#silver magpie writing

[silvermagpiewriting]

The Dilemma of Business Platforms: Social Media and Otherwise

Check out our new blog post! #business #presence #visibility

One of the common problems for new and established business owners is deciding where to build a community. While in-person is an option for many niches, others require forays into the wild online space to pick which platforms are best for business. Ultimately, this creates a dilemma. The Two Must-Have Platforms There are two must-have platforms for almost any business, even an in-person one. A…

[diginiko-asks]

// yknow might as well try to fight the os game rp ask drought

OOC (OneShot) Ask Game

Please reblog, and be sure to send an ask to who you're reblogging from!

Player - What inspired you to join os game rp?

Niko - How did you find out about OneShot in general?

Prophetbot - Do you know where you want your blog(s) to go from now, story-wise?

Silver - How do you think taming works in the context of your blog(s)?

Rowbot - How has the World evolved on your blog(s) if they take place after the events of solstice?

Calamus - How have your character(s) evolved throughout the course of your blog(s)?

Alula - Does your character(s) have any coping mechanisms?

Magpie - How does your character(s) make a living?

Maize - How has the world's decay/squares affected your character(s)?

Lamplighter - What's the most stressful part of os game rp in your opinion?

Ling - Do you ship any of your characters with other characters? If so, who?

Penguin - What other fandom(s) would you like to cross over with OneShot as a blog/arc/etc?

Kip - What's your favorite trope in os game rp?

Bookbot - What's your least favorite trope in os game rp?

George - What are some niche headcanons for your blog(s)?

Prototype - What do you think about Hackmail (or whatever other "mail" ask system your blog(s) use)?

Cedric - What do you think about Magic Anons?

Rue - What do you think about community/blog arcs/events?

The Author - What do you think about your own writing?

The World Machine - What do you think about the person sending this ask?

[rosesncarnations]

Pic for the writing 🤩

He’d expected so form of humiliation from the Night Court. Had known that his role would be played perfectly as it ever was. But he did not know that the raven that flew with the magpies and pigeons still held her talons.

She’d looked more like a wraith with that black dress of ribbons, oh how little he had known before she was curtsying to him with the grace of a cat, offering to take this dance instead of her High Lady.

He noted the raised brow as she waited for his acceptance, knowing it would be a yes, as if she were to have the foresight and not her younger sister. With his own grace he offered his hand, leaning down to kiss the one she put atop it, maintaining eye contact as his lips grazed over each finger in deft light kisses that were unseen from the onlookers.

Soon they were brought up in the sway of the music and he watched as her dress transformed into the iridescent colors that gilded the feathers that could come out of her arms with one too fast twirl with the way the ribbons practically turned to the very feathers he hypothesized she had hidden somewhere.

“How does the Night Court still fair My Lady Nesta?” He asked, perhaps hoping for an upper hand that Rhysand wouldn’t so easily give him. Or perhaps? No, he wouldn’t even think it here. Not even in his own court.

“As it always does My Lord.” Her piercing storm eyes stared up into his amber ones, “And the Autumn Court is as biting as it always seems to be?” She arched a brow with the same ease as he twirled her as far as his long arm could take her.

“As it always is.” He told her with a hungry smile as he pulled her as close as possible, holding her tightly as the music lowered to a near silent decibel even for the fae. “Are you to be a new spy? I do grow rather tired of the other one.” He whispered into the shell of her ear, running a lick of orange flame across her knuckles.

“If I were, why would I tell you My Lord?” Oh, how he knew she was taunting him. He could feel the gaze of her mate as he sent her into another twirl and gave a cold grin in the direction of that bat.

“I would ask what times you’d show in my forests. If I were a betting male, I’d say you’d sooner be more forth coming with that knowledge than the other one.” He had her back pulled to his chest, filling her breath still coming in even pulls.

Hands grasping hips, he sent another tendril of fire to graze up her throat kissing sweet and hot flickers to her jaw and cheek bones creating an elaborate collar of oranges, reds and yellows. That had done something to her cause in the next instance she was swirling her own silver flame through the slits of his shirt, winding around his biceps the way she might her fingers.

“I always win my bets.” Her voice was husky as they flew on the dance floor, they were spinning faster and faster claiming more and more of the floor until they were in the center of the floor. The center of a rosebud in bloom.

“Do you trust me My Lady?” He asked in her ear as the band began its last crescendo. She turned her tempest eyes on him a brow swiping.

“About as far as I can throw you My Lord.” Her tone was biting but he knew she would let him do this.

He tossed her into the air, spinning at a speed that made her dress all but lose the blackness that had be originally shown, a kaleidoscope of purples, blues and greens. He caught her with an ease as if they’d been dancing with solely each other for centuries and not for a dance here and there with these damned balls that Rhysand held.

As her feet landed on the ground, leaning onto him raising her chin for something he could not offer in the public eye, he raised his own chin, grazing hers. And because he was a glutton for punishment, he lit a crown along the top of her head, his flames mingling with her own in one last bid goodbye.

“Till the next time My Lady.” He bowed to her as she curtsied yet again.

“Till next time My Lord.”

[doodle-pops]

Unforgivable

Maglor x reader

Request: Oh oh, can I have some angst with my baby Maglor. I know this troupe is overdone but I love it so, a Maglor x fem! reader where he departs Valinor and leaves his wife behind. Maybe he begs her to come along? I'm excited to see what you'll create, thank you 💕💕 - Anon

A/N: Oh boy did I enjoy writing this! As you said, I wanted to take a different spin on the usual troupe and make it a lot darker. Our magpie is far from sweet and charming here. Turned out his skillful voice has other usage aside from singing.

Warnings: manipulation, Maglor being cunning and deceitful, mentions of blood (lots of times because it's a kinslaying), weakminded reader, heavy angst

Words: 1.1k

Synopsis: Vows were never meant to be broken and Maglor would ensure you fulfilled yours.

“So you’re not following?”

“Why should I? I don’t have a reason for needing to leave my home behind.”

“…So you’re simply going to forget about us then? All the promises we made!”

Falling silent, you knew he was right. You gave him your words, your vow, on your wedding day. It wasn’t the first time he dangled them over your head like some unforgettable prized object. As his spouse, it was your duty to follow him until the end, to stand at his side through all his rights and some wrongs. You were a married couple, and a relationship was hard work in progress— always learning about one another as time flew by. So, this was simply another hurdle in your life you needed to overcome. All he was doing was motivating you and providing the missing support to win. Once again, he was proving to you that you needed him, you couldn’t survive on your own without him. He was your stability.

“Makalaurё, I…I—” you bit your lips as you felt the tears growing the building pressure. His stare, erratic breathing, the crimson coating his silver blade which twinkled under the torches, his sternness, his everything. It all made your heartstrings tug towards guilt. How could you possibly tell him you didn’t need or want to be with him anymore?

We are soulmates Y/N, you can’t be without me. We have to be, so come with me.

Gasping as you heard his voice in your head being whispered like a dainty flower dancing in the spring breeze, you looked up to meet his hopeful eyes glowing in the dark. While they appeared hopeful to you, underneath was a loose and crazed nér. A nér that was ready and capable of dragging you off whether you wanted to come with him or not. He couldn’t be without you, not when you were his entire life and the air that he breathed. You walking away meant death for him and he wasn’t ready for that. There was an oath to fulfil.

“Makalaurё, I don’t know. I don’t have a reason to leave Araman behind,” you begged in accordance to reason with him. Your throat was closing up as though wire was wrapped around it, tightening with every second you doubted.

Shaking his head and stepping forward, his bloodied right hand reached out to touch your clean, unblemished skin and tugged you closer. His grip remained on your upper arm, firm and secure, while his eyes blazed with the eternal flames. But those flames were doused by the coolness of his soothing fëa, brushing against your own. It felt like the cool rain on a spring day Manwë would bless the earth with. But you also saw the passion and his desire to have you with him at all times, and his voice portrayed the rawness, “Yes you do, me! You will never leave me, you are not to ever leave me. You need to be at my side, to keep me going. I will not leave you behind.” The growls and trembles in his tones raised the goosebumps on the back of your neck and down your arms. His words of passion and fire penetrated your heart and fёa unlike the many times before.

The hand that gripped your upper arm, trailed higher until it cupped your cheeks, sweeping a trail of blood across the perfect white you adorned yourself in. Moving in closer, he breathed in your scent of fear and stored it in the deepest parts of his memory. The sword in his left hand remained locked within his cold fingers as it rose to rest behind your back for a hug. Your face buried into his sturdy cerise armour, now being painted with the blood of the innocently fallen. “You know you need me darling…and you know I need you as well,” he cooed in despondency and hurt, but the tightening of his arms around your shoulders did not.

