#wayward guide theory

[heylittleriotact]

*banging pots and pans* Come get your angst! Delicious, heart wrenching Emmrook angst!

𝑀𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒷𝓊𝓃𝒹

adjective

1. near death

2.  stagnant; without force or vitality

One of us needs to consider my mortality.

Had he known what would happen hours later, he would have chosen very different words indeed.

It was a foolish assertion in hindsight - a weak argument and he knew it: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s.

A study of Emmrich's perspective after Rook goes missing: we get to bear witness to a scruffy, smelly, devastated man up to his neck in self-loathing, as well as the spirits that help him.

Contains heavy Act 3 spoilers - proceed at your own risk!

Full under the cut or on ao3

Day 0:

It was extremely unorthodox thinking - there was no evidence or theory supporting any circumstance where it might work: without a body on this side of the Veil to serve as a ballast, it was wishful thinking at best, but he had to try. Not trying meant accepting, and he refused to accept that she was gone - lost forever to the Dread Wolf’s prison. Not with their exchange from the night before being what it was…

That couldn’t be the end. 

He excused himself curtly from the others upon their arrival back at the Lighthouse, expertly sidestepping any inquiries after his own wellbeing that followed him doggedly until they were silenced by the laboratory door slamming shut behind him. Might he have come off as callous? Perhaps. Did he care? Not presently. The time for contrition would come later.

Questions lingered about the specifics of what had happened, but it was easy enough to infer by the fact that Solas walked free and Amina had seemingly vanished from existence, she had been made to take his place in the prison he’d been trapped in. Solas had been able to survive there in that pocket of the Fade, so that meant that Amina could too… for a time at least, if not indefinitely. 

He was going to get her out. 

But first…

He stood in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in, holding it… then slowly letting it go in a measured, disciplined exhalation that helped to slow his racing heart as he forced his body back into a state of calm: no mean feat when one comprehended the heaviness of the air as it pressed in around him, the tragic gravity of his task weighing on him.

He lifted his hands, felt the comforting susurrations of the Veil playing over, through, between his fingers as he trailed them through seemingly empty space: a lonely conductor at the podium, leading an invisible orchestra… the melancholy composer of a poignant dirge. 

Threads unravelled with the morose, introspective swell of a cello’s baleful hum, and the vast mystery of Beyond sang to him, a faceless, nebulous chorus of voices, ageless and legion. Some were joyful, others despondent, but they all maintained a pristine harmony that would cause even the most cruel and unfeeling of souls to take pause for the sheer perfection of their sound.

He swallowed away the tightness in his throat. Forced strength into his craven voice. Focused on the familiar verdant light that filtered through his eyelids. 

“Hear me, Amina - with my voice I am calling you!” He sent the words beyond the Veil, where no one may ever hear them again. “I set this beacon for you now: a beacon that will guide you home. Follow my voice. Follow me home: we are waiting for you…. I am waiting for you.” 

With a gesture of his hand that would look very complicated to anyone observing, he tethered the invisible line he had cast into the Fade to the only body in the room: his. Traditionally this particular spell was called upon to guide wayward spirits back to their hosts, or in rare cases, draw the spirit of a dying person back from the Fade before it was too late to resuscitate them. That anchor point in the world of the living was vital for the magic to work, but since Amina left behind no body, Emmrich could only live in hope that her spirit was as tightly bound to him as he suspected his was to her. 

It was likely folly: what affection could survive his cowardice? His preening ignorance? His vainglorious proclivity for driving something away as transcendentally pure as love itself?

But he had to try: at the very least she could live to despise him for the rest of her days. 

The green light faded as his hands stilled and the notes of the symphony resolved. Silence returned so harshly it physically hurt. He opened his eyes and clasped his hands together as he so often did. 

“I need you, dear…”

Perhaps she would hear that too. 

Day 2: 

He was awake well into the early morning hours communing with the dead, listening through the Veil for a whisper, a rumour - any rumblings amongst the spirits that would avail him of his darkest thoughts: even confirmation that she was alive would be enough. 

The spirits were indeed talkative, but not a single one seemed aware of the presence of a mortal woman in their realm.

He wept for the first time that morning as her absence in its totality hit him all at once - the first of many times that tears would be shed in the coming days as he curled around her scent-heavy pillow on the settee in her room. 

The couch which ordinarily felt rather cramped when they both shared it now seemed devastatingly wide and empty without her tangled up in him, giggling softly as she slotted her thigh between his and slipped a hand up the back of his shirt to shock him with the coldness of it against his skin.

