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katcadecascade · 5 years

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Storybook for the Gods

Fair Game Week: AU/Freeday

God AU

Ao3

They say the gods left to become the stars in the sky.

They say the gods obeyed the Brothers Grimm, agreeing that humanity was a failure.

They say the gods died and their children are doing a horrible job.

Qrow says that everyone should just shut up.

It’s one thing for the world to contain monsters and magic but no. Humanity loves, hates, fears, and respects the new religions the left over gods have made.

The Remnant Gods as they’ve been titled.

Technically demigods as good old Oz would describe but that doesn’t change the fact that the chain of godhood falls onto their shoulders.

Qrow can only speak for Vale’s side of the story, the dominion of the great and powerful Odin where he bestowed powers to his own children as he goes on his own journey for research and wisdom.

But nowadays he goes by Ozpin, the only old god that didn’t abandon the new gods of Remnant.

Qrow can understand why the god changed his name. No one would think a scholarly dressed old man is secretly the god of Vale, wielding a cane and not a spear. Disguises are necessary now that civilizations are slowly rioting against the Remnant Gods.

Tensions are as high as ever what with mortal heroes rising and fighting in the name of their people and not in the name of any of the gods. Qrow can’t blame them, Hell, he was once one of them.

Not anymore ever since Oz saved his life.

If Qrow had to pick a god to owe a life debt with, Odin had to be the best pick of the batch. No way was Qrow going end up in servitude for Horus, that war god has been raging Vacuo’s deserts for centuries. He did hear rumors that Fuji was still a beloved god, distance as she was ever since she chosen a mountain as her vessel.

Another elder god is from the north but no one has heard a peep from him in nearly a millennium.

That is until today.

Qrow is a relatively a new asset of dear old Oz, just shy of having a decade’s worth of experience under his belt as Odin’s black bird. So he wasn’t expecting much when he was flying through a winter coated forest.

The mission for the year is to find this rouge Valkyrie, rumored to be harboring souls away from their designated afterlife. As the crow flew above the dark trees, looking for any sign of the whisky sparkles of souls detaching from their bodies, a sudden cold breeze hit his face and along with it, a scroll.

It’s not often paper mail is delivered this way, nature spirits keep to their selves or to nature gods. Somehow a winter spirit by the chill of it knew who Qrow worked for and on the edge of the rolled paper was a cursive address of ‘To Odin’

Ominous, not quite, suspicious, only to his birdbrain but curious, oh he definitively is.

Flying back to the cottage, miles away from the rest of the forest and small towns still growing, Qrow keeps the letter in his peak, its edges flapping wilding in the cold winds.

As if already aware, Oz is waiting at the doorstep. His arm up as Qrow took his landing with ease.

It took two attempts for the god to nab the paper from the bird having fun playing keep away.

“Very funny Qrow,” Ozpin chided, finally getting the scroll.

As he unrolls it, Qrow hops off and wills his feathers back into skin, a rush of shivers getting his bones into its original shape. He dusts off stray feathers out of his hair, “Got it from the northern winds. Do you know what that means?”

“Nicholas,” he answers, his eyebrows knitting together, “he needs us in Atlas immediately.”

“Wait us?” Qrow peeks over the god’s shoulder and sure enough the letter is asking for Qrow by his title, Muninn.

Now that’s pretty curious. Gods don’t often seek help from other gods of a different dominion. Usually they get it through their own pantheon and even that is a hassle.

Just look at what happened between Thor and Loki.

“A magical shapeshifter isn’t exactly a secret among gods,” Oz explained. “Making two in this new world is even more of a gossip.”

Oh yeah, he didn’t take in account of Huginn’s rogue status. Raven is probably making waves in Mistral right now.

Still though, there are only a handful of people Qrow introduced himself as Muninn. A few of them were Oz’ old friends but also two humans he and Raven befriended.

Last he checked, Taiyang and Summer are on a sea expedition in the Burning Ocean.

Yeah, Qrow decided not to go with them for obvious flaming reasons.

So now he’s pondering over on why the son of Atlas is asking for him and his patron god for a visit.

“We’re taking the express trip right?”

“You’re always so eager for a fast travel.”

“What, do you expect me to flap all the way to Atlas?” Qrow flaps his human limps.

“As amusing as that is, no,” Oz chuckled. He pockets the letter and holds up his cane, “Nicholas needs us now.”

The intricate clockwork mechanism in the cane’s handle winds up and it ticks loudly as a green light pulses between the weapon and its creator’s hands.

As rune circles appeared below their feet, Qrow giddily bounces on his feet.

This was always his favorite part.

A rainbow of colors consumes the god and the shapeshifter and all they can feel is pulsating brightness as their entire beings are flying through the sky.

In a matter of seconds, Qrow and Ozpin find their selves at the foot of a temple built upon the highest mountain of the northern lands.

Only the oldest of gods know of this place ever since the real Olympus was tarnished when their namesakes left. The ruins of Olympus only had one resident, a power older than most gods.

The last son of Atlas has the power of a titian but its strength is a mere tale since the old man rarely leaves the mountain peak. Qrow may not know the reasons but it must be similar to Oz’ own lifestyle.

Elder gods have increasingly become isolated from the world, leaving the Remnant gods with all the pleasures and pains of warding over humans. It’s a hassle really, getting devoted to or smiting usurpers or whatever. Again, Qrow can’t relate since his god chose to live in a cottage in the middle of nowhere.

This lonely damaged temple is Nicholas’ choice and honestly it is a nice view.

Ignoring the Olympians’ rumble, there is a grand stone staircase that curves into the mountainside, covered in chilly fog as it dives down. Beyond that is the view of the tundra of Mantle, a white slate with dots of cities.

Qrow is very tempted to go free falling into the clouds, feel the wind rush at him as his heart races. He can picture it now, falling as a human only to shift into feathers right as the world is nearing.

“It’s not the time for that Muninn,” Oz lectured, lightly whacking his cane at Qrow’s leg.

Muninn, he’s only referred to that title when they have company.

Tearing his gaze away from the clouds, the thrill of flying, Qrow looks at the only temple left standing.

Walking out of the temple of Atlas’ son are two men.

The tall one of black hair is easily recognized by his lighting blue eyes. James, the son of Zeus and is also a major stick in the ass according to Qrow.

“It’s good to see you, Odin,” James greeted but his tone is always so grim and serious. His eyes narrow at Qrow, “Why did you bring your pet?”

“Hey, I got invited by name,” Qrow huffed, straightening his back to have some sense of pride. It still doesn’t compare to James’ height but it’s the intention that counts.

Qrow doesn’t care if James is a demigod turned Remnant God, he can still match his speed no matter the wind pressure. Hell, James is not the only god to question Qrow’s power as a former mortal.

Speaking of mortals, Qrow notices the second guy, someone he distinctly recalls meeting at the piers of Midpass, “Wait, hold up, you’re that boat guy.”

A chuck passes through pink lips, lightening up his teal eyes, “That’s not my official title but yeah, that’s me.” The brunet holds his hand out, “I’m Clover, son of Poseidon.”

“Yep,” Qrow shakes his hand, “boat guy for sure.”

From the humble smile and adorable cheeks, Qrow innocently mistook this guy as mortal. He didn’t elude power like James or Oz and instead just came off as a regular fisherman.

A cute one at that since Qrow, day drinking with his friends, threw a bunch of flirts at Clover.

That’s probably why he didn’t clue in the fact that Clover suddenly appeared before them right as Summer and Tai were boat shopping for their expedition.

“I knew you were a pretty bird but I didn’t think you’d be the Muninn as well,” Clover winked.

“I’m just full of surprises,” Qrow shrugged off, “something Jimmy here can attest to.”

James grumbles, “Let’s go inside already, Nicholas has waited enough.”

Due to pride alone, James walks ahead with Ozpin at his side.

Clover follows with Qrow, as if he’s more interesting than an ancient Greek temple, “So you’re really Muninn? That’s amazing, there are so many stories about you and you’ve only been a god for a decade or so.”

“Technically I’m not a god,” he corrected before James could but in, “I just serve under Odin.”

“Not all the time right? I thought you’d be traveling with your friends.”

“Nope,” he popped, looking around the temple’s interior.

It’s all white pillars and high ceilings. The place has typical fancy architecture that scholars would die for even if there are some dust and dirt here or there.

Qrow continues, “If I went with them then their ride would definitely fall off the ends of the world or fall into the river Styx.”

“What does that mean?”

He ignores the concern from Clover as they enter the last room. It’s set up as an altar room where a stage is under a skylight. On the stage is Nicholas, the son of Atlas, and a pale woman with white, shimmering hair.

“Welcome all of you,” Nicholas nods with a sad smile, “I and Fria thank you all for coming.”

“Nicholas, is something wrong?” James immediately asks, the room dipping a few degrees colder, “This is about the storms in the west yes? I knew there is something coming from the horizon, I can feel it and-“

A heavy laugh stops the lightning god. Nicholas’ smile grows just a bit, “You focus too much on bad news, James.”

“Someone has to,” James side glances at Clover.

He shrugs, grinning innocently, “I just think you purposely give yourself dark clouds.”

“That was one time, Clover.”

“Yeah and it nearly flooded Athens.”

Qrow has twin instincts to laugh at James but also be terrified at the casual mention of how he almost flooded a populated city. These gods and their temper tantrums really are ridiculous, even more so if humanity suffers from it.

Oz taps down his cane, gaining everyone’s attention, “So why are we here, Nicholas?” His eyes shifted to Fria, “Although I’m starting to understand.”

The woman beams and suddenly a veil of frost coat her hair as she grasps Nicholas’ big hands. Her own hands are small and decorated with frostbite but their held hands brings a warm feeling to the room.