“Makalaurё…but my family, the people…”

“Shhh, worry not about them. Your family is us— you and I, remember? We’re married, you and I, that’s all that matters.”

You were still smaller than him. Noldor he was and ever so giant their race was, you felt like a child being consoled in his arms.

His melodious and poisonous voice poured into your ears and corrupted the very fibre of your being. Moulding your moralities and standards to match his and become dependent. It was like a spider leading it's prey into a web. . .of lies or the sweet honey bee being drawn in by the perfumed scent of a deadly flower, masked by it's beautiful parade. Standing your ground was never an ability you were capable of portraying, not when your sweet and loving husband was there to speak for you. He would take the lead as he always did, your knight in shining armour. Though, it didn’t matter if it was bathed in blood at the moment.

“…If I go with you, everything would be better and we’d be a family, right? No more killing?” peering up at him with your doe eyes, your tears brimming were your lashes.

Exhaling, he looked down at you and lifted your chin to meet his determined stare, “I promise. This was just an accident, you know we didn’t mean to do this. I told you before, I’m sorry, yes?”

You nodded your head once slowly, then twice before it broke out into multiple rapid nods. Feeling a tear cascading down your cheeks, you reached to wipe it away but he beat you to the action. Smearing more blood across your face, he removed the crystal that stained. “Okay. I just don’t want anything horrendous to happen again. We are leaving Araman for a better life,” you supposed.

Needing to complete your statement with the ultimate act of reassurance, he pulled away from you and dragged his crimson hand down to your wrist, tugging. Granting you the smile that you first fell in love with upon first sight, he tenderly pulled you along the flooded street of lifeless bodies to the docks. It appeared as though a tsunami plumaged the city and all along with it, destroying the stunning iridescent silver and pearls, the blues and green of the ocean and pinks of the sunset. Nevertheless, none of that mattered as Makalaurё led you through the streets with honey in his smile and the future in his eyes. “As long as you come with me, all that you wish for between us, will be. If you just follow me,” he artfully whispered.  

You could have sworn you saw a halo around his head as he fed you hollow promises and guile. And you followed him with an optimistic, mindless beam, swaying along and dancing to the tune of his untruthful song. Like an aimless flower, swaying in whatever direction the wind may blow it, he carried you along. From the depths of the city to the root of the evil, he led you into darkness and misery; footsteps blindly trailing and leaving behind all good things to the greatest mistake you had ever made.

Masterlist

Taglist: @spidergirla5 @lilmelily @eunoiaastralwings @noldorinpainter @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @starborne0661 @floraroselaughter @singleteapot @asianbutnotjapanese @justellie17 @justjane

[legacyshenanigans]

Hey love everthing you write and do hand just had to ask something

i just found a ryme that i think woud sound really cool in some of the voices of the hlc (mostly sebastian and mavolo) and wanted to ask if you could let them say the ryme (would do it myself but im broke lol)

heres the ryme

One for sorrow,

two for joy.

Three for a girl,

four for a boy.

Five for silver,

six for gold,

seven for a secret never to be told.

Eight for a tale that the stars have spun,

nine for gate that can not be undone.

Ten for a river of forgotten lore,

eleven for a key tot he spectral door.

Twelve for a mirrow that reflects the night,

thirteen for a beast that lives in spite.

Fourteen for a realm that none can reach,

fifteen for a speech no tongue can teach.

Sixteen for a dream trapped in stone,

seventeen for the old gods hollow moan.

Eighteen for the abyss that gazes back,

nineteen for the formless cosmic wrack.

Twenty for a magpies final verse,

in a universe where shadows converse.

The end oft he ryme,

the start oft he dread.

When not a single word is said.

Oooooh, poetry corner, I dont think I've done that before 😊 sure I'll do that for ya, seeing as you said both Sebastian and Marvolo, I've split it and both take pretty much half each. Because thats alot of letters and I didn't wanna do it twice haha.

[farolero-posting]

Who would swap with who in a Swap AU of OneShot:

Here’s what I already have

Prophetbot and Prototype

Silver and Kip

Alula and Calamus

Also the Solstice trio will keep their memories and be so confused but know they must fulfill their roles

Ooooo ok so this is a tough one! The toughest part comes from counting how many characters you wanna consider and how to get the most out of the AU. I'll give you a Long explanation of how I'd work things out. Anyone can feel free to add your own ideas as well!

Traditionally the Barrens would have 3 (Silver, Prophetbot, Prototype), the Glen has 5 (Calamus, Alula, Magpie, Maize, Cedric), and Refuge ranges from 5 to 7 (Lamplighter, Ling, Kip, George, Rue, and then add Watcher and Mason, for example). The World Machine may or may not be swapped, but in my opinion the only one fitting to swap with it is like, Niko. So that's a pair that's outside the 13-15 characters mentioned. The Author probably wouldn't count at all either.

Let's see. Silver - Kip, and Calamus - Alula makes a ton of sense. They're pretty intuitive swaps.

The Solstice trio is tricky, but not because of themselves but about who switches with them. Like you either rotate them so Proto takes Cedric's place who takes Rue's place who takes Proto's place (or in reverse). Or you have to choose someone Else to take their roles. Would these characters gain awareness of the simulation? Would they be related with each other in some way? Is the character in Cedric's place also piloting a flying machine or another transportation? Is the character on Rue's place a talking animal or are species kept the same?

Let's try to fit in other characters, though. I'll keep Prophetbot - Prototype because it's an easy parallel, and... Maybe add Maize - Rue. These two make sense to me because they're both one of a kind in terms of species, and seem like comforting and wise characters. They share this nostalgia and hope, but while Maize is pretty much doomed to die, Rue is betting on a second chance. They are both hidden too.

Cedric is harder. On one hand you could switch him with George, as being the closest to the Author, and one of them representing hands-on knowledge versus theory based knowledge. I could see Cedric becoming a librarian, and would make sense to have him involved with his writing. George could have one hell of a role if she had self awareness of the simulation. The other option is Plight, because they'd both share overworking habits, but Plight is pretty self conscious about his knowledge. Plight would be interesting in a high pressure situation, and I wonder what Cedric would do in Plight's position as well.

So to recap:

Proto - Prophetbot

Silver - Kip

Calamus - Alula

Maize - Rue

George - Cedric

Magpie - undefined

Lamplighter - undefined

Ling - undefined

(if you add Mason and Watcher they'd probably swap with each other)

In the end what you can do to fix this is either create a trio of swaps with Magpie, Plight and Ling, or add another character to swap like Kelvin. Imagine Magpie swapping with Ling and Plight swapping with Kelvin maybe.

There are very few rules in swap AUs and I think there isn't one single way to do this really. You just need to know the roles each character fills in and how they do it with their own personality. Like, what would a carefree character like Alula be like if she was an older sister?

Besides that, you can ask yourself a lot of setting questions right? Is this a Canon divergence? Is this some code corruption? How does TWM feel about this? Can it do something? Or was this always meant to be and it's a fully parallel universe? How much of their personalities are kept and how much changes?

Anyways, I hope I gave you ideas to work with.

[slocumjoe]

⚠️Request rules⚠️

1; Be specific and unique

For example, the prompt "Sole dies". All characters would be sad, or angry. But the prompt, "Companions travel through a haunted forest and lose each other" has a lot of ways it can go. Vague prompts can be difficult for me to write, as there's often not much to write. Or if there is, it ends up feeling samey, or too short. There's only so much I can write about Sole dying.

Some prompts are answered in canon, and don't need to be answered. For example, Companions react to Sole speaking like the Silver Shroud. You can easily go on a wiki or find a compilation video on YouTube.

Also, I prefer to write about the companions, not Sole. So, requests about the Sole Survivor are likely to sit in the inbox for a while.

2; Be mindful of dark subject matter

Guys. You know miscarriage is a real thing, right? A horrible, traumatic thing that fucks up entire families? And same with rape, or abuse, or anything like that. Use your best judgement asking about heavier topics. These things aren't scenarios to generate angst. They're traumatic events. That real people go through.

I'll never forget following a react blog who was asked to write about miscarriage, only for them to apologize and refuse, as they had suffered multiple miscarriages themselves.

Rule 3; No fetishes or second-hand embarrassment prompts

So, I said be specific and weird...not with your own fetishs, please.

For non fetish stuff, I really do not care for toilet humor. Or anything meant to evoke second-hand embarrassment. This is another 'use best judgement'. I'm very easily grossed out by body fluids/excrement and there's no prompt that I'm willing to do with it.