Gone. She was gone, and it was entirely his doing…

Day 4:

It had taken precisely eight words to destroy everything, as Johanna’s remains were so eager to point out before he had her temporarily removed to a quiet alcove elsewhere in the Lighthouse. It was an astute observation, and he couldn’t find it within himself to offer a rebuttal to her further assessment that he was a ridiculous gloating twat with a truly awe-inspiring gift for cataclysmically fucking things up for every single poor soul that happened to cross paths with him.

One of us needs to consider my mortality. 

Had he known what would happen hours later, he would have chosen very different words indeed.

It was a foolish assertion in hindsight - a weak argument and he knew it: Amina was always considering mortality. His, hers, and everyone else’s. If life was a sentence in a book, death was simply the appropriate punctuation that marked the end of it: without it, the sentence lost all of its weight and meaning. 

She always spoke so romantically about the inevitability of that final mystery - the peace and freedom from pain and fear that would come with it, and the comforting guarantee of an end in a world where one could seldom rely on the guarantee of anything: food, fortune… love. To her, it was part of a treasured natural order, responsible for everything from the stars in the sky to the worms in the dirt. She was enchanted by mortality… he loathed it.

He dragged his hands through his greasy hair, hunched over an old and fragile tome.A tear splashed on the page, and not wanting to damage the delicate paper even in this state, he wiped it away.

His eyes itched and felt swollen - he didn’t need to look in a mirror to know they were bloodshot from long hours of focusing on print, missed sleep, and periodic bouts of pain and regret that would descend upon him like some great, vicious bird of wrath. It ravaged him with its talons and plucked at his insides with its wicked beak, discarding his guts methodically as it rooted around inside of him for its favored meats: his liver and his kidneys - bloody and succulent. His heart was left untouched by the cruel raptor… it wanted him to feel everything, and he welcomed its agonizing ministrations as he toiled endlessly, trying to find a way to fix his mistake. 

It was his mistake after all. 

“It wasn’t your fault!” Neve had insisted the first time he dared to speak the truth aloud. 

A thoughtful sentiment, but worthless when held up to the light: he had instructed Amina to seize the dagger from Ghilan’nain’s corpse, and she obeyed without question because she trusted him implicitly.

He had been told after the collapse that the death of his parents wasn’t his fault either - as if that was of any real comfort to a traumatized child, newly orphaned and numb with grief. 

Of course it wasn’t his fault - even as a young boy he knew the catastrophic failure of the building wasn’t his doing, but people said ignorant things when they didn’t know what else to say. Things that took root in the heart of a young man, replacing his grief over the years with a solemn and defiant indignance: ‘it wasn’t your fault,’ ‘it was the Maker’s will,’ ‘they’re in a better place now,’ ‘at least they didn’t suffer…’

Why would the benevolent and loving Maker will that a small child should be made to grow up without the love and protection of his Mother and Father? What divine goodness was there in stripping him of that and forcing him to carry the burden of their fates for the rest of his life?

Did people really put any thought to the shallow platitudes they babbled to fill space and tidily rationalize that which is utterly and completely irrational? Or was it merely a performance to give the one who offered them some measure of absolution - a sense that they’ve done the ‘right’ and ���helpful’ thing in such a circumstance, when in fact they’ve unknowingly heaped another layer of despair on top of an already smothering, lonely mound of it?

Dizzying, petulant questions he had pondered for years… bitter, angry little things that buzzed around his head like grave-flies: when one died, three more seemed to take its place. 

A small, dark part of him - a squirming, fanged thing with gnashing teeth and a tongue like a wooden switch had been sorely tempted to enlighten Neve to the futility of her words… perhaps subject her to what would come across as an overly curt and somewhat sardonic lecture on what one might instead choose to say to a bereaved person that wasn’t the verbal equivalent of spitting in a wound and rubbing salt in it. He might have made her cry, and he would have felt shameful for it later, but in the moment he would have taken what glee he could find in the seed of misery he planted in the world.

Instead he stuffed that wicked, bristling, fanged shade of himself away and reminded himself that Neve was grieving too… as were the rest of them. Not only was Rook gone, but Harding had bravely given her life to defeat Ghilan’nain. Bellara had been captured by the enemy, her fate unknown…

The Lighthouse had taken on the solemn stillness of a mourning parlor, and he should have been the most understanding and compassionate among them of their shared sorrow. He should have been helping them:  shepherding them ably through the tribulations and challenging waves of emotion they would grapple with over the days and weeks to come like he was solemnly sworn to do, but he couldn’t… not when his every thought was occupied by her and the sheer, unrelenting compulsion to right this wrong: he was responsible for her being caught in Solas’ trap - it fell to him to get her out. 

