a candle lit by the feet each night.

She had hung up the letter from Briala a few months ago, the one that spoke of the loss of the Dalish clans and city alienages, the loss of what little elvish resistance had begun to rise in the face of human tyranny. She had cried when she’d added the title of Last of Clan Lavellan to her speeches, rallying the dwindling number of her troops to their death as they tried to save Grand Enchanter Fiona and her Circle mages, and then the Arl at Redcliff, and then the entire city of Halamshiral. Walking the palace she had once danced in, seeing barely a soul, hearing no music, it broke her.

The morning after each hard-fought battle, when she went to count the new dead amongst the half-living, she’d hear the curse she’d once foolishly cast on the very walls that stood as the final bastion against complete ruination.

I hope, wherever you are, 'ma vhen'an, that you are as miserable in your lonely hunt as I am miserable in this broken body, carrying the weight of two hearts. May the dinan’shiral break you, for that is the only way I could ever hope to see you again; or let this cruel world open its maw and swallow me whole, into nothing, past the Fade and out of memory so my sadness can never touch another again.

Regret. O, such a dagger, blunted and rough, pushing past bone to tear at your insides. She understood it better than she did joy. Because why else would the world try so hard to tear itself apart if not to answer her prayer?

Was his dinan’shiral not breaking them both?

A week ago, she had placed a Chantry necklace at the foot of a pile of jewellery recovered from the dead for Mother Giselle and Charter. And then the letter from Varric… she had carried it with her, through everything. Her last shred of hope.

I found him, Freckles.

She had cried as she held the paper in her hands, Dorian’s hand pressed to her back as Rook walked out to face the last of the Evanuris.

Revas should have been used to losing. All those lessons of Wicked Grace she’d had with Varric, all the sparring matches with Bull, the debates with Dorian, the arguments on Circle infrastructure with Vivienne, talk of belief in the Maker with Leliana, belief in elven gods… Crestwood. Losing should have been as easy as breathing, but every breath was a shard of glass to her lungs, a battering ram to her spirit.

There were no ties left to bind her to her home in Thedas.  

There was but one choice to make.

Revas looked down at Elgar’nan’s body, disappointed at what rotten fruit the ides of godhood bore.  There was always someone bent on breaking the world. Uncertain, she looked ahead, dismayed by just how much the tide had turned in a few months.

It cut her deeply, to know that it was her heart that stood at the helm of this unending cycle.

From where she stood, she could see the Veil gouged open like the slit of a tired eye; poised to waken, yet still full of the promise of further sleep. That same light had once shone from her very palm.

Despite everything, she found herself fighting off the pull of a smile. Herald of Andraste here to face the very maker of the Veil. It was poetic enough to make a religion out of it. Varric would’ve made a killing with a twist like that. His best and last seller for all of Thedas. A love story.

She paused by the doorway, watching him ascend the steps slowly, unsure of what it was she was hoping to see, but when Solas bowed his head in that very same manner he had done before he bent to kiss her that last time, she knew the words that would fall from his lips before they even had a chance to grace the air.

He couldn’t do it.

Not on his own.

Thirteen steps. That was all she needed to surmount. Not a high dragon. Not a blighted, ancient Tevinter magister who had walked the Black City. Not the fall of the South. It was just thirteen steps across the divide, past Rook and past every decision that led them to this point.

Back turned to her, wrecked and ravaged by a hard fight, Solas’ body was wrapped beautifully in armour stripped down to its barebones, a remnant of the one she’d watched gleam through an eluvian, wolf pelt slung on the side in place of a sigil. It made him look vulnerable. Nowhere near as regal as he’d been in the Fade, yet neither draped in humility as he’d been in Skyhold.

When Solas climbed the final step, dagger balancing dangerously in his open palm, he declared full of regret: “I cannot.”

His voice, quivering and mournful, sent tremors through Revas.

She quickened her pace, half afraid she’d turn into a shemlen in the process.

He was so close. So close to touch. Her every muscle ached to reach out and be reunited with him, her chest heavy as though she could feel the very weight of him pressed against her bones. Yet, despite how much she desired it, she could not run to him. She had to take each step carefully.

Rook gave her a look of warning, but shifted to the side, letting her pass.

They would work together on this.

Revas would have her shot.

Until she wouldn’t.

The ground seemed to stretch farther with each step, creating even more distance the closer she got. The air, acrid with the smell of blight and blood, grew thick, electric in that habitual way the Fade had felt when it coursed through the anchor, when it bound her every fibre to a spark of light and used her very spirit as flint to cauterise the tears in the veil all those years ago.

Three steps left.

She could practically feel what it was like to be beside him, to be near his magic.

They had once been like ice and thunder. Her, this brewing storm like the kind that kissed the horizon on the Storm Coast. Him, the kind of avalanching cold that could rival the fall of Haven.

Whenever she’d been close to him in battle, feeling the strength of his barriers, nearly impenetrable, she’d felt unstoppable. And at the mark of terrifying blizzards that’d turn the skin of any enemy brandishing a blade against her to glaciers, she’d feel so possessively loved.

That is what she had to hold onto. Not the pain or the betrayal or the losses. The love that was always there, slipping through the cracks, chipping away at his polite mask, bolstering her with the knowledge that she was not so easily avoided, no matter how hard he’d tried to steer clear of her.

Elfroot, ozone and poultices. The scent of an apostate. A teacher. He was only three steps away.

Solas stared at the Veil, his back holding fast with purpose, his fingers twitching by the dagger's grip. He took a breath, and without looking back at Rook, he pressed on with his reasoning: “To stop now would be to dishonour those that I’ve wronged to come this far!”

Solas raised his hand, dagger’s edge close to his bleeding eye, and she knew not to wait any longer. This was it. The moment when she’d test how well she’d kept his heart.