“We’re getting married,” Fria announces, a loving gaze on her fiancé as they nudge closer together, “but we want something more than that.”

“We plan to start a family,” Nicholas explains and now the tension in the room is back as the guests realized just who these parents-to-be are.

A child between these two would have the lineage of a titan, a being far superior to a god, and, from the looks of it, a winter spirit.

Qrow recognizes Fria now, her winter powers eluding off of her effortlessly. It is that same breeze that found him and that coldness still clung to him as he stares at the faery.

“That’s too dangerous,” James warns with a thunder in his core.

Clover grounds his cousin with a steady hand on his arm, “They know that and,” teal eyes trace over to Oz, “you asked for Odin to do something about this right?”

The wise god of Vale steps onto the stage, looking wearier than Qrow has ever seen him.

“You’re both giving up your godhood,” the old man said.

“We want to be human,” Nicholas corrects.

Qrow blinks, “Oh.”

That’s something he has never expected to hear. A titan and a faery want to become human to protect their future child from infinite power and consequences.

For Qrow he gave up his humanity to protect himself, well that’s what he claimed after Raven left him. He believed that working for Ozpin would further help humanity or so he hopes.

Muninn built up a name as an omen to malice but Qrow recently sees he’s a harbinger as well. Maybe it was the powers or some part of Qrow that amplified the moment he swore oath to Odin. There has been a trail of bad luck following him.

His only solution is to stray away from humanity, protect them from a distance as Oz has done.

Now before him are two ancient beings deciding to give up their powers and live in a world where humans are slowly thinking for their selves, where the gods are no longer their priority. Instead their priorities are their families.

That is what Nicholas and Fria want.

Oz nods gravely, “Alright, I’ll do it.”

“Wait what?” Clover questioned.

“Of course,” James bitterly concludes, “If Odin can grant power to mortals,” he gestures to Qrow and then James nervously gulps, “then he could do the reverse for his fellow gods.”

Okay, from that perspective that sounds terrifying, Qrow thinks, but this is Ozpin they’re talking about. The old man has spent eons making mistakes with humans and gods and other magical beings but has chosen to repeat for it all.

For some reason Qrow is one of the first things Ozpin saves and for that Qrow trusts him forever.

“I’m not that great and powerful,” Oz assures, smiling kindly at James.

James does the quietest relieved sighs.

“Or am I?” Oz notes humorously.

An angry noise comes out of James, his shocked and fearful face making Qrow laugh out loud.

Ozpin returns the conversation back to the couple, “I can do it but your powers will have to go somewhere because I for sure won’t take it for my own.”

“We thought of that,” Fria nods. “The sky is a fitting place to place winter and strength into it. I’m going ahead and naming it an aurora, after my mother.”

“It’ll be lovely,” Nicholas agrees and then the couple turns to Qrow, “and there’s one last thing too.”

With everyone’s attention on Qrow, he has the sudden need to fly away before something awkward or unfortunate happens, “Um, hi?”

“You’re Muninn, the Bird of Memory,” he announces and since Qrow blinks and points at himself, still confused, the son of Atlas clarifies, “We want to forget our godhood. You can take them away.”

“What?” He, Clover, and James practically yell.

“He can do that?” James baulks.

“You can do that?” Clover awes.

“I can do that?” Qrow nearly chokes on his spit.

Oz, helpful as he is, only shrugged, “Well that is a theory now.”

“Please,” Fria begs, walking over to the shapeshifter. Snowflakes trail behind her as she reaches Qrow and takes his hands into her cold ones, “We’re tired of this eternity we wait in and once we become humans we can actually start living.”

Her eyes look just like that tundra their temple views over, cold and clean and goes on for miles filled with emptiness. Fria barely reaches Qrow’s shoulders but there is an ancient power in her being that makes Qrow shiver.

It would be a mistake to think of her as human with the snow on top of her robes and how her hair is literally a mist of frost. Yet the gentle slope of her face reminds Qrow so much of his tribal Chief. Both lived a long life and now they want rest.

“I’ll do my best,” Qrow says, his voice barely trembling at this promise.

The winter spirit’s smile warms up the room, “Thank you, Muninn.”

The ceremony gets started immediately because gods can be impatient like that.

At the stage area, Ozpin stands as the holy figure before the couple, their hands held together. James and Clover stand on the side of Atlas’ son. The two were chosen to be here today because Nicholas trusts them to take care of their people.

Qrow is on Fria’s side of the stage and he still feels out of place. They only need him for his powers which aren’t news to him. Nearly everyone Qrow meets wants to use him for one purpose or another. But this is for a good cause, he remembers himself as he watches the couple share tender looks and words.

Their vows are of the typical stuff that happens in weddings, promises to love each other and all that jazz. Qrow quietly chokes up when they promise to die in each other’s arms.

The concept of death is different between gods and humans. If a god dies… well actually Qrow doesn’t know. Gods just become nothing, absolutely nothing but dust.

For humans, Qrow once wondered where he’ll go because the gods of death had different rules and jurisdictions and he doesn’t want to learn any of that since he’s pretty immortal at this point.

Nicholas and Fria finish their vows and Ozpin wraps it up.

With a tap of his cane, a brilliant light captures the room and if Qrow squints his eyes he can barely see how the colors are moving around Nicholas and Fria.

The light dims and with it, the chill of the temple disappears from the temple. Fria has pinkness in her cheeks and she buries her warm hands into her husband’s white hair. Nicholas himself looks almost bigger now that there is no more weight on his shoulders, a cursed pain that haunts his bloodline.

Human, Qrow realizes and accepts.

All of the colors are swirling above their heads, blues and pinks and purples dancing together until Oz sends it up high, passing through the open ceiling and to the dark sky above. The colors blanket the night and its stars.

They all stand witness to the first ever aurora borealis.

“Muninn,” Oz commands and waves him over to stand in his place.

Right, moment of truth, he thinks as he is presented to the newly wedded and human couple. Even without their magic, their eyes are still old and weary.

Not thinking, Qrow carefully presses the tips of his fingers on their foreheads.

As far as Qrow knows, Muninn can do two things: turn into a bird and kick ass.

He doesn’t quite know where the memory association came from but then again other gods can say the same thing with their gimmicks.

It can be through sheer luck or coincidence or fate that led Qrow to this moment.

Memory is not a title Qrow thought he would bare and yet here he stands, feeling something tingle into his bones as a light glows from Nicholas’ and Fria’s foreheads. Energy flows from them and into Qrow and it starts to do more than buzz his bones.

He can’t breathe as images are passing behind his eyes.

It’s the old world full of magic that no human could ever imagine where nearly everyone is a demigod and nature spirits thrived without fear of pollution. The world has colors Qrow didn’t think existed and now it lives on through his head, an honor and a chain.

Qrow blinks away new tears as the two ancient beings give up their lives to finally get some peace in their souls.

It is all over before he knows it. They wanted to forget everything from their godhood so Qrow tries his best as promised. He leaves things in there, the knowledge of old friends and the joys and grief shared.

Fria will know how she felt when she first felt summer, how Nicholas brought her a literal ball of heat. Nicholas will know how light he felt the first time Fria made him laugh, a rusty thing in his lifetime. They will both know how they fell in love, when the sun kissed the sky as they held each other in their arms as eternity passed them by.

Lastly it is this moment, the details of the other gods will be vague but their hope and relief that this is finally happening will stay with them until their dying day.

Qrow lets go, his face wet and heart beating achingly slow. While his eyes are blurry he sees how young Fria’s and Nicholas’ eyes are.

The couple blinks slowly but their smiles are wide, like they know what happened but he doubts that, he just took away their memories.

Ozpin and James handle their retirement plans, something about sending them to Athens where Pietro, the son of Athena, will smooth out the details.

“Are you okay?” Oz asks and steads a hand on Qrow’s trembling arm.

He tries to speak but his tongue is heavy. His whole body shivers with the weight of winter’s rage. Qrow bites his lip harshly, snapping himself back into stillness. He manages to get out, “I’m good.”

Oz frowns at the lie but doesn’t argue. Instead he walks over to Nicholas, Fria, and James where he readies his spell and a rainbow flies them away.

“Qrow,” Clover warns with great concern but he waves him off.

“I feel fine,” Qrow says before he collapses.

The son of Poseidon catches him easily, his muscles proving its worth.

Muninn is known for his elegance and raw power. Black wings hold the winds of old and can cut through the toughest of stones. Right now that warrior is a twitching, gasping mess who’s clinging tightly to the only person grounding him.

“Qrow, hey, look at me,” Clover carefully guides a hand through black hair, making their eyes meet. He rearranges their bodies, complexly supporting Qrow’s weight to cradle the shapeshifter in his arms.

Two lifetimes are running around in the bird’s head, too much energy with no outlet and they are literally squeezing Qrow’s own memories into a peanut shell.

Wow, Qrow really should have thought this plan through but he didn’t want to ruin two gods’ wedding day. He’s not that much of an asshole. That and he didn’t want to be smited.

Too bad his brain is occupied with tearing itself apart to even think of a resolution. He has two brain cells and they don’t belong here.

Literally, Qrow sees nothing but never melting snow that is casted upon men and beasts alike simply because they wandered into territory of the winter faeries.

Another memory takes the reins, this time Qrow is crushed with the weight of the sky as Nicholas attempts to save his father from eternal punishment.

It didn’t work. Nicholas stood numbly as Atlas’ body dispersed into atoms at the moment the moon shattered, thus starting a territory war between the sky gods.

Now that’s a story Qrow never thought he’d learn, it would be really cool if he learned this in a less painful, mind aching, way.

“Hey breathe with me,” a warm hand is pressed to his collarbone, heating the skin as Qrow’s heartbeat flutters.