Her hips swayed with her familiar feminine gait as she strolled away from him in a memory, and her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a messy knot… she was breathtakingly radiant in the morning.

He never got to tell her that every morning he got to spend with her - disheveled, heavy-eyed, and often in a state of partial undress - was more precious than life itself to him. He never got to tell her how much he admired her maturity and well-organized mind, because the truth of it was that despite his enviable list of accomplishments and considerable years of experience, Amina possessed an enterprising bravery he knew could not be learned from a book. 

Before the day ended he called through the Veil to her again, and as it had each time, the echo of his words came back empty.

“Oh darling…” He said to the absolute silence of the laboratory. “I’m so sorry.” 

Just like Neve, he knew she’d tell him it wasn’t his fault.

Day 7: 

He had been immersed in the dagger: the act of shaping the raw shard of lyrium into something deliberate and precise. It hung in the air, rotating slowly as he manipulated the Veil around it, giving the material form and purpose. Solas’s dagger was the key to the prison, and he had reclaimed it when he freed himself. Rather than wasting valuable time trying to get it back, it had been communally decided that attempting to duplicate it would be a wiser course of action. Letting Amina go - abandoning her to her fate - was no more of an option for their companions than it was for Emmrich.

He had thrown himself into the work - it gave him purpose and an outlet for the despair that threatened to overwhelm him when his hands and mind stilled for too long.

It was momentum. A direction. 

“Pondering, planning, praying–”

Emmrich nearly leapt out of his skeleton - the shard of lyrium clattered to the workbench. He put out his hand to keep it from bouncing over the edge and shattering on the floor. 

“Never a man of faith - but what else is there to turn to when reason has fled? ‘Please keep her safe.’ Words whispered through a curtain of song: ‘Darling, come home.’”

He took a breath and turned around, finding himself face to face with a spectral woman with ragged, dirty hair and a tattered, stained gown. Her translucent, faintly glowing form was in an advanced state of decomposition: her tongue dangled morbidly from her mouth, attached by the smallest scrap of connective tissue. Her skin was mottled and discoloured and sagged tenuously from the outline of her skull. He could see all of her teeth - not due to a smile or a snarl, but because her lips had dehydrated and withered away.

A rather unusual form for a spirit of this variety to take, he decided. It was a blessing she decided to manifest here in the laboratory and not Taash’s room - she would have given them quite a fright. 

But was he truly so wretched that he had drawn Yearning to this place?

The spirit seemed to pick up on his moment of self-pity and it stiffened slightly, smoothing its decayed hands over the skirt of its ruined dress as it tossed what remained of its hair testily. 

“At least there exists one Watcher who can identify me correctly.” Her voice was an autumn breeze, sharp and stinging. 

He examined her closer, lifted a hand and felt her aura tingle against the bare skin of his palm. “Oh, my apologies,” he pulled the hand back and twined his fingers together in front of himself. “Devotion. I’m humbled by your presence given the circumstances. It couldn’t be that you’ve heard anything in the rippling currents of the Fade?”

“No.” The answer was abrupt but not unkind - the spirit did not dally with unnecessary semantics. “The Lost Watcher is hidden from all but the oldest and most sensitive of us, but she is a being of unique substance and did a great service and kindness unto me once - as she has done for many before me.”

Though the sting that came with confirmation that she was deeply, deeply hidden in the Fade hurt, he couldn’t help but be warmed with a sense of pride by the reminder that his Amina was a champion for spirits like Devotion and had spent her life aiding such beings… a fact that was clearly known amongst spiritkind. 

Glowing green eyes landed on the rough likeness of the dagger on the workbench. “I have heard of you, Professor Volkarin. The others whisper of you even in the deepest halls of the Necropolis as I soothe their loneliness and seek to mend that which has broken them. I would not have found them if not for her.”

He’d heard rumours months earlier of a spirit that had manifested in the deepest, most rarely travelled corridors of the Necropolis. Despite its lesser classification it allegedly sought out the maligned and tormented and cared for them stalwartly with a dedication that was nothing short of admirable. If Amina had been the one responsible for it manifesting in the Necropolis in the first place…

Another thing added to the ever-growing list of things he wanted to ask about - there were so many stories he wanted to hear… but he wanted to hear them from her.