Time went still. His body turned ridged as he turned to face her the moment she spoke.

“Even if those you’ve wronged asked you to stop?”

He looked so utterly broken. Revas watched in relief as she saw just how much of an effect those simple words had had on him.

Solas’ lips parted ever-so-slightly, his brow moving up a fraction, showing a hint of familiar awe—that surprise at having been affected so deeply by her. It was good to see that things didn’t change. And for a second, she imagined he’d smile. But then he bowed his eyes, snapping his eyes away from the heat of her gaze, turning his head to look downward.

Shame.

He was ashamed.

In a solemn breath, one meant for reunited lovers, not opposing forces at the end of the world, he whispered her title; her name; her place in his story: “Vhen’an…”

That simple word was enough to knock the wind from her, but Revas would not give him the satisfaction of being backed into a corner by pain. Not like in Halamshiral. Not again.

Her heart quickened as she took another step forward, “You think you’ve gone too far to come back but you’re wrong. I am here,” she gestured to the desolation around them, beseeching, “walking the dinan’shiral with you!”

Slowly, he lowered his dagger, his temples burdened by the dawning of his actions, by the gravity of what she’d just said.

“I lied,” he urged, trying to draw on any nerve that might still be raw, unwilling to believe she truly meant the words she’d spoken. “I betrayed you.”

And what did that matter?

Through everything.

How could that matter when she was beginning to remember what it was like to be in his gaze, to hear the tremors in his voice, to feel the power of his yearning across those steps?

“I forgive you!” She felt her voice crack. “All you have to do is stop!”

Please, for me, my heart, stop.

Solas turned to face her completely, his head, once high, was brought low in reverence. Humbly, as was his way all those years ago, he bowed before her and her heart broke.

“Ir abelas, vhen’an, but I cannot.” His head rose up, his eyes hardening, replacing humility with purpose. “Long before we met, I failed my oldest friend. She died for my failure. If I leave the Veil in place, I am destroying the world she wanted. And I will have… She will have died for nothing.”

He turned back to the tear in the veil, raised the dagger once more, and was halted by the cry of a raven—a creature Revas had once held sacred as a Keeper of Dirthamen’s Secrets.

Morrigan transformed before him, her entrances as memorable as always. She approached Solas with ease, speaking to him with the cadence of an old friend.

Revas took another step forward, mind focused on him. Always him. All she could do was push; pushing past the doubt that tried to claw up her spine when she witnessed him shrink with the realisation that he was not speaking to Morrigan entirely; pushing past the wrenching in her gut when she heard how torn he’d sounded as he’d spoken Mythal’s name; pushing past the anger as she learned of his corruption at her hands, past the devastation as she watched him crumble in the last light of forgiveness before Mythal vanished.

The petrifying sounds of his sobs sent her to her knees beside him, as he had knelt for her when she’d been wracked by pain when the anchor tried to rip its way out of her.

Finally, she would say the vows she had dreamed of saying.

“Banal nadas. Ar lath ma, vhen’an,” she could see him shake, hear him whimper, but it had been enough.

With a clenched fist, Solas resolved to stand tall, his hand ghosting the deep bruise near his forehead as he tried to control his sobs. With a steadying breath, he found the strength to turn to the Veil and do what must be done.

In the blink of an eye, he brought the lyrium dagger to his palm and sliced clean through, holding his fist up as he made his oath.

“My life force now sustains the Veil. With every breath I take, I will protect the innocent from my past failures. The Titans’ dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight, but I can help to soothe its anger.”

Solas placed the dagger in Rook’s hand, finally turning to Revas to say his goodbye, “I will go and seek atonement.”

Then he paused in front of the tear, and Revas was certain this was where her path would always end.

“But you do not have to go alone,” she walked up to him, hands outstretched.

There was that look again. Awe. Disbelief, Adoration.

When next he spoke, he sounded so small, so mortal.

“Ar gelass vir banal,” she shook his head, his eyes gleaming with tears that were barely being held at bay. Soft. So unbelievably soft. Revas would not be talked out of this.

“Tel banal arama,” she refuted his excuse.

Solas swallowed down another sob, except this one was half laughter. Because, of course she’d cast aside any fears he might have used to persuade her otherwise. His hand pressed down on hers, hopeful, full of need, and she complied.

As a child, she’d heard lovers exchange the vows of eternity during marriage ceremonies. Once, she’d dreamed of uttering them to him, when they’d been in the Inquisition. Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris. The words had sounded so beautiful. Inevitable, even. But knowing what she knew of the Old Gods, if she were to make a vow of forever, it would not be in Sylaise’s name. It would be in honour of the distances they’d spent apart. The journey.

“Vir shiral ma’lasa, bellanaris,” she sealed the vow with a kiss. Gentle, compassionate, tangled with relief. They had endured. As Ar Bellanaris had, the burial grounds in the Dales, through war and occupation, an untouched beacon of old Arlathan. Bellanaris. Eternity, come what may. They had made the journey, and now all that remained was the love.

Solas deepened the kiss, wincing through it as he carefully moved his cut lip against hers, the taste of blood shared between them.

When they finally parted, they were one. Bound. Spirits entwined. And then they became the heartstone of the Fade. The place where Cole was from. The place where they had shared their first kiss. As Revas had made Skyhold a home, made Thedas a place worth living in, for however short a time, she knew Solas would do the same for her. A home for a home.

The Maker returned back to his beginnings, but he was neither alone, nor surrounded only by regret. He was with his bride. The Herald of Andraste. Inquisitor. Revasan Lavellan, the Last of Her Clan; a Paragon of Freedom.

Now all that needed to be done was face the regret.

