#this is an excuse to write my myths in the queen's thief world

[huilian]

It was silent in Gen’s room. It should not have been. The night of the reni was supposed to be a night filled with laughter and teasing for the soon-to-be wed, and, even more importantly, advice and wisdom from those who had walked the road of marriage earlier than them. But it was only Hector in the room with Eugenides, and Hector did not know how to fill the silence.

In every other reni night he was in, Hector hadn’t needed to fill the silence. The silence filled itself. The room should have been filled with dozens of already-married friends and family, sharing their stories and wisdom and advice, often contradicting with each other.

If they had been in Eddis, if Gen had married an Eddisian, the bride would have been doing this in her own rooms, with her own friends and family giving her their own advice and wisdom. But they were not in Eddis, and Gen was going to marry an Attolian queen, and this wedding was a dance of shadows and lies and tricks.

And so Hector had no wisdom nor advice to give to Gen, because what advice could he give the Thief of Eddis about shadows and lies and tricks that he did not already know? It should have been his wife here. She would have had something to say, and she had been the better story-teller out of the two of them anyway.

When she had fallen from the roof, years and years ago, the amount of stories in Hector’s house had dwindled almost to none.

But here was something he knew, with absolute certainty, was the truth. “Your mother would have been proud,” he said, finally breaking the silence in the room.

Gen snorted. “She would have dissected my plan and told me each and every single flaw in it.”

She would, but Hector raised his eyebrows and waited. Sure enough, after a few seconds, Gen sighed and continued. “Then she would have kissed my forehead, put me in the finest clothes she could find, and maybe stolen me a necklace to give to my bride, since I had given her earrings already.”

She would. She did much of the same for Xenia, the only one of their children whose wedding she had been alive to attend.

But what Gen didn’t know, was that the night after all the celebration had ended, when their daughter had left their home to become a married woman, she had climbed into their bed, curled on Hector’s chest, and cried until morning.

And just like that, Hector knew what to say.

“Once, there was a very clever young man with the name Phanes. He has cleverness in spades, but nothing much of anything else. One day, when he was collecting firewood in the forest, he saw something many men would kill to see. Some of the spirits of the trees in that forest had left their home to walk for a moment in the guise Earth had given to mankind. They were beautiful, and Phanes was captivated by them. He carefully put down his firewood, and hid behind a rock, for if he had hidden in the trees, the spirits would have certainly known him.

“He watched them, as they laughed and sang and danced. For you see, in their guise as trees, they have all the power they would ever need, but they cannot laugh, and they cannot sing, and they cannot dance. He watched them, and without even realizing it, he had fallen in love with the one that had laughed the loudest and sang the sweetest and danced the brightest.

“The more he watched them, the more he found himself falling in love with her. The thought of leaving without her became unbearable. But he had nothing for which to tempt a woman, much less a spirit of the trees, who long for nothing in their long, long life.

“However, he had one thing in spades. Cleverness. He realized that as the spirits left their trees, they hang their stola on their branches. Phanes decided that he would search for the most beautiful of the trees in this forest, for she who had taken his heart surely had the most beautiful tree of all, and steal the stola from her branches. This way, he thinks, she would not be able to return to the trees, and he could make her stay.”

“Father,” Eugenides said. Hector looked at his son’s face, and realized that this was the man who had taken Hamiathes’s Gift from Hephestia herself, who had stayed in the temple of his namesake and heard the messenger goddess speak, who had called on the Great Goddess and gotten an answer.

But he had no other wisdom to share, in what was supposed to be a night of wisdom, and so he continued.

“He stole the stola from her branches, and hidden it deep within his firewood. Then, he returned to his hiding space in the rocks, and watched some more.

“When the sun reached the horizon, all of the spirits decided that they would return to their trees, for they had laughed and sang and danced enough for the day. One by one, they took their stola, and slipped back into their trees, becoming one with the forest once again.

“All of them, except for one. To Phanes’s delight, it was the spirit who had laughed the loudest and sang the sweetest and danced the brightest. She stood in front of her tree, and, finding that her stola was no longer there, cried out for the other spirits.

“‘Have you seen my stola?’ she asked.

“‘No, Callidora, we haven’t seen it,’ the rest of the spirits answered.

“They looked and looked and looked, but none of them could find it, for the stola was now safe inside Phanes’s firewood. Realizing that she had no hope of returning to her tree, Callidora sat down and cried.