With lungs on fire, Qrow barely registers the rawness in his throat.

Has he been screaming? The wails of agony from the grieving son of Atlas rings between Qrow’s eardrums.

It hurts so much, an intense drumbeat in not only his brain but the rest of his flesh and blood and he just wants it to stop.

But gods don’t get that luxury do they?

Humans can live and die and rest while gods just keep on going and going until infinity yells at them to catch up already.

Somewhere in the raptures, Qrow questions why exactly he gave up his own mortality.

“Qrow, I need you to focus on me,” a blurry figure begs and closes the inches between them.

Their foreheads meet and despite the bright light returning, all Qrow can see are teal eyes.

Burning sea salt takes over all sense of smell as well as the sudden loud crash of waves at the portside. The little sea village in Midpass suffers from near endless heat due to the enchanting fire that rides the seafoam.

Qrow’s sight of that ocean is torn away as a familiar, gruff laughter catches his attention.

On the wooden pier are other fisherman but three visitors are out of place. It is mind boggling and an out of body experience to see Summer and Tai walk around with a Qrow joking with them.

This was a month ago and yet this version of Qrow appears years younger, cracking a wirily smile at Tai as Summer throws a mock punch his way.

He can’t recall what he teased them about because this isn’t Qrow’s memory, it’s Clover’s.

When the trio is passing by, Summer voices her desire to on a sea voyage. Tai, being logical for once, points out that they don’t have a ship.

That’s when the son of Poseidon heeds this call, friendly introducing himself as an expert boatman or seller or whatever because Qrow, both present and past, is not paying attention to the dialogue.

Past Qrow is ogling the sheer amount of muscles the fisherman has while Muninn, the ghost of the future, feels everything Clover felt.

It starts with piqued interest in the trio, all eluding different personalities and loud friendship but the dark haired man is who really catches Clover’s eye.

As a god of the sea, water orientated powers comes to mind. So it feels kind of out of place to sense a person’s luck scale.

Maybe Clover got the luck thing from his other parent, that’s not uncommon considering a lot of Remnant Gods have multiple heritages.

Anyway, only a god with this type of power can see how bad luck just reeks off of Qrow and finding this out is really ticking Qrow off.

He knew it. He knew that he’s nothing but a bad luck charm. Qrow was right in his argument with Summer that he shouldn’t tag along. He didn’t to be the reason his friends drowned or burned to death.

A new feeling takes over. Its strong warmth pushes aside the misery inside the black bird. This fast heartbeat, breath leaving lungs, it all happened when teal eyes met red.

“So you’re an expert boat guy, huh?” Qrow had said with a bit of slur. The drinks in this town were rumored to be a High John favorite and he wanted to taste. The results ended up being this flirt and wink, “I just so happen to love seamen.”

“Oh my fucking gods, Qrow,” Tai seethed.

Summer and Clover are busy laughing, a breathless energy making Clover feel lighter than air as he blushes furiously. With each laugh, the ocean rumbles, something Qrow did not notice before.

“I am so honored to hear that,” Clover returned a blinding smile once the urge to barrel over laughing is settled.

“He’s better at this I swear,” Summer giggled, “Well actually no, he can be terrible at this too.”

“Brat,” hissed Qrow.

“No, no,” Clover shook his head with a grin, “I think you’re doing just fine.”

“You sir are one in a million,” Tai rolls his eyes.

“Huh, in that case, lucky you,” Clover winked to Qrow.

In that tipsy state of mind, Qrow beamed, practically preening at being called the opposite of what usual mocks him day in and day out.

That’s when Clover’s emotions shift a bit. There is flustered wonderment at seeing Qrow just simply smiling like this is the happiest moment in his life.

A sudden need to see more of that smile bursts in Clover, a selfless urge to be the reason Qrow smiles or at least keep this man in the world a little longer than death will plan.

Clover’s bundle of positively is conflicting with Qrow’s confusion on the matter. It’s a bit flattering to witness this but it is also a bombardment of sensations he doesn’t know how to unpack.

The fleeting images of Qrow and Clover in that perfect sunlight fades away. The world returns to the nightlight temple, the aurora coloring the sky.

Qrow ever so slowly leans away from Clover just enough to have their noses brush up.

“What was that?” He asks.

With the couple’s memories, he felt drained but with Clover, he honestly feels better.

“I don’t know,” Clover admits, a blush setting on his cheeks, “I just wanted to stop your pain.”

Well it worked as his head feels less heavy. It’s somewhere in him still, the knowledge he took away from Nicholas and Fria. As for Clover’s memory, it probably wasn’t stolen at least that’s what he guesses.

“I didn’t,” a sudden horror is in his head, Qrow needs to check, “do you still remember how we met?”

“Of course,” Clover assures and he rubs his hands up and down Qrow’s arms.

“Cool, um what was all of that?” He swallows down the saliva building up in his mouth, “All of those feelings and stuff?”

Teal eyes go wide and his cheeks equally turn red, “Oh you would feel that too, um. It’s just my first impression of you.”

“…If this is about the seaman thing, I really could’ve said something better.”

A laugh surprises him as Clover’s chest shakes with each rumble, “It was one of the best pickup lines I have ever heard.”

“Okay that has to be a lie.”

“No really,” he shook his head, “You really impressed me.”

Scoffing, Qrow shifts out of Clover’s arm despite liking how it felt to be encircled by them, “Now I know you’re a liar.” He scuffles over to sit at the edge of the stage. Leaning back, Qrow rolls his neck to stare straight up at the skylight, “So that’s an aurora.”

The demigod takes a seat next to him, “It’s their last gift to the world.”

“Is it for the gods or humans?” Qrow asks. The memories of the gods have lulled itself to sleep in his head but flickers of a beautiful world with a full moon catches his breath.

Maybe they missed their old world and they wanted to put a bit of it back into reality.

“Well, why did you become a power?”

He snapped his head to the demigod, not at all seeing the connection.

Clover actually lays his back down, his arm crossed behind his head to watch the sky. He continues, “Was it for Odin or for something else?”

Only close friends of his know the reason. He and Raven were considered heirs for their Chieftain but after a tragic monster attack they lost most of their tribe. Ozpin was there to save those who remained and as their tradition, the twins owed him a life dept.

They unknowingly pled servitude to a hidden elder god, just their luck.

All Oz wanted was some company so Qrow easily agreed and traveled with him while Raven took care of their tribe. Along the way the god later revealed his true power and granted the twins immortality for their loyalties.

They became Muninn and Huginn, the Black Birds of Odin.

But Raven saw it all differently, not at first but gradually she grew to despise how Oz just isolated himself from the world. He could’ve saved the tribe before disaster struck.

Qrow had many disagreements with his sister but this was the pinnacle fight that changed everything. He picked Ozpin over the tribe that forced him to kill another kid to have a place in their brutal community.

To him, both gods and humans are alike through bloodshed and harshness and bitterness.

It didn’t matter to Qrow if he just ended up living a hundred years longer than fate planned. He wanted to get away from everyone, something he believed Ozpin once felt until they started taking initiative on saving other towns from monsters and chaotic magic.

“I used to think it was all for humanity, the good parts of it,” Qrow answered, “but seeing Fria and Nicholas, well, I didn’t think gods needed saving.”

He looks down at Clover, still gazing at the stars. Just like the first time they met, Qrow doesn’t see anything god-like in him, aside from the arms but his point still stands.

Curiosity takes over as Qrow asks, “Clover, would you ever do what they did?”

“I never thought to consider it until today,” he said, his voice soft and yet Qrow’s complete focus is on it. “Maybe if I met the right person,” Clover trails off and then teal eyes meet red again.

The memory of the ocean is at the edges of Qrow’s vision, enrapturing how stunning Clover looked in simple fisherman grab. That’s not something he’ll admit out loud, the amount of pockets are ridiculous.

Clover is undeniably handsome but he looks so human too, something that Qrow once was. The echoes of the demigod’s feelings mix in with his own, that sense of amazement at how utter goodness radiates off of him.

They may have met only twice so far and yet what is time compared to the immortals?

That and the single memories starts to bleed more than Qrow imaged. He felt Clover’s love for the ocean, its smell and feeling in his soul. How Clover was so charmed by Summer and Tai, instantly admiring their tenacity and enthusiasm for exploring.

The world looked different in Clover’s eyes. The same thing is said about Qrow.

In the memory, Qrow looked almost enchanting and not sleep deprived as he is normally. It’s weird to see himself look so human when he never appeared as joyful until he left the tribe.

Clover sits back up, “Qrow, I think you’re lovely.” He blinks at the sudden compliment and usually he won’t believe it but the glimpse in Clover’s head is convincing. “Meeting you just feels right to me, like it wasn’t just fate or luck that gave me the chance to see you again.”

His teal eyes are searching desperately for a reaction, any indication that risking his heart out will have a good outcome.

Qrow doesn’t know where this will lead, not at all as he drops a hand over Clover’s.

Not a lot can be said about the son of Poseidon, just lore and sea stories, but when he met the not-quite mortal Qrow was equally intrigued and wanting to get more of this fisherman.

He denied Summer’s teasing that it was a crush but now that he suddenly got invited to a wedding with Clover, finding out there’s more to his godhood and how kind he is, Qrow finds himself feeling very human.

Too long he spent his immortality alone, abandoned by Raven and Ozpin still keeping secrets. Summer and Tai were a drastic improvement in his life and now here he is, presented with something new and raw.

“Well,” Qrow settles, weaving their fingers together, “we have the rest of eternity to figure this thing out between us.”