Rule 4; I don't do Fallout 3 or New Vegas content

Masterlist

Newest first

Reacts V

Freaky Friday Episode

Sole vanishes, oh nooooo

Beach Episode

Companion at the zoo

The Oberland Alien

Sole gets their name tattooed

Sole finds a baby and wants it

Companions play Minecraft

Gage only; Come to the Galactic Zone if you want an asskicking

Companions and a magpie of a person

Sole with bad motor skills

Companions react to a synth of themselves

Companions as Roommates

Modern!Companions and Halloween

Sole just kisses them already

Sole sick but refusing to rest

Sole who cries when yelled at

Sole gets hurt saving their life

Touchy Sole

Overhearing Sole realize they love them

Sole breaks down crying in their arms

Companions work at a grocery store

Companions react to the Scorched Plague

Companions on Social Media

Headcanon posts V

Religion and stuff

Grab bag 4

Drinking habits

Coming out

Who they'd end up with

Losing their virginity

Modern au

Sexuality and ideal partners

Dreams and nightmares part 1

Companions' tells that they love someone

Companions' fursonas

What they'd eat in general

NSFW grab bag 3

Companions and stress

Companions spend time at a settlement

Gage fluffy-shippy-sad headcanons

Interior design

Companion Headcanon Grab‐bag

Gage Catchup Lightning Round

Favorite songs on the radio

NSFW Gage Headcanons

NSFW; Libido/sex drive

NSFW; Intensity in bed

Variety NSFW headcanons 2

Variety NSFW headcanons

Comfort food

How often they bathe

What they do/wear on days off

Danse headcanons

Laughing headcanons

X6-88 Headcanons

Physique headcanons

2 headcanons per companion

1 headcanon per companion

Meta stuff V

Synths as trans allegory for pride month

Polyamory and infidelity in games

Curie's quest is pretty dumb

A bunch of mini-essays on all the companions

Danse and autism

Oc appearance meme

Isadora ramblings and lore drops

Cait breakdown and critique

Minutemen Questline Rehaul

Florence, Isadora, and Gage

Wasteland creatures i want

Gage Name Meaning

The Gage Essay I wrote while baked on leftover lasagna

Thoughts on Piper, Strong, and Codsworth

Strong Character Bingo/Rant

My thoughts on Porter Gage before playing Nuka World

Peer-Reviewing "The Synthetic Truth"

Piper rant 2

I swear I am normal about Piper

Things I love about the companions

Biggest complaints about each companion's writing

Meme stuff V

How id compliment them

Sole gets a pet-claw

Getting Hulk smashed by a baby (game clip)

...hi (game clip)

Bad timing, dude (game clip)

Who smokes weed

War-shta-sure

Cat X6-88

Four frenchspeakers screamingn in a room

Danse's favorite shirt

Egg

muppets

dickless nickolas

mall cop

Memes 2

Memes 1

What the companions get canceled for

AITA For trying to blow up my crush's blimp?

[aquadestinyswriting]

I was tagged by the ever-lovely @druidx to complete a writing exercise from this post; specifically the Paint a picture of a character by describing their bedroom exercise.

Tagging in @davycoquette as requested and also @ashirisu, @lexiklecksi and @sparrow-orion-writes as I think you guys will be interested in seeing this.

Situated in a pocket dimension leading off from the office space at the very top of the Wizard's tower, the bedroom of Selene Frigidwake paints a far more personable picture of the Grand Magus of Toreguarde than her office might suggest. As soon as the door is opened, you are hit with a wash of ozone with a faint whiff of sulphur and petrichor. You might even see some down and shed pinion feathers drift towards your feet, depending on if the maid has been by to clean yet. The space inside the door seems noticeably larger than it ought to be, given the dimensions of the tower from the outside, and incredibly well-lit. There is a constant low-level hum at the threshold, which ceases the moment it is crossed and the air within is charged with magical static. The whole room, much like the office it is attached to thrums with arcane power. Those who have the ability to see into the magical weave may be able to discern the various arcane locks and traps inlaid into the door and floor, and only those with the keenest senses can detect the other, more mundane traps which have been hidden in amongst the lock and hinges.

Directly ahead of the door sits a large, polished mahogany four-poster bed with curtain rails, upon which are alighted heavy, velvet curtains in a deep blue colour, tied back with purple, silk rope. Despite the clutter that litters the rest of the room, the bedsheets are neatly arranged and the comforter folded to sit along the bottom of the mattress. The goose feather pillows are plumped and set accordingly and the cushions that were 'donated' by the tower's staff are artfully arranged atop them.

The bedside cabinets have a drawer and a small cupboard each, all of which have locks. The top of the left hand table is stacked high with a handful of books, alongside a pitcher and glass; the glass contains water that has been halfway drunk and left to sit. The right hand table is littered with various, small objects; pieces of copper wire, feathers from various species of bird, a pouch of silver powder. Basically, a bunch of spell components that have been dumped and half-forgotten.

Two small, gothic style windows are set into the back wall on either side of the bed, while a larger, circular window is set into the wall on the right, allowing sunlight to flood into the room during the day and affording a stunning view of the city at all times. A smaller, latched window is inset into this, and is usually kept open to allow for airflow and for Selene's familiar, Chrackle, to come and go as he pleases. Underneath the window is a small desk, covered in feathers and parchment with a large inkpot and a quill made from the tail feather of a magpie. The parchment is covered in notes and diagrams, mainly outlining various magical circles and equations, though some pieces of crumpled parchment appear to be letters; half-written and tossed carelessly aside.

On the left hand wall is a large, marble fireplace, with an ornate fireguard, all of which have been crafted by dwarven hands. Three brass, elven-crafted candle-holders sit atop the lintel of the fireplace, but the candles have never been lit. A large wingback chair upholstered in the same blue velvet as the curtains sits to one side of the fireplace, atop which lies a large, leather-bound book. On the other side of the fireplace is a floor to ceiling bookcase, filled with books on various arcane subject matters.

A large hat stand sits just behind the door as it swings inward, atop which is a messy cluster of sticks and various pieces of metal interwoven with one another. The nest is filled in with moss and down and various pieces of cutlery, coins of various denominations and other shiny objects are carefully placed within. Another door to the side of the hat stand leads to a small water closet, containing a toilet and sink, with a set of washcloths and towels set into a cabinet just behind the door. There is also enough room for a small, freestanding bathtub, that looks as though it has never been used.

[stars-and-inkpots]

One of my dnd characters, Iris (who I have made in BG3), happens to have a lot of parrallels with Gale, so I wanted to write something about them. Got this done during some spare time a bit ago and have decided to share it here.

Thanks for reading :3

Wild Magic

Word Count: 2,336

Ao3 Link: Wild Magic

Full moons are the nights where the veil between the Wilds and the mortal realm is at its thinnest. For those who pull their magic directly from the Feywild, full moons are when they're at their strongest, but for some, also when they're most volatile. Iris struggles to bear the pull of the Wilds. Gale is there to help.

Iris shifts uncomfortably and spares the rising moon in the clear night sky a nervous but steady glance. On nights like this, she can almost feel the marks moving on her skin, sprawling sporadically as they struggle to contain the magic while the veil between the Wilds and this world grows thin. Full moons are always like this, and Iris laughs to herself because she might as well be a werewolf at this point. 

She can feel her companions’ eyes on her. She knows that they must see the slight glow the marks on her face, neck, and arms give off; they must note how even the pink iris of her left eye contains the same light. 

She wonders if they are scared of her, her with her magic that is wild and unpredictable. 

She wouldn’t blame them if they were. 

Mercifully, they retire early tonight. Astarion insists he’s too tired to continue, but Iris knows that he’s lying for her sake. She’s too proud to admit when she’s struggling, but she also does a poor job at hiding it. Regardless, she throws a silent ‘thank you’ his way when they pass each other in the camp. She tries to ignore the obvious concern on his face. Concern is too close to pity, even though she knows that isn’t his intent. 

Iris doesn’t join the others for supper. She’s too exhausted. 

Her absence does not go unnoticed, of course. She can hear it in the slightly strained conversations they have around the campfire- never spoken of directly, but it sits in the air stagnant with a nervous tension bound to break eventually. All of them cast their eyes towards her tent, unsure of whether their presence would be welcome, and for some, wondering if it’s even safe to offer it. 

Gale is the only one to walk over to Iris’s tent once supper is finished and cleaned up. He stands near the entrance, hesitant but determined. 

“Iris? Would you care for some company?” His voice betrays no concern at being close to her, because he has none. Iris notes quickly that he’s been the only one who has not put a safe distance between them when she’s been particularly unstable. 

“I’m afraid I’m not going to be great company if you’re looking for conversation.” 

