#sample muse: Scrooge

[outoftheirdifferences]

👑 + Scrooge from 2017 DuckTales?

SEND ME 👑 + A CHARACTER NAME OF A CHARACTER YOU THINK I SHOULD WRITE ! 

I’LL REPLY WITH 

WOULD I:YES / MAYBE / NO

HAVE I EVER BEFORE: YES / NO (except for a single post for a previous meme!)

ICON & WRITING SAMPLE (IF YES TO EITHER PREV. QUESTION):

(Well, I... wouldn't be opposed to trying him somewhere, he's a very fun character for sure (and, as a newbie to the duck fandom, the definitive Scrooge voice in my mind!). That said, as I found out when I first started writing Webby, my lack of knowledge of his comics backstory can definitely be a bit of a hindrance when RPing against characters who have all these questions about his past that I can't answer xDD; So I'd be more inclined to write him for just a one-off thread here or there than as a regular muse. I also don't know that I'd be great at replicating his very unique alliterative turns of phrase!

Also don't mind me reusing a post I made for him when someone suggested him for a try meme on my old blog! Updated slightly since I now have context of the rest of the series, but still set in season 1.)

“Och, kids.”

There was a distinct fondness in the elder duck’s tone as he watched the triplets and Webby scamper up the darkened staircase. Another hard day’s adventuring had left the four of them practically asleep on their feet as they returned to the manor; but, like true daring explorers, they’d pressed on, kept up with him, and the five of them together had brought back another ancient treasure to crown his money bin.

But for once Scrooge’s mind wasn’t on the treasure, not right now; it was on the four youngsters: his family. Adventure was in their blood; Dewey the daredevil, Louie the treasure-seeker, Huey the organised leader… and of course, Webby, the girl who reminded him so much of…

A weary frown crossed the duck’s beak for a moment, and he left that thought unfinished.

He was proud, so proud of them all. He could imagine them upstairs, chattering excitedly about their individual escapades as they got ready for bed… each one of them had done so well today. Oh, for sure, they still each had their own long ways yet to go... but they were as fine a crew of young adventurers as he could ever hope to be related to. And if they were a little tired after such a full day…

Well, they weren’t the only ones.

Scrooge’s old bones pained him now, as he followed his great-nephews’ footsteps upstairs; a sure sign that he was feeling the strain of the day. In the heat of the moment, he felt spry as a duck half his age; but once the adrenaline wore off, his age started creeping back up on him, always there to remind him that he wasn’t as young as he once had been.

Donald would say he was being foolish; just trying to relive his glory days… the thought rose unbidden as Scrooge paused outside his nephew’s room. From within, he could hear the younger duck’s quacking snores, a familiar and curiously comforting sound, and for a moment - just one moment - Scrooge wondered if maybe Donald wasn’t right about that.

With a murmured “harumph”, he marched straight on past, not allowing that thought the time of night.

He was Scrooge McDuck; tougher than the toughies and smarter than the smarties. He knew his limits, and he also knew he had a long way still to go before he reached them: no-one else got to tell this Scottish swashbuckler that he was too old for the thing he loved.

[edensrose]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ꒰❀꒱ 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲!𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐮 ❜࿔

( ❀ ) ˙ ˖ manwë⠀& melkor⠀ ❜࿔

· ⊰ synopsis. manwë deals with his bastard of a brother whilst they try to pick a new colour scheme for their syndicate. he quickly remembers that there is no one who can drive him up the wall more than melkor ( dark themes ៸៸ blood mention ៸៸ corpse ៸៸ strong language )

· ⊰ note. idk but I've just been feeling them lately. their dynamic in this au is one of my favourites

─────── .°୭̥ ✿ˎˊ˗ au info post

♡. — 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒂 𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒓

"Hmm."

Pale violet sweeps over the newly decorated wall. His cruxed index finger pressed against his lips and his thumb stroking beneath his chin for added effect.

"Not sure. Don't think I quite like the shade of red."

A click of tongue sounds through the office.

"You complain too much." Manwë rolls his eyes to the ceiling and flexes his hand against the wall. "What's wrong with it? You didn't like blue, you don't like red, what exactly do you like then?"

"Maybe black?" Melkor offers, running a thumb along the wall. As though feeling the new colour was possible.

"Vilisse is black." Drips Manwë's obviously exasperated tone as he arches his brow. "I thought Vilisse was green?" Melkor counters to which his brother sighs and shakes his head so that white locks bounce around him.

"Are we gonna settle on a colour or are you just going to paint fucking rainbows all over the syndicate?"

"That a challenge?" Melkor meets his sibling's irritated expression with a grin and a quirk of his brow. "I quite think your desk will look splendid in hot pink." He motions to the aforementioned wood to which Manwë tightens his fingers once more.

"That's Italian Maple you dick."

"Oooo fancy." Shrugs the older as he flicks his finger and sends a droplet of crimson onto the revered Italian Maple desk. "As if you couldn't just import a new one, Tweetie. Don't be such a scrooge."