#fair game week #fair game #fairgameweek2020 #qrow branwen #clover ebi #ozpin #my fic

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kumeko · 5 years

Text

moonlight sonata

Characters/Pairings: Corrin, Azura

A/N: Written for the @rallyspectrumzine. I love these two together. They have such a good rapport. Deeprealm question I just realized--did they bring caretakers from their world to those worlds? which makes those caretakers older than any friends on this side?

Summary: All of her friends and family were pairing off and Corrin suddenly understood intimately what a third wheel felt like. Fortunately, Azura looked like she was in the same boat.

…

A twig snapped and Corrin whipped her head, looking over her shoulder into the gloom of the forest behind her. In the starlight, the forest looked more ominous than usual, as though any manner of beast or monster could spring out of it. Her hand rested on her sword and she tensed, ready to leap up at the first sign of the enemy. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.” Azura slowly stepped out of the shadows, her hands in front of her. Her robes flowed around her, a cool breeze from the lake ruffling through them. A nervous smile flitted over her lips as she approached Corrin. “Sorry to scare you.”

“Oh.” With a sigh, Corrin relaxed, slouching forward. To be honest, they were deep in Nohrian territory, so it would have been odd to find a Hoshidian on a dock by an unknown pond. With all that happened recently though, she was on edge and it felt like every time she tried to relax, something new and terrible happened. “It’s fine.”

“It’s odd to find you here.” The wooden dock creaked as Azura got closer. It rocked gently with each movement. She clasped her hands behind her back, looking up at the moon. “Usually, I am the one sitting by the water.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Corrin laughed, glancing up at Azura. Even their positions were switched but Corrin didn’t want to get up. Her feet skimmed the cold water as she grounded her hands on the wood and leaned back, staring up at the moon as well. The stars glinted brightly against the black sky, millions of jewels trapped in the darkness. “Though I finally get why you come here.”

“You do?” Azura looked down, surprised. She brushed a stray hair behind her ear as a breeze rustled her veil.

“Yeah.” Corrin looked down into the water, her toe gingerly touching her reflection. Ripples distorted her murky image and she watched her face changed into something unfamiliar. “It’s very peaceful here.”

“It is.” Carefully pinching the edges of her skirt, Azura lifted the hem as she gracefully sat down next to her. It was the dancer in her, almost all of her movements looked elegant. “I like to gather my thoughts next to the water. I feel like it gives a sense of clarity.”

“It’s also quieter than the camp.” Rubbing her neck, Corrin glanced back again. While they were too far to spot the fires or hear the general ruckus of their army, she could barely make out a plume of smoke in the night sky. “Especially with all the new recruits.”

“They are a little…unruly,” Azura admitted, carefully picking her words. It was the closest to disdain or annoyance that Corrin had ever seen from her. “But I think they just miss their parents. After a few days with them, I’m sure they’ll settle down.”

“Parents,” Corrin repeated, rolling the word in her mouth. It felt strange, foreign, no matter how many times she repeated it. “I can’t believe Xander is father. Or Carmilla. Leo. Even Elise—she’s younger than me, you know?” She turned to Azura, gesturing her hands in disbelief. “How did she get married before me?”

“…even in love, there’s an element of chance?” Azura answered, unsure. She rested her cheek on a hand, crossing her other arm to cup her elbow. “Though I do understand the feeling. I can only imagine the same thing is happening over there—that Sakura, Hinako, or even Takumi is married.”

“Takumi?” Corrin snorted. Her shoulders shook as she tried to imagine it—she had only known her blood-brother for days, but it didn’t take more than a few hours to see just how hard he was to handle. “Who would marry him?”

“Umm…” Azura opened her mouth before hastily shutting it. Her fingers tapped her cheek while she scanned the darkness around them, as though the answer would emerge just as she had. With a sheepish smile, she suggested, “Maybe one of his retainers? They’re fond of him.”

Corrin looked at her incredulously. “Fond.”

“…well, Orboro shares his hatred for Nohrians?” As Corrin continued to stare at her, Azura giggled, covering her mouth. She ducked her head and admitted, “He will have a hard time.”

“That’s an understatement,” she corrected. Especially considering the hate he carried now; the last time they met—but no, she didn’t want to dwell on her regrets. On her losses. There was plenty of time to think of them in the future. Leaning back, she bemoaned to the stars, “It’s just so weird.”

Azura laughed into her hand once more, muffling the sound. It was a rare sight normally, and somehow Corrin managed to squeeze it out of her twice. “It is.”

Corrin beamed, glad that someone agreed with her for once. Especially since it was Azura—ever since they met, she’d felt a connection with her; like they were kindred spirits. Well, they did have a lot in common: both kidnapped in childhood and raised in a different kingdom, both had strange powers, both of their homelands felt like a stranger’s place.

Perhaps, in this one other thing, they shared similar feelings. Nervous, Corrin dipped a toe in the water, drawing a small circle on the surface. Fireflies floated over the watery depths, their lights pinpricks on the dark waters. “You haven’t married yet. Have you…found someone?”

“Huh?” Azura stared at her for a long moment, before averting her gaze. Her fingers fiddled with the edge of her veil. “No…I’m embarrassed to admit it, but unlike our siblings, I haven’t.”

“Me neither.” Corrin focused on the ripples extending from where her toe touched the water. She remembered the first time she’d spotted Azura by the water, looking more like a spirit than a human. “If Leo could do it, I’m sure Takumi can, but I…” The words were caught in her throat and fear ran through her. Her fingers curled, digging into the wooden deck.

Courage. She needed courage. The wind died, as though a hush had fallen over the world. Even the crickets and owls fell silent. It felt like they were in that other world, in that land that only Azura and she could go to. A place where it was only them, where no one else could overhear. Before she could stop herself, Corrin blurted, “I don’t think I can.”

“Can what?” Azura asked, cocking her head curiously. She leaned closer, brushing a stray lock behind her ear.

“Can…get married…” Corrin mumbled, flushing red. Her skin burned as Azura watched her silently. With each word, her voice got quiet and quieter. “Or…you know…do…it.”

Gods, this was a bad idea and she regretted it immediately. It was worse than fighting a battle or any of the other stupid challenges her father had given her. Hell, she’d rather get shoved off a bridge again or fight Takumi at his angriest. Quickly, she started to get up. “Never mind, I should head back, just forget it—”

Before she could pull her legs in, Azura grabbed her arm, freezing her in place. Her fingers dug into Corrin’s skin. “Don’t go. I…I understand.”

Corrin’s jaw dropped, not believing her ears. “You…what?”

“I understand.” Azura nodded shyly, letting go now. She flushed, embarrassed at the attention. “I…also feel that way.”

Dropping back onto the dock, Corrin landed a little harder than she expected and fell backwards. Her back hit the wooden planks hard, knocking the wind out of her, but Azura’s declaration had already done that. She gaped up at Azura. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Azura repeated, reaching down to help her up.

Corrin grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly. Even after she sat up, she didn’t let go. “I…I thought I was alone in that. Everyone else talked about love and romance and I…I don’t know. I just never felt it. I thought maybe I just hadn’t met someone but…you feel it too.” She smiled brightly, elated. “You feel it too.”

There was something magical about the word ‘too’. Something utterly magical. A signal that she wasn’t alone. A sign that there were others.

That there was someone else out there who was just like her. Corrin leaned back, kicking her feet excitedly in front of her. She could take on any of her father’s ridiculous challenges tomorrow. Hell, she could fight a dragon if he asked.

“I’m…I’m just so happy,” Corrin chirped, bumping shoulders with her. Now that it was off her chest, a fountain of questions bubbled out from her. “When did you know?”

“Huh?” Azura had never been the most forthcoming person in the first place, but faced with an over eager Corrin, she had little room to evade. “I…I don’t know…I don’t think I really realized it until I came here and saw…well, all of the couples and their romances.”

“I think I kinda always knew.” Corrin splashed her feet slowly in the water, shivering as the cold droplets hit her ankles. “I was never really interested when I was younger and thought that, well, one day I might get interested. That maybe it was an adult thing. And then that one day never came.”

“That sounds just like you.” Azura smiled softly.

“I guess.” Biting her lip, Corrin frowned as she considered it. “I didn’t really think of war or what our two countries were up to or anything, really, until I experienced it first.” As realization dawned, her shoulders sank. No wonder her siblings had treated her like a child. “I’m a dense idiot.”

“It’s not that bad!” Azura patted her back consolingly.

Corrin shot her a baleful glare.

“It is that bad,” she amended quickly, interlacing her fingers on her lap. Azura smiled bashfully. “But that attitude of yours helped me a lot. I…I don’t feel quite as alone when I’m with you.”

Alone. Loneliness. Corrin peeked at her friend’s silhouette—it was another thing she hadn’t really thought about up to this moment, but Azura was alone here. Her siblings, blood-related or not, were back in Hoshido. Elise was the only one of Corrin’s siblings that accepted Azura with open arms.

To be alone in a crowd. It was what Corrin had felt when she had gone to Hoshido. It was what she felt while surrounded by all these couples. It was what Azura was feeling right now, in a land that was not her own, without a familiar face to seek refuge with.

Reaching out, she grabbed one of Azura’s hands and squeezed it tightly. “No, you’re not alone. From now on, neither of us are. And if there’s anything else that’s bothering you, you can tell me.”

Surprised, Azura stared at her for a long moment. Her free hand reached up to her pendant, glittering from the moonlight. Gripping it, she nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Somehow, that didn’t feel right. In the moonlight, Azura looked ethereal. Like the water that Azura loved so much, she felt just as translucent. It was hard to pin her, to understand what lay hidden behind her half-moon smiles and hooded eyes. It scared Corrin. All it would take was a single touch and Azura would disappear in the ripples. Desperately, she repeated, gripping Azura’s hand even tighter, “Anything at all. We’re friends, right?”