“The other spirits tried to console her, but they too had their trees to think about, and so one by one, they returned back to their trees until Callidora sat there, crying and alone.

“It was then that Phanes came out of his hiding place, and asked, ‘Is there something wrong, my lady?’

“Hearing his voice, Callidora stopped crying and turned towards Phanes. ‘I have lost my stola and now I cannot return home. Have you seen my stola, stranger?’

“‘No,’ Phanes lied. ‘But I have a home you can return to, if you wish. It is not much, but it is a home.’

“Thinking that it was at least better than being alone in the forest, looking at the home she can never return to, Callidora took Phanes’s hand and stayed in his home. At first, she did not laugh and did not sang and did not dance. She was a stranger in a strange land, learning things she did not understand.

“But Phanes was kind and loving and patient, and soon she began to feel comfortable living among men. More than that, she began to feel comfortable in sharing Phanes’s hearth and home, for his kindness had also captivated her. And then, she began to laugh loudly and sing sweetly and dance brightly again.

“One day, Phanes asked her to marry him, and she said yes, for why would she say no? She had only one condition, though. She would be a wife, and she would do all the duties a wife would do, but Phanes must never come inside the room when she is weaving. Phanes, not seeing why he should say no, for now he had gotten his heart’s desire, said yes.

“And so they began life as husband and wife. With Callidora’s help, Phanes had enough to buy a small flock of sheep, and they tended to their lamb, taking their milk and wool. Phanes made yogurt out of the milk, and Callidora spun the wool into threads and wove them into cloths.

“Slowly, their herd grew. No matter how many cloths Callidora wove, there was always enough thread for Phanes to sell. On and on it continued, until their house was filled with spools of thread that had not been sold by Phanes.

“Phanes now had many things in life, but one thing he never lost was his cleverness. He wanted to see how his wife managed to weave so many cloths and still have wool left to sell, but he remembered what she said before she agreed to marry him. And so Phanes slowly carved out a hole in the room she used for weaving, and once that hole was big enough to see through, sat down when his wife had entered the room, and watched.

“What a sight he saw. Callidora’s hands moved so quickly that even Phanes, with his still sharp eyes, cannot see them. One spool of thread became a length of cloth so long, it can be spun around a man three times and still be trailing down the ground. Seeing that, Phanes remembered two things. That his wife was a spirit of the forest, and he had stolen her power, and that his wife was a being, and she was not his to steal.

“Phanes stood up, and took the stola from where it was hidden, still in the firewoods he had gathered that day. He held it in his hands and waited in front of the door of Callidora’s weaving room, and, when Callidora emerges from it, he knelt down in front of her, and placed the stola in her hands.

“Callidora knew exactly what that was, and she knew exactly what that meant. Her first thought was anger, that her husband had taken what was not his to take. But then she remembered that even though he had taken her stola and lied about it, he had not forced her to stay. He had not forced her to marry him. That was her choice, after she had known him, liar and all.”

Here, Hector stopped, for when his wife had told this story at Xenia’s wedding, she had stopped there too. Xenia had known what she meant by that story, and Hector had never thought to ask his wife for more.

“And?” Gen asked.

Looking at his son’s face, Hector wished he had asked his wife where she had heard this story. It was most likely at her own reni night, for Hector had not known this story until he heard her tell it at their daughter’s night. A wisdom from one married thief to another, and Hector had never wished that it was his wife who was here more than this moment.

“And?” Gen asked again, sounding just like when he was five, when he asked for more and more stories from his mother, instead of the hero of one nation and the future king of another.

Hector met his son’s eyes, and remembered how his wife had spun stories of her own for their children. They were not in any of the myths Hector himself had heard as a child, but did stories not become true the moment someone gave life to them?

“And so Callidora pulled her husband to his feet and clothed him with the wool she had spun and weaved. Then she fed him with the milk and yogurt he had made, and, when he was fed and clothed, took the stola and returned to her tree, for her tree had suffered greatly in her absence.

“Then, once her tree had returned to her original splendour, she came back to the house she had built together with her husband, hang her stola at the door, and became his wife. And whenever she leaves to tend to her tree, she always returns, and she always hangs her stola at the door, and she is always both a spirit and a wife.”