“So long as you don’t mind, I’m sure I can do enough talking for the both of us.” 

Iris smiles. 

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” she answers. 

Gale makes his way inside and sits across from Iris on the floor of blankets and pillows. It’s dark, save for the faint, pink glow that Iris herself gives off. Her eyes are closed, breathing steady, but controlled and methodical. It’s taking her a lot of effort to remain still. The tent itself seems a reflection of that same, barely controlled chaos. The blankets and pillows are colourful, unmatched. There are books strewn about and organised in a way that Gale is sure must make sense to Iris, but is lost to him. A silver bowl of small trinkets that Iris found particularly pretty or interesting sits beside her bedroll. She’s very much like a magpie, Gale thinks fondly. 

He turns his attention back to Iris, who has finally opened her eyes to look at him. Her left eye is brighter than earlier, the colour shifts from pink to purple and blue, then green, then back to pink. The marks- which he had thought were simply a collection of intricate tattoos when he first met her- are still moving. Her hair, usually brown and far darker, looks lighter. The pink strands (easily mistaken for grey hairs if one didn’t look close enough) have grown in number, and they too have taken on the same glow. 

“You scared?” Iris asks suddenly, and even though her voice is teasing, Gale can hear the barely concealed and, admittedly familiar, self-loathing in it. 

“Never,” Gale answers without hesitation. “Never with you.” And he means it. 

Iris hums. “Then for a wizard, you aren’t very smart.” She sounds resigned, but grateful all the same. 

“My confidence is not often misplaced. I’m sure I can handle myself, sorcerer.” 

Both of them are smiling now. Gale watches as Iris takes another steadying breath and closes her eyes again. She seems controlled, but he can see the slight shake of her hands which are clenched tightly into fists where they rest on her knees. 

“I was working on translating the book we found,” Gale begins speaking. It’s nothing of importance, just a simple journal they had found in an abandoned house. It was written in dwarvish, which was, of course, easy enough for Gale to work through quickly. 

“Oh? Find anything interesting?” She knows that he’s only talking to distract her from the rush of the Wilds that threaten to overtake her. He’s keeping her grounded, and she’s more than thankful. 

Gale continues to explain what he found in the pages of the tattered book. It truly was just a journal. It didn’t have any special knowledge to impart, only the gossip of the nearby town and the author’s thoughts on it. While it wasn’t anything important, it did provide quite the entertaining read. It was a dramatic novella in its own right. Gale notes that he wouldn’t be surprised if much of the stories inside were rife with dramatic embellishments, and Iris laughs when he suggests that perhaps they’ve merely stumbled upon someone’s (unjustly) rejected manuscript, given some of the notes in the margins. 

“Thank you,” Iris says quietly when silence falls between them again. “It’s easier to bear with someone else around.” 

“I am happy I could help then.” Gale studies the marks on her skin again. They have not slowed in their movements or dimmed, but Iris does seem to be calmed significantly. “Is it painful? If you don’t mind me asking, of course. I understand if you don’t wish to speak of it.” 

Iris is silent again for a moment. 

“It’s not painful, at least not exactly. It’s like… electricity beneath my skin. Like when your arm or your leg goes numb when you rest on it for too long. There’s a longing too, like I need to go back, or I need to bring it here. It kind of feels like treading water in the middle of high tide.” 

Gale nods. Though he can’t exactly understand, the discomforts of the orb are enough for him to sympathise. 

“And the marks?” 

“I swear I can feel them. It’s a familiar feeling- like an old friend, if that makes sense. They don’t cause any discomfort themselves though, if that’s what you meant. They feel a little cold or a little too warm sometimes, but that’s it.” Iris puts a hand to her cheek instinctively, feeling the marks there while she talks about them. 

Gale shifts closer to her and raises a hand slowly. 

“May I?” His hand stills while waiting for Iris to answer. 

“Go ahead,” she answers after some thought. No one has ever been this close when she’s like this, and the realisation of how willingly he’s here with her is dizzying in a pleasant way. 

Gale runs his fingers along the pink patterns that swim across her cheek and down her jaw. They’re cold to the touch, just as Iris said they would be, and inhumanely so. It’s strange, the cold does not spread to the rest of her face, it is contained only in the marks themselves. 

Iris can focus on nothing but the look on Gale’s face. There isn’t apprehension or fear, the expressions she’s grown accustomed to people regarding her with. It’s curious, yes, but also caring. He wants to know more about her because he cares. When Gale moves to hold a lock of her hair, examining the pink strands within it, she realises this is the closest anyone has been to her ever, even without the Wilds calling her. 

“Have you always had them?” Gale asks. “I will admit, I’m at quite a loss when it comes to the nature of sorcerers’ magic.” 

“Not always.” She doesn’t hold the same reservations she usually does when it comes to telling people how she fell into her powers, not with Gale. “I always had my magic though, at least to some extent. I think there’s a Fey branch somewhere in my mom’s family tree. The whole story is a little long.” Iris is ready to leave it there; not because she doesn’t want to, but because it’s not a conversation that normally interests people outside of giving them a reason they should tread just a little more carefully around her. 

“Well, I think we have more than enough time. Though don’t let me force your hand.” Gale has returned his hands to his lap, and Iris finds herself missing his touch far more than she thinks she ought to. 

“When I was a child, I managed to stumble into the Feywild. Of course, it was less of a stumble, and more that I was pulled into it, I’m sure. I spent a lot of my time there. Titania was quite fond of me, and she wasn’t keen on the idea of returning me home- though, neither was I at the time. I was just a kid, and the idea of playing all the time with no bedtime and getting whatever I wanted was incredibly appealing. I would say that she ‘taught’ me magic, but it was more of her giving it to me and then having to teach myself so I could actually manage it. I had to be good at it too if I wanted to remain in her favour. Fey blood or not, I’m still human, which meant my acceptance in the court was very much conditional. So long as I entertained her, I could stay.” 

Gale looks genuinely interested. He believes her too, which is not something that Iris is used to. Most people think she’s a liar the moment she mentions the Seelie Queen. Gale only seems surprised that the two are on a first name basis. 

“I was there for ten years- well… it felt like ten years to me. One day it was like I suddenly woke up, and I wanted to leave- she wasn’t happy with that idea. She tried to keep me there. I didn’t know what I was doing, I just knew I wanted out.” Iris pauses for a moment, trying to think. “Now, the best way I can explain Wild magic is that it bends to the will of the caster. Your desires shape it, and it takes the form that you will it to. I can only assume that it’s similar to working the Weave, in a sense, but it’s more… I don’t know. It’s less of an academic kind of thing, and more instinct. It’s a feeling.” Iris almost expects Gale to object to her explanation somehow, but instead he only nods in understanding. “You open yourself to the Wilds, and you have to shape the magic that comes out. That’s why there are the surges, because it’s hard to just start and stop the magic- and it’s more difficult when you’re upset. When I tried to leave, understandably, I was very upset. I was scared, I was angry, I was desperate. I knew it was going to take a lot to get me home. So I opened myself up to the deepest wells of magic that the Feywild has to offer. I knew it was the kind of magic that the Seelie Queen used, and I thought I could do it too. It worked, but it was too much for me, and it never really left.” Iris gestures to the marks on her face. She takes a few deep breaths before she continues. Gale is patient with her. 

“My parents were happy to see me, relieved to finally have their daughter back… but they were old. Very old. It felt like ten years to me, but it was nearly forty here. I didn’t have very long with them once I was home.” 

“I’m sorry.” Gale’s hand reaches out and Iris holds it, thankful for the regained contact. 

“It’s alright. I got to see them again, at least.” 

The buzzing beneath her skin has faded considerably. It’s easier to focus now, and every moment isn’t spent suppressing the urge to give in to the Wilds. The glow still remains, but it has dimmed a little. Gale must notice too, because he smiles slightly. 

“Thank you for staying.” Iris pauses. “And for listening,” she adds. 

“You’re very welcome. I would be happy to talk like this again, full moon or not.” 

Then, Iris surprises both of them by moving forward and hugging him. Then Gale surprises her by returning the embrace. He holds her with just as much feeling, uncaring about how dangerous she has the potential to be. In the grand scheme of things, he could be dangerous too, maybe even in a similar way. 

They fit together well. Two people who hold remnants of the very magic that threatens them inside themselves. One who went to every length to keep the approval of the one who gave him magic, and the other who gave up everything just so she could escape them. Both of them reached for magic incomprehensible to them. Both of them held it in the palm of their hands. Both of them were punished for it. 

Iris is the first to pull back. 

“You should go get some sleep. I’ll be fine now, it’s calmed down a lot,” she says. Gale looks like he’s about to object, but is cut off by a yawn that overtakes him instead. 