Manwë inhales, reminding himself that his brother is right and refraining from slamming his head into the desk he had just stained. Instead, he fights back the urge to roll his eyes once more at the childhood nickname. It was hard to believe who was the true older of the two.

"The task is still at hand. What colour are we transitioning to? Lest you want to keep the old man's design?"

Melkor groans and hangs his head back after stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Decisions, decisions. . . How about purple? Maybe blue?"

"I thought you said no to blue?"

"Well I change my mind."

"For fucks sa —"

"You know what? I actually quite like the red."

With that last sentence from his brother, Manwë finally relaxes his fingers from the head of hair he was flushing against the wall. A loud thud echoes through his office and he nonchalantly steps past the body laying on his rich wooden floors. The crimson stains drip from the wall and soak into the ground as Melkor admires the 'shade of red'.

"Hey now," the older chuckles as Manwë's shoulder knocks with his as he makes a beeline for the door. "No need to throw a tantrum." He muses, spinning around to face the other's back. "All that blood's gonna get on your precious Italian Maple y'know!"

"Clean it up then." Manwë mutters, retrieving his handkerchief to clean his fingers from the sorry soul whose blood became a paint sample. "And come find me when you're done playing these fucking games."

He receives only a mocking croon before Melkor thinks to himself. Just before his brother leaves the doorway he calls out, stopping him dead in his tracks.

"You know, I think gold would do the trick. What do ya say?"

A moment of silence fills the office before Manwë glances over his shoulder with a curl on his lips. "Gold for glory. I like it." And with that, he steps out, yet not before calling back.

"I'm serious about that blood. Clean it up, lest I overload your flask with gasoline."

"Bastard."

"Dick."

· ⊰ masterlist. 

· ⊰ tip jar. 

· ⊰ get tagged for my writing. @kiatheinsomniac @m-shade @qwerty-19923 @tinkywinky27 @weird-addiction @yonjisu @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @noldorinpainter @singleteapot @floraroselaughter @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @ashfromvolcanoes @miriel-estelwen @wandererindreams @cilil @natchayaphorn @someoneinthestars @asianbutnotjapanese @cipherwheeldecoder @stormchaser819 @all-things-fandomstuck @tumblertatiana

( ❀ ) ˙ ˖ please consider liking, reblogging and / or commenting if you enjoy my work! all feedback is greatly appreciated ♡

[maximuswolf]

Departure into Emptiness: a Taoist approach to the climate crisis and other contemporary issues (sample) via /r/taoism

Departure into Emptiness: a Taoist approach to the climate crisis and other contemporary issues (sample)

​

https://preview.redd.it/h4b8diucg5g51.jpg?width=472&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=ddae1e29690086bf3d24677f6e39b4119b790e10

I.

Not as much! That is the imperative of our age: less plastic, less CO2, less consumption, less stress. That sounds like a renunciation: of meat, of flying, of driving cars.

But does this necessarily have to be a renunciation? It would be renunciation to deny yourself the fulfill­ment of a deep desire. Not doing something because there is a better choice: that is freedom.

There are good reasons to use that freedom: need­ing less can be full of its own pleasure. It means be­ing less dependent and - instead of constantly chas­ing after the satisfaction of needs - having more time for the really important things.

“Those who have lost by being moderate are rare.” (Confucius, Analects, IV.23)

II.

Doing and leaving are what shape our perception of the world. A woodcutter, a biologist and an in­vestor perceive the same forest in a completely dif­ferent way. Whoever is taking on a task must be careful not to be taken over by the task. The more the focus is on predetermined goals, the more the view of collateral damage is lost.

In a world of numbers and financial streams, every­thing becomes a means to an end. The earth be­comes a raw material warehouse and people become human capital. Everything becomes a utility. What is useless or not useful enough from an economic point of view is in danger. Primeval forests are being cut down; animal and plant species are becoming extinct; in the name of utility a huge destruction is underway.

It would often be better if less were done. But this is difficult to achieve, because many people despair when they have nothing to do. They cling to their occupations. Often work is the centre of their lives - and for many it is the source of their identity.

In our performance-oriented times, this can be seen with extreme clarity. That it is not a new phenome­non, however, is proven by a more than two thou­sand year old text from China:

“When the farmer has nothing more to do with grass and weeds, he has nothing more to hold on to; when the merchant has nothing more to do with alleys and markets, he has nothing more to hold on to. Only when the people of the crowd have their daily work, do they make an effort. The craftsmen depend on the skill and handling of their tools to feel themselves. If he can­not accumulate money and goods, the scrooge becomes sad. If power and influence do not expand steadily, the ambitious man becomes desolate.The slaves of power and wealth are only happy when in the process of change. If they find a time when they can act, they cannot stop acting. They all follow their path with the same regularity as the cycle of the year. They are caught up in the world of things and cannot change. So they run along, internally and externally trapped, sinking into the world of things and never coming back to themselves. Oh, how sad!” (Zhuangzi, XXIV.4)

So what can be done is done - and that is often much more than what needs to be done. We virtu­ally suffocate under the mass of products that our productivity produces.