“I will remain here with you, Corpse Whisperer while you toil to reunite with your beloved. I cannot do much, but I can keep the likes of Sorrow and Diffidence at bay, for they are drawn to your labours as I was. Work, Watcher… and I will keep you safe.” 

Day 11:

Was she even still alive? The thought burst into his mind unbidden, taking immediate precedence over the words he was half trying to read. Had she languished away by now, her mortal body incapable of sustaining itself in a prison designed for immortal gods? Beyond the need for obvious necessities like food and water, what horrors lurked in that place as retribution for the sins of the gods? Could she defend herself indefinitely? And if she had died, were those final moments peaceful: the welcoming of the sunset at the end of a long day? Or were they desperate seconds that stretched into eternity as she realized her impending and unavoidable demise, her entire being gripped with loneliness and terror as life slipped from her grasp like the finest grains of sand…

“No.” The assertion possessed defiance he didn’t think he was capable of. “I cannot think like that.”

She isn’t dead… she can’t be dead for the simple fact that there’s so much I have yet to say to her…

Denial, this was called, and it was a common coping mechanism amongst the bereaved. The mind was tremendously skilled at protecting itself during times of immense emotional and psychological strain. Comforting rationale would parse itself into a neatly packaged alternative that was easier to confront than the truth - a temporary neurological repair not meant to last forever, but rather allow one to withstand the immediate shock of a loss. But was he suffering the rigors of grief, or was he on the right path with his stubborn refusal to accept anything that didn’t result in Amina warm and safe and alive in his arms?

Did he even deserve her back after how he’d treated her? 

Devotion was a welcome companion and had been a tremendous balm to his soul with its presence alone, but as hours drained away and days seemingly raced past, it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the mounting odds that there may not be a favourable outcome to this problem. 

He heaved a sigh and straightened in his chair, his spine protesting at the sudden shift in positioning. He ran a hand pensively over his chin as he stared at the pages upon pages of notes, figures, and calculations before him, decently lengthy stubble rasping against his palm. He normally wouldn’t be caught dead with even a day’s growth shading his jaw, but these were extenuating circumstances indeed. That’s what he told himself at least - the truth was that he couldn’t bear to look himself in the mirror for the guilt he carried. 

He could have just ignored it - that persistent tightness in his chest that forecasted the all-encompassing terror that would consume him in short order, stampeding through his body and reducing him to a shivering, clammy skinned likeness of a man. He could have done the intelligent thing and kept it to himself instead of trying to appease it by feeding it more pain. But no. He was Emmrich Volkarin - a smart man; an overachiever; an academic and philosophical force of nature - he knew what was best for him in that moment… and what was best for her, because for all of her quaint cheerful talk about death over breakfast, she hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about, and honestly, that pointy, vile little part of himself that he kept shackled with clever repartee and gentlemanly manners wanted to break that naive innocence.

So he bit. He lashed out like one of the dirty, malnourished, terrified strays that scurried between the narrow gaps of the crumbling buildings in the part of the capital that he called home in his youth. His brittle fangs caught skin and drew blood as he called her age and maturity into question, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone hunted him down and put him out of his misery - too dangerous, you see: the world has no need for a creature prone to such violence, even if it was shaped by its circumstances…

Perhaps he belonged in that prison with the gods. Perhaps the Maker had seen fit to free his parents from him: if they were dead, they no longer had to deal with the burden of a third mouth to feed while earning enough gold to maybe sustain one. Perhaps death had been freedom and relief for Rupert and Elannora Volkarin, because there was something wrong with little Emmrich, and it was in everyone’s best interests that he was alone. Perhaps the Maker looked upon Amina with that same kindness and called her away too, not willing to subject this kind, lonely woman to the wrongness that was Emmrich, and his carefully crafted palisade of goodwill that could only temporarily conceal the utter rot that dwelled beyond it. 

He stared sullenly at the now room temperature bowl of roasted tomato soup Lucanis had brought him hours earlier. He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d eaten. Maybe a handful of the spicy peppermint candies that Amina was so taken with. Shortly after she started spending more and more time in the laboratory with him, she strutted through the door one day with a bowl full of them that she set on the mantelpiece, declaring that she was tired of going back and forth to her room to get more every time she fancied another. 

He was always telling her that she couldn’t live on mints and needed to eat properly and look after herself. He ought to take his own advice, but the very thought of food only made his already unsettled stomach turn on itself more. 