“Friends,” Azura echoed quietly. She glanced down at Corrin’s hand and her expression softened. Delicately, she turned her hand over and grasped back. She looked lost for words, her voice cracking. “That’s…I…thank you.”

And it wasn’t enough—Corrin could still feel the wall, even if she couldn’t see it. But it was a start; it had to be a start. One day, just like how she’d confessed her secret, Azura would confess hers.

For today, though, this was enough. Leaning back on the dock, she crossed her arms and rested her head on her palms. With a mischievous grin, she peeked at Azura. “So…do you really think Takumi’s married?”

Azura laughed and that was three times today that Corrin managed to steal one out of her.

#azura #corrin #kamui #fire emblem fates #fire emblem if #fanfiction

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alchemisland · 6 years

Text

The Moors Mutt - I

Part II coming on Tuesday!

I. Old Stone

The beast I knew only in folkloric snippets. Hedge whispers perverting history to arcana through time immemorial. Perhaps too I had known it in nightmares, shapeless until named, becoming then familiar as a bedchamber.

It was grim autumn when that fateful letter arrived, setting in motion a chain of events both strange and unlikely. In retrospect, that a series of vignettes so bizarre could start with the simple act of a posted letter seemed comical.

The letter landed with a thud, dubbing me sole executor of the late Lady Renton Sizemore's last will, a grim charge requiring a trip to her wicked home, listed in the Briarscombe country house register as the third most bloodstained holding in England.

Dislike isn't the word. Lady Sizemore and I got on famously when last we spoke, thirty years ago. I wasn't the doting schoolboy turned dribbling manchild spending Saturday nights at bingo. Neither was she the elderly relation procuring coins from behind ears to the delight of the youngers.

We were not eachother's keeper. Why I was suddenly favoured for this sensitive task that required more mental finesse than anyone in the family gave me credit for out loud, puzzled me greatly. Somebody must have annoyed her at one of her events. Sandwich gala on the Pringle Estate destroyed by careless nephew's untucked shirt. In true family style, whatever infuriated her she took to the grave.

Once the money was apportioned, I was to ensure no stone went unturned, apt phrasing given its namesake. Cairn Cottage stood oppressively atop the mound some two hundred winters, a plundered megalith shielding against the bracing gales.

Up there the flowers bloomed blighted, grass grew sideways and only the sturdiest roots survived. Without the megalith's girth, perhaps those winds might have toppled the twisted demesne, but she held firm now as old.

Mystics, druids and spiritualists alike extolled the house's phantasmic virtues. Fringe groups scrambled to reserve exclusive use of the land for Candlemas ceremonies. Lady Sizemore didn't care, provided she was soundly remunerated.

Rumours abounded of hauntings, anomalies occurring on the land by midnight's trickery.

Upon receipt of instruction, I spurred my carriage toward Cairn Cottage, the house in whose shadow no local walked without rosaries.

Although my visit was primarily administrative, there was another matter pertinent to my interests. One muttering which above all others inspired fear. A cautionary tale warning children from the grounds by night. And sometimes, on cold and lonely nights, a brave man wandering alone might see fit to take the longer road home.

Worse than druids, they said a beast lived on the Moor. A hulking creature, whose snarling teeth bared in fullness of dark glowed like spears of starlight, whose stark brightness was dulled only by the gleaming viscera of previous engagements clinging in ragged flaps.

However the rumour started, it long sprouted legs of its own, more exciting with each recounting.

No smoke without fire. I intended to find the single primal ember, the lone truthful element, stripped of frill and frock, fancy and folly, bereft of myth, or loyalty to tradition. Was there something in the fields by night? Was it dangerous?

First came Sperrin, a grizzly hamlet outside the estate's confines. For a penny, a local lad promised to find a suitable nook for the trap. I visited the sole watering hole, a squalid cellar named Lar's. The tavern itself was not charmless, offering average vintage for below average prices, warmth, music, rustic flattery and inimitably, whispers of the beast.

The tavern's proprietor Lar was a man out of time. With his arms folded across his simian chest and those big lugs like trophy handles either side of his substantial forehead, he could have easily passed for a saxon chieftain. He stood astride the bar against a backdrop of coloured bottles. Immediately upon entering his eyes set upon me with great intensity. Unlike the merry keep of fireside tales, he offered no warmth in greeting. That you were found fit to sit his barstool was kindness enough.

Inebriates remained nursing drams, glowering at their respective lecterns. Occasionally I'd catch one staring at me, then turn away as I waved. After a while sitting and sipping, making a game of catching their nosy glances, I signalled Lar's attention. 'This is probably going to sound strange. Probably because it is. Hear me out though. Have you ever heard or seen anything strange out on the moor?'

Widened like an owl, Lar's right eye scanned me once, twice, three times before he moved a muscle. 'Have in fact. Not now though. Too many around. Later.' His lips barely moved. I tipped my nose.

Nearer closing, he poured a cup and sat, remaining on the business side of the bar.

'The beast, you say?' He leaned in close, one eyebrow raised, its shape the arching rod of a hooked line. 'I could tell you a thing or two about the beast alright.'

'Prithee speak, my curiosity is burning. I won't rest a wink until it's satiated. Tourist talk aside, do you believe, as men do God, a beast prowls these forests?' I inched forward, as if by closer proximity, the truths would be truer.

'Regular Theseus, eh? Monster hunters, we have had plenty. Lovers of darkness too. Students of forbidden arts. All are served here. Kings and paupers alike. Did you come all this way to hear me say that?' Lar spoke with great confidence. The manner of his prattling meant the tales he told were true, or this was practiced.

'No.' I replied, 'I have business in the cottage. My heart though, she belongs to this creature. I am not a quack, nor a holder of séances. I am not a man of low learning on the hunt for falsehoods. I am a lover of stories. Pray, continue your captivating narrative.'

He continued, 'Let it be said I was coaxed. You wanted this.'

In this ominous portent he let slip a mask of deft craft. There was artifice in his smile, a cheshire grin that touched either cheekbone. A whispered suggestion of hidden intent.

Everything made sense. Was I seeing clearly? More than ever. I saw his ruse; city boy down for the day, take him for a ride, tell him the usual stories. A pal of his will burst in at just the right time, scare me half to death, then they'll take me to the supposed hot-spot for the low price of everything I've got. Lar took me for a lettuce. Something in his warning tipped me. A little over-arch. If his performance was not theatre, then Shakespeare never wrote.

Doubtless once finished, Lar would proffer some overpriced talisman no fellwalker could risk refusing.

'Enough pussyfooting. Spill it. I'll need all the advice I can get.' Like a drill tip, I pressed my index finger into the bar.

'No matter what image I conjure in your mind's eye, the beast is yet more ferocious and terrible in the flesh. It's the great unreality of it.' He tapped his forehead. 'Your mind doubts what it's seeing, unable to comprehend its stimulus. Brave men are made mice in its shadow.'

'What evidence have you of such a creature?' I asked, draining my tankard. He did the same, then wiped the amber residue on the back of his hand. He looked me over once, as if to ask who I was to question. I returned a withering gaze, maneuvering my features to convey a similar message. For a moment the air felt charged with kinetic possibility. As when two pugilists circle to begin a contest, lead hands pawing. Neither of us wished to be responsible for qualms.

He broke the armistice. 'Evidence? If you didn't think it weren't here, you wouldn't have come. If you believed in your heart this week you'd be contending with a monster, you'd have stayed at home in your jams.'

'Nonsense, man! You forget I am summoned, not here of my own volition.'

'We, each of us, tell ourselves sweet little lies to justify how our limited time is spent. I have a right mind to think if the lady yet lived, you and I might still have met. On a yawning stretch such as this, arriving as you have: alone and curious. If there's one thing I can't respect, it's a self hating believer. Swanning around with all the cynicism of a non-believer, clad in the robes of an adherent, so that when the hobby is proved spurious you can point to your skepticism. You'd be first to the papers tomorrow if scientists verified the beast's existence, how you had journeyed and studied on your own dime to further the science.' Lar pursed his lips, knowing he'd cut me to the quick, vanished was his earlier reticence.

I hated how right he was. I was exactly this sort. Insulting people who believed the same things as me. First to refuse to enter a haunted house for fear a demon might take my soul.

I'd never concede his point though. I riposted, 'Few are more loathed than the opinionated barman. You speak much too readily. Do so again, I'll see your manners are checked for the next weary traveler willing to pay good coin.'

Lar's eyes lit, bulging with imagined riches. 'Let me fill your drink, sir. I meant no offence. We speak freely here. Manners soften. Soon one finds truths cannot be digested unperfumed. Here in the wilds, it's a duty to voice quarrel. Far from crown and court, unaired anger festers.' Lar gladly dispensed his pearls of rural wisdom as if they were sweets from a bulging striped bag.

'Really, man. Every idea can be made ridiculous if extrapolated to that degree. Manners take the edge off. I'm not offended by your candor. I intend to find the creature, if such exists. Have you no doubt about that.' I watched him pull another drink.

The returned tankard was too full to raise without spilling. I slurped loudly, head bowed. Like a pulled plug, half the liquid gone in a single gulp.

'What evidence is sufficient? Look around you.' Lar held aloft his hands, urging me toward his empty business, still cast in a sickly light from the last flickering sentinels.

He pointed toward the empty seats. A single patron remained hidden in the shadows. A local by his boots.

'We did a roaring trade before that bloody woman inherited the place. Once she came, the trade died. When I was a lad, that land was free to roam. No walls. She had them built to spite us. Worse rumours too and all, that she built those walls to house it.'

'It?' I asked

'It. The beast.' Lar's voice lowered to a whisper. 'A cage for a pet beyond control. That's your sort all over. Dabbling where you shouldn't.'