III.

Idleness. A word that has fallen into disrepute. Idleness, as the proverb warns, is the root of all vice; and more than a few even see in it the worst of all vices: the refusal to perform in a performance-based society.

The calls for deceleration, which are becoming louder and louder, have rehabilitated idleness to a certain extent in recent years. In the wellness sector at least it has found a firm place - and in countless magazine articles when it has to do finding oneself or burnout syndrome.

Idleness requires free time. This is more than leisure time: it is a time free of constraints, empty time that can be filled with what the moment offers.

Caught in the daily hustle and bustle, it is difficult to develop new perspectives. One is so busy mop­ping up the water that one does not even think of turning off the tap.

In order to get a grip on things at any time, your hands should be free. Being idle means to have time to do the right thing at the right moment.

IV.

Inspiration. The Muses like idleness. To be kissed by the Muse is the pictorial description of what many artists experience: a higher power seems to guide the creative process. This process is more of a letting happen than a conscious creation. Not the conscious ego - it paints, it writes, it composes. This state is called Flow.

In this way, making art becomes a communication with something unknown. Are higher powers at work here? Or is it simply neurobiological processes? Either way, it seems like a miracle.

But the flow does not come on command. You can only create good conditions for it. There's an an­cient Chinese story about that.

“A wood carver carved a bell stand. When the bell stand was finished, all the people who saw it were amazed at its divine work. The Prince of Lu also looked at it and asked the Master, ‘What is your se­cret?’ The latter replied, ‘I am a craftsman and know no secrets, and yet there is one thing that matters. When I was about to make the bell stand, I was careful not to consume my life force in other thoughts. I fasted to bring my heart to rest. When I fasted for three days I no longer dared to think of reward and honour; after five days I no longer dared to think of praise and blame; after seven days I had forgotten my body and all my limbs. At that time I also no longer thought about the court of Your Highness. Thus I was collected in my art, and all infatuations of the outside world had dis­appeared. Afterwards I went into the forest and looked at the trees in their natural growth. When the right tree came before my eyes, the bell stand was ready in front of me, so that I only had to put my hand on it. If I had not found the tree, I would have given up. Be­cause I let my nature interact with the nature of the material, that's why people think it's a divine work.’" (Zhuangzi, XIX.10)

V.

Art is often the art of omission. Capturing the at­mosphere of a place with just a few strokes of the pen or grabbing the audience with a few notes is considered high art. It is often important not to do too much. If you try to speak a text in a particularly beautiful way, you will quickly appear artificial. If at a jam session all the participants constantly wanted to show all their skills, it would be very exhausting to listen to. Only when others hold themselves back can individuals come to the fore with their solos.

As much as through the emphasis of its tones a rhythm gets its special character through its pauses. A scale gets its special sound by omitting certain semitone steps.

The white area left blank on an old Chinese ink painting appears like the water of a river or like wafts of mist between the mountains. The emptiness here is an essential element of the composition.

In the early twentieth century, abstract painting de­veloped through an increasingly consistent omission of all references to objects from the outside world.

This led to an undreamt-of freedom in dealing with colours and forms. And since there is no predeter­mined meaning in abstract paintings, they are an in­vitation to the imagination to go walking.

VI.

Let it happen! Trust in the momentum of the cre­ative process! That was my basic attitude for decades when I was artistically active. For me, abstract paint­ing became a voyage of discovery. Painting always had a meditative aspect for me. When I painted, I let the spontaneous impulses of my body take their course; I let my hands do it, without a plan, without thinking. I tried to leave the door to chance as wide open as possible. What happened to me often went far beyond what I could have thought up by myself.

I playfully found my artistic way. Over the years I did a lot of different things: pictures made of ce­ramic tiles, lit objects, digital art, abstract anima­tions ...

It was not a planned development. One thing led to another, each connected to the other, appearing in retrospect to be logical. But for me, every new turn was a surprise. I saw my own artistic development in the way that train passengers sitting with their backs to the direction of travel see a landscape. I never saw what would come next.

I learned to have faith in the continuing process. And that I would discover more in my journey I’d ever dreamed of.

VII.

Cognitive methods. The modern sciences are atheistic in their methods, i.e. the recourse to reli­gious beliefs is taboo in the scientific framework for good reasons. This does not mean, however, that one needs an atheistic default position to do science. The atheism of science is purely methodical and not ideological. Even those who are scientifically active have questions that cannot be answered in this way. Then one can decide for or against believing some­thing specific. As long as the scientific activity remains unaffected by this, all is well.

Besides, the sciences cannot prove an atheistic world view because their method is atheistic. They cannot prove what they presuppose. That would be a circular argument.

Just like a methodical atheism there is also a me­thodical spirituality. As an artist, I become more open to inspiration when I feel that there is some­thing greater than my conscious self, and that I can open myself to this something in my creative process. I just need to have the capacity to be amazed. Miracles are more likely to happen when I beleave they are possible.