They sat together in silence after that. Hector had no more wisdom to give, not to his youngest son, his god-touched, god-blessed, god-chosen son. So they sat together, waiting for the day in which the Thief of Eddis would be married to the Queen of Attolia.

When the sky turned purple, signalling the coming dawn, Hector walked towards his son and held his head in his hands. Then, he kissed his forehead, because his wife would have done it, and she was not here. Hector could not dress someone in finery, nor does he have any skill in thieving, but this he could do, and so this he would do.

“You are my son,” he said. What he didn’t say was that Hector loved him so much, seeing him married to a woman who appeared in his nightmares felt like living a nightmare itself. What he didn’t say was that Hector would have done anything for him; he would have wrapped his chains around his son’s neck and pulled and let that haunt him throughout eternity rather than let his son die a gruesome death. What he didn’t say was that if he had said a word about it, Hector would have spirited him away from this forsaken land even before he had finished saying the word, lack of thieving skills be damned.

He didn’t say any of that, but, with his head still in Hector’s hands, Eugenides nodded, and Hector knew he understood what he could not say. Hector pressed another kiss onto his son’s forehead, this time for himself, and pulled his son to his feet.

Dawn has come, and it was time for Hector to bring his son to the altar on the hastily built temple on the top of the acropolis, and watch as Eugenides married the woman who had maimed him.

[ladyofmaidensandwine]

Prince of Carrion and Queen of Thieves

For the Pick Two Challenge by @justagirlinafandomworld​ 

This is part one of an ongoing series I am writing. If you would like to be tagged, let me know.

Prompts:  Enemies to Lovers AU, and the dialogue “If you touch him/her/them, I’ll kill you.”

Characters: Dean Winchester, Fem! Irish! Reader, John Winchester, Crowley, Lucifer (mentioned)

Summary: Captured and forced to become a spy for the enemy, Y/N’s deception is threatened by the arrival of an unexpected face from her hidden past, and must decide whether the son of her enemy could be her ally.

Wordcount: 1,846

Series Masterlist

                   Moonlight slanted through the small cracks in the thick stone walls of your prison, the only indication of how many days had passed and what time it was. Time remained mostly meaningless despite that, with nothing to do but think in the heavy silence that settled as thickly as the shadows of your windowless cell. You had been taken by your rivals at long last, and you knew they’d been trying to capture you for almost three years. You had been hell-bent on making it as difficult as possible for them.

               They called you many things. Assassin, spy, thief, demon, witch, some names you wouldn’t repeat. After two years in a Southern labor camp, they’d dragged you in heavy iron shackles to the great marble palace where King John Winchester of Lebanon resided, and tossed you into your cell. No one but the stoic and silent guards and a frightened maid ever saw you, and you’d given up mostly on trying to speak to anyone, but you could hear the maids speaking in whispers about you, afraid to even say your name aloud, and even the guards seemed uneasy in your presence. It was fair, and wise, on their part to be so wary. You had earned your fame through blood and blade, and legends spread like wildfire, blurring fact and fiction so that you appeared some savage and death-hungry monster, a creature arisen from the darkest depths of Hell and sent to claim fiery retribution. You could almost laugh at the stories they made up about you. 

            Perhaps they truly believed the cell would hold you. You had once been caged, a long time ago, and had escaped then, too, and that cage had been made for someone much, much worse than you. 

               Your eyes shot to the mostly obscured hall as the sound of footsteps echoed against the stone. The first figure you recognized- the maid that came to bring you food and drink and tend to your wounds. The second was new, a tall and broad-shouldered man, nobility of some kind, based on the metal and finery gleaming in the torchlight, though his face was hidden in shadow. You wondered what he saw- myth, monster, or another prisoner?

              Crown Prince Dean Winchester had been there, the day you’d arrived, shackled and bound, covered in grime and gaunt and pale from the underground labor camp. He hadn’t known who you were, but you’d impressed him, refusing to kneel before his father, a fire burning in your eyes that no amount of torture or back-breaking work had been able to extinguish. That fire had blazed in promise when you’d looked the King in the eyes, a man that had won the Throne through conquest and ruthless determination, a warrior that claimed the lives of thousands of monsters across the lands, and you’d vowed that one day, you would burn his palace to the ground, and let him live long enough to see his legacy in smoking, charred ruins, before you killed him for what he’d done. John hadn’t answered, but it was clear your threat held water- the guards attending you were doubled, and it made Dean wonder how dangerous you must be, this thin, pale, dirt-caked woman, to be concerning even when completely chained, enough so that six fully-armed men had to escort you away. He’d asked his father what charges you were held for, and John had laughed a low, grim laugh and looked at Dean. “Murder, son. Many, many counts of murder.”

