#theses are tears of joy sir

[feelingtheaster99]

THERE’S A NEW PJO BOOK COMING OUT 😭😭😭

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

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QUEST 08: MARK OF ZEMOUREGAL

QUEST SUMMARY:

Because of Jahaan’s betrayal of Zamorak during their heist of the Stone of Jas, Zemouregal takes the matter of revenge into his own hands. When Jahaan looks to get even, he enlists the help of his Mahjarrat allies to take the fight to Zemouregal…

CHAPTER 5: UNAVOIDABLE CONFLICT

Jahaan landed back at the temple delicately, thanks to Wahisietel basically carrying him during the teleport. Removing his armour, Jahaan sat back against the oak frame of his bed’s headrest while Azzanadra fetched something to ease the pain. The potion was bitter; sweet with a twinge of burnt apples was the only way he could describe it. Despite that, it served its purpose, helping to numb the aching of his ribs.

“That armour is the only reason you’re still breathing, World Guardian,” Wahisietel noted, motioning to the dented elder rune platebody resting against the wall. “It is somewhat fortunate Zemouregal destroyed your first set, is it not?”

There was a twinge of a smile of the Mahjarrat’s face, and Jahaan caught the meaning. Despite the pain of it, Jahaan couldn't help but laugh at the irony. By trying to kill Jahaan, Zemouregal destroyed his armour. Jahaan’s new set of armour saved his life against Zemouregal.

How bitterly poetic.

Closing his eyes, Jahaan let the drowsy side effects of the potion consume him, mumbling before he fell under, “I’ll buff that out in the morning…”

It wasn’t for quite a few mornings that Jahaan had the upper body strength to even raise his arms above his head, let alone take his armour to an anvil. Damaged ribs were a time-taker to heal - there was nothing he could do to speed up the process, just rest in the quarters of his Mahjarrat ally. As promised, he told Wahisietel of the troubling encounter with Sliske, and in return learned a whole new set of Freneskaen curse words.

But at least in the comfort of the temple, Jahaan felt safe. His mind, however, would never let him rest.

Just like after Lucien’s death, Jahaan expected a miracle that didn’t come to pass. He expected to feel relief, joy, anything. He expected the weight off his chest to be lifted, but the pain was still there, predominantly in the form of a cracked rib.

He didn’t expect to still feel so hollow.

The rage had subsided at least, but that had ebbed away in the battle - a miracle in its own right, for Jahaan couldn’t remember the last time he’d effectively controlled his temper like that. The mental image of the sword slicing into Zemouregal’s throat put Jahaan to sleep every night, but he never slumbered for long, awoken either by the aching of his ribs or one of the many delightful recurring nightmares he’d been suffering from since the fire.

They were all there, friends and enemies alike. Ozan, Zamorak, Icthlarin, Zemouregal, Sir Tiffy, Cyrisus… their corpses cold and decaying, only to be dragged into reanimation by wires on their limbs, twisting and contorting their lifeless bodies against their will. Dancing marionettes, puppets on strings, shuffling to the rhythm of a haunting cackle, a gloved hand, a masked face.

Jahaan knew that voice all too well; he could only watch in horror as the familiar puppeteer orchestrated his plays, the world at his mercy.

After just under a week had passed, Jahaan felt like he’d graduated from bedrest and decided to leave Azzanadra in peace, still feeling bad that the Mahjarrat had acted as host and carer to a broken guest for far too long. Now that he was well enough to travel, albeit with the assistance of a cane, Jahaan wanted to check up on Ozan’s progress in the Wizards’ Tower. In one last favour he asked Azzanadra to teleport him to Draynor. There, Jahaan first utilised the bank to transport his armour to safe storage. His ribs still couldn’t quite take the brunt of any constricting armour, despite how light and nimble the elder rune set was.

Then, it was just a short walk across the bridge to the Wizards’ Tower, somewhere Jahaan was glad to be back at under less dire circumstances than before.