As little as scientific knowledge can support athe­ism, so can artistic experience serve as proof of a higher powers.

The word "inspire" comes from Latin and means "to breathe in". It raises the question: who is breath­ing in? But all answers to this question remain speculation.

It is possible, perhaps even reasonable, to talk about creative work with religious or esoteric vocabulary. Then one interprets experiences within a given pat­tern of explanation. This makes them easier to com­municate. This is legitimate, but it proves nothing with regard to the pattern of interpretation.

Beyond all doubt, the experience itself remains: In­tuition can flow more freely the less conscious con­trol you exercise. It is an experience that probably all people can have, no matter what they believe or don't believe.

VIII.

Success. Basically, it's quite banal: of course my art will be better if I'm painting, focused on what I'm doing, and not constantly thinking about what oth­ers will say or whether my work will yield enough money. The freer my head is, the more attentive I can work. With attention comes wonder and with wonder comes awe. With awe I have a good chance of succeeding in what I do.

In his book Effortless Mastery the New York jazz musician Kenny Werner makes the observation “(…) that there are good players who, for some reason, have little impact when they play. Everything works fine. They are ‘swinging’ and all that, but still, some­thing is not landing in the heart of the audience.” (p.10) He attributes this to the fact that they are caught up in their thoughts and are far too much guided by ideas about how right it should be. “One must practice surrendering control to a larger, or higher force. It’s scary at first, but eventually liberat­ing.” (ibid)

I very often experience my painting when others talk about their art, be it music, painting or litera­ture. Whoever wants to taste abundance must be­come empty.

IX.

Emptiness is of crucial importance in Daoist phi­losophy:

“How the nose breathes and the ear hears, is essentially emptiness. All things use what they don't have on the basis of what they have. If you don't believe this, just look at a flute or a pipe made of reeds.” (Huainanzi, XVI.6b)

This is not about an abstract or metaphysical idea of emptiness, it is about the very concrete emptiness between things or within things. It's about empti­ness interacting with what's there. An emptiness that can be experienced.

Emptiness means potential. An empty space can be filled, empty time can be used, an empty sheet can be written on.

Not burdening oneself with unnecessary things means freedom. To become empty in this sense is the best way to find oneself.

To be empty means to have room for abundance.

In "Huainanzi", a book written over 2000 years ago as a collection of knowledge for the Chinese em­peror, it reads like this:

“A restless spirit does not feel well even on a nicely pre­pared bed with soft mats. Nor does it appreciate a meal of wild rice and juicy beef. Even sounding strings and flute tones do not give him any pleasure.

Only when the anger dissolves and the restlessness dies down does the food taste good. The bed becomes com­fortable, the home safe and being on the road a plea­sure.

From this point of view: our nature is open to joy, but it is also open to sorrow. Whoever struggles with things that do not give pleasure to his own nature and hinders what gives pleasure to it, will certainly become a sor­rowful person, even if he possesses all the riches of the world and is revered as a son of heaven. In general, hu­man nature loves peace and silence and not discord and noise. It loves rest and quiet and not trouble and toil. If the mind is permanently free of desire, it means peace. If the body is permanently free of tasks, it means rest. The one who allows his spirit to wander in peace and quiet, who allows his body to indulge in idleness, who simply waits for what heaven gives him, will find joy in his inner being and will be free from worries from the outside. Nothing can change his insight, be it as great as the whole world. Even if the sun and moon darken, nothing can stop him from his path. Even when he is low, he feels blessed, even when he has little, he feels rich.” (Huainanzi, XIV.59)

X.

Desires tend to take over control. The ambitions of the ego endanger inner freedom. They lead to com­pulsive behavior and a limited view of things.

“Among the people of Chu was one who stole gold. Just when the market was at its busiest, he came, took it and left. When they detained him and asked, ‘How can you steal gold in the middle of the market?’ he only replied, ‘I have seen no one. I only saw the gold.’ When the mind deals with desires, it forgets what it is doing.” (Huainanzi, XIII.10)

XI.

Overcoming the ego. Many religions and spiritual teachings demand this. Overcoming it sounds like a hard struggle, a heavy effort, an act of will, in short, a strong ego to tackle this task. How could the ego be overcome in this way?

Asceticism can become a trap. The ego indulges it­self in the rigid self-control it can exercise. There must be other ways to deal with the ego. This was also thought about in ancient China:

“The scholars in these times of decay do not understand how to get to the origins of their spirit and return to their roots. Above all, they try to model and polish their nature, to refine or suppress their original reactions in order to meet the demands of their time. Therefore, when their eye desires something, they intervene with prohibitions; when their mind delights in something, they restrict it with rites. They run further and further in circles, prostrating themselves, while the meat goes bad and inedible and the wine sour and undrinkable. Outwardly they tame their bodies, inwardly they scourge their spirit. They destroy the harmony of Yin and Yang and inhibit the original way of their nature of responding appropriately to fate. This is why these people are full of worries throughout their lives. Those who follow the Dao are very different: they regulate the original responses of their nature, cultivate their consciousness, nourish it with harmony, and direct it appropriately. They enjoy the Dao and forget the low things; they rest in their potential and forget the trivial issues. Since their nature does not desire anything, they achieve whatever they desire. Since their mind does not seek pleasure, there is no pleasure they would not participate in. Those who stick to their natural answers preserve their potential. He who yields to his inner nature preserves his harmony. Physically relaxed and unrestricted in their attention: such standards and regulations can serve as a model for the whole world.” (Huainanzi, VII.14)

XII.