           Dean couldn’t reconcile the image painted of you, this fierce, merciless, bloodthirsty killer, with the weak looking woman there in the cell before him. “Who are you?” You called, voice rough, but strong. Your accent was strange, marking you as a foreigner. “No one important. Who are you?” He returned, still concealed in the gloom. You smirked, nodding slightly. “That depends.” You answered. “On?” “Which side you fight for. They call me Y/N, and others call me Morrigan, Queen of Thieves, Bringer of Death.” You said, a sly smile on your lips. “And which shall I call you by?” Dean questioned. “I would not make it a habit to call me either. I do not think I am fitting company for a man as yourself to keep. You knew that, though. Yet, you are not afraid.” You noted, sounding intrigued. Dean shrugged casually. “Your turn, then. What Lord or King are you the son of?” You asked. “King John Winchester. I am Prince Dean.” Dean said at last. Your expression turned cold. “Ah. Son of my captor, King of Conquest. And why are you here?” “To see for myself the murderer that leaves brave men afraid of the dark.” Dean said gruffly. “You have convicted me a killer, and yet, I hear great tales of the blood on your hands, Prince of Carrion, Righteous Man, Sword of Micheal. They speak your name as though you are holy, chosen by divine power to rid the world of evil. Have you come to kill me, Dean Winchester?” You questioned, voice calm and steady. Dean stepped into the light, meeting your eyes. “No. I am here to take you to the King.”

                   They gave you a contract. The terms were simple, and you didn’t really have a choice. Sign, or be killed. You were to be a weapon for the King, put under the custody and jurisdiction of the eldest son, and given a new identity in order to appear as a foreign Princess, Her Majesty Princess Y/N Lachdunne of Skye, the wolf in sheep’s clothing. You’d been whisked away by a group of handmaidens tasked with making you presentable, and given two months to recover before being presented to court, at which point your mission began. What King John did not know was that you were far more than a simple assassin, more than anyone could expect, and you would take your secret to your grave. You wondered briefly, as you were stuffed into a dress of silks and decorated with fine jewelry, if anyone else could see the deception in your eyes, the predator lurking in your smile.

                At first, you were used for observation. People were so often careless around women, and your new guise portrayed you as trustworthy, little more than a pretty decoration. They did not trust you with weapons, an inconvenience if you were to be attacked, but you would rip an enemy apart with your bare hands if you had to. It was a new game you played, so treacherous this deception, requiring attention to every tiny expression on your face, the way you sat or moved, who you spoke with and what was said, what colour dress you donned, and even the way you smiled could be scrutinized, and you knew that like you, the court was made of people wearing pretty disguises to conceal the snakes underneath. And it was not only them you had to fool. The King did not know your secret, could not ever know, and his son was smart, clever, quick to pick up on anything that could betray your true identity, and you knew Dean would be the first to draw a sword against your throat should you make the tiniest slip. Your new persona was something you donned like armor, guarding yourself and everything you loved behind a pretty face and empty words.

             Four months in, and you were doing well. Those who knew you were a trained killer would never trust you, and expected you to be planning vengeance, but they still suspected nothing beyond the obvious. The court ladies adored you, and you charmed the men with a smile, so careful to keep that smile polite and inviting, practicing making your smile meet your eyes in the mirror dozens of times, so convincing you would perhaps consider acting as a career. Four months of lying to everyone, of playing your part, of spying and eavesdropping, of giving the King details both true and false, hoping to catch him in a falter and glean information that would tell you why he was willing to let his greatest enemy walk the halls of his castle, to dine at his table, dress in his colors. Four months before anything went wrong.