“If you’re certain,” he says after. “I hope you are able to get some rest as well. Goodnight, Iris.” 

“Goodnight, Gale,” Iris answers, smiling. 

The pull of the Wilds is practically a whisper. It’s the first somewhat peaceful sleep Iris has gotten during a full moon that she can remember. 

[tex-treasure-chamber]

Ad Astra Per Aspera

Name: "Tex" Sonata

Pronouns: xe/they/she

Universes: BBC Sherlock, Black Books, The Blacklist

Age: 31 at the start of S1

MBTI: INTJ-T

Personality in five words: Cautious, Earnest, Macabre, Playful, Curious

Orientation: AFAB Agender person. Asexual and aromantic

Nationality: Texan (Mexican-American)

Physical description: 5'0". Sonata is a POC; xe has caramel brown skin and indigenous Mexican features in the form of xyr strong nose. They have heavy lidded dark brown eyes, dark brown wavy hair that curls at the ends and reaches her lower back. Small scar on right side of jaw along their chin. Small cupid's bow lips. Dark brown freckles occasionally dot xyr skin in constellations along arms. Hourglass figure.

Clothing attire: Sonata typically wears dark/light academia attire to work and an eldritch blend of detective film noir/southern cowboy/goth lolita/Hawaiian shirt wearing stepdad when on the streets. Regarding shoes, it's either cowboy shoes, oxfords, or thick heels. Usually always has on a large chunky jumper around the flat. Wears a wristwatch at all times except in the shower even though it's waterproof. Has two piercings in both ears and typically wears silver studs.

Occupation: D.I. working for Scotland Yard. Answers to D.I. Lestrade. Has some training as a criminal profiler

Home: 221C. Between the events depicted in Ep1 and Ep 3 of S1, Mrs. Hudson renovates 221C thanks to the combined income from Sherlock and John and Sonata moves in long before the events depicted in Ep3.

Interests: marine biology, astronomy, art history, zoology, criminology, learning dying languages

Hobbies: painting, letter writing with wax seals, photography, stargazing, drawing, reading and visiting Black Books for more books and to spend time with friends (xe always brings wine), writing poetry, playing chess, exploring London museums and art galleries, feeding the local magpies, cooking/baking.

Idiosyncrasies: hums/sings when xe thinks xe is alone, bounces leg, bounces on balls of feet, fiddles/gesticulates with hands, plays with the curled ends of xyr hair, doesn't make much eye contact, is prone to staring, shies away from touch.

-Relationships-

Life partner: Jim Moriarty

Queerplatonic partners: Molly Hooper, Gregory Lestrade

Found family (adoption style): Mycroft, Sherlock, and Eurus Holmes, Dembe Zuma, Raymond Reddington, Mrs. Hudson.

Best Friends: John Watson, David Black (belongs to @13leighstreet)

Friends: Bernard Black, Soo Lin Yao, Irene Adler, Mike Stamford

-Day in the Life-

When not working at Scotland Yard or at a crime scene, Sonata can be found at their home in 221C or out somewhere in London on any random given street with someone dear to xem that she's managed to drag along on yet another 'miniventure'. Often on Fridays she enjoys visiting Black Books with a bottle of wine and baked goods they made the evening before to pacify the owner and browse the store for a new book, typically with Jim or Molly by their side.

[sigyn-foxyposts]

Headcanon/Theory: If Loki is Askeladen then..was Sigyn the princess?

So I felt like researching was very fun and not talked about enough folklore surrounding Loki. Like we all know how he has his own little traditions: being the tooth fairy and the vættir living under or in the fireplace. 

Some like to think that this very well know tale of a boy named Askeladen "The ashland" is actually Loki, or based on him anyways! 

After all the ashland does start out as being regarded as an incapable underachiever, but eventually proves himself by overcoming some prodigious deed, succeeding where all others have failed.

Too add further comparison, in the stories Askeladden is characterised as the runt of the family, being:

"the youngest, smallest, and weakest", yet "clever, bold, patient"

He had two brothers, who he often proved wrong whenever they teased him and when they failed in a task, their father would be surprised, since he thought his brothers would succeed. No, in fact it was askeladen.

He is also said to love the fireplace, poking around the ash all day watching over the fires while his mother nags him in doing something with his life, hence the nickname his family gave him! 

In the story: "The Giant Who Had No Heart in His Body" or "The Boy Who Had an Eating Match with a Troll". He ends up tricking a giant/troll into.. taking his own life in an eating contest. How Loki is that? 

Now onto the princess part! The whole reason i am writing this. In the story titled: "The Princess who always had to have the Last Word" (Which I love so much!! Sounds like a girlboss) 

First published in 1843, this fairytale tells of a princess who is "so headstrong and obstinate", that her father the king promises her hand in marriage and half of the kingdom to the whoever who can silence her tongue. 

By the way, they're indicating that she has a silver tongue and a loud-mouth to anyone that she meets. 

By and by, the royal estate becomes so run down by people, that the king decides that if they fail, they will have their ears swayed with an iron.

(I dont really know what this could mean, but im guessing they became a slave or its a way of burning a mark into them?? feel free to share what we know about that one.)

Nonetheless, three brothers set off to try their luck with the princess. 

The youngest, called the Ashlad, picks up several items along the way, consequently being ridiculed by his two older brothers.

As the story unfolds however, it appears that it is not necessarily the things in question which prove to be helpful in the end. 

Mind you the whole time, when his brothers ask "what could you possibly need that for?"

He responds "Oh, I have things to do, and this will do,"

The Ashlads' approach to the road ahead of him reminds us to be attentive and mindful of events and coincidence on our way. Although he is initially mocked in the beginning, it turns out that doing things differently is perhaps not such a bad idea after all.

After his older brothers go in first they're ridiculed by the princess. 

"Good day," he said.

"Good day to you too," she answered and turned in her seat.

"It sure is warm in here," he said.

"It's warmer in the coals," answered the princess; the branding iron was lying there, ready to be used. 

When he saw that, he couldn't say a word, and he failed. It didn't go better with the second brother.

"Good day," he said.

"Good day to you too," she said and turned in her seat.

"It's very warm in here," he said.

"It's warmer in the coals," she answered. 

Then the cat got his tongue as well, and the iron was pulled out again.

Then it was the Ashlad's turn.

"Good day," he said.

"Good day to you too," she said and turned in her seat.

"It's nice and warm in here," he said.

"It's warmer in the coals," she answered; she did not care to be nicer to him than she was with the others.

"Then maybe I can fry my magpie there?" he asked, pulling out his first find. 

"I'm afraid she'll burst," said the king's daughter.

"Not to worry, I'll put this birch ring around it," said the boy.

"It's too wide," she said.

"I'll use this wedge," said the boy.

"The fat will drip out of her," said the princess.

"I'll hold this underneath," answered the boy, showing his broken pottery.

"Your words are all crooked," said the princess.

"No, I'm not crooked, but this is crooked," answered the boy, pulling out one of the ram's horns.

"Now, I've never seen anything like it!" yelled the princess.

"Here's one like it," said the boy, and pulled out the other horn.

"You're trying to wear me out, aren't you?" she said.

"No, but this is worn out," answered the boy, pulling out the sole.

The princess didn't know what to say.

"Now you're mine," said the Ashlad, and he got her and half the country into the bargain.

Now don't we all also theorise that Sigyn might be related to Freya or at least have been raised by Njord, one you'd consider wealthy and a "king" of the vanir? 

Just a thought! Might make a fan fiction of this in the future. 🤭

[silvermagpiewriting]

Self vs. Social Personas as They Relate to Marketing

Check out the new blog post! #marketing #socialmedia #personas

One of the tricky things about marketing is the growth and change of it all. You simply never know when something is a trend, when it’s a permanent shift, or when you need to change strategies. The use of personas is one such area. The Technical of Personas Personas refer to two different things, sometimes more. The first is a profile of a typical customer. The second is a business’s persona to…

[cyberpunkonline]

Fear, Loathing & Magpies

It was a sweltering morning, the sun a monstrous, bloated orb in the sky as I set out to write about the true nature of magpies. These birds had long held a sinister place in my mind, as they had for many others. A dark memory still lurked, buried within the depths of my childhood - a time when I'd see them on my way to school, perched on gnarled branches, beady eyes following me like an ever-present omen of doom.

As I embarked on this journey of revelation, it was impossible to forget my grandmother's stern voice as she told me of her fear of these birds. "There's something wicked about them," she'd warn, her eyes wide with the kind of occult knowledge only elderly old women seem to flaunt. "Heed the poem, child, and beware the solitary magpie."