Regulation instead of blocking. Not asceticism but self-cultivation is the path that the Huainanzi describes. To rest in one's own potential means knowing one's abilities, but not having to prove them all the time. This makes it possible to react ap­propriately in ever changing situations.

“Planning things in advance is not better than learn­ing techniques. Acting is not better than having options for action. Intervening is not better than leaving things to the Dao. If you act on purpose, there are goals that you will not achieve. If you strive for things, there are things you don't attain. So human beings come to their limits while the Dao pervades everything.” (Huainanzi, XIV.24)

This kind of restriction does not mean renuncia­tion, but the greatest possible sovereignty. And on the way there, it is not the effort that counts, but finding balance and peace. The less willpower is needed for this, the better.

Read more

Submitted August 10, 2020 at 04:17AM by JuppHartmann via reddit https://ift.tt/2PEuJ5Z

[twilighteve-writes]

Feather One Divided -- Chapter 2: The Arrival

Fic Summary:

Feather one divided, fate’s ties frayed, Fractured and wedged, scattered and gone.

After sharing an unsettling dream of Felldrake, the Three Caballeros decided to join back together with Xandra to form a stronghold in case the sorcerer returned. But Felldrake’s plans proved to be bigger than they expected, and when he struck so close to home, it was all Donald could do to keep his family – and himself – together.

(Also available in AO3)

(Chapter 1)

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

Feather one divided to three,

The emerald, the sapphire, and the ruby.

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

Panchito and José came like a storm, like they always did. Donald had told them to contact him if they’d reach Duckburg, but apparently they decided to just show up unannounced at the manor three days before their estimated arrival time, bowling Donald over in an excitable tumble of feathers and giggles, sweeping him into their signature secret handshake and leaving Donald breathless with it.

For a moment, the problem with the dream and his suspected Sheldgoose sighting was forgotten.

“Oh, geez,” Della spoke up, breaking the euphoria that swept over Donald whenever he reunited with Panchito and José. “Last time the handshake wasn’t that long. That seems to get more and more elaborate every time you boys meet up.”

“Della!” José greeted in delight, walking over to her and taking her hand to kiss, causing Della to bark out a surprised laughter. “It’s good to see you, you’re as beautiful as ever – “

Donald dragged him away by the collar. “I told you not to hit on my sister, you big palooka.”

Panchito took his chance and swooped in, hugging Della and getting a surprised squeal. He held Della by the shoulders and asked, “Della! Long time no see, mi amiga! How was the moon?”

“I told you both not to hit on her!” This time, Donald grabbed Panchito and dragged.

“That was not hitting on her! That was greeting her!” José protested. The grin betrayed the hurt his tone would indicate.

“Oh, so I’m not pretty enough for you to hit on, José? Is that it?” Della teased.

“Of course not, Della, minha querida. You are prettier than any white rose – “

“José, oh my god. I will drown you in the pool, I swear.”

“I thought Uncle Donald being put together with Panchito and José is the definition of chaos, but it turns out throwing Mom in makes things even more chaotic,” Dewey commented above the din.

“Oh no, no. If you want chaos, you throw Scrooge in, too,” Panchito told them. “You see, Scrooge – “

Uncle Scrooge stomped down the stairs angrily, yelling, “What is with the ruckus?! Tone it down, you kids!”

“ – is like that,” Panchito continued with a laugh.

Donald sighed. “Sorry, Uncle Scrooge.”

“And I thought you two were coming later this week?” Uncle Scrooge accused.

Donald scratched his cheek. “Uh, about that. I forgot to tell you that they might arrive sooner. Sorry, Uncle Scrooge.”

Uncle Scrooge huffed. “Fine, just keep it down. Gyro’s coming soon to show me some progress on something I asked him to make. I wanted you to see it too.” He glanced to Panchito and José. “I suppose you two can join as well.”

“When is he coming?” Della snatched Donald’s phone from his pocket to check the time.

“Now, if he’s on time,” Uncle Scrooge answered. As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. “Oh look, the lad’s on time. Louie, will you open the door for me?”

“Sure, but when Gyro’s around the manor weird things usually happen, so…” Louie shrugged and went to the door. Sure enough, when he opened it, Gyro was there, with Fenton right behind him with a case. Fenton waved at Louie with a cheerful smile, and Louie waved back with a hint of hesitation.