               Another party over, and another night unfurling. You weren’t supposed to see, that much was obvious, but you had already been discovered, and it took every ounce of will within you to keep that pleasant and disarming smile on your lips, to hide the raging fire in your eyes. Eyes that locked with a familiar pair, daring them to speak. “Y/N. I assume you recognize our guest.” King John said, amused. “Perhaps. I may be mistaken.” You said carefully. “I doubt that highly. Allow me to introduce Duke Crowley.” John gestured. Crowley studied you, and you held your breath, praying he wouldn’t recognize you. It had been so long, but you could never forget that face, a face that haunted your nightmares. “A pleasure, darling, I’m sure. You do seem familiar. I can’t quite place it.” Crowley mused, narrowing his eyes. “I’m certain you recognize Princess Lachdunne from a party, Your Excellency. If you would excuse us, we did have something to discuss.” Dean cut in smoothly, saying it with a charming smile as he took your arm. You knew what he was doing, reminding you of your role by using your fake name, and wondered, if he had caught the hatred in your gaze, whether the others had, too.

                Dean led you swiftly into a room, glancing around the hall before shutting the door. “What the hell was that?” He demanded. You didn’t answer, eyes unfocused and jaw clenched. “Y/N!” Dean snapped. You blinked, almost shaking in your fury. “Crowley,” you spat, as though his name was poison on your tongue, “is the one who killed my parents. He slaughtered them, and then he took me and threw me into the Cage for Lucifer to have.” Dean paled at Lucifer’s name, eyes wide as he looked at you. “If he recognizes me... there will be no survivors. He would send an army, just to kill me.” “I don’t understand... Crowley is a vile man, and greedy, but he has been allies with my father for years.” “He is no Duke. Nor is Crowley his name. He was Fergus MacLeod, and now he has many titles. King of the Crossroads, King of the Damned, and now... King of Hell.” You snarled. “You went to Hell. You know what will happen if he gets his way. Your Kingdom, and me, we are all that stands between him and his goal. Why do you think he is truly allied with you, when you’ve killed so many of his men?” You pointed out. Dean’s face darkened as you mentioned his own time in Hell, that prison the worst to come of the war. “Tell me everything, Y/N. Tell me the truth. Who are you really?” Dean demanded. You studied his emerald green eyes, measured their intensity, and gave a slow nod.

TAGS-

Forever Tags-

@justagirlinafandomworld​

SPN Pond Tags-

@spnfanficpond​

[prinzenhasserin]

Dear Worldbuilder!

This is just a general thing to tell you what I like/don’t like. I’ll be super thrilled if you find something adjacent you want to make instead! Most of my prompts are for writing, but art is also very welcome.

For all my requests there’s a potential to set them in canon, but also pre-canon or post-canon, and I don’t have a preference. 

Likes:

competence porn

people not realizing they’re the most competent at their job/hobby

people failing their way to success

epistolary, journal entries, encyclopaedia entries, textbook articles

outsider POV

people not usually found in law enforcement solving crimes

dragons, fairy tales, magical realism

I kind of don’t dare to put politics here after what has happened and is happening right now, but I love the kind of pragmatic politics with idealistic background, and I’m a sucker for idealistic pragmatism, but I would totally understand not touching that with a pitchfork.

moral conflicts, orange and blue morality

people coming together to solve problems

noodle incidents

convoluted backstories you wouldn’t expect

Dislikes/DNW:

grimdark endings

rape, especially rape as backstory

hopeless, crapsack worlds

melodrama (stuff that takes itself too serious)

sex in a library

Leverage

This perfect show hits all of my weak spots and I may or may not have rewatched it more than ten times. Do not worry about getting facts wrong, though -- my memory is a sieve.

My favourite character is Jim Sterling. There is absolutely no need for including him in your story. I focused less on the requested characters and more on the worldbuilding prompts, but if you rather want to focus on any of the other characters, I love each of them on their own, too! (And together! And I love that Sterling is so eminently hateable.)

Characters: Jim Sterling, Alec Hardison, Eliot Spencer, Parker, Sophie Deveraux

Prompts:

WB: Aliases and their imaginary lives

It is known that one of Parker’s aliases had to go do jury duty. Are all of the aliases Hardison creates registered to vote? Do they get parking tickets? Do they all have jobs? How deep does this go?! Do they have housing, are they paying taxes -- do they have student debt?

Is Hardison creating aliases as some sort of cathartic response -- does he do it for fun? Does he ship them with each other? (Is he secretly a writer...)

WB: Interpol

RL Interpol doesn’t have field agents, does Leverage Interpol have agents, or is Jim Sterling just overly awesome at pretending to be an upstanding citizen?

