#this is what we're doing now

[sapphire-weapon]

anyway, so --

[nightmarebunarts]

I was really going to only romance halsin this time but by god Je'La and Astarion are actually adorable together and I cannot split them up so throuple it is.

[finxwrites]

A bard makes his own luck. It’s not quite pithy enough to be a saying, but Eddie says it all the time anyway, because none of the fancier variants he’s come up with cut so cleanly to the heart of the matter.

Some of them do let him imply he’s got luck magic, though, or saints on his side. That can be pretty fun. Demons on his side, too, which can be even more fun. Which one is more dangerous tends to come down to what the locals count as blasphemy in whatever corner of the world he finds himself in, but learning to read the room for that is part of the game.

And it’s part of what he means. Eddie knows better than most what actually goes into a magic trick, and he knows that it’s only one part trickery to ten parts sheer panache. If you know how to hold an audience in the palm of your hand, you really can spin luck out of thin air.

But not in the literal sense. As becomes painfully apparent when he’s hauled before the magistrate for the murder of a girl whose death he cannot explain without sounding like he’s gone mad, or like he really does commune with devils. He does his best, pouring out pleas and assurances and reminders that he’s known here, he’s played in this town plenty of times before, he’s not a killer, he’s never hurt a fly. He does his best, but the magistrate remains coldly suspicious, and the sympathy of the crowd is tempered by uncertainty. One of his accusers is a knight. He’d need a lot more than luck to get himself out of this one.

The magistrate might even be a fair man, because he waits until Eddie’s started to repeat himself before raising his gavel. Eddie’s heart leaps into his throat, briefly strangling his words, at the sudden swooping knowledge that this is it, his chances are through, his luck has run out.

A young voice cries out, “Wait!” 

Every head in the courtroom turns, like this is a play. Dustin stands silhouetted in the open door. Lucas is next to him, hands on his knees, panting like he’s run a marathon. 

Dustin doesn’t waste a moment. He races to the front of the room and launches right into an impassioned defense, swearing that there’s no way Eddie could have done this, no one can even place him at the scene of the crime, he has no reason to want Lady Christine dead and no history of violence—

He goes on a while. It’s really sweet. Eddie’s heart swells a bit. He’s glad he has at least one friend in this shitty town, even if it’s a kid who’s only here for the jousting tournament and who’s only actually known Eddie for…what, four weeks altogether? Stretched over several months of running into each other along the tournament circuit, because for all Eddie disdains the violent sports of his so-called betters, he can’t deny there’s good money in following them around and pandering to their crowds.

Two friends, he amends, as Lucas regains his breath and joins in. He’d honestly kind of wondered if he’d find Lucas among his accusers. Lately it seems like every time Eddie’s seen him, he’s been hanging around Sir Carver. 

Well, he probably won’t be doing that anymore, if the blistering glares Carver is shooting Lucas’s way are anything to go by. At least Eddie’s wrongful death will be good for something.

The magistrate tries to cut Dustin off at least five times, but Dustin is a force of nature. So the magistrate is as startled as anyone when Dustin catches sight of someone at the door and falls suddenly silent. 

Once again, every head turns. Dustin looks so hopeful and relieved that Eddie’s heart rises in his chest in spite of himself. 

Only to come crashing down in baffled disappointment when Lord Steven Harrington, heir to the duchy of Hawk’s Grace, strides in like he owns the place.

Eddie’s higher cognitive function is replaced by a looping refrain of what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. He watches in stunned incomprehension as Harrington flashes an easy smile at the magistrate and another at Carver and his little posse without breaking stride. Mike and Max trot in on Harrington’s heels, compounding Eddie’s bewilderment.

What is he doing here? Hawk’s Grace is over a hundred miles away! He can’t be here for the tournament, can he? Harrington was tournament champion three years running, but it’s been two years since he’s been seen in the lists, and he’s definitely not competing this year. Eddie would have heard of it.

Even more mystifying, and a fair bit more pressing, what is he doing at Eddie’s trial?

Harrington reaches the front of the room and cants a disdainful look at Eddie. He sighs, shakes his head in disappointment—it’s almost theatrical. Eddie’s pretty sure Harrington has never so much as glanced his way before today, not once in all the years of tournaments. Eddie would be offended—who saunters into a courtroom just to be rude to the doomed defendant?—but his higher cognitive function hasn’t come back yet.