The Wizards’ Tower is a Saradominist institute for magic and runecrafting in Misthalin, housed in an immense structure located on a small island south of Draynor. It is one of the tallest buildings on Gielinor, rivalling the greatest cities’ castles, but coming short of the Tower of Voices in Prifddinas. It is connected to the mainland by an exquisite bridge, and the tower’s elaborate architecture and ornaments make it a beacon of human accomplishment in the Fifth Age. The tower has many facilities, including two libraries, an armillary, a telescope, offices and workrooms. In addition, the tower houses several secrets, such as the teleportation spell to the Rune Essence mine, which Zamorakian organisations such as the Zamorakian Magical Institute were attempting to steal. The Wizards' Tower was also known for having created most spells currently used today, as well as many magical theses and theorems. The tower was run by Archmage Sedridor, a very enthusiastic and bubbly old chap who happily welcomed visitors into the tower and would chat their ears off about its history.

As he searched for a certain textbook on the floating shelves, the archmage saw Jahaan in his peripheral vision, who was being signed in by Valina, the entrance clerk.

“Jahaan, Jahaan come in!” Archmage Sedridor greeted him, ushering him inside. “We were beginning to worry about you, you seemed so frantic last time, son. It was quite troubling.”

“It was a stressful time,” Jahaan replied, an understatement that Archmage Sedridor accepted with a deepening frown.

“Yes, yes poor Ozan… we’ve done all we can for him, I assure you. We treated his burns and prevented infection, but there’s still some lasting damage, you see. I’m afraid his skin will never truly heal.”

Jahaan winced. He knew Ozan’s narcissism well, reflected in his reply, “Let me guess, he’s taking the damage to his face the worst, right?”

Sniffing a humourless laugh, Sedridor confirmed, “He does mention it often.”

The two made it to the medical bay in good time; the door was ajar. Inside, Jahaan could hear the pleasant chattering between Ozan and Ariane, and he held back for a while. Archmage Sedridor left to attend to other business, leaving Jahaan to rest against a neighbouring pillar. He couldn’t make out too much from what was said, but noted how Ozan’s usual full-bodied laugh was weaker now, punctuated by tight coughs. The sound made Jahaan’s throat close up.

Finally, he realised he couldn’t hold it off any longer and gently pushed the door open, its ear-piercing creak signalling his arrival.

Once the two locked eyes, Ariane’s face grew dark, her expression cold. She feigned a reassuring smile to Ozan, muttered a few words - seemingly making her excuses to leave - and gathered up Coal, who was chewing on the bed linen. She edged past Jahaan at the door without sending him another glance. Even Ozan couldn’t spin it, offering nothing but a sympathetic smile and a light shrug. He was propped up against the head of the bed, still in nightwear, with bandages taping his arms and half of his face. He looked like an incomplete mummy, something which Jahaan didn’t decide to voice, just in case Ozan’s sense of humour wasn’t fully recovered.

Luckily, Ozan broke the tension, pointing to his own face and saying, “Fenkenstrain’s suing me for ripping off his creation.”

It wasn’t that funny, but Jahaan laughed. Like, properly laughed, doubling over with tears in his eyes. He was just so… relieved. The relief was such that it felt as if a phantom had left his soul in a jolt, similar to how he felt after Zaros disembarked his body, though without the unwelcomed loss of consciousness that followed.

Awkwardly, Jahaan sat down on the edge of Ozan’s bed. He really didn’t know where to start - an apology, a check on his health, on his spirits, an explanation… there was too much he needed to cover. So, he allowed Ozan to make the first move.

“I haven’t seen you for a while,” Ozan mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. He was clearly sensing the awkwardness too. “Was getting worried, y’know… Ariane told me what happened.”

Meeting Jahaan’s eyes, he finally asked, “Did you get him? That Mahjarrat guy?”

“Zemouregal? Yeah, he’s dead,” Jahaan replied with a shaky breath.

“You shouldn’t have gone after him. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

With a humourless chuckle, Jahaan said, “Ozan, have you ever known me to let anything go? I had to. I had to… to try and make it right. Ozan, I’m so sorry. I’m so-”

“Let me stop you right there,” Ozan interejected, a calming hand reaching out to Jahaan. “You have nothing to apologise for, okay? You never could have guessed what was gonna happen.”

Laughing softly, Ozan added, “Heck, with all the enemies I’ve made over the years, our roles could have easily been reversed.”

“But can you honestly tell me that, if the roles were reversed, you wouldn’t feel guilty?”

Ozan remained quiet, accepting this.