“Hello!” Fenton greeted. “I didn’t think it would be this crowded in the demonstration today. Is the bracelet meant for all of them, Mr. McDuck?”

“Not for these two, but yes,” Uncle Scrooge answered as he pointed at Panchito and José. “Do you have them?”

“And are you sure it’s safe? Because Gyro’s inventions have a weird tendency of getting weird.” Dewey squinted his eyes at the briefcase Fenton held.

“And that’s why we have the beta testing phase, blue nephew,” Gyro told him. He turned to Panchito and José. “Anyway, who are you?”

Panchito snatched his hand and shook it vigorously. “Hola, Donald’s friend! I am Panchito, a good friend of Donald’s, and this is our good friend José!”

José tipped his hat. “We are just visiting. Don’t mind us.”

Fenton’s eyes went wide. “Wait, was that Spanish?”

Panchito turned to him slowly. “…si…?”

Fenton practically lit up and greeted them in Spanish, and Panchito and José both perked up and responded in kind. Donald strained to listen to them; he could understand Spanish and bits of Portuguese that José threw in the conversation, but he wasn’t fluent enough to follow the rapid-fire back-and-forth the three was engaged in. He was pretty sure they’d moved from introduction to… talking about telenovelas? What?

His hunch was proven true when Panchito gasped and turned to Donald. “Donald, you need to drive me to Fenton’s house! I need to meet his m’ma and discuss her excellent taste in telenovelas!”

José gasped dramatically. “I have to argue that! Patos de la Pasión dims in comparison to Las Gemelas and I will fight you on that.”

“Hey, that’s my M’ma’s favorite telenovela you’re dragging through the mud there,” Fenton interjected with a smile.

“My friend, I am not saying Patos is bad. I’m simply saying Gemelas is better.”

Donald rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. Telenovelas are basically all about a sexy woman seducing a rich man and having the man’s mom or sister or something arrange the woman to have an accident or poisoning or whatever. Throw in amnesia and getting put in the asylum and you’re gold. You just have to choose to have the sexy woman be an innocent woman who knows basically nothing about real life or a bad one who would do anything for cash, including ditching her perfectly fine and hot but poor boyfriend and seducing a wrinkly old man. It’s just a trope bingo.”

Panchito, José, and Fenton let out an offended gasp at the same time.

“How dare you – “

“Listen here – “

“Okay, first of all – “

Donald rolled his eyes at the onslaught the three directed at him. The edge of his beak pulled into a smile. Panchito and José were always so easy to rile up when it came to telenovelas, but he hadn’t expected Fenton to share that.

“How do you even know so much about telenovelas?” Dewey asked, visibly confused.

“They kept sitting me down to watch them,” Donald answered with a shrug.

Uncle Scrooge cleared his throat loudly, and the chatter ceased. He levelled an unamused stare at them. “As interesting as this thread of conversation is, I would like to see the invention, if you please.”

“Right!” Fenton grimaced in embarrassment and rushed to Gyro’s side, offering a sheepish smile when he glared. “Right, the bracelets are here.” He lifted the briefcase he had been holding and opened it to reveal three bracelets. The metallic material gleamed under the light that seeped into the manor, glinting off the small round glass at the middle of the interconnected metal squares.

“They’re only samples, and they’re all still in testing,” Gyro added. He took a bracelet and handed it to Uncle Scrooge. “As you requested, it has a built-in GPS system and can be used for communication as well as showing maps. It’s powered up by motion and body warmth and is heat proof, water proof, break proof, and can sustain deep sea pressures. I can assure you that this is a very strong bracelet.”

“And it also works as a way to provide light!” Fenton took another bracelet, shook it, and tapped at the glass twice. It lit up brightly, and he tapped it twice again. The light died. “I took liberty to put in the map of Duckburg here for demonstration, and – “ he pinched at the glass and flicked it to the air. Said map hovered brightly in bluish hologram. Fenton reached out and zoomed in and out of the map, turning expectantly to Uncle Scrooge.

Uncle Scrooge hummed in thought, weighing the bracelet in his hand. His gaze met Donald’s, and he gestured lightly. Understanding immediately, Donald walked closer to him and took the bracelet when Uncle Scrooge handed it to him.

“You’re probably the one with the best control among all of you. Can you try raising your magic a little?” Uncle Scrooge requested. When Donald gave him a look, he scoffed. “Oh, these are Gyro and Fenton. They’re not going to do anything with that information. And I know how you are with your friends, they probably already know what you can do.”

Donald glanced at the two scientists, who at this point was staring in confusion. He shrugged and called to the familiar push and pull that rested at the back of his mind and called it forth until his vision was overtaken by the sea blue. The soothing rush of his magic filled him to the brim, and he let out a breath.

In his hand, the bracelet fizzled painfully. He let go of it in reflex, squawking in surprise at the sudden sting of electricity it let out. The bracelet fell, already smoking before it even hit the floor, and the surge of magic receded.

“So it can’t handle magic, after all,” Scrooge mused.