If it is in fact, a real criminal enforcement agency, what are some of his reports like? Maybe he actually isn’t there to investigate Leverage Consulting, but is instead taking down the politicians they are after? 

Is Interpol’s relationship with the Leverage team sort of a running joke in the intelligence community? Or like, the go-to-excuse for derailing an operation? 

WB: Criminal Files

Oh man, I would love to peak into what kind of criminal files the various characters have (if they even have one), on different criminal databases

Maybe Parker’s fingerprints are at so many crime sights at once, people think the finger print is a statistical error

WB: RPF fanfiction in-universe

That weird thief in “A Girl’s Night Out” is definitely a Parker stan, and stalks all her crimes across a variety of message boards.

Lots of fans start out with just one of them; Parker, Hardison and Sophie are kind of infamous, and they probably had a following before teaming up, but it really starts getting intense when there are rumours of them working together (!!) to take down even worse criminals (!!) That’s when Hardison organises the first con

There are probably volunteers for identity theft

(oh god. ship wars.)

tumblr-sites dedicated to finding out if what Parker can do is actually humanly possible

the desperate hunt to find out which WoW avatar Hardison is playing

in-universe fanfiction, in-universe meta, chat-streams, twitter messages

WB: Contacts of Leverage Consulting

How do they find clients?

Do they get clients via submission based websites? How do they check their information?

Queen’s Thief

My prompts focus more on pre-, or during canon time periods, but if you want to play in the future, that’s also great! 

Characters: Original Pirate Character, Original Female Characters, Original Thief Character, Eugenides the God

Prompts:

WB: Diplomatic Relations

There is probably trade happening outside the for main countries. How does that happen? Is Ornon part of a larger battalion of cousin-diplomats? Do they speak different languages, or dialects? Where there misunderstandings based on changed language?

Where is the University of Ferria and why can Eugenides send someone there for exile? Are there other places people can be send to because of political turmoil?

Are any of them send back because they had been exiled by different kings?

How do the other countries react to the Sophos method of negotiation? 

Or the fact that the Sovereign of Attolia, Eddis and Sounis is a Thief/Eugenides?

WB: Island States

How do the Island States keep their independence from both Sounis, Attolia, and the Mede for so long?

The answer might definitely be: Pirates. How does it work? Is it like a law-free zone, or do they have strict policies in place? Do they buy their lumber for the boats from Eddis, like all the rest of the countries? Or does their entire fleet contain ships other people built.

What makes them different from Attolia, Eddis, or Sounis? Is there a difference? (Ocean traditions, gods, system of government)

WB: Engineers

Who built all the passageways through Eddis? Are there lifts working with water displacement?

How about those clocks. How does a vaguely Byzantine Empire get clocks. Or guns. 

Where do they go to study? Is there an engineering section in Eugenides’ library in Eddis? Who do they read? What kind of subject do they fail -- Euclidean algebra?

WB: University of Ferria

Does it have a library?

How about the History Department. Do they have questions about the change in power re:Attolia? Is Erondite the Younger helpful?

What’s the relationship to the country Attolia?

Do all the children of the higher echelons go to university?

WB: myths

How do normal thieves interact with their god? Maybe Eugenides isn’t such an aberration, and Eugenides the God comes to all his thieves and tells them to stop whining, or iterations thereof.

What’s up with that falling stuff? Myth, or myth busted? Did the Queen Thief really fall of dancing on a roof, or did she intentionally kill herself?

How did Eugenides become the god of thieves? Is he just responsible for thieves, or also for other things?

Discworld

Look, I obviously have a soft spot for competent despots. Also, I find it a shame that Susan Sto Helit, Sam Vimes and Lord Vetinari never met in canon, because they are all sort of nobility. Any of these characters would be great! So would different characters.

Characters: Lord Vetinari, Susan Sto Helit, Sam Vimes, Rufus Drumknot, Original Characters

Prompts:

WB: Patrician’s Palace

I would love to see how the architecture looks like, anywhere among at least six floors, plus cellars, sub-cellars, and liveable attics. Floorplans! Secret tunnels! Who all lives here? Is there a visitor’s log? 

We know there’s no orang utans in the menagerie, but what lives there?

How about those dungeons? The cells look from the inside, there’s a pit Reacher Gilt fell into, and Moist von Lipwig obviously didn’t -- are there more ways towards “escape”? Where are all the secret tunnels?