'Her sort.' I corrected, 'I'm not aristocratic. You're a presumptuous sort, you know.'

'Believe you're not the first to say. Her sort, whatever pleases. I don't subscribe to this theory. Me personally, I think it came from hell. One thing's for certain, it got worse when they shifted the cairn.'

'You say you have seen it?' Part of me thought I was the one stringing him along, but another more gullible me firmly believed, or wanted to believe, that he had seen something. Hoping not to seem needy, I drew myself close to him, the bar still between us, 'With your own eyes if you saw it, you must swear it now. Did you see it as I see you now, or as one sees the distant stars and erroneously assumes knowledge.'

'As I stand before you.' Lar gestured to his stained apron, which he then removed and hung on a hook overhead. He nodded to the barfly, who stumbled from his seat and shot the bolt across the lock, an angry black mechanism like a bas-relief, which clanked against the timber as he let it fall. 'That's Fergus.'

Fergus lurched over. One leg trailed behind him. I couldn't help imagining him as a gothic manservant, dragging corpses to the laboratory in pursuit of higher knowledge. He came to stand beside me. There were giants on the earth is those days. Though our eyes observed the same setpieces, his countenance betrayed little comprehension. He had the chiseled jaw of a marble bust in profile, but his mouth hung open permanently, moist lips pursed like a fish.

He placed an enormous hand on my shoulder. Such space was permitted between his splayed fingers that ten legions abreast might find passage unmolested. His knuckles protruded unnaturally, evidence of labour, something harder than masonry or smithcraft. Mayhaps soldiering overseas.

I stared at his hand. He never looked at me. I coughed, first mannerly, then more harshly, thinking to approach cautiously lest my assumption prove provident, that he had lost his sound during foreign campaigns, of whose spoils we all were beneficiaries.

'Don't mind him.' Lar said. He spoke softly in the presence of his friend, observing his movements closely, ready to interject with a steadying hand or a warning to the cruelly curious. I wondered were they brothers. They bore little resemblance, though stranger things I had heard. Lar took Fergus' wrist and pressed gently, disturbing the folds of his motheaten jacket. They shared a moment I could but observe, radiating warmth and glad tidings in a wordless wave.

'I mean not to speak boldly, and lash me with spite if I transgress overmuch, but I must know or I should forever wonder, are you kin?'

Fergus shared Lar's laugh with the same look of bemused ignorance.

'You hear that? Fancy man reckons we're brothers. Probly thinks we're all related down this end, and not in a godly way.' Lar laughed, a viking bellow.

Lar released his grip and the folds of Fergus' sleeve righted themselves. He spoke several octaves lower, miming offence at my observation. I started to explain I intended no hidden subtext, but Lar waved to indicate all was taken as delivered.

'We are not brothers. Close friends. Known Fergus here forever.' He gently tapped the giant's hand, slapped on the bar like some enormous muddy bird print. 'Used to be a keen cookie too, once upon a forever ago. Loved languages, Welsh mostly. Pugilism he loved more. One passion consumed the other. Anything burning so intensely inevitably cannibalises itself. Took one knock too many, stole his wits in an instant. A left hook across the bar sent him erstwhile. Twenty five minutes he was on the shores of night, learning the landscape of the dreamworlds, while we fanned his rigid form, wet his brow and whispered familiar names in his ear. When at last he woke a part of him was left forever in that place. I like to think, boyishly perhaps, it awaits him upon leaving this plain of lousy strife, like the belongings awaiting a homeward jailbird. The cloak of a lost lifetime. Not for him. He'll slide right into it, fit like a tailored piece, and all of eternity to speak. Not here though.'

Tears welled in his eyes. I took the reins, 'Think nothing of your emotions, man. We each have them. Doubtless I will shed a tear up in the old witch's place. Another life awaits, that much is sure. Grander than this. I'm sure he made, and makes, a fine man. Built like a gladiator. I am sorry to have dredged unpleasantness. I meant only to satisfy my own selfish curiosity. Forgive me. Please, continue.'

'I will at that.'

'It were one night, three years ago. Ferg was there. We'd been called out on account of strange noises near the workers' cottage. They wouldn't work until the evil was killed or driven away. We came down from the high road proper and saw it between the trees ahead. Like a horse it stood, with clumsy stilts supporting an ursine bulk that swayed as it shambled. It drank shadows to conceal its dread presence. Blackness it took for robe. In walking its front paws propelled its cumbersome form, while the rear set, less lengthy, dredged channels in the dirt. In motion it arched to reveal a belly spun of lighter felt, ashen in the scant moonlight. Bundled, it became an orb of shadow, nothingness.'

'Unbeknownst we watched it watching, green eyes like blazing protostars probing for movement. Well it knew to choose this site, one of only two wells being located nearby. In a flash then it was gone, satin-shoed away into the night.'

The tale Lar knew was a scorcher paused. He beamed, an actor awaiting applause. I gathered my jaw from the floor, brushed it and set it back properly.

Each word drew me closer, which Fergus mirrored, until we three sat as witches about the bubbling lip of their cauldron, a coven of pallid specters.

Lar paused to sip and nodded we join.

I wondered had my hobby, in a blink, become too dangerous to justify. It was well telling my employers of ghost hunts, but a wild beast - my insurance wouldn't have it! If it turns out some menagerie escapee, what then was it? Quest for wonder or recklesss folly? Weiss, Wellie and Wardun insurance, even in their most obscure policies, don't pay out for fools. That's why I chose them!

Lar went on, a fresh cigarette painting the air blue in his articulation, 'Each new, shifting moon we came to that spot and watched. We took it upon ourselves to rid the land of danger.'

'Fergus knows a bit about a bit, that's what's left to him, God bless. What he knows is knots. Army training dictates every officer have at least passing knowledge of ten or more useful fastenings.'

'Me? I know about animals. We make a fierce duo. We inquired in advance about a reward, to which the estate responded agreeably, so we set off with lengths of rope overshoulder and the angriest looking traps the furmen could spare, determined to snare it. We planted snares all about its presumed domain.'

'Nothing came. Not a rat. Not a wisp. Not never again. It's the mystery disturbs me most. I'd die happy knowing.'

In his voice a single note of longing rang, dispelling the subterfuge of his intentions and, in the length of a breath, his beings and inner machinations were laid bare. Far from the sinister goldlust and murderous intention I had silently attributed to him, he seemed eager in an earnest fashion, willing in the name of a job done.

I observed Lar, powerful and straight. 'Do I sense an unfinished quest?'

'Aye. Not too subtle, mind.' Lar flashed a toothy smile, the sort a condemned man spits at his executioner. 'You seem a serious man. I didn't know when you first came in parading your manners like fancy knickers. You can't be too sure about a man who gives too many pleases. You're not that sort and have proved such twice over.' Lar imagined that was a compliment from the look he gave me. Expectant almost, between child submitting scribbles for display and cat batting dead mouse onto pillow.

Well, of course I had something to say about that. Cats were hissing. A donnybrook of claws and torn fur not even a hearty stock of iodine could salve. 'And I might say also that I too had cast aspersions on your character, maintaining you were of sinister country stock. As you claim to have been rapturously convinced otherwise, as have I.'

'Once the lady's estate is divided and bequeathed I'll receive my own. I mean to inherit a substantial bursar. I will pay to you a fair sum. In exchange, you will guide me to the hotpots, generally ensuring nothing eats me. When we find it, you're in charge until it's bound.' If he came, it would be on my terms.

'Find it? Slow down. We've seen it once in a hundred times. I'll take you gladly all the same.'

Wordless, we shook hands and drained our horns.

'Tomorrow?' Lar asked. He drew my gaze to an unopened whiskey bottle, which I declined.

'Not so, good man. Tomorrow I will tend my affairs. In the evening, if all is ordered, I will return to discuss further a plan of action. Have you a room I might rent?'

'Not for everyone mind, so don't go saying. There's one in the back. I'll light the fire.'

'Please do.'

I left a generous tip. Before following the publican to the warm hollow, I shook Fergus' hand, assuming he too would be part of our fortean friendship.

While I slumbered, the nightmare broke free her paddock, thundering across the veil of my somnambulant phantasmagoria, its clanging hooves ringing shrill terror.

I saw spined creatures oozing pus, many-eyed. Edgeless orbs hissing like flying snakes from one black abyss to another.

Cats with human faces screamed. A hairless man with a tail curled upwards like a scorpions noxious pike disemboweled himself with a broken mirror.

Last came the bestial form, not unlike that which Lar had described, striding evilly. Two venom coated fangs, uncontained by its snarling mouth, curved inward toward its breast. Catlike claws glinted menacingly. Turning my third eye downwards as if to look upon my feet, I found I was formless, yet the beast circled knowingly around the space my corporeal form should occupy.

I knew instinctively this reverie was more tangible than the others. That if the beast should strike I would die or wake screaming with a crimson pool spreading below me. It sniffed the air, pawing closer.

I woke to my beastless chamber. Sodden, I sought a candle and in its gloam chronicled my nightmare. That night sleep ne'er returned, making groggy my morning plod toward Cairn Cottage.

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ayellowbirds · 6 years

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Keshet Rewatches All of Scooby-Doo, Pt. 23: “A Tiki Scare is No Fair"

("Scooby-Doo, Where Are You", Season 2 Episode 6. Original Airdate: 10/17/1970)

AKA, "Adventures In Culturally Insensitive Tourism"

This is the sole episode of Season 2 of Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! that has no musical chase segment, and the episode feels like it really drags in comparison. The content doesn’t help much. Read this recap bearing in mind that i’m an American of mostly Ashkenazic ancestry, and so i was raised with a lot of white privilege. If i make any missteps in criticizing the episode’s handling of Hawaiian culture, let me know.