[brightm8]

(Some spoilers for Arcane Season 2)

Ok so I've been developing a bit of a theory surrounding the lore of League of Legends and Arcane, and at first I was pretty invested in it but it's getting to the point now where I'm getting upset.

The thing is, Riot wants to take the incredible lore from Arcane and combine it with the fragmented but still cool lore from the games, mainly League of Legends, but also Wild Rift and Legends of Runeterra. And there's a really straightforward way to do this.

All of the characters in League of Legends are legends. These are the heroes and monsters that appear in the stories that inhabitants of Runeterra tell each other. Darius' conquests are described in detail across Ionia and Noxus. Azir's name forms the foundations of Shuriman history books. Fiora is idolized, Bard is worshiped. Mothers tell their children of Fiddlesticks to keep them from sneaking out at night, and their spouses of Evelynn for the same reason.

I tried to look for exceptions to this pattern, but each time I thought I was onto something, the wiki went out of its way to prove their status as a legend. Quinn, for instance:

[Text: She and her legendary eagle, Valor]

Or Gragus:

[Text: he is legendary for the brawls he starts]

Kog'maw, Graves, and Twisted Fate were the closest I could find to "dudes minding their own business," so you can make of that what you will. But I remain convinced that the characters incorporated into the game League of Legends must, clearly, be Legends.

Thus, all that fragmented lore about these characters we gather from the wiki, and the voicelines, and the character models and skins, is simply the version of these characters that people tell each other about. Everyone knows Vi as the punchy, girly enforcer with hot pink hair and an attitude. The other enforcers can't get enough of her gutsy stories about invading Zaun. So that's the version we see. We see the rumors, the tales, and the myths.

Meanwhile, I perceive the longer form media like Arcane (and likely the novel Ruination, too, but I haven't read it yet) to be a more accurate retelling of what actually happened to these people. Vi's hair isn't that bubblegum pink everyone says it is; it's closer to red than anything. Jinx is truly lonely, Heimerdinger wise, and Singed... well... "sane" may be too strong a word.

But the point is, the versions of these characters from the games aren't any less canon, because the stories about them, around which these perceptions are formed, are just as integrated into the world of Runeterra as the people themselves.

We see this with Janna, whose legends line the walls of Zaun's alleyways. The iconography of her, portrayed in Arcane, is faithful to her character in game. In game, we play as the wind goddess who Zaunites say swept away the toxic Gray, and whose statues are still maintained and worshiped. But for all we know, there never really was a real Janna. For all we know, she was a myth passed down and molded for generations.

And this is beautiful. And it very conveniently explains why these characters are all fighting each other on some kind of oddly shaped battlefield. It's the equivalent of two 8-year-olds with action figures, using their imaginations with the characters they know from fairytales and horror stories. And the real people that these characters are modeled after could just.. sit there and watch.

So this is where I get a little upset. Because Riot, I believe, is attempting to combine the lores of Arcane, League of Legends, Legends of Runeterra, etc. using some kind of Multiverse theory. And I couldn't tolerate that. I'm done with multiverses. I'm only tolerating the Spider-verse because it's well-written and I want them to take their time. But manufacturing some magical reason that there are two Caitlyns, one who is deep and tragic and one who is flat and haughty, will only pit these versions of the characters against each other. And ALL they need to do to avoid this is confirm that the version of Caitlyn we play as in League of Legends is the person that Piltover children perceive her to be.

Anyway, this scares me because, as of now, only three episodes of Arcane season two have been released, and there is a real threat that they will use the "Arcane" to explain some kind of multiverse theory. Jayce, for example (Spoilers!!) saw infinite versions of himself when he touched the big weird orb. If my guess is correct, I still trust the writers to handle this "wild runes interact with other dimensions" premise properly, because they are god-like (legendary, even). But it doesn't bode well for the rest of the lore once that doorway has been opened.

But I mean. No matter what, I love to play the game and hear these characters interact and feel like I'm not just hearing their voice, but also the voices of thousands and millions of Runeterran people each telling their stories through their cherished Legends.

[miraculousmaker]

SPOILERS FOR TMAGP 13

LIVE REACTION

Alrighty now I’ll be caught up.

“Alice is right. You’re easy to make blush.” Gurl

Ah, Jack’s her son. Makes sense.

Trauma dumping is a love language.

Getting straight to bi questions is always interesting. Then they turned to if the reports were real. No duh.

Gwen trying to figure out if she was responsible. Baby, you didn’t knoww

O we’re getting good lore rn. They are focused on balance, which makes sense since now the Web is everything.

Weird that this isn’t a report. We prob need to know it.

How does someone go to public school with a scholarship? Brits are strange.

Definitely important that this isn’t a report, right?

This guy just tweaking with a glitchy app that somehow knew what he was doin irl is so… familiar.

Desire, greed, addiction.

Dude betting on his own life, deciding to… jump off a cliff?

Also, gambling so similar feeling to the ep for the bone dice.

Ruination for the cause of more more more.

Hehe get consumed mf

Alice you’re so silly. “Is she at least going to make an honest woman out of you” babe

Ooo weird background breeze.

“I’m going to have to take a shit on your desk.”