Harrington greets the magistrate, who responds with bemused politeness. He clearly has no idea what the hell is going on either. Max and Mike have taken up positions behind Harrington and slightly to either side, like they’re squires attending their knight-master. Harrington ignores them as if this happens every day. And then he says, all aggrieved and apologetic, “Sorry I’m late, your honor. What is my man being accused of, exactly?”

If Eddie wasn’t already gaping like a beached fish, that would have done it. He made a weird little gasping noise as he tried to draw breath and failed, because apparently it was no longer just his higher cognitive function that had flatlined.

No one notices. The whole room is riveted by the spectacle of a ducal heir claiming responsibility for an accused murderer. Even the magistrate sounds a bit strangled as he asks, “Your man?”

“My herald,” Harrington says, blithely unconcerned. “I hear there’s been some confusion about a murdered woman?”

[maeamian]

Part of the reason that Republicans are so desperately acting like they will never lose again is because they are deeply terrified that this is their last real chance to win. The big orange dipshit came in and gutted the party of everyone who wasn't a loyalist, which left it full of nasty little gremlins who have gaping voids where charisma and human decency is supposed to go.

They still hold a lot of power, but if we stop them this year the next presidential election may not be the Most Important One Of Your Life™, that's not a guarantee or anything, but if they don't win here and now their future looks grim, this dipshit is the only guy they have left and he's extremely diminished and has his brains leaking out of his ears at this point. We can beat him into the ground.

So that's what we're gonna fucking do. We're gonna break these fucking fash. They will crash upon us and we're gonna break their fucking necks. When they come for us they will lose because they're fucking losers and we have each other's backs which is something they fundamentally are incapable of comprehending.

[amelie-isnt-french]

Protocol is actually just us Magnus Archives fans rapidly descending into s2-Jon-levels of paranoia. Granted, just like s2 Jon, we have reason to be paranoid, but it's still hilarious to see us all collectively scaling the walls of our enclosure while frothing at the mouth over our theories.

Jonny and Alex are playing us like a cheap harmonica and I'm so here for it

[aeide-thea]

on principle opposed to describing art i dislike as 'masturbatory' because even though it's an alluringly contemptuous word to sneer it's impossible to reconcile with my pro-masturbation stance

[copia]

"It. Is. Going great, now. Innit."

PAPA EMERITUS IV and SISTER IMPERATOR in RITE HERE RITE NOW (with ASHLEY MCBRIDE and KEVIN "JESUS" KAUFMANN)

[hellmandraws]

I, for one, am looking forward to Viking Piece.

[gloriousmonsters]

love when you can ask the Narrator why the Princess is a Princess and he's like 'well i uhhhh YOU did that. maybe it's because uh... something something about her being above you... but still approachable... look i don't want to analyze or anthropomorphize your--' my guy. i am a primal being of Order and Eternity and Shaping. You're the one who convinced me I was some dude and were quite willing to take credit for shaping my view on the world through narration five seconds ago. Are you gonna look me in the eye and tell me the desire to interpret something worthy of adoration and more powerful than me as a dommy princess is written in the very nature of the universe or are you going to show me your browser history like a man

[vwoop-prince]

YJ S3 Dick, still in the midst of his fever dream, hides underneath the 'souvenir' instead of behind some boxes, and accidentally opens the airlock trying to take care of the Parademons. The others get it to close... but not before Nightwing is thrown into space.

There, he stares at the ship holding his friends and mentors. There, he wishes more than anything that he can, somehow, survive. There, he tries to live, if only so his family don't have to bury him like Jason.

There, Nightwing dies, wanting to save everyone, even with the cold seeping into his bones far too quickly for a regular section of space.

Then, Dick opens his eyes to... Earth? There's a little house, and grass, and trees, but there's a bubble of green over it all. Outside of that green was an entire castle, one that looked like it should have far more support beams than it does for even a hope that it stays standing.

And the sky was swirling shades of that same green. It makes him think of Lazarus.

"Well, that's something you don't see every day." He whips his head behind him, a bit too fast for Earth's atmosphere, but it doesn't hurt him. Past the bubble of green was a blue-skinned adult in purple robes, the insides of a grandfather-clock fitted inside their torso, and a black staff with a stopwatch on its top. Beside them was a man with snow white hair, glowing green eyes, a crown of frozen fire dancing above his head, and the most galaxy-like cloak Dick's ever seen clasped to his shoulders. He's wearing... a hazmat suit? Maybe? The twinkling stars and odd lighting of wherever he is were giving him a bit of a headache.