The scene opens to soothing music with an evening view on an active volcano, the music transitioning into Aloha Oe as the view transitions down to a Hawaiian village where Shaggy, Scooby, and one “John Simms” are enjoying a luau. The scene is presented in the same terms Shaggy and Scooby are experiencing it: tourism aimed at a mostly white audience. Although there’s faux-conversational background noise, none of the locals are heard to speak—not to the gang, not to one another, and barely even when the episode’s villain appears. Only two Hawaiian character gets any lines, and it’s near the very end of the episode.

Shaggy’s first line sums up the attitudes informing this scenario.

After its illegal annexation as a US territory to appease the interests of white settlers, Hawaii had been a US state for barely more than a decade before this episode aired. American tourist culture—that is, white American ideas about what Pacific culture is like, filtered through the experience of tourism and material indulgence.

Mr. Simms snaps a photo of Shaggy stuffing his face, mentioning that it’ll be great for his newspaper, and Shaggy shares his gratitude for Simms taking the gang on a tour. The episode is kind of vague as to whose dollar funded the trip; if Simms brought the gang, his reasons are never brought up, and it seems more likely they arrived by other means and that the arrangement with Simms is about being shown the sights.

In fact, Shaggy mentions plans for the following day: visiting the “ancient village of a lost tribe”, a plan the rest of the gang came up with that isn’t part of the tour Simms is conducting.

Simms warns Shaggy and Scooby that the village is haunted, and advises them to just stick to the tour and enjoy themselves.

Then the drums start.

A poorly-animated man slides in from offscreen, stammering, “ghost drums!”

A trio of drums decorated with faces throb and pulse alone on the sand like abandoned personal massage wands, and ominous clouds move in around the volcano. The light over the whole scene turns red, and in an explosion of smoke, a masked figure appears.

I found it odd that, when mentioning this scene later on, Shaggy insists that Simms was present when this “witch doctor” appears, but he’s actually vanished when the villain shows up to declare that everyone present is “on the forbidden ground of Mano Tiki Tia!”

Now, “tiki” is a word indelibly merged with the concept of island culture in the American consciousness, most egregiously in the form of gimmicky lounge/bar drinks served in cups poorly imitating traditional carvings. It’s from a Maori word, meaning “figurine”, and as far as i’m aware, doesn’t actually mean anything in Hawaiian (though they are related languages, so maybe there’s a cognate i’m unfamiliar with). “Mano” could be any of several words depending on how you accent the vowels when writing it in English; it could mean “shark”, a source of water, or “a vast number of things”.

It’s more likely that Joe Ruby and Ken Spears just made it up to sound “Hawaiian”.

The costumed villain (who, unsurprisingly, will turn out to be a white man) vanishes, and the villagers, Shaggy, and Scooby panic. Scooby and Shaggy are separated in the confusion, and Shaggy finds himself alone.

The action cuts to the Pineapple Parlor, where Fred and Daphne dance to a jukebox while Velma kvetches about Shaggy and Scooby’s idea of fun. Remember what I was saying about the indulgent American tourist culture? The episode began with luau number 48.

Shaggy arrives in a panic, knocking down the door and surfing it across the floor to tell the others what happened in sentence fragments that don’t really communicate anything. “Shaggy, get ahold of yourself,” Fred advises.

The gang take the Mystery Machine back to the site of the luau, Shaggy and Velma arguing about “scientific facts” versus the things Shaggy saw with his own gullible eyes. As the gang arrive, Velma catches sight of an old man sitting by a statue.

The gang get out of the van, and Velma suggests asking him, but to her surprise, he’s vanished before the others could see him. Just as quickly, a “ghost drum” appears, bouncing towards them, and circling the Mystery Machine as they gang try to hide... only to flip over and reveal that Scooby was hiding underneath it.

The gang want to find Mr. Simms, but Shaggy is reluctant, until the incentive of another luau is dangled before him. I really need to affirm that the tourist-centric concept of the luau is inauthentic, and stands as a symbol of the whole repackaging, rebranding, and sale of Hawaiian and broader Polynesian culture to white people. Shaggy’s appetite for luaus goes well beyond his usual gluttony and makes him into a living avatar of American imperialism, here motivated to save lives only by the prospect of more parties.

While searching, the gang find a newspaper with articles by Simms. They can tell this because the page Velma is reading is shown to have the name John Simms written across the entire top of the page, less of a credit and more of a headline or title for the paper itself. It also has the worst typeface choice ever made for a newspaper.

The gang want to investigate further, intending to follow the tracks into the “jungle” (guay de mi, am i glad that word is vanishing from the English lexicon), and Scooby needs convincing to use his nose to follow the scent.

This is probably the single most uncomfortable image of Fred Jones that exists, and i’m including things that can only be described with the words “rule 34″ in that.

Naturally, Shaggy falls for the temptation, and scarfs down the Snack and gets to sniffing on all fours. Scooby follows suit, reluctantly, and we get another glimpse of the old man, watching from the bushes. The gang catch sight of him and flip out, and he laughs to himself as they flee.

Seriously, though, how strong is Velma Dinkley? Get this girl into some weightlifting competitions. This particular formation hooks Shaggy and Scooby upside-down on a tree branch opposite some similarly-posed bats, evidently drawn by someone who couldn’t be zoinksed to look it up and learn that there’s only one species of bat native to Hawaii. The boys flee from the menacing red-eyed, red-eared grey-black bats and—we get another transitional wipe! Are they here to stay?

When the gang literally run into each other again, they wind up at the feet of a giant statue, which Velma identifies as the figure of Mano Tiki Tia from the newspaper article. They’re in the “haunted” village, strewn with human skulls and ominously sharp carvings. As the gang look around, the giant statue rotates at its base, and its eyes open to watch them.

Somehow, they don’t notice this.

They do notice the witch doctor, who chases them in the direction of a large building that is evidently still seeing use, complete with a rotating trick wall. Shaggy and Scooby are left on the outside, as a snorting shadow—very clearly a boar—approaches, and Shaggy is forced to heft a “club” in self-defense.

...what? The boar jumps out of the underbrush, followed by two piglets, bowling Shaggy over. Meanwhile, Velma drops through a trap door, and winds up in a cavernous dungeon where she spots Mr. Simm’s horribly tacky hat. She hides, just as the Witch Doctor enters, but her haypile hiding place triggers a sneeze and she has to run.

The boys recover at the feet of the statue, where Shaggy for some reason has the utter gall to ask if Scooby is really afraid of ghosts. As Scooby gives the obvious, honest answer, a voice booms:

“MANO.... TIKI... TIA!”

Shaggy looks up to see where it came from.

Mano Tiki Tia is the biggest “monster” the gang face by far, and unless i’m misremembering things, will hold onto that status for a good long while.

He’s also really obviously mechanical, and as he gives chase, the camera lets the viewer plainly see the creaking wheels moving his feet over the ground. Hiding from him leads the boys to reunite with Velma, and the trio flee the Witch Doctor into a nearby building where they attempt to barricade the door, forming a chain to pass furniture across the room.

I’m pretty sure this is the first time we see this particular gag in Scooby-Doo, though it’s going to repeat plenty of times in the future.

A brief glimpse of Fred and Daphne’s wanderings reveals another sighting of the old man, and the scene cuts back to the chase.

You know, usually the disguises involve them throwing something else on over their clothes. This is one of the most obvious times that they would have needed to strip and throw on something else, and i really feel like that’s time that would be better spent running.

Even more astonishingly, this disguise works, and the Witch Doctor is totally fooled as “Tarzan” directs him towards “boy, girl, and dog”.

Meanwhile, Fred and Velma find a genuine clue:

A table half-covered with pearls and oyster shells. Another transitional wipe later, we get one of the few exchanges that suggest the gang have a sense of real danger, as Shaggy complains “my feet are killing me,” and Velma responds:

“It’s a good thing we slipped the Witch Doctor, or that wasn’t all that would be getting killed.”

Not that the Witch Doctor ever shows any signs of being armed or in any way capable of hurting the gang, but... wow.

A moment later, Scooby spots a small wrecked airplane. It looks like it’s overgrown with vines—plastic, Velma notes—and there’s a laughing skeleton at the controls... manipulated by a tripwire Shaggy sets off, linked to a tape recorder hidden under a nearby shrub.

Emboldened by the realization that it’s a fake, Shaggy uses the skeleton for some prop comedy. “Hey skinny, do you know why the skeleton went to the library? To bone up on a few things!”

Shaggy laughs at his own joke, and then the skeleton, which is no longer connected to the tripwire and tape recorder, starts laughing as well. I’ll save you some wondering before the end: this sequence gets no explanation whatsoever as part of the villain’s scheme, and is not referenced after it concludes. We never find out how the fake plane crash plays into things, or what caused the skeleton to laugh again.

The trio book it (that’s another library joke), and run into Fred and Daphne. The transitional wipes see heavier use as the gang continue to investigate, chasing the old man into an underwater cavern that leads back into the haunted village, and another encounter with the Witch Doctor and Mano Tiki Tia.

The Witch Doctor alternates between ominous declarations in a faux-aged falsetto, and guttural, animalistic growling, both provided by the diverse talents of the late John Stephenson, who also lends his voice to Mano Tiki Tia. The only reason i don’t complain about this casting (the many flaws aside, the showrunners had already demonstrated that they understood the idea of casting nonwhite characters with appropriate voice actors, and this was back in the dang seventies) is that both are eventually revealed to be white dudes.

Trapped between a rock and a nutcase, the gang flee into some nearby huts. The Mano Tiki Tia statue demonstrates some decent dexterity and considerable strength, lifting up the entire small houses from the ground to look for the gang as if it were a shell game. The kids, of course, are not hidden under any of the huts, but are instead clinging desperately to the rafters of one.