“Well, yeah, tech and magic generally don’t mix,” Donald said.

Fenton let out a laugh. “Good one! Now let me check what was wrong with that bracelet, it shouldn’t have exploded like that.”

“It was magic, Fenton,” Donald deadpanned.

Fenton blinked at him, then laughed again, a little uncomfortably this time. When he realized no one else was laughing, he stopped abruptly. “Wait, was that not a joke?”

“No?”

“But… magic?” Fenton turned to Gyro. “Dr. Gearloose? Is this for real?”

Gyro just shrugged. “I learned early on that anything’s possible with this family. You either accept and adapt or you don’t.”

Fenton blinked at him, then looked down at the fallen bracelet. “…okay,” he hedged, taking the fallen bracelet. “Okay. Um, so we should make the bracelet… resistant? To magic?” he grimaced when he said magic, and at this point Donald couldn’t blame him; he probably found the concept too foreign at this point.

Uncle Scrooge nodded. “And this is why I had you two come here. I don’t know how badly magic can damage your – “ he twirled his hand by his head as he searched for words “ – knick-knacks down at your lab. Here is likely safer.”

Gyro stared at the fried bracelet for a moment, clearly thinking. “We’ll need to record the magic, somehow. Try to measure it. Put a number on it somehow.”

“Oh, I can help,” Huey offered. “I’m pretty much free this afternoon, I can definitely help.”

“Yeah, I want to see how you measure magic, too,” Dewey added.

“Same. Wouldn’t it be kinda boring, though?” Louie glanced at Dewey in question.

“What? No! Magic stuff is never boring.”

“Oh, can I watch?” Webby asked. “I’ve wondered about that, too. How do you measure magic?”

“Wait, you kids have it too?” Fenton asked. Judging from his face, he was clearly overwhelmed.

“Webby doesn’t, we three do,” Huey explained. “We just never showed it to anyone. Mostly because there’s no reason to. Webby’s charms are super effective, though.” He looked around. “Can we do the measuring thing outside? Louie can probably risk doing stuff inside, but Dewey and I really shouldn’t use magic indoors. Something will catch fire.”

“…why?”

“Oh, I have fire, Dewey can make lightning, and Louie can control gold.”

Poor Fenton looked like he was had been blindfolded, spun, and told to hit a watermelon that turned out to be a hornet’s nest by then. “…what?”

“We’ll show you outside, it’ll be easier,” Dewey said, bouncing on his heels. His fingers were already twined with white-blue light, and Donald could see Fenton’s eyes zooming in to his hands.

He smiled and took Panchito and José’s hands. “You kids have fun! I’m going to catch up with Panchito and José. We’ll me in the houseboat if you need us.”

“Have fun, boys,” Della called out as she sent a teasing question through their bond, more or less asking if them catching up would also consist of them discussing steamy details. Donald sent her the mental equivalent of telling her to shove off and ignored her amusement.

The three of them entered the houseboat and settled at the dining table, and Donald stared at them. “Did your amulets suddenly appeared?”

José’s gaze went grim. “It did,” he answered, pulling out the square amulet, the green gemstone gleaming in the sunlight. Panchito mirrored the motion and pulled out his, a triangular amulet with red gemstone. “Where is yours, Donal’?”

Donald stood and went to his bedroom to retrieve the amulet. “Left it in my bedroom. It appeared the night we had that dream under my pillow.” He brought the amulet out and put it on the dining table, the circular blue gem glinting almost innocently. “I still don’t get why this just appeared.”

“The worst thing is that we couldn’t find Xandra,” Panchito huffed. “We tried going to places she might be in, but she wasn’t there.”

“The dream, the amulet appearing… I thought the power of the amulet infused with us when we got into that wizard puddle,” José said with a frown. “And the fact that Sheldgoose might be around in Duckburg is unsettling.”

“I tried looking for him, but I couldn’t find him.” Donald tapped the blue amulet absently, feeling the boost of power it gave his magic. “I don’t like that he went for Louie, too. I guess we’re lucky Funso’s manager got him out of there.”

“You can’t find him, Donal’,” José reminded.

“Well that creep’s nowhere near my kids. That’s a win,” Donald retorted. José hummed and nodded, acknowledging his words.

Panchito frowned. “Tell me what happened again.”

Donald sighed impatiently. “The kids went to Funso’s with their friends and split up there. Louie was alone and apparently Sheldgoose cornered him. I asked the kids again if anything happened, and they said he grabbed Louie by the elbow and he felt magic from him. Something that reminded Louie to space, he said something like it being big and dark and cold.” He leaned back at the chair. “And Dewey mentioned something about it feeling paralyzing.”

Panchito blinked, and in one of the rare moments in his life, he seemed truly disturbed. “That… sounds like Felldrake.”

“See why I’m glad he’s not near my kids?” Donald lifted a brow.

Panchito nodded. “I don’t want him anywhere near, either.”