"One for sorrow, two for joy,

Three for a girl, four for a boy,

Five for silver, six for gold,

Seven for a secret never to be told."

Yes, that poem. The one that haunts our dreams, whispering in our ears that to see a lone magpie is to be utterly and irrevocably fucked. For decades, we'd believed it was nothing more than a silly rhyme, a bit of folk wisdom passed down through the generations to keep the fear of the unknown alive in our hearts.

But as I delved deeper into the tangled web of magpie lore, I discovered a horrifying truth - a truth far more sinister than any mere superstition could ever be. The magpies, it seemed, were not just the harbingers of ill fortune but were, in fact, the exiled souls of Fae - those ancient clans long dead and no longer spoken of in polite Fae society, their magic twisted into something altogether more malevolent.

These magpies, these winged beasts, harbored within their sleek, ebony feathers a potent and dangerous power. A power that pulsed with the remnants of Fae magic, ready to strike, to do serious harm, to those who crossed their path. And with this revelation came the knowledge that the magpies were not content to merely observe our mortal world. No, they reveled in a twisted, froward sort of mischief, delighting in the chaos they could wreak upon us unsuspecting humans.

As I clawed my way back to the surface of sanity, the true nature of magpies seared into my brain I summerised thus; the magpies, once dismissed as mere omens of misfortune, had now been revealed to me as something much more dangerous, much more insidious. They were exiled Fae souls, once proud and powerful, now reduced to the shadows, lurking in the corners of our world, waiting for the moment to strike.

So I say to you, dear reader, heed my warning and beware the magpies. For they are not just the creatures of superstition and old wives' tales. They are something far more sinister, far more terrifying. They are the exiled souls of Fae, their magic still potent and hungry for mischief. And if you should ever find yourself face-to-face with a lone magpie, remember the poem, and pray that the darkness it heralds does not consume you.

[etoilesombre]

20 questions for fic writers

Thanks for the tag @hms-tardimpala <3

I have noooo idea who has done this already, so tagging @lichfucker @frau-kali @tiofrean @lupismaris @verdanthoney no pressure, also anybody else who wants to

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 18

2. What's your total AO3 word count? 257,419

3. What fandoms do you write for? 95% Black Sails. I have one story for Fetch Phillips Archives, one for the tv show of The Exorcist, and I've committed to one for A Charm of Magpies (book series)

4. What are your top five fics by kudos? long as amber of ember glows, to pull me from myself again, The Salt and the Sea, Another Way, Such Terrible Hungers

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Absolutely! I love talking about these guys, my writing, fandom in general, anything, and if somebody takes the time to comment i want them to know its appreciated. that said i DO either miss some sometimes or just get overwhelmed with life but it is always my intention.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Uhhh for all the angst IN the stories i'm actually secretly a softie i usually leave things pretty good. but. ok if we're doing story not series, then its definitely A Composite Unity

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Princes of the New World, the end there is PURE wish fulfillment in a way I had never done before and likely never will again. Wanna see Silver be a pretty princess and then get fucked so good it breaks canon? Also Kittenfic if you want something that is actually not smut for once. Yes it has actual kittens. It is sad and sweet and i think reasonably plausible in canon, but. It was written for a ficfest prompt "betsy has kittens and silver adopts them on maroon island.'

8. Do you get hate on fics? Not yet.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? OH BOY DO I lol. I'm not gonna say this is what I'm here for, but, sex is definitely one of my main lenses for exploring character dynamics and psychology. 'What kind' has varied a lot.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? Not yet, though I've done some concepting. I got pretty far into planning a Hannibal/Black Sails crossover with a friend (set in Black Sails canon era) and that concept still haunts me.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? No

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? No

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?  No

14. What's your all-time favorite ship? Lol. You mean, the whole reason I ever started writing at all? Yeah, Silverflint. I'm Still Processing.

15. What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Uhh ot3 swimming

16. What are your writing strengths? Making fic feel true to canon. Dialogue, character exploration through sex.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Showing things in summary rather than getting into every damn detail. Heavily plotted fic, fic that covers a long period of time. At least, these are things I don't do intuitively and have not yet pushed myself to do? Also imagery, my writing is pretty functional.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? Absolutely fine, but do it well. Which to me means, if it is not a language you speak fluently, google translate is not enough, ask a native speaker to review it. Also, needs to be there for a reason. There's gonna be some Spanish in longfic once I finally get back to it.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Black Sails.

20. Favorite fic you've ever written? Oh god I really don't know if I can pick. Honestly it might be By Faith of My Body, the one where pining!Flint and Madi have highly fraught conversations about books. But that's what I'm working on now and its possible 'favorite' is just 'whatever's in front of my face.'

[bioticplaneswalker]

The Magpie's Darling

A little while ago I got inspired to write a kind of fairy tale which I then decided to read out as part of a Dungeons and Dragons session. It's pretty setting agnostic so really it can be used for anything but honestly I'm quite proud of it. I've always liked fairy tales, especially ones with queer subtext, and I'm happy with how this one I came up with turned out. I hope you all like it too.

Once upon a time on a day in summer a magpie sat in the branches of an old oak tree. As he preened his feathers a knight in silver armour came riding down the path and stopped beneath the tree. As it was the height of summer the knight was hot and needed to rest himself and water his horse. The magpie watched as the knight dismounted and led his horse to a stream to let it drink and then sat down against the oak to rest. The knight set his helmet down next to him and soon the magpie heard the knight snoring quietly against the trunk.

The magpie saw the knight had also set down his sword and that it glimmered and shimmered in the light of the sun. The magpie, a covetous creature, desired the shiny sword greatly, and hearing the depth of the knight’s snores fluttered down to the ground to step closer. The magpie waited until the knight breathed out a particularly loud snore and then swooped closer to grab the knight’s sword by its hilt. But, the sword was well made and heavier than the magpie had thought and so he could not lift it fully and dropped it with a clang against the sleeping knight’s armour!

The knight woke with a start and saw the magpie fly squawking back into the high branches of the tree. The knight saw his sword and deduced what the magpie had tried to do and the thought of it made him roar with laughter.

“Why do you laugh at me so?” demanded the magpie from his perch. “I am not to be laughed at!”

“I am sorry, magpie”, said the knight, sitting back down. “But the thought of a tiny creature like you trying to carry a heavy sword like mine is most humorous!”

“Well then!” said the magpie, now in a right old huff. “You’ll have to give me something else! This is my tree and you should give me something in exchange for sleeping next to it!”

This made the knight chuckle again and he settled against the tree once more. “And what might I, a humble knight, give to such a creature as you, magpie? I am going to war soon and so I have no coins with which to part, having spent them all on my sword and my armour and my horse. None of those would suit a magpie.”

The magpie was about to reply when the knight continued. “I know. I shall tell you a story of things I have seen, things no bird or beast could have seen, and therefore you shall have a tale to tell to all the other birds. That will make you the grandest bird in all the forest.”

This to the magpie seemed a fine idea and so he said “Yes! Tell me of things you have seen, oh knight!”

And so the knight told the magpie of his life at court. He told him of his lady’s beauty and his lord’s smile, of a joust’s thrill and a tournament’s splendour. He told him of the grandeur of a castle and the fluttering of unexpected gossip, of a tapestry’s majesty and the baying of a hunting hound. All of this he told the magpie and the magpie listened intently until the sun began to set behind the trees. The knight put on his helmet and told the magpie he had to be on his way or his lord would worry. The magpie thanked the knight for the gift of his story and eagerly flew away to tell the other birds what he had learned. And the knight remounted his horse and returned to the castle.

The next day, the knight came riding again and, once again the day being hot, decided to rest against the trunk of that same tree. The magpie was preening himself in the tree too in the lower branches and cawed at the knight as he sat down.

“Knight, oh knight!” called the magpie. “You were right! I told all the other birds of your court and they all found it most delightful! As you are staying by my tree once again, won’t you tell me more of your court for me to share with them?”

“Of course I will.” said the knight, all too happy to exchange a quiet rest for a story and so he told the magpie more of his life at court. He told the magpie of a hearth fire’s comfort and the scent of baking bread, of a fool’s cutting wit and a noble’s amusing indignation. He told him of a huntsman’s horn and the thrumming of a bowstring, of a harp’s song in darkness and the spectrum of a stained glass window. All this the knight told the magpie until the sun began to set once more and the knight had to return to his lord and lady. The magpie was pleased at having a new story to tell but he did not fly away immediately to tell the other birds. Instead he stayed on the branches of the tree and watched the knight ride away on his horse until he was out of sight behind the hill. Only then did he fly away to share the stories of what the knight had told him.