His eyes returned to the page as he tried and failed to summon the formidable academic concentration that had gotten him this far in life. 

It was so odd how the words on paper kept replacing themselves with the words he should have said to Amina that night instead of hurling insults at her.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…

He sniffled and rubbed his eyes again, wiping away tears with the heels of his hands. He was so tired of crying. He had cried so much already. Couldn’t he be finished with crying?

He knew if he asked her that question, she’d look at him with that serious but perceiving smile of hers… maybe run her hand soothingly down his arm and say, “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, but I’ll keep you company if you’d like: shared sorrow is a halved burden.” 

Fade take him… what a fool he was…

“Professor?” 

Emmrich flinched at the unexpected greeting and looked up. Had Davrin been standing there long? His eyes flicked over to Devotion standing by the door only a few feet from Davrin - it seemed that she was invisible to everyone but himself.

“Davrin,” he put on what he knew to be a cheerful, amiable tone that might have been believable if not for the complete absence of vitality behind it. “What can I help you with?”

He’d spent so much of his life helping the living and the dead to avoid confronting his own horrors… the loss of his parents, his fear of death, the deep and persistent suspicion that he wasn’t worthy of love - why stop now? 

The warden considered him, his handsome face grim and somewhat drawn; that usual fiery spark gone from his warm eyes. Emmrich watched those eyes take note of the untouched tomato soup, then the tear tracks on his gaunt cheeks. “Assan is going stir-crazy, and honestly I think I am too. I thought I’d see if you and Manfred wanted to come for a walk with us. The fresh air and a change of scenery might do you some good… inspire some grand epiphany or whatever you want to call it.”

The mockery of a smile slid off of Emmrich’s face. Davrin surely meant well, but even the fact that he’d asked was yet another painful reminder that she was gone: Amina was the one that usually ventured out with them. “Oh. That’s… that’s very kind of you to offer, Davrin, but I simply haven’t a moment to spare. Every second that passes is precious, and I believe I’m nearing a breakthrough with the tuning of the metaphysical oscillations in the lyrium dagger… I dare not walk away now.” 

It was a blatant and terrible lie: the dagger was on the other side of the room on his workbench where it had sat untouched for two days. Despite this, Davrin seemed to possess the decency to pretend he bought the falsehood. 

“You’re always on her case about taking care of herself - maybe consider taking your own advice, Emmrich: you can’t find a way to bring her back if you’re dead.” 

There was truth in the warden’s words that echoed his own thoughts, but Emmrich struggled to feel inspired by them. 

If he had been the one to retrieve the dagger instead, he could be the one to die alone in the Fade, and she would still be here… safe. Broken hearted, surely, but she would have recovered in time…

He bid Davrin farewell and paced over to the workbench, sitting into his hip and wrinkling his nose slightly. He stared at the softly glowing twin of the dagger bound to Amina’s fate. It would not be arrogant to say that it was an impressive fake. He’d never handled the original personally, but he’d watched Amina fidget with it enough that he was confident that he hadn’t overlooked a single seemingly insignificant detail - he was willing to bet that it was identical right down to the weight. 

A shame that a pretty fake was all it would ever be. 

Their plan to duplicate Solas’ dagger had screeched to a gutting halt when it became clear that there existed no means to enchant the dagger such that it would function the same as the original - not without accessing the unique aural resonances of the Fade that remained a mystery to anyone who didn’t happen to be an ancient elf. His theory was that Solas and the evanuris’ connection to the Fade was fundamentally different on a physiological level than that of a modern mortal. Whether that was a byproduct of their spiritual origin, or the result of them manifesting physically millennia earlier, he couldn’t rightly say… all that mattered was that unless he found a way to transform himself into an ancient elf, the dagger would remain as useless as Neve’s platitudes... 

It was a petty, childish fantasy to stare at the dagger and imagine what it would look like buried up to the hilt in Solas’ eye socket, but when he could feel himself becoming overwhelmed with hopelessness and despair, it helped keep him going. 

Few could guess by looking at him, but he was a creature driven by quiet anger: injustices and wrongs, big and small, collected and deliberately curated; claimed with the same detached fascination one might feel when they spot an interesting stone on a riverbank and slip it into their pocket. 

As he amassed success and wealth and renown, he remembered those who had done wrong to himself and others, and he learned how to smile easily at them with warmth and kindness in his eyes as he shook their hands. He even learned to forgive some of them. 