“In any case, this only makes finding Xandra even more crucial.” José shifted in his seat. “Should we check the cabana? Do you think the girls know how to contact Xandra?”

“April, May, and June?” Donald asked. “I don’t think so. If we can’t contact her, I don’t think they do.”

Panchito let out a string of rapid-fire cursing in Spanish.

“Don’t let me catch you talk like that in front of the kids,” Donald threatened immediately.

“Aw, but I want to be the fun uncle who teaches them the things the straight-laced Uncle Donald would never tell them,” Panchito teased.

“And come on, Donal’, you’re the one with the worst vocabulary out of us three,” José added. “Ah, the things you had me hear when you were really angry…”

“Trust me, I’m tame compared to the others in the Navy,” Donald said dryly. “They meant it when they said sailors have potty mouths.”

“And Xandra taught you several words in multiple dead languages to add to your collection, too,” Panchito sighed. “Your kids will be livid once they start swearing if they know.”

“If they’re smart they will never do it in front of any of us,” Donald said. “But, back to the matter at hand…”

The three of them fell into thoughtful silence, the gears in their brains turning. They were resourceful on their own rights, but Xandra had always been the best one when it came to assembling a plan, unless it was something that needed out-of-the-box thinking like José and Panchito’s telenovela ploy. It probably came with the territory, with her being an immortal and the goddess of adventure and all.

“What if we wear the amulets and activate the magic?” José ventured. “Would that signal to her that we need her help?”

“That will tell Felldrake where we are, too,” Panchito pointed out. “If he’s near and we don’t have Xandra around, we’re finished.”

“But… we can seal him again, with the amulets here. Right?” Donald asked uncertainly. “Last time, it was us who did the sealing.”

“Felldrake would know we’ll want to do that,” Panchito said, shaking his head.

“But we need Xandra and we need her soon,” José argued grimly. “Do you have any other idea? Because if you do, I’m listening.”

Panchito fell silent, and eventually he sighed. “No,” he admitted reluctantly. “Should we do it now then?”

“Yeah.” Donald reached to his amulet, but paused. “Um, I think I should tell you that the triplets and Della all can sense magic, sort of. So we’ll have to be ready to explain about the magic, later. Plus Caballero stuff, if Xandra appeared.”

“That’s okay, I’m fine with them knowing.” Panchito took his amulet, and José did the same. When Donald didn’t, they both stared at him.

“Donal’?” José prodded.

Donald frowned. “Shut up, I’m trying to think about how I’m going to explain the Caballero stuff to my family.”

José blinked. “They don’t know yet?”

“No? Look, I didn’t think there was any chance of us having to face Felldrake again.”

“We’ll help you explain later,” Panchito assured, and let the amulet dangle around his neck before Donald could say anything else. José followed suit, as did Donald, with a sigh.

The amulet had always provided a boost to his magic. The push and pull of the sea rose to a roar, and the magic grew lighter and heavier and the same time, expanding its reach – Donald could feel the pool water starting to respond to his magic the way seawater did, but he knew it would never be the same.

But with all three Caballeros wearing the amulet, the change was visible. Soft light enveloped them – red with Panchito, blue with Donald, and green with José, corresponding with the colors of the gemstones adoring their respective amulets. The hum of something powerful that could almost contain supernovas and black holes breathed power into their feathers, and something inside them stirred. It had been so long that they’d almost forgotten how connected they were to one another, how in sync.

It wasn’t the borderline telepathic bond Donald shared with Della. It wasn’t even the way the triplets’ magic linked so closely to each others’. It was more subtle, but it was undeniably there, with the way they could think so similarly and feed off each others’ energy ever since they first laid eyes on one another[GHL1] .

They only needed to share a glance to understand each other. With barely any effort at all, they raised their magic. Donald’s deep-and-waves mixed with Panchito’s exuberant music and whistles and chatter and laughter and José’s soft guitar plucks among distant jazz and whispered words, growing louder and louder in a crescendo as their magic was amplified by the amulet.

They held the chaotic symphony for a moment, hoping it was enough of a signal to get Xandra’s attention. Then something touched the swirling magic, something big and cold and twined with whispers of a million dying stars, giddy and greedy and hungry. The three of them pulled back on their magic in reflex, eyes blown wide as they stared at each other.

“Felldrake,” Donald breathed.

Panchito nodded as he swallowed. “He found us.” He grimaced. “And so soon, too.”

“It was a risk we took.” José took a deep breath. “If our gamble worked, Xandra would be here at any – “

His words was cut off when something landed on the foredeck of the boat with enough force to sent all three of them tumbling. Donald scrambled to his feet and ran up to the deck, ignoring the sway of the boat, his friends hot on his heels. He skidded to a halt at the top of the stairs, getting himself bowled over as the three of them fell and fell on top of one another. He ignored the pain in favor of looking up to see the familiar raven locks and golden armor.

Xandra, obviously having just landed on the deck, huffed. “There you are!” she exclaimed. “Do you know how hard it is to find you guys? I’ve been trying to reach you for days!”