The chase sequence is one of the few in which the gang seem to face a real, immediate threat of harm if caught, with Mano Tiki Tia’s fists slamming pitfalls into the ground. The contrast between the desperate nature of the chase and the many gags involving Scooby and Shaggy responding inappropriately actually make the whole scene work better, as the jokes break the tension of the action and the chase makes the jokes seem fresh rather than a constant stream. Even the canned laughter can’t quite spoil it.

Eventually, Shaggy and Scooby work together to improvise a disguise that actually scares off the Witch Doctor, shambling out of the brush as a kind of “leaf monster”. Fred’s inspired to frighten the villain even more, and formulates a trap that involves a “trick amusement park mirror from the Mystery Machine” (the what and why do they have that?) being placed to frighten the Witch Doctor right into a concealed pit.

Once again, Shaggy and Scooby foul things up in a way that catches the villain anyway, winding up on top of Mano Tiki Tia and blinding the statue so that its attempts to snag them capture its master, instead.

The statue crashes, and Fred unmasks the Witch Doctor:

Mister John Simms?

Somewhat thankfully, the horribly racist caricature villain turns out to be white American in disguise. And the statue of Mano Tiki Tia?

How many parade floats you know that can punch holes in the ground, Velma?

Fred and Velma conclude that Simms set up the whole thing to scare villagers and tourists away so he could poach the lucrative oyster beds for pearls. “Right, Mr. Simms?”

Jinkies, not even a “meddling kids”?

As fir the old man, he appears and reveals himself as...

Um, never mind what i said about appropriate voice casting. Lt. Tomoro is unmistakably Casey Kasem putting on his more authoritative voice, sounding almost exactly like his performance as the heroic but paranoid Cliffjumper in the Transformers cartoons.

Tomoro, like Inspector Lu before him, reveals that he’d been on this case “for a long time”, and that the gang have solved the case for him—so he treats them to their final day of vacation in Hawaii.

The gang enjoy some more dancing, Scooby steals Shaggy’s poi, and the episode ends with the visiting white teenagers and their dog having saved the day by interfering in an ongoing investigation where the locals failed to accomplish anything.

What a great message. I’d like to say the franchise gets better about this kind of thing, but, well, it’s going to be up and down for a while.

That said, there’s only two more episodes of Scooby-Doo, Where Are You! to go... maybe we’ll see if in the New Scooby-Doo Movies?

(like what i’m doing here? It’s not what pays the bills, so i’d really appreciate it if you could send me a bit at my paypal.me or via my ko-fi. Click here to see more entries in this series of posts, or here to go in chronological order)

#scooby doo #KRAOSD

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789307890734890178-blog · 8 years

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Review: Castle Hangnail

[Image: The cover of the book ‘Castle Hangnail’ by Ursula Vernon. The detailed description is kind of long so I put it under ‘read more’]

Full review is under ‘read more’, but here is it in short: Castle Hangnail is a very cute book with likeable characters, and even some pretty serious moments. However, the plot is completely unfocused and it has a climax that was incredibly predictable. Still, as an easy read, this will do more than fine.

[Full Image Description: A book cover that mostly uses blue, purple, and black as a color palette. In the foreground, a small, twelve-year-old, white girl with a round-ish face, black curly hair and black clothes is holding a book open. White light is curling from that book. A bat is perched upon her shoulder. To her left, you have an Igor-ish monster looking concerned and a cloth doll with pins sticking out from him holding a bowl with a goldfish in it. On her right, you have a creature that appears to be the cross between a donkey and a dragon. All creatures look friendly. They are standing on a winding path leading up towards an ominous castle in the background. Above them, a golden title reads ‘Castle Hangnail’.]

Author: Ursula Vernon Genre: Fantasy Intended Age-range: 9 to 12 (rough estimate) Representation for POC: None Representation for LGBT+: None Representation for Disabilities: None Well-Written Female Characters: Yes; the majority of the human cast is female and kicks ass, and the non-human female cast also kicks ass. Warnings: Has a character arc that contains working through emotional abuse and (something akin to) gaslighting (not by the family or by a significant other, and it isn’t explicitely called that, but it’s definitely that. From what I can tell, it was handled decently). Other Things: The main villain of the series has an ice-theme, and therefore also has a very pale skin, white-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes. If you happen to have albinism, this could potentionally turn you off (as it kinda plays into the ‘Evil Albino’ Trope), though the villain doesn’t actually have albinism as far as I know. Overall Grade: 7/10

Because the Board of Magic is threatening to shut down Castle Hangnail if it doesn’t find a Master soon, the Minions living in the castle sent out invitations to all Wicked Witches, Evil Sorceresses, Vampire Lords and other magical folk to become their Master. The only one who answers the invitations is Molly, an unimpressive twelve-year old who claims to be a powerful Wicked Witch named Eudaimonia. In reality, she is a ‘moderately talented’ untrained magic user who just wants to get away from her pink-and-sparkles loving twin. Now, she needs to fulfill the Tasks the Board has laid upon her, all the while keeping her real identity secret.

Or at least, that’s the plot during the first half of the story.

This book has a lot going for it, and I am going to start with the positive. The first thing that jumps out is the wacky world it’s based in. Like all good childeren’s fantasy books, Castle Hangnail thrives upon the pure imagination of the writer. Vernon manages to use all tired old fantasy tropes (the wicked witch, for example) in a new and fresh setting, by simply adressing them in-universe. Wicked Witch, Evil Sorceress, etc. are real titles in the book, and magic users can claim them. What’s smart about this is that it creates a unique atmoshpere without having to explain too much; we already know what a Wicked Witch is, but the fact that it’s now more or less an official job is what makes it funny.

The world of Castle Hangnail is insanely entertaining and even cleverly self-aware, as can be seen through the little tidbits of information sprinkled between the pages. It never over-explains anything, but from time to time, it adds things like “Pins, the walking, talking ragdoll, wasn’t made by Voodoo, which is actually a very interesting religion. Nobody knew where he came from”, and then proceeds to tell us increasingly ludicrous things about him that never explain where he camef rom, but give your imagination a shot of adrinaline to figure it out yourself. It’s just a lot of fun.

What’s also a lot of fun are the characters. Castle Hangnail provides us with a full cast of wacky characters, ranging from Majordomo, the oldest and most serious staff member and who looks back fondly on the Mad Scientist who let a hamster eat his (Majordomo’s) brain, to Serenissima, a half-human half-Djin part-mermaid smoke spirit who is about as melodramatic as me, to Cook, a minotaur who cooks deliciously, has cooked one of her past husbands, and hates the letter Q.

Molly herself, our main character, is also very likeable. She is the ‘bad twin’; her sister being the good twin that she despises (in a very sisterly ‘nobody but me gets to call her stupid’ kinda way), and is an aspiring Wicked Witch. Molly is very self-conscious, but also determined to become better at magic and to work hard for Castle Hangnail and her friends. Her hardworking nature and stubbornness are what keeps the plot moving, helped along by the occassional plot-related coincidence. She is earnest, nice, enthousiastic about everything, and I love her. I. Love. Her. Openly admitting my biases here.

So, to summarize: a wacky world and wacky characters, with a very likable main character to boot. What’s not to like?

The plot.

It’s honestly been a while since I’ve seen a plot so unfocused. During the first half of the story, the book consists mostly of mini-arcs where Molly attempts to solve the various Tasks of the Board of Magic requires her to do. These are all fairly entertaining, but have little relevance to the actual plot that rears its head about halfway through.

Halfway through, the Evil Sorceress that Molly’s impersonating, Eudaimonia, decides to show up. This takes up the rest of the book and is mostly consistent in its plot. However, the Sorceress herself is grossly underdeveloped (Vernon tries to give her a semi-sad backstory. She doesn’t succeed), and I had already figured out what all of the foreshadowing in the first half was going to lead to in the end. I won’t spoil anything, but I’ll just say that I was right. It was really obvious.

But what really got me was how... seperated it felt from the first half. I guess it was just too different in tone and focus. It felt more like a sequel than a second half, and it really bugged me.

What I did like about the second half, however, was the surprisingly serious plotline that came with it. Eudaimonia (this isn’t really a spoiler; you’ll figure it out in three seconds flat) was emotionally abusive towards Molly (constantly putting her down, undermining her self-confidence, etc. She was also gaslighting her, or doing something very similar at the very least). Instead of brushing over this, it has a profound effect on Molly’s character throughout the entire book, and she works through the after-effects in the second half! There’s even some very nice parallels with some of Majordomo’s previous experiences. Like. Wow. I am by no means an authority on these kinds of issues, but I think that the fact that they were properly discussed in a childeren’s book is very important, and from what I can tell, it was handled with respect. This doesn’t often happen, and I’m glad that it did here.

All in all, Castle Hangnail is a fun book with interesting characters and a creative world, but with an unfocused and predictable plot.

I recommend reading Castle Hangnail if:

You are looking for something relaxing and fun.

You are looking for something with a likable female main character, but not too much plot

You are like slice-of-life fantasy and can deal with unfocused plots

You liked Howl’s Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones (seriously. I’m getting so much of the same vibes) and are looking for something similar.

I do not recommend reading Castle Hangnail if:

You are looking for a book with a cohesive/good plot

You are the type to become annoyed by unfocused plots

You dislike reading books obviously written for children

You are easily triggered by emotional abuse and/or gaslighting

You are allergic to cute

#Castle Hangnail #Ursula Vernon #Letters Reviews Things #Review #Emotional Abuse //#Gaslighting //#Well at least I think so #Better safe than sorry

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