[asimplearchivist]

❝ 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖕𝖙 . ❞

𝐂𝐇. ? 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐋𝐃. 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 ? 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐄𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] [ AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST ] summary ♜ ⤏ rook has experienced few but devastating losses during her life. she's not certain she can take even one more. ⤏ good thing varric tethras is as stubborn as a druffalo. pairing(s) ♜ varric tethras & rook (fenalan aldwir) word count ♜ 3.5k a/n ♜ [gif credit] | [divider credit] ⤏ spoiler warning: this contains spoilers for some of the clips that have been revealed since the embargo lifted for those who went to the pre-play event! please do not proceed if you're avoiding any spoilers about the prologue! ⤏ I am uncertain if and where this will fit into the greater scheme of things since there are several pieces we're still missing from the prologue of Veilguard. this may end up needing tweaking later, it might be better as an in-between UA scene, or it may be scrapped from the fanfic for my canon altogether—we'll see! ⤏ but, until then, I wanted to indulge in giving Varric some well-earned TLC and to explore his dynamic with my Rook, a Dalish Veil Jumper with the Spellblade specialization: Fenalan Aldwir. This was honestly such a delight to write. I've missed my babies. :') ♜ MASTERPOST ♜

“There’s nothing more that you can do for him, Rook.”

Logically, Fenalan knew that the other mage was right. Besides the sweat beading on her brow and the leaden exhaustion dragging her limbs, her Keeper’s stern advice never to overtax her mana supply due to the potentially devastating and long-term issues that the strain could pose floated unbidden through the back of her mind. But, given the circumstances, she could not readily dismiss the unsteady thrum of her apprehensive heart against the inside of her ribs.

Fenalan leaned all of her weight against the side of the bed since her knees were dangerously tottering on the verge of giving out completely. Her empty stomach had cramped since she’d started casting her limited experience with healing magic upon Varric’s wound in hopes of negating its worst effects before it had the chance to cause fever or become infected. The elf grimaced, her hands well past numb from the unceasing spell, and cast a glance towards the detective hovering in her periphery with a concerned wrinkle marring her smooth brow.

Neve had already completed the brunt of the work, taking care of all the cosmetic abrasions and hemorrhaging littering the dwarf’s body incurred from his tumble down the stairs, but she’d only been able to hold back the worst of the bleeding until Fenalan had awoken from the dream that had plagued her bout of unconsciousness…though perhaps it had been closer to a nightmare, in retrospect. The Dread Wolf, of all fucking people, digging his treacherous fingers into her mind? She shuddered still at the mere thought of her poor lot,  but she couldn’t afford to dwell on it now lest she crack under the pressure of all else that had been unexpectedly dumped upon her shoulders in the span of a few measly hours.

“Rook,” Neve repeated, her voice taking on a firmer edge. “At least sit.”

The Tevine leveraged a chair close enough for the Dalish to sink down into it. Fenalan was uncertain how long she had stood there. “‘Ma serannas,” she murmured, eyeing her patient.

Varric was deathly still, save the slow rise and fall of his exposed chest. She knew he would vehemently object to the ruination of his clothes, custom-tailored and as expensive as they were, so she had compromised with Neve to slip the shirt and coat from his torso once they had swiftly removed Fen’Harel’s bloody lyrium dagger from the wound and poured spells of regeneration into the puncture directly after to stave off the shock his body would experience. His skin was clammy, his face worryingly wan, but his pulse was steady even if it only pressed halfheartedly against her questing fingertips pressed against the inside of his wrist. He did not stir, even as she finally released her white-knuckled grasp of the Veil and braced her elbows against the edge of the mattress to drop her grimy face into her hands.

Neve nudged her shoulder to offer a strikingly ornate goblet filled with something dark and fragrant. A cursory whiff told Fenalan that it was likely an equal part mixture of a restorative potion and a port of unknown origin.

“You’ve already raided the Dread Wolf’s pantry?” Fenalan asked wryly, daring a sip and smacking her lips at the taste. Orlesian. It wasn’t half-bad, but the bitter earthy aftertaste certainly left something to be desired. It would nevertheless serve well enough to quell her frayed nerves and resupply her energy both.

“Kind of him to keep enough food on hand for all his guests,” Neve replied dryly.

“At least we’ll have something to eat while we figure all this shit out,” Fenalan sighed She leaned against the sturdy back of the chair, kicked off her boots, and lifted her socked feet to rest on the edge of the bed. The aching muscles sang with relief as blood flow resumed in earnest. “Nothing’s crept out of the woodwork to kill us while we sleep?”

“No. It seems we’re alone here—for the time being, at least.” Neve regarded the supine dwarf. “He looks a little better than he did before. I didn’t think you were a healer.”

“It’s not my specialty.” Fenalan was beginning to feel the full effects of the reminder of that fact right about then. “He still looks like he’s toeing death’s door to me.”

“He has a bit more color.” Neve leaned over and lightly touched the ragged flesh around the injury site. “You’ve done a marvelous job of sealing that off, Rook. Scarring from a wound like this can’t be avoided, but it won’t be nearly as bad as I feared. He should pull through, provided he rests enough. I’d give him at least a week before I’d suggest he try to stand.”

Fenalan swallowed a deep drag of her new contact’s likely unrecommended concoction. “I tried my best,” she responded under her breath. “Let’s hope it is enough.”

Neve eyed her for a moment, gauging. “You ought to get some rest of your own, Rook.”

“Sure.” She crossed one leg over the other. “I’ll get on that just as soon as I finish this.”

The detective’s brow wrinkled again. “I meant away from here. In a bed. You don’t honestly intend to stay there.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Fenalan leveled her with an unyielding stare. “And if you take the chair, I’m sleeping on the floor instead. Take your pick.”

“Rook…” the Tevine began, frowning, then seemed to think better of arguing with Varric’s appointed second in command—and friend to boot. She sighed. “Fine.”

Fenalan inclined her head towards the door. “Harding doing all right?”

“As well as can be expected. I don’t think she’s being honest about how well she feels, but that’s an issue we can address once we all recover from this.”

“We don’t have much time to spare,” the elf reminded her. “The sooner we can get back on our feet to do damage control, the better.”

“It can wait until you take a nap, at least.” Neve shook her head. “I can see why you two get along so well.”

“Lace is tenacious, I’ll give her that,” Fenalan shrugged.