But he never, ever forgot what they were capable of, and he never ever let himself be fooled into believing that they were good and decent people. 

This ire for a spirit was unusual for him, but impossible to let go of: had Solas known? Had he any idea what Amina meant to him? That she was a beloved person, and so much more than the piece on the chessboard that she was named for? Certainly as a spirit Solas would struggle with the seemingly static, immutable nature of people, but that hadn’t been enough to stop him from falling in love with the Inquisitor, had it? He was not so bound to his spiritual nature that the concept of love was beyond him. 

The fact that Solas was originally a spirit and Emmrich was sworn to protect his kind did not excuse him of the fact that he betrayed Amina… perhaps even killed her.

Her. Amina. Rook. The woman he’d known for such a short time, and whom he could no longer imagine life without. He needed her back - was that so hard for Wisdom to comprehend? Life without her was as much a shallow mockery as the dagger he’d crafted. 

He had waited so long for her - all but resigned himself to a life empty of the companionship and love that he craved with a desperation that had hollowed him out over the years, etching unwritten sonnets and love notes into his ribs until he was certain those words would die with him: an epitaph on the monument of his bones. He would take them to his grave where they would desiccate and become dust with him - imbibed and consumed slowly by uncaring, unfeeling time. 

He could have spent their last night together reading those words to her: letting her peel away his flesh and muscle so she could split open his chest and bear sacred witness to every secret hope and abandoned dream. He should have breathed them directly into her lungs between long, hungry kisses that would serve as his confession that the that his sacrosanct duty as a Mourn Watcher was little more than a facade now, for he no longer belonged to the living and the dead: he belonged to her, body and soul… with what life dwelled in his breast and what eternity his soul could endure. 

But he had done none of those things, and he could almost hear the Dread Wolf laughing at what his hesitation had cost him.

All he could do now was keep working… keep trying. Keep thinking. 

Day 15:

In his dream, he found himself in the vast center of nebulous nothing. There was no sky, no ground, no walls. Nothing with which to orientate himself - up, down - such things appeared not to exist here. 

The only other thing occupying it aside from himself was a faintly shimmering golden haze. It stretched into eternity in all directions. Endless. Incomprehensible.

He might have been gripped with terror at the idea of being alone in a place as strange as this, but he knew better than that: he was most certainly not alone. Of course he was terrified, but more awestruck than anything: if this was what he suspected it to be, this was a very, very rare encounter.

“To what do I owe this great honour?” He spoke into the golden eternity.

Two small suns burst into existence before him. They glowed with white hot fire, but radiated only a gentle warmth that permeated every cell of his being. Slowly the miniature stars rotated around each other, and a voice spoke that he perceived not with his ears, but with his soul, the agelessness and sheer power of it driving the breath from his lungs.

“One who has been drawn to this place many a time as I wander to and fro. Were you aware that it was once a refuge for the newly liberated?”

Its voice almost hurt - it felt like it was vibrating through him at such a frequency that it might rip him apart. Not its fault… it was a trait that likely came with being older than measurable time…

“I was aware,” he responded collegially. “It makes sense that such souls would attract Hope.” 

The orbs of light circled each other slowly… passed through one another in a smooth, hypnotizing motion.

“Verily,” it said. “It stood empty and still for a long time, but still I would visit now and again, if only to revisit the memory of that which dwelled here once.”

“And now?”

“A lone spirit called to me without knowing it. By the time I returned, it was gone. I found you in this place instead.”

The lone spirit it spoke of could only be Solas…

“It’s as plain as anything that you are most certainly not Wisdom. There’s a sort of… desperate imprudence about you that gives it away.” The suns stilled for a moment, shivered, and resumed their languid orbit. “So what are you?”

Did Hope just insult him? How unexpected…

“Only a man of little importance on a journey of great urgency.” He felt emboldened, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the spirit’s existence alone that made him feel such a way. “Perhaps you could be of assistance with the matter in question?”

The suns flared slightly, streaks of streaming colour sparking over its surface. His surroundings went slightly rigid, the auric mist prickling his skin. “You carry brittle echoes of death within your spirit. There is bone dust in your lungs. The scent of corpses lingers inside your nose though there are none nearby.”

Emmrich swallowed hard, but remained in place.

“You shepherd the living and the dead towards purpose and convalesce unsettled entities all while fearing your own demise. Despite this you willingly relinquished your only chance to live on in perpetuity - why?”

The immensity of Hope was overwhelming. The fact that a