But in front of those two, within this bubble, was...

"DICK!" Wally shouted with unrestrained glee, a blur overtaking his spot for barely a heartbeat before Dick's stuck in a crushing hug that he reciprocates once his brain stops feeling like its melting.

He doesn't know how long it took for them to calm down, but the man with the crown spoke up after a time, as Wally was still wiping their faces free of tears. "Welcome to the Infinite Realms, Nightwing." Dick barely even registered that he was still wearing his suit, but now it felt suffocating. "I suppose you're the one Clockwork was holding out for; There shouldn't've been enough Ectoplasm around you to form a Ghost, and your physical body's still in space. I can see why you like this one, though, Clockie," he states flippantly, turning to his companion. Almost like he didn't expect Dick to pay too close attention to what he was saying.

"Either way, there's two options for you." The man didn't let Dick swallow his tears and question anything. Dick's not sure if he's grateful or not. "First: Stay in the Realms permanently. You'll see Kid Flash whenever you want and learn to be a Ghost with the denizens of the Realms. Maybe find your parents."

"But..." Dick pulls away from Wally, keeping him at arms length, eyes flitting between them. The two outside the bubble were distinctly... ghost-like, so the mentions of 'Ghosts' make sense. But Wally looked... alive. A bit pale, a bit thin... but alive. Dick can't see any of his own skin to see if it was blue or tinted that way, but the Nightwing symbol on his chest kept flickering between its own blue and this 'Realms' green. "But--What about the others? What about you? Why can't you come home?" The last two, he focuses on Wally, because now he can feel a heartbeat beneath his gloves. Wally's alive. He's alive.

His friend just shrugs. "Something about their portals not fit for the living? I'm meant to wait for someone to figure out a permanent portal, but they won't tell me how long that'll take." Wally glares at the... 'Ghosts'? There was a heat to it, but it also seemed like this was a well-worn argument.

"The permanent portal was always an 'if', Wallace West. And that is entirely dependent on if Richard Grayson takes the second option," the clock Ghost--Clockwork?--speaks up. But instead of the adult Dick was expecting, there was an elderly Ghost in their place. Still with the time motif. Was that... more literal than Dick took it?

"Yes, the second option..." The crowned man glares daggers at Clockwork. The temperature dips below comfortable. Dick tries to blink the spaceship and stars out of his sight, withdrawing his arms from Wally to try and warm himself. Tries to remember he's not in space. "The second option is that you return to your body... changed. You'll be able to protect Earth better, stay with your alive family, save the Lost Ones... for a price."

Dick doesn't know if he should ignore the plural in 'Lost Ones'. He doesn't know if he's reading too much into how, in this Realm, apparently only his parents were able to be found. Where's Jason? He doesn't dare hope, but...

"What's the price?"

The man smiles and a ring of blue forms around his waist. It splits in two and travels up and down his body, replacing the cloak and whatever clothes he was actually wearing with a NASA shirt, worn jeans, and red sneakers actually duct taped together. The blue tint to his otherwise tan skin fades completely. His hair turns black. His eyes turn blue.

He was like a taller, slightly slimmer, way hotter version of Bruce.

The man walks through the bubble, but doesn't disturb the grass beneath his feet. "You become the Ghost King's vassal." Dick flinches away and almost hides behind Wally. "Not my idea! But, well... it is either this, or your permanent death."

"What does becoming a vassal do to him?" Wally asks, gently trying to stop Dick from breaking his ribs with how tightly he was hugging himself. Does he even have ribs?

"He gains my powers. Ice, electricity, invisibility, intangibility, flight... He becomes a Halfa. He becomes what I was, in life. Just... needing to make offerings to me, now and then. Something like that, at least. I give him powers, he gives me a chunk of, I don't know, chocolate once a week. Like a warlock."

Wally keeps talking to the man, keeps getting information that he knows he should pay attention to, but something in his chest screams to accept this deal, and he can't focus on anything else.

Nightwing can protect. He can return to life and go back to Blüdhaven, be the Vigilante they need. He can visit Gotham every now and then, help with cases and stop criminals from harming others. He can see his brother. He can see his friends. He can eat Alfred's cookies, and have little get-togethers with Babs and the Team--hell, he can argue with Bruce.