After a long pause, Ozan lightly nudged Jahaan on the arm, tried to raise his voice a tad as he said, “Damn, man. It’s like a morgue in here. I haven’t died or anything!”

Unfortunately, the act preceded a bout of coughs, Ozan shrugging Jahaan off as he reached over to pat his back. “I’m fine, Jahaan. The coughing thing’s gonna go in time they say. It doesn’t hurt that much. My skin, on the other hand…” Ozan’s frown deepened into a comical pout. “The fire’s done a number on my pretty-boy good looks…”

Motioning to his own fire-scarred face, Jahaan dryly remarked, “Well, at least we match now.”

Sniffing a chuckle, Ozan said, “We could start a double act called ‘How Not To Play With Fire’. I’m sure Ariane would lend us some runes.”

Jahaan winced. “Ah yes, Ariane.”

“She’s taking it a lot worse than I am. I think it’s best if you stay out of her eye-line for a while,” Ozan winked, his face contorting slightly from what used to be such a simple action.

Trying to hide the sorrow in his features, Jahaan forced himself to smirk as he replied, “Good idea.”

Noticing how Ozan’s eyes were starting to close, Jahaan realised this little catch-up had probably exhausted the poor fellow who should be conserving what little energy he had at this point. So, Jahaan helped him lie back down on the bed, saying he’d visit again soon. Knowing Ariane’s stance on things, Jahaan wasn’t sure when that would be.

“Bring booze next time,” Ozan drearily called out before turning over and burying himself in the comfy pillow.

His heart heavy, Jahaan watched Ozan’s steady breathing for a few moments. It was serene - just the simple action of seeing his best friend in a peaceful sleep after all he’d been through was reassuring.

Quietly, he made his way out of the chamber, careful not to move the door for fear the creaking would startle Ozan awake.

When he turned around, Ariane was greeting him with a stern face, her arms folded over her chest. Seeing her seemingly manifest out of nowhere surprised Jahaan, causing him to jump slightly.

“How long have you been there?” Jahaan hissed, catching his breath.

Ariane didn’t answer, instead motioning for Jahaan to follow. Leading him into a small study, Ariane closed the door behind them, and from the look on her face, Jahaan knew he was in for a rough time.

“So you killed him, then? This Mahjarrat?” it sounded more like an accusation than a mere question.

Raising his chin, Jahaan confirmed, “Yes, I did.”

Ariane did not seem impressed, her eyes boring holes through the man.

“Look, what is your problem with me?” Jahaan hissed, advancing on Ariane, who didn’t step back. “I know you think I’m a bad influence on Ozan, but the man’s no monk. What matters is that we both care deeply for him, you and I. I’d rather die than let anything happen to him, and I’m pretty sure you know that already. So tell me, please, what have I done to piss you off so greatly?”

“Other than nearly letting Ozan get burned alive?”

“You hated me before that,” Jahaan countered. “So come on. Did Ozan tell you about how I grew up? Is it the people I’ve killed? What?”

“You really want to know?” Ariane snapped, storming forward with such force it made Jahaan back up on instinct. “It’s your attitude, Jahaan. Your callousness, your naivety, your self-centred view on everything. Ever since you became the Word Guardian it’s only gotten worse. The world is falling apart and I don’t think you know, let alone care. Do you ever read the newspapers, Jahaan?”

Wary of where this was going, Jahaan hesitantly answered, “I hear bits and pieces…”

It became apparent rather quickly that Jahaan did not hear enough; Ariane filled him in on all the delightful things he'd missed on his travels, such as the dangerous antics of the Godless.

The Godless are a faction of those opposed to deities being on Gielinor, similar in many ways to the Guthixian views, but with one key difference.

They were violent.

Guthixians would preach about how Guthix banished the gods from Gielinor to protect the world from them. They relied on churches, emissaries and sermons to convey their message to the general populous. The Godless, on the other hand, took it upon themselves to wage war against every god and their followers. They believed no-one should worship a deity, that we were the masters of our own destiny and do not need to follow behind a divine being in order to have worth in our lives.

Before the gods returned to Gielinor and the Sixth Age commenced, the Godless were an incredibly small faction, for almost everyone on Gielinor stood behind a banner of some sort. Now that the gods had returned and they were starting to cause a ruckus, more people were becoming sympathetic to their cause.