On the next day the knight came again and sat at the base of the tree and this time the magpie came down from the branches to alight upon the knight’s knee.

“Aha, oh knight!” said the magpie. “You have rested next to my tree and so must tell me more of your court for me! You must, you must!”

The knight smiled at the magpie, but this time his smile was sad, and he gently preened the magpie’s chest feathers for him. “I will tell you, magpie, but I’m afraid this is the last story I may tell you. You see I am going to war tomorrow and so I will not be able to visit you for a long time.”

“Oh”, said the magpie, now saddened by this. “Well then, I have heard enough about the court, tell me instead of you. Tell me of the knight who has come to see me these past three days.”

The knight stayed silent for a few moments as he considered this request. “Very well”, he said. “I will tell you of this knight and his life, humble as it is.”

And so the knight told the magpie the story of his life. He told him of his childhood, of his family, of his hopes and his dreams. He told the magpie of his loves and his hurts, his fears and his sorrows, his pride and his faults, all the thoughts and actions which create the all of a man. He painted the magpie a portrait with his words, where his paints were his memories and the canvas his soul and by the time he had finished the sun had long since set beneath the horizon.

The magpie thanked the knight for his story but before the knight could leave again the magpie bid him to stay a moment. “Here, for your story, sir knight”, said the magpie and from his wing he plucked a feather, one that was not just made of blacks but also whites and blues and greens. “Take this as a token from me and wear it upon your helmet. Let it bring you luck for whoever can deny the luck of a magpie?”

The knight took the feather and gently placed it on his helmet as the magpie asked of him. He thanked the magpie from his heart and bid him a fond farewell as he rode away on his horse. The magpie watched him go once more and stayed in the tree that night instead of flying away to share what the knight had told him.

The knight did not return the next day, though the magpie stayed in the tree and kept watch with a hopeful heart. Neither did the knight return the day after that, or the day after that or after that. Eventually as the days wore the magpie became fearful he would never see the knight again and his heart was full of sorrow. It was then he had a thought that gave him hope: he would use what the knight had told him of his court to find him.

So the magpie went on a journey, flying over the hills and fields until he saw a castle in the distance that could only have been the one the knight had told him of. When he reached it though he saw no sign of the knight he was looking for. It was only when the magpie perched over the stables did he hear a squire talking to a stable hand that the lord and his army had travelled east. The magpie took wing and flew in the direction of the rising sun.

Days and nights passed until the magpie came upon the field of a battle which must have been raging days on end; the soil and sod had turned to mud and all around lay bodies armoured and unmoving while others still fought each other with weapons and shields. The magpie flew above them all until his eye was caught by a flash of black and white and blue and green. The feather he had given his knight still sat within his helmet and it was that which allowed the magpie to see the knight upon the battlefield. 

But the knight had clearly been fighting for a while; his armour was no longer shining, his blade now tarnished and his movements sluggish and slow as he fought against soldier after soldier. The magpie watched as the knight swung his sword and missed an opposing foe's blade only to be knocked down by said foe onto the ground and dropping his sword into the mud. The magpie squawked in anger and flew down to harry the enemy knight, flapping his wings against his helmet and scratching his claws against his visor and all the while squawking and cawing loudly in anger and fear. The enemy knight stumbled in confusion at this assault and then lost his balance completely. He slipped in the mud and came crashing to the ground, only to be impaled by the blade of the magpie knight's sword sticking up as it was from the mud.

As the opposing knight lay still the magpie fluttered over to the knight he knew and rested upon his armoured shoulder. The knight tried to raise his arm to preen the magpie but found his strength had left him and then the magpie saw the knight had been wounded in his side with his armour bright red with blood. The knight laughed sadly as he looked upon the magpie though the magpie could tell the knight's breathing was not coming easily to him.

"My dear magpie", said the knight. "I kept your feather close to me and treasured it with all my heart but I fear I've come to the end of my story. I will have no more tales to tell you."

The magpie lowered his head and the knight was able to reach up weakly and stroke a finger down the back of the magpie's neck. "Oh knight, you have told me of so many beautiful things. Let me tell you stories of my own instead in exchange for everything you have told me, to allow you to rest."

The knight sighed, quietly and said. "Yes, magpie. I think I would like that. Please tell me your stories."

And so the magpie told the knight of things only a magpie could know. He told him of the scent of honeysuckle nectar and the taste of wind over water, of the song made by a butterfly's wings and the dance of grass upon a meadow. He told him of the shrewd wisdom of an oak tree and the dangers of an adder's fork, of the sparkling joy of a silver coin and the laughter of a running river. He told the knight of dandelion seeds playing in moonlight and the whispering of a predator's luck, the warming glory of a summer's heat and the bite of a snowflake's sting. All of this and more the magpie told the knight as the battle faded around them until slowly the knight's arm drifted to the ground by his side, the last words in his ears those of wonder and comfort and love.

When the knight's final breath left his body the magpie bowed his head to touch his beak to the knight's visor and wept tears of deepest grief. The tears flowed down his beak and over the knight's helmet, running over the metal and to collect beneath his eyelashes and to the feather which still remained upon his helmet. And with the love in those tears the feather began to melt and the tears began to run with the colours of the magpie, in blacks and whites and blues and greens until those colours ran over the knight's armour until it was no longer silver but the colours of the magpie too. When the magpie finished weeping he hopped back from the knight's armour and let the helmet fall open to the side.

And from that field of battle, from that suit of armour, two magpies spread their wings and flew into the sky together, to later rest in a grand oak tree side by side and to watch the way the sun set behind the hills.

[mellanmir]

So my magpie brain had once again a new fanfic idea. On October 10th right after Minato sealed the Kyuubi, Kumo and Iwa decide to make a surprise visit and invade. It goes as expected. In its wake follows death & destruction, and the surviving Konoha-nin scatter all over Fire Country trying to survive. Featuring a really pissed off Haruno clan with a very confused time traveling Sakura, a surprising amount of seals and a Kakashi who has an even a worse time than in canon. Not to mention many other people making guest appearances. Timeline may be wobbly. I have a few scenes I want to write, but this does not make a story. So if you like this and want to send me prompts or questions to hopefully keep my brain on track (and the serotonin high) it's much appreciated.

Have a very long snippet of Kakashi being bamf under the cut. Ps. this will most likely end up being Kakasaku if this is not your cup of tea, sorry (not sorry).

Ino takes a step back, easily twisting out of the path of the incoming shuriken, only losing a few strands of her hair to their sharp blades. Shikaku is so damnably proud of her. It steals his breath — or it’s the knowledge that the little girl he raised was about to die in front of his eyes, and he is helpless to do nothing but watch. Her plan is working. Every time she evades his attacks with just a swish of her hips, his form gets worse, his openings more obvious, too enraged by her apparent casual dismissal of his prowess.

Ino has seen the aftermath of being left alone with that monster. She will never allow herself to be one of his playthings, and if there is even a chance she can drag him to the shinigami with her, she will to do everything in her power to make it happen.

The rest of the Iwa and Kuma shinobi are too entertained, too secure in their numbers and supremacy to see death coming to one of their own. Shikaku prays they won’t see the trap until it’s too late for Ginjo to escape it.

With a mocking laugh and a flip of her hair, Ino dances out of the way of a few more shuriken. Ginjo gives an enraged snarl, his teeth bared, and lunges forward with a kunai in hand, furious that she denies him the satisfaction to see her bleed. Shikaku can see at least five easily exploited openings that even a genin couldn’t miss and he sees the glimmer of deep pleasure in Ino’s eyes. She subtly slides her foot back, about to fall into a bastardized Hyuuga stance, when the ground under her foot gives away. It takes him a fraction of a second to realize that she will never recover fast enough to avoid getting skewered. Maybe she could have salvaged if the ground behind her would have been flat, twisting herself backwards and attacking from a low position even if she would have to sacrifice a broken ankle for it. But there is a tree behind her and twisting around that will take a few more seconds than she has. She will be completely open, with no way to deflect the kunai.

Time slows down. Everything feels muted as he watches death reaching for his daughter.

The whistling of a high-speed projectile pierces through the quiet in his mind. Ino’s back hits the tree and then, with a deceptively soft thumb, a kunai buries itself in the bark next to Ino’s head and everything in Shikaku’s head screeches to a standstill. He has less than a second to take in the ofuda tied to the ring at the end, fluttering in its own slipstream. He can make out its royal blue color, the edges lined in silver. In the center, a vertical white bar with three black dots.