“No, I meant you and Varric.” The Tevine folded her arms. “I think you’d both work yourselves into the ground before you called anything to quits if you feel it’s necessary.”

“It is necessary. We don’t know exactly what we’re facing,” Fenalan pointed out gravely.

“But you won’t be able to solve it if you’re half-dead on your feet trying to fight back against whatever those blighted monsters were,” Neve retorted.

Elgar’nan. Ghilan’nain. Names to which Fenalan had never expected to assign faces.

The elf released a long, heavy sigh. “I know.”

“We’ll be within earshot should you need us,” Neve told her. “Find us when you’re ready.”

“Will do.” Fenalan drained the rest of the cocktail as the detective headed for the door. “Thank you, Neve. I would thank you, but I suspect you would deny it.”

“I would.” Neve opened the door. “But you’re welcome, Rook.”

Fenalan set the goblet on the floor behind the chair’s legs, grasped one of Varric's cold hands, and tucked her chin against her collar. The blissfully dreamless oblivion welcoming her closed eyes was lovely, dark, and deep.

The twitch of chilled, blunt fingers clamping around her own roused Fenalan before the low, hoarse wheeze of the bed’s occupant did. “Rook.”

“Varric,” she rasped, instantly dropping her feet from the edge of his bed to sit up as she swiped the crust from her heavy-lidded eyes. She gave him a lingering once-over, taking in his pale face against the coarse hair of his beard. His hair was in dire need of a wash, his forehead gleamed with sweat, and his grip was far too weak for her comfort—but he had come through the worst of the entire ordeal no worse for wear given what could be expected from such a potentially grievous wound.

He was awake. He was alive. She had not lost him. That was enough.

The tightness in her chest gradually loosened with every labored but steady breath he drew into his rattling lungs. “...You look like shit.”

“Thanks. Pot meet kettle,” he remarked. He made to shift a bit to get more comfortable, but he winced as soon as he twisted his shoulders and thus jostled his bandaged torso. She leaned forward to cup a steady hand under his nape so she could flip and fluff the pillow for him. She swept his hair away from his damp neck and lowered his head back down with as much care as she could manage with her heart lodged firmly in the pit of her throat. She managed to do it all without giving into the tremor wracking her elbows and threatening to ricochet down into her hands. It gave him better leverage to gaze at her through glassy, dazed eyes. “Here I thought I would look as sunny as my disposition suggests.”

“It’s nothing new. Your age has been trying to catch up with you for at least as long as I’ve known you, old man.” Fenalan straightened, perched on the edge of her seat even though she draped her arms off her knees. “How are feeling?”

“As you so eloquently put it,” he drawled, “‘like shit.’”

“At least it isn’t ‘like death.’ You ventured dangerously close to it.” Fenalan lowered her chin to inspect the dried blood itching beneath her nails. “I cannot think of a worse idea than grappling with the Dread Wolf for his enchanted, world-ending ritual dagger. That certainly takes the cake, even over talking him out of his dastardly decade-long plot to use said dagger to tear down the Veil.”

Varric scoffed, but it tickled his undoubtedly dry throat and sent him into a wracking coughing fit. He clamped a palm over his wound as Fenalan snatched a waterskin from the side table and unstoppered it before holding it to his cracked lips to drink. He shooed her hands away once he had his fill and cleared his throat. His voice demonstrated a notable improvement now that he was no longer parched. “That’s worse than busting the scaffolding holding up an ancient statue imbued with probably enough arcane energy to flatten a mountaintop?”

“Touché.” She set the waterskin closer to the edge of the same table so he could reach it if he needed it. “But it really was a patchwork job for the weight of all that rested on it for his ritual. He really should have hired a carpenter.”

“Then we’d be ass-deep in demons.”

“I think I’d rather take that over this mess, honestly,” Fenalan muttered with a sigh, leaning back into the chair and pinching the bridge of her nose in a vain effort to dissuade the pressure building behind her eyes.

Varric squinted at her. “What do you mean? We stopped the ritual, didn’t we?”

Fenalan frowned. “You don’t remember?”

“Things got a little fuzzy after my friend stabbed me between the ribs, so forgive me if my memory’s a little patchy.” He huffed and shook his head, as though such a reprehensible action was no more offensive than having a tankard of ale spilled down the front of one’s favorite shirt. “What happened?”

“It’s likely a good thing you’re not standing,” Fenalan began slowly, pursing her lips as she gathered her scattered, racing thoughts. This is your responsibility now. Fenedhis. “How much do you know about the other elven gods?”

“Not a whole lot, other than from the few stories that survive. What’s left of the Inquisition has been conducting intensive research into ancient Arlathan ever since Chuckles dropped that revelation on us, but primary sources are scarce at best. You ought to know that better than most.”

“I do.” Fenalan swallowed. “Apparently he had them imprisoned…somewhere in the Fade? I’m still not exactly clear on that.”

He extended a finger. “I knew that much.”

“And they were…‘tyrannical, sadistic’ rulers wanting to be worshiped.”

A second joined the first. “Yep.”

“And they are blighted.”

His hand dropped to the sheet covering his belly as he stared at her. “Come again?”

“They’re blighted, Varric,” she repeated grimly.

“Please tell me you mean the ‘those blighted elven gods are assholes’ kind of blighted. And why are you using the present tense?”

Fenalan slumped forward and dragged a hand over her face.

“...Well, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure we’re not dead?”

“Does this look like the loving embrace of the Maker’s bosom—or whatever you Andrastians believe—to you?”

“No, but it’s not the topside of Thedas, either.” He surveyed the room with a critical eye, grimacing at the strain of turning his head to and fro. “Rook…where are we?”