The Battle of Lumbridge was their single greatest recruiting tool since their inception.

The Godless would attack and deface shrines during the night, would tear apart churches and harass emissaries. They were lawless, worked underground and distributed propaganda wherever they could.

However, their petty destruction was nothing compared to what the former Bandosians had caused.

After Bandos’ defeat, the vast majority of his followers had defected to the avian deity, erecting shrines and even taking to books and studying the ways of Armadyl. They were helped with the whole ‘learning-to-read-thing’ by emissaries of Armadyl, who set up roaming caravans to teach the former Bandosian loyalists the preachings of their new god.

Sounds great, doesn’t it? Well, old habits die hard, and it would take a lot more than a few commandments and pretty shrines to undo centuries of Bandosian indoctrination. Thus, instead of gradually trying to convert the remaining Bandoanian loyalists - as the emissaries said they should - they went out and systematically hunted them all down.

It was convert or die; any hesitation on the former signed your death sentence.

Goblin and ogre settlements especially were bloodbaths, sometimes even spilling into nearby human settlements, and people often got caught in the crossfire.

The Dorgeshuun, a peaceful tribe of hunter-gatherer goblins that had existed beneath the surface of southern Misthalin, were brought to the brink of extinction. The Dorgeshuun, largely non-religious, did not partake in the battle against Armadyl, and had defied Bandos for years by refusing to submit to his warlike ways. Bandos had planned to wipe them out as soon as he defeated Armadyl, and resolved to make such a day a national holiday. After Bandos’ death, the remaining Bandosian loyalists looked for a scapegoat, someone to blame for their god’s demise, and they settled upon the Dorgeshuun.

They were exterminated before the ex-Bandosian Armadyleans could arrive, who had similar plans for their slaughter.

It wasn’t just converted Bandosians that Armadyl had amassed into his following; more and more humans, particularly Saradominists, were growing increasingly interested in the avian deity’s philosophy. Saradominism and Armadylean beliefs overlapped quite a lot, making the two religions close allies back in the God Wars of old. Now though, more people were getting exposed to Armadylean teachings, and after the way Saradomin helped to tear apart Lumbridge, those same people were becoming open to the idea of supporting a new deity.

This did not go down well with Saradomin; tensions were rising between the two factions, but it had yet to come to a head.

And then came the Zamorakian invasion of Ardougne.

Hazeel and Khazard, along with Zamorakian armies, had marched into Ardougne only last week, taking control of the territory and pushing the warring gnomes - who were already locked in battle with the Khazard troops - out within days. The combined might of the Mahjarrat and their forces was too much for the gnomes alone to handle. Fortunately, Saradominist soldiers had come to the aid of the city, and now a joint Saradominist-Guthixian alliance was fighting to take back Ardougne.

If the Battle of Lumbridge was the first major battle of the Third God Wars, this would be the second. The Armadyl/Bandos scuffle was on a different level - more isolated and less destructive. This time, they’re were battling through the streets of the largest city in the Kingdom of Kandarin.

The Saradominist effort to halt Zamorakian advances in the Kandarin Kingdom forced Saradomin to delay his plans for Morytania, or so rumour has it. It was mere whisperings at this stage, but it was told that Saradomin planned to reignite his desired conquest of Morytania, taking it out of the hands of the Zamorakians (Lord Drakan especially) and liberating the people of Meiyerditch, returning it to its former glory of the Hallowland.

Thanks to two asshole Mahjarrat, that had to be put on hold.

The God Wars were beginning again; at the rate things were going, it wouldn’t be long before an all-out conflict arose.

��You triggered this, Jahaan,” Ariane finished, gravely. “I know it was you who Sliske managed to trick into letting him into Guthix's chamber. Now, the very Mahjarrat that deceived you, the very Mahjarrat you're somehow so chummy with, is the one that’s allowed the world to be torn apart, and instead of trying to stop him, you locked yourself in petty revenge. You're the WORLD GUARDIAN Jahaan - it's time you started acting like one.”