The  gardens were designed by “Bloody Stupid” Johnson. Anything else he made better?

What about the axe Sam Vimes buried in the middle of the table in one of the palace chambers? It’s still there as a conversation piece. What kind of conversations happen around it? Is there a feature about it in the newspaper? Does it start a trend in interior decorating?

WB: Children’s Literature

Susan Sto Helit likes to edit fairytales. Does she ever publish a revised edition? In the first edition of Grimm’s fairytale there is a story called “How Some Children Played at Slaughtering” and it’s exactly what you would expect. Does Susan tell this story? Does she get protesting parents, and how does she deal with them?

There are some children’s books with barely changed villains based on real politicians. Is there one with Lord Vetinari featuring as the bad guy (or maybe the hero)?

How about “Where’s my cow?” -- does the story change when Sam’s son grows older? It got reviewed by the Ankh-Morpork Times -- does the newspaper have a regular children’s literature page? Is the version Sam Vimes tells his son the one that Rob Anybody reads in the chalk? Does that book have a fan community (what would that even look like?)

WB: Newspaper Articles

Page Six -- Ankh-Morpork style: Do they report on what kind of beer upstanding citizens drink? Is there a column for where Sam Vimes is expected to be today?

It’s not technically a newspaper, but Twurp’s peerage lists nobility without judgement, and I would love to read an entry for any of the people nominated.

Does the Times report on itself sometimes? What about reporting on the new tax system? Do they ever have to deal with computers and the Internet?

Are there other newspapers? Do they report about the same events differently? Are there opinion pieces from weird people? Do they get letters to the editor?

Obituaries: Is there an upcoming deaths section for wizards and witches? Do they invite people to their death celebrations? How do they deal with the Undead?

Rivers of London

This book series is so rich with details, and it’s amazing. If there’s any of my ideas you absolutely disagree with, feel free to ignore them and focus on something else instead! 

Characters: No characters, Original Characters

Prompts:

WB: The White Library (Rivers of London)

Bibliotheca Alba

I’m not really sold on the location of Meckenheim. Convince me? To explain: Peter and the Professor talk about it being in the city of Cologne (the capital city back then) until the French invaded, then moved it to Weimar (the capital city of the Weimar Republic and also the Third Reich), upon which it was moved to Bonn (the capital of West Germany). That is utterly ridiculous. Weimar was under occupation by the Russians at that time, and like hell they would have given up that kind of power, and the capital city of people’s mind remained in Berlin. Bonn was a rather puny city, and only became the capital because Konrad Adenauer (the first head of state) happened to be born there. There is a library housing every work in german language published since 1918, and it’s split into two locations: one in Frankfurt am Main, the other in Leipzig. But maybe it’s different for the magical part? Still, who in his right mind would want to have a magical library in Bonn? Nobody, that’s who. Also, a strong contender for where a magical library could be housed: Bielefeld, the city that doesn’t exist

this leads me quite nicely to, how did they move a large amount of magical books from Weimar to Meckenheim during the post-war confusion? were other magical being involved?

also would love a library catalogue, how a magical library looks, a non-human librarian

WB: the London Underground

Is the Underground sentient, and if so does it eat other things besides people? 

What kind of traditions, stories do the pale people have? are they human? do they know?

WB: Magical Trade

I’m sure there’s plenty of clothing and accessories needed to ensure the masquerade works, and the magical population isn’t outed as such. Where do they go buy clothes? Is there advertisement?

Did the Folly police magical markets, back when there were more of them? Are there anti-fraud spells, or artefacts? If the Folly didn’t regulate this kind of stuff who did/does? 

Do people trade with the fae? How does that work - does it ever work out in favour of the human?

Do the Rivers sometimes trade on their territory?

WB: Demi Monde

what other strange people are there? What about genii locorum of bridges, streets, buildings

do places with a lot of magic gain sentience? How about the Folly? Skygarden?

there are hedge wizards, what about hedge witches? are there sirens? People who see the future? what about that marketplace where Zach Palmer was found, are all of them magical? how do they blend in? (Do they blend in?) 

Are there like, Werewolves of London? (around in Chinatown, hungering for some chinese food)

What about magical tourists. Do they get a pamphlet on where to find like-minded people? Is there a magical tourism bureau, staffed by idk, the River Crane?