“Solas’ headquarters,” she informed him dryly. “The Lighthouse.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“We’re in the Fade?”

She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve to feel the familiar texture beneath her fingertips. “No, somewhere in between—or so I’ve been told.”

“The Crossroads, then.” Varric released a heavy sigh. “I’ve got to admit, I didn’t think I’d ever wind up back here.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Not exactly.” He closed his eyes briefly before refocusing on her, more alert than before. “I told you about the day we found out Chuckles’ big secret, right?”

“The Inquisition was attending an enclave at Halamshiral,” she confirmed. “Orlais wanted it pulled under heel and Ferelden wanted it dissipated. The Chantry was caught in the middle of it all trying to mediate.”

“Right. I’m so glad you listen to my stories—see? It turns out that they’re all useful for something after all.”

“I never said they weren’t. You just use too much purple prose.” She nudged his ankle with her toe. “Go on.”

He exhaled heavily. “That wasn’t the first time we’d traveled through eluvians, or even passed through the Crossroads—although I’d never cared to repeat the experience, honestly—but it was the first time we ever saw glimpses of elven ruins between the mirrors. It was a network, all disjointed and labyrinthian…it was a clusterfuck, honestly.” Varric tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling. “We were finding Qunari outposts left and right, dismantling them as we went to keep them from blowing up all the cultural centers of the known world. We were trying to figure out who in the Void this ‘agent of Fen’Harel’ character was that so benevolently decided to tip us off as to the Viddasala’s plan, and why there were all these connections to the ancient elves woven through all the stops. Puzzles and shit, history we didn’t understand. And, in the middle of all that…the Inquisitor was losing her arm.”

Fenalan watched a dour shadow pass over the dwarf’s face—an expression he only ever wore when he spoke of ill-fated friends and the travesties they suffered in his company. “The Anchor was consuming her.”

“It was eating her from the inside out, more like. Whatever kind of magic Solas had summoned to be able to enter the Fade was just short of corrosive to mortals. She wasn’t meant to bear the Mark—no one but he was—and she isn’t even a mage. And with him tucking tail as soon as he cleaned up his mess with Corypheus…” Varric ground his jaw. “...two years without him warding it nearly killed her before we ever got her to him. Not that we knew at the time that was his plan all along.”

Fenalan’s brow furrowed. “He set all that up to manipulate the Inquisitor into finding him? So he could…what, take the Anchor back after all that time?”

“He had Dread Wolf shit to do in the meantime, I guess.” Varric’s fingers tightened around the cotton. “He fixed it, in the end—if you could call petrifying what was left of her arm to crumble into dust ‘fixing it.’ I didn’t see him again until…all that happened. We’ve all been chasing him ever since, hoping to talk some sense into him. The Inquisitor insisted on that. Even after what he put her through, she still thinks there’s something left inside him to save.”

Fenalan’s lips thinned. “You wanted to redeem the same man who killed thousands by lack of foresight via a quick and quippy dialogue about changing his mind? You don’t seem as keen on the idea now as you were before.”

“We’ve already been through that song and dance,” he reminded her wryly. “Someone had to. The Inquisitor wasn’t here to do it, so I was the world’s next best shot. And she would’ve been inconsolable if I hadn’t given it an honest try. So much for that, though.”

“Would the results have been any different if she had been there? Why would she want to help him if he’s so dead set on destroying the world?”

Varric loosed another sigh, this time fretful, remorseful, and resigned all at once. “...I don’t know, Rook. She was closer to him than anyone else, except maybe the Kid—but maybe he doesn’t count since he could actually read the bastard’s mind. They were…close. It made me wonder sometimes. But if anyone could get through to him, it would be her.”

“Why? I thought he has a problem with humans.”

“Sibyl is…different.” Varric’s expression eased into the faint crinkling of affection. He so rarely used her real name—from protecting her or revering her, she was uncertain—that it took Fenalan aback at first. “She was from the very start, and that intrigued him at first. She didn’t speak a lick of Common when she got here, but she recognized enough El’vhen to get by until I caught her up to speed. It gave them something to bond over, and the rest is history.”

Fenalan’s face scrunched with confusion. “You’ve never mentioned that she’s foreign.”

“She’s so foreign that she makes the mysteries of Amaranth and Par Vollen seem like bedtime stories.” Varric’s eyes drifted shut, and Fenalan stiffened a bit as what little wakeful tension in his body began to relax while his voice quietened. “But that’s a story for another time. Remind me to tell you that one—it’s probably one of my best.”

Fenalan leaned over to grab his loosened hand. “Varric.”

“I’m just tired, Rook,” he rumbled and cracked his eyes open to give her the most earnest look she’d seen from him in a while, “I’m not going anywhere. You try getting impaled with a blade of pure lyrium and see if it doesn’t take all the fight out of you.”

“You’ll be lucky if I ever let you onto a battlefield again,” Fenalan croaked.

He turned his palm over and squeezed her fingers. “Let me catch another nap,” he told her, “have some of that fireside stew and flatbread you make with a red Antivan vintage waiting for me when I wake up, and I’ll be as right as rain in no time—battlefield or no. I can honestly take or leave all this adventuring shit at this point. I’m getting too old for it.”

Fenalan combed a few loose strands of hair off his forehead with her free hand, her brows knit and her teeth clenched. “We might be on short supply of mutton and wine, but I’ll tear this place up from the foundations if I have to. Just…” She swallowed roughly, her throat too tight to utter another sound.

“Rook. Look at me.”

She did, reluctantly. His resolute calm was far more effective a balm than anything else could be to curb the hot sting of her childhood fears and experiences welling dangerously along her lash line. She cleared her throat. “Yes?”

“You won’t lose me that easily,” he told her. “Got it? It’ll take more than an elven god to take my last life.”