And all he has to do is... give an offering to this guy? The Ghost King? Every once in a while?

"There's no other price?" The King turns his attention to Dick. His eyes had shifted to a blue-green that almost hypnotize him. The green swirls, the blue forms and melts like snowflakes, and he can't look away.

He takes another step forward and Wally steps to the side. There was familiarity between them. Wally deferred to him. Dick can't quite tell why. Though, with how Wally hasn't once looked at Clockwork, maybe it's because he's... grounded? Are all speedsters in trouble with, what, the Ghost of Time? That... actually makes perfect sense.

"I'll be honest, Nightwing: You've impressed me." The weight behind the King's words lifts the ones that've been on his shoulders since he was nine. "You remind me of myself. Maybe, if I wasn't a Halfa... If I had a mentor... I could've been like you.

"Despite Clockwork's insistence over the years that I get back in touch with the living, I've held off. When he eventually suggested that I help create another Halfa, I locked him in his tower for twenty years. I didn't want anyone to go through what I had. But, now... I see that you won't. You can't. Even if you hide this deal--our shared powers... You'll still have people by your side. Strong people. Smart people. You can already handle yourself. And I'd love to see what you can do--who you can save--with my help."

There was maybe two inches between their faces when the King finishes speaking. Dick roves his eyes across the other's face, trying to find the common and familiar ticks that show lies and deceit and manipulation. All he finds is sincerity and genuine care.

Wally plays with his fingers from the corner of his eye, gaze hopeful as he looks between the two of them. Wally, who was alive and breathing and able to leave if he accepts. Eventually. Somehow.

Dick Grayson sends a quiet apology to his parents and hopes they will forgive him for being a little bit selfish.

"I accept."

He flings his eyes open. Above him, domino mask too wobbly to be properly secured anymore, was Robin crying and begging him to wake up. His hands were sloppily placed over his heart. Batman was trying to drag him away, the firm set of his jaw screaming grief.

Nightwing gasps once he registers his lungs burning.

There's a large cacophony of noise, multiple bright suits and people hounding over him, and the distinct artificial taste of slightly-too-much oxygen that the ship with the Parademons had. That he flew out of and died. He was still too cold.

Someone moves their arm beneath his knees and shoulder and Dick passes out.

(Dick 'Nightwing' Grayson dies in space. Ghost King Danny Phantom likes this too-human Hero. They split their souls in half, take one piece of the others, and all they know is that Phantom is now Nightwing's Patron Deity. Danny uses ice, for electricity killed him. Dick uses electricity, for ice killed him. They are opposites, and yet so incredibly similar. Clockwork was looking forward to when Danny starts putting off his paperwork to hang out with his new 'friend'.)

[greater-than-the-sword]

Legislative agenda:

Limit car headlight brightness to an amount recommended by eye doctors and traffic safety experts

Replace all prison lights with light posts that have caps

Cap all stadium lighting

Replace all public streetlights with warm colored lights

Limit brightness of all outdoor LED's (likely to a similar amount of lumens as the car headlights were limited to)

Create biannual event where city owned lights, including streetlights, and all businesses over 50 employees MUST turn their lights off for a dark sky night

maybe: Require all unoccupied parking lots turn off their lights 10PM-5AM

Proposed benefits:

Tourism

Education

Boost interest in the sciences and arts

Mental health

Physical health (eye disorders and reduction of sleep disorders)

Increased productivity of workers due to reduction of sleep disorders

The human experience

Eco friendly (Benefits animals)

Eco friendly (saves energy)

Cons:

Criminals target dark parking lots

Rebuttal:

Criminals can't target dark parking lots if they're all equally dark

[daily-sifloop]

Stargazing? ✨

Day 10: looking for your star

[theresoneicouldcallking]

at this point i just imagine how, as soon as ABC adopted 911, one of the writers went over to their head office, burst into the meeting room, took over their screens and was like

"HERE'S A 100 PAGE POWER POINT PRESENTATION WHY BUCK IS QUEER, AND WHY HIM AND EDDIE SHOULD BECOME CANON."

followed by them dumping a 10-foot binder at their feet "just in case you weren't paying attention."

and then somehow, ABC went;

"... sure."

[unproduciblesmackdown]

Lackadaisy Enrichment