Then Ginjo is an arm’s length away from Ino, weapon’s arm drawn back and then swinging forward for extra momentum. In the next second, a person appears from one heartbeat to the next from nowhere, already in motion. He can make out a haori in the same blue as the ofuda, a white three-by-three square with a corner pointing downwards and a circle surrounding the square. There are few points in his life where Shikaku could feel his brain stuttering to a stop, unable to grasp what he is seeing. This is such a moment.

He knows this symbol (the circle is new), once upon a time this belonged to one of the most respected clans in Konoha (oh by the great tree he misses his home).

It can’t be. It’s impossible. He has been dead for years.

“Sakumo?”

Shikaku hasn’t even finished the first syllable, before the there is a flash of white, the cackling of lightning and the sound of a sword cutting through air. With one arm the figure grasps Ino by her waist, draws her in, effortlessly lifting her out of harm’s way and using the same momentum to behead Ginjo with the sword in the other hand in one fluent movement.

Fugaku makes an odd strangled choking sound.

The white silvery hair is definitely a Hatake trait, but while he can only see the side of the face while the figure carefully lowers Ino down so she can sit against the tree, it looks too young to be not-dead-Sakumo. There is only one other Hatake in recent history who he could be, but they also believed Kakashi to be dead for years, although they never could recover his body for a final confirmation.

Possibly-not-dead-Kakashi’s entrance and his irrelevance to the enemies around them leads to mixed reactions. Some of the Iwa shinobi, notably the older generation, are slowly backing up, spreading themself further apart. The younger generation, especially from Kumo, are strutting forward, too used to certain victory with their superior numbers against the alaways on the run Konoha-nin.

Shikaku can feel his heart hammering in his chest — dum dum dum — like a war drum. He can’t help it. His gaze keeps flickering back to the kunai with the ofuda repeatedly, like it had a magnetic pull.

It’s impossible. There is just no way this is what his mind tries to tell him. They look completely different.

It can’t be.

But there is a gleeful voice in his brain that keeps whispers

But…

But…

But, what if?

Appearing entirely unbothered by the whole situation, probably-not-Sakumo-but-Kakashi rises to his feet and faces them, and that is enough for all remaining uncertainties regarding his person to disappear. He is missing the trademark mask of his youth, but the Sharingan spinning lazily in his left eye leaves no doubt about his identity.

And finally, like trying to make up for missing time, Shikaku’s brain jumps into overdrive. Trying to make sense out of the ghost before him. The teen that he had last seen, who was feral, suicidal, and barely holding onto his sanity due to his grief, is now absent. Instead, there is a young man who looks comfortable in his skin and well fed. There is no gauntness to him, a not uncommon affliction for those who still call themself Konoha shinobi. His clothing is of excellent make and not the civilian kind that offers no protection, especially the hoari with the modified clan insignia. And this, this is something, this is a crucial piece of the puzzle before him, he can feel it. This is not something one does at a whim.

For all that Kakashi looks relaxed, even slightly slouched, there is a glimmer in his eyes that sends an icy shiver down Shikaku’s spine. He feels like he is standing in front of a monster, a predator about to lunge and tear him to shreds.

He feels Suzume-san wriggling next to him, breaking him out of his contemplation. She is trying to twist herself so she can get a glance at Kakashi. Keeping her voice to a whisper, she asks, “What is going on? Sakumo? Sakumo, what? You can’t be serious!?” Only to be interrupted by Fugaku’s muttered, “This doesn’t look good. I really hope he has a plan.”

Jerking his head around, he can see what Fugal already noticed. Some of their more intelligent enemies are creeping to the side, trying to flank him, but more importantly, it would disrupt the flow of the battlefield. Currently, Shikaku and all the other hostages are in a self-contained sphere. Until now, the Kumo-nin and Iwa-nin were more content enough to leave them alone and watch them from afar. If they breach the invisible line separating the hostages from the rest, it will be so much harder for Kakashi to protect them and keep them alive.

In response, Kakashi just pulls the kunai from the tree with his free hand and spins it around his index finger. He smiles lazily at the approaching shinobi, flashing a glimpse of sharp canine.

Fugaku’s voice contains dread when he addresses him. “Shikaku, where are his weapons?” And wasn’t that the question? Besides, the sword in his one hand and the kunai in the other Shikaku couldn’t see anything else on his person, not even ninja wire. Honestly, the whole thing looked more and more like some strange suicide rush, maybe-Hiraishin-kunai or not. Even Shikaku’s fabled mind drew a blank how Kakashi could keep them safe and still kill or at least make the Kumo and Iwa shinobi retreat. One Hiraishin kunai would not be enough that would have even been outside of Minato’s scope of abilities.

This is also an observation shared by Iwa and Kumo, and mocking laughter ripples through the ranks.

“Oy little leaf, you sure you wanna take us all on, with you puny little kunai?” More laughter echoes through the field, then another voice pipes up. “And while you fling that thing around, who keeps your precious comrades safe, that’s all the rage for you leaf eaters, isn’t it?” This time, the laughter is cruel.

Like hell they were going to lie down and just die. All around him he could see his fellow hostages reading themself for battle as futile as it was, bound and drugged as they were. Kakashi made a thoughtful humming sound. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?” He still sounds as if he couldn’t be bothered and Shikaku wants to close his eyes. Instead, he is distracted by the bloodthirsty grin — baring of teeth — Kakashi throws them. Sharp fangs on full display, but what keeps his focus are the little flashes of lighting sparking between the teeth.

There is some choked off laughter to his side. “By the Shodaime, he is still a little dramatic shit.” Shikaku agrees. Still, he would feel better knowing there was some kind of plan going on here. Kakashi takes another step forward and Ino is crouched in the background in a defensive stance, but Shikaku can see how she doesn’t put any weight on her ankle. His attention snaps back to Kakashi when Fugaku becomes taut like a stretched ninja wire.

“What.” Shikaku doesn’t think he’s ever heard the other man so confused.

The mastery of Kakashi’s lightning nature no longer distracts him from noticing that his Sharingan spins faster than normal and Kakashi states, “Let’s change that, shall we?” In a mock thoughtful tone and with that, the three tomoe of his Sharingan morph into an unfamiliar windmill pattern. Fugaku sounds like someone punched the air out of him. Clearly, he has a better idea about what is going to happen, even if he is still in disbelieve about it. Shikaku is cautiously optimistic. Honestly, at this point, everything can only be better than their original fate.

Kakashi utters just one word, “Susanoo.”

For a moment, nothing happens. Shikaku is pretty sure Fugaku has stopped breathing. Then, a gigantic, humanoid head, followed by arms and a ribcage rises from the earth, half skeletal, half armoured, like a vengeful spirit. The Iwa-nin and Kumo-nin have the common sense to fall back rapidly and try to pierce it with long distance attacks.

“Impossible.” It’s more a croak than a word that escapes Fugaku’s lips.

It’s truly monstrous. It’s so big the ribcage surrounds them like a wall. For all that it’s partial see-through and shimmering silver-white, it acts as an impenetrable barrier; nothing goes through. Shikaku agrees, the chakra consumption of that giant must be enormous, to span such a wide area, safely encasing every Konoha-nin. He can’t fathom it.

Abruptly, Kakashi stops spinning the kunai around his index finger. He gives them a fake crinkled eye smile. “Thank you for not running away.”

With a twist of his wrist, he flicks the kunai towards the gathered shinobi. It passes through the construct without a problem and Shikaku wonders if it’s because it’s from the inside or because it’s Kakashi’s kunai. Anticipation curls in his stomach, wondering if he is really going to see the Hiraishin in action again. The Kumo and Iwa-nin are already scrambling out of the path of the kunai and Shikaku fears Kakashi will run out of chakra before he can deal with all the enemy shinobi.

An amused twitch of his lips is the only warning they get. Kakashi makes the Earth Release seal in front of his chest. His tone is vicious, a glacial fury. “Tajū Kunai Kage Bunshin no Jutsu.” In an instant, that lonely kunai transforms into a hailstorm, raining death upon the unsuspecting shinobi.

“Oh no. Oh, no no no no. Please, no.” Fugaku sacks into himself like he has no power anymore to keep sitting on his own strength. “How could you… This is not… What did you do?”

For Shikaku there is only hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest, that of all the hand seals Kakashi used, he used Earth Release a seal that is not even a standard hand seal for justu much less a derivation of the Kage Bunshin no Jutsu.

It is also better known as the Seal of Confrontation.

Kakashi disappears with the crackling of electricity, the smell of ozone and a white flash. Hesitant, relieved laughter ripples through the crowd of the captured Konoha-nin.

There is no escape. It is a massacre.

---

Kudos to Uchiha Fugaku-sama who successfully looked underneath the underneath. Also, there is technically an in universe reason for Kakashi being able to do all that.