“Just don’t keep flouting it about as if you’ve got the other eight.” She coughed and snuffed, turning her head down and away just long enough to get her bearings. “Promise me you won’t do something that stupid again, ma falon.”

“I promise I won’t leave you alone to deal with all this, at any rate. Just give me some time to get back on my feet and I’ll be watching your back again.”

Fenalan nodded stiffly.

“Aw, come on. Don’t cry on the dwarf. I might melt, and then where would we be?” He tugged her hand gently, smiling despite the exhaustion obviously creeping over his entire frame. “You can tell me what you were dancing around confessing later. As long as you weren’t possessed by a demon or bound by any illicit magic rituals, we can handle it. Together.”

If only he knew. She doubted he would guess it, anyway. She suspected that Varric was going to have a fit once he found out about the not blood magic Solas had used to implant himself in her head.

Fenalan tightened her grip on the dwarf’s warming, roughened hand once more before she released him and stood on aching legs that protested every movement. “Get some rest, old man. I’ll see what I can scrounge up for supper.”

“I can’t wait. You’re one of the best cooks in Thedas, you know—and that’s a high bar because Sibyl was a damn good one…”

She waited until Varric drifted off and went limp before she sucked in a shaky lungful of Fade-charged air and slipped out of the room as quietly as possible.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

"T" is For Tomb - a Magnus Archives one-shot

THIS IS A DARK FIC, OKAY?????

Post MAG-200 spoilers.

Jon. Jon is somewhere.

(Or Jon is nowhere, and he is imagining, he has gone mad, he’s landed where the Fears wanted to go and the Web decided and Jon is eaten, Jon is dust, Jon is—)

Jon is somewhere. Martin will find him (or what was the point of any of this), even if it takes a thousand years.

AO3

---------------------

“What do you want me to do with this?”

Footsteps, distant voices; the crunching of rubble, both falling and loose.

“Leave it. We’re done with tapes.”

Closer steps, grinding grandeur into dust. “Want me to smash it?”

Guilt tinges this voice now, guilt its owner wants to deny. “I think… we can probably just turn it off.”

“Okay.” That voice moves away.

The guilty one (only the smallest bit, only a little aware of what she’s done) approaches, and for reasons unknown, speaks. “If anyone’s listening…” The tape whirs, voices mumble, someone shouts to someone else. “Goodbye,” says she. “I’m sorry, and…” The guilt. It is there, but too late. This cannot be undone. “Good luck.”

#

Martin wakes screaming, and he wakes alone.

He wakes, bereft in terrible discovery of self-without-him in a place of ruination.

Jon! Jon! Jonathan Sims! Please, for the love of God, answer me!

Shouting into a sea of screams, loved ones crying for loved ones, an empty spot beside him where Jon should be. Jon’s blood coating his hand, the knife, his clothes. Jon’s life coagulating, going dark, gathering rubble and dust, less like blood by the hour and more like tar.

Jon! Please!

Martin hears him. He’s sure he does: Martin. Find me, Martin. I’m waiting for you.

But where? Where? How? Jon sounds as calm and inviting as he’d ever done in the weeks before Elias (no, Jonah) sent that letter and ruined it all.

But it's not coming from anywhere. There’s no direction. It’s outside Martin’s head (he’s reasonably sure), but he can’t find it.

Can’t find Jon.

At the end of the day, the first day, the last day, the first-next-day of hell, Martin faces the truth that Jon might be gone.

He refuses to swallow it down.

#

No one sees Martin Blackwood. Not as he is. Not as he was.

Basira does, sometimes. She’s vague about it, knows his name, does not seem to remember what he’s done or whose he is. The rest of the time, she looks through him. Like when he asks about Jon.

Perhaps that’s fortunate. He runs into her a lot, and is sure she would stop him.

His key works in his apartment door (and he feels guilt for leaving the site of destruction, guilt for abandoning the place where hides Jon’s voice, guilt for going to his nice, soft bed when others huddle on rocks that used to be flats and weep for those they miss).

He should be with them. Searching. Helping.

No one searches for him. No one helps him.

He can’t.

#

He goes back the next day. Wanders, calls. Sometimes Jon calls back– just his voice, that gorgeous baritone that first hooked Martin’s thoughts then affection then desire, once Martin had learned to speak Jon and understand how quirky his new boss was, to translate from brusque and maybe mean to he’s fucking scared and lonely so it all made sense.

He hears the voice, but it is further away, and that makes him panic.

He searches, overturning brick, plunging into risky crevasses and disintegrating doorways.

No one sees Martin Blackwood. He walks past police and emergency services, past fucking Basira (who is smug, who is in charge, who seems to think she earned something for putting down a monster, but Martin knows the only thing that earns is pain).

Jon’s voice is further. 

By mid-afternoon, Martin can no longer make out words.

By dusk, it’s gone. Gone. He never found a direction. 

Martin screams.

#

By dark, he doesn't even remember going home, but finds himself there, a path walked in emptied endlessness over many years, and the silence is Buried, constricting his lungs, and the silence is Vast, endless insignificance, and he cannot breathe  at all.

He bathes, and he prays to no one, and he lies in his bed. And he’s hot, and he sweats, and his heart burns within him, and his throat twists to something it ought not be, and his skin crawls with bugs he can neither find or kill.

Jon. Jon is somewhere.

(Or Jon is nowhere, and he is imagining, he has gone mad, he’s landed where the Fears wanted to go and the Web decided and Jon is eaten, Jon is dust, Jon is—)

Jon is somewhere. Martin will find him (or what was the point of any of this), even if it takes a thousand years.

#

Somewhere around day three, he realizes he has not eaten.