Moving towards the door, Ariane peered briefly over her shoulder with darkness in her eyes. “Actions have consequences, Jahaan. Start thinking of the bigger picture.”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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[brilliantorinsane]

Arthur Conan Doyle Reads Fanfiction

I am a Christian and a Johnlock shipper—two things which many from either camp would tell me are incompatible. I cordially disagree. And whilee I have reservations when it comes to writing a head cannon about God, a brilliant somebody once reminded me that both Milton and Dante literally wrote fanfiction about the Bible. So at least I am not without precedent. Please assume all the excuses about this not being an attempt to accurately represent what Heaven will be like, or make claims about God’s physical presence, etc.:

I like to imagine that when Arthur Conan Doyle enters Heaven, after he’s been shown around a bit and started adjusting to being immortal and perfectly happy and all that, God grabs his hand, eyes sparkling with excitement, and leads him into a large room.

Inside are stacks and stacks of papers and endless screens opened to various web browsers. Curiously Doyle starts skimming through them at random, and quickly realizes what they are: papers, academic theses, high school essays, drawings, fanfiction, the word of all you tumblr Johnlockers, and every other imaginable variety of argument for and celebration of the romance between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

(continued beneath the cut)

As he looks and reads Doyle pushes down the swelling in his heart and his forehead creases in confusion. At length he glances up questioningly towards God, only to become more confused upon finding Him literally bouncing on his toes with delight.

“You see!” God grins, gesturing expansively around the room, “you thought you’d take the secret of those men’s love with you to the grave; but you didn’t! all these people—so many of them!—discovered it and brought it out into the light and built on it and just look at it now!”

And Doyle just stares at God for a whole minute, incredulous, then his gaze drops to the floor as he tries to hold back tears. He is unsuccessful, and when he looks back up a few moments later, there are wet tracks along his cheeks. “They said . . . everyone said . . . said you hated that. Hated to men being romantic with each other, I mean. Or two women. I never even meant for it to happen . . . I flirted with the idea; making Holmes a bit like Oscar Wilde and all that; but they were never supposed to fall so dreadfully in love. I was so scared people would find out—I thought they must find out, because it kept leaking all over the pages no matter how often Watson wrote that nonsense about Holmes being an unfeeling machine. I even gave Watson a wife or two or something to keep them apart, but it was no good because I never actually believed that the wife or wives were anything but another of Watson’s fictions, another ploy to cover up the real truth . . . That’s why I killed Holmes off. To keep everyone from finding out. Besides, I thought it must be evil, that I must be evil for creating it, because everyone said so, and I thought they couldn’t all be mistaken, no matter how right it felt for Holmes and Watson to be together. I thought maybe if I did penance by killing him off—if I made them pay for their crimes—I might be forgiven. But I couldn’t do it, I just couldn’t, so I brought him back. And when I was dying I was so afraid because I thought maybe I’d be punished for it, for letting them live, even though I tore myself apart by separating them in the end, making them go separate ways . . .” It all comes out in a rush, and he finally trails off.

After a moment’s silence, God answer softly: “But you didn’t separate them. It was far too late for that. They weren’t your property anymore—they were Holmes and Watson.” His eyes swept the room again. “And Holmes and Watson always find each other, in every time and every world you can imagine. Stunning, isn’t it?”

And Doyle stands so still, gaze wandering across all the papers and all the screens, and he says in little more than a whisper: “Then you really don’t mind. People were wrong. You don’t hate it . . . hate them . . . don’t wish I hadn’t created them . . .”

And God puts his hand on Doyle’s shoulder, and his smile is gentle and sad and powerfully glad all at once. “Never. Listen to me, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. You were so proud of those history stories you wrote; and they did their measure of good in their own way. But Sherlock and Watson! Those two, Sr Doyle, became the friends, comforters, and allies of so many who are marginalized and oppressed, labeled and abused for their sexual orientation. They even transformed the perspective of some of those who were once among the ranks of the oppressors—not unlike the way they and Wilde transformed you, for all your desperate resistance. Sir Doyle, you are still learning to know me, and the one fundamental fact you must get into your head is that I am the God of the oppressed and downtrodden. And Holmes and Watson, not in spite of but precisely because of their love, have accomplished powerful good for such as these.”

By this time Doyle is sobbing with the surprise and relief and joy of it all, and God pulls him into a hug. “Thank you for introducing them to the world, Sir Doyle.”

And when Doyle’s tears are dry, He adds with a grin: “Now, when you’re ready, I have selected a few pics that you absolutely must read!”