He doesn’t feel hungry. Should he? He didn’t feel hungry in the apocalypse, either (and memories of bringing tea, never drunk, break him down, crush him onto the sidewalk like preserved peaches), but after his weeping, Jon is still gone.

Martin will not stop calling.

Jon!

Nothing. 

Jon!

No voice. No—

Wait.

Jon?

There is… something. A touch, a breeze, a memory of breeze, an instinct that says Jon is not too far. Jon is alive. Jon is there. Jon is—

Jon is.

Martin runs. Runs, tripping over rubble and dandruffed concrete, at last fleeing the wrecked, wry circle of the Panopticon’s fall. He ignores Basira’s shout (of course, now she sees him), following not a sound not a sight not a knowledge but an instinct, something born of faith and will and maybe madness, something he will follow even if it is right off a damn cliff.

#

It is not dissimilar to the Apocalypse, in many ways. He runs until he can’t, then walks until something kills him (and nothing does), north, following that wrong and reminiscent beckoning, through roads clogged with abandoned cars and cracked glass and memories of terror.

And he has not eaten, and it does not matter. 

Jon.

#

The sun rises and sets and rises again, and Martin wipes his face to find he sweats but does not thirst, and wonders if he will die on this trip.

It does not matter. Maybe this is the last walk. Maybe today was the last of his final days alive, and if so, he does not care. He’s done.

He had to stab his beloved. He had to do the worst thing. What more can the world ask of him?

Jon.

He feels Jon. Senses.

He walks.

#

Sun rise.

Sun set.

Sun rise, sun set, sun rise, sun set, shoes worn, hole in sole in soul in mausoleum of thought and mind and pattern, and all he can do is walk. Nothing besides remains.

Sun rise. Sun set. And on the seventh day, like creation, not terribly far from Aberfeldy, he knows that he will rest.

#

He descends into the grassy valley, past the place where good cows once stood, but the cabin is not there. Something else is. He stares, stunned in ticklish grass that lightly scratches his dried, dirty hands, and stares some more.

It is a tomb.

Above ground (necropolis like New Orleans). Burnt and blasted, abandoned and rust-stained, and its dark, decorative door hangs wide open.

(He has neither drunk nor eaten since waking, and sure he must be hallucinating now at the very least.)

And Martin opens his mouth, and for the first time since waking, truly speaks. “Jon?”

Martin

on the breeze on his cheek on his lips skipping the bother of ears—

Martin come to me

Martin comes.

It’s over. The end. Whatever comes next in this helpless world is not his to do.

“I paid for my peace,” he says like dry bones, squeaking together under sun and gnawed by something dark. “I paid for my peace! ”

(And thinks, as his dirty, frayed trainer-toe just dips into the impenetrable shadow, that this is what They were waiting for, that They are bound to Jon and he to Them, and it should not have been possible to disappear into the Lonely since Martin woke up, but it was, it is, because something went wrong, and oh, it will go so much more wrong, but Jon waited because Martin wasn’t here, and once Martin is here, it will continue to wrongness, and Martin does not care, and Martin paid for his peace, and Jon did too, and maybe Jon’s peace is no longer what it was when he was human unstabbed alive appeasable —)

Martin, whispers the tomb-wet breeze.

“Jon,” he creaks in tomb-dry tone.

Martin

Martin steps into the dark, sees nothing, feels

Finds

“Jon,” he says, falling into familiar arms, into that known funny scent of ink and electronics and spiders, does not care that he is seen and stripped and flensed in this dark of all-sight, does not care about pain or grief or anything but this, does not care that (Jon died this is not Jon this is something else) whatever remains is enough of Jon to want him back, and what more matters now?

Martin paid for his peace.

Jon doubly so.

“I’m home,” Martin whispers, crumbles, disintegrates, rests, and as he is held, the door, in need of oil, screeches closed as the world finds screaming again.

-------------

Notes:

So, uh. This is my 200th fanfic. I did not exactly plan for it to be sad? Here we are, anyway! I'll create some proper fluff to make up for it. Scout's Honor.

[luckyspot]

Potential Legends Z-A Theory:

Did AZ accidentally curse his beloved Pokemon?

*spoilers for Pokemon XY*

It admittedly feels like a stretch to make a theory about an unreleased Pokemon, but...c'mon; I need to waste time til the trailer somehow!

So...the Eternal Floette is something of sore spot for a lot of us because it was never released to the public, despite having a substantial role in the story of X and Y.

If you don't know, this Floette carries a flower that is (supposedly) totally extinct. It used the flower to give itself great power and 3,000 years ago, it was much loved and cherished by AZ.

However, when war broke out; this Floette was drafted to fight...and subsequently died in combat.

AZ was heartbroken and created a machine that revived his dear friend and made her immortal...at the cost of the lives of many Pokemon.

This Floette could not bear this fact and abandoned AZ in horror and shame.

Though this Pokemon was never released, there is data for her in the game and her spirte has been meticulously maintained and updated in Pokemon HOME.

But that's not where things get weird...

Eternal Floette has a signature move that other Floette do not.

Not only does this move sound AWESOME, the name and information about it seems odd in regards to this Pokemon.

Floette is a Pokemon meant to maintain and care for flowers and gardens and only really shows anger towards those he hurt flowers in it's vicinity. Why would a Pokemon meant to protect life and nature have a move that refers to Ruination and Destruction?

It's also quite interesting that the weapon, when prepared to fire...

...looks a lot like the Eternal Floette's flower...

Did AZ accidentally destroy Floette's ability to fuel life and instead...give it the ability to destroy...

At the end of the game's main story, she does return to AZ side, having apparently forgiven him after 3 millennia...

But what did she experience before then...what were her thoughts and feelings about what her trainer had done, what she experienced in the war and the possibility that she can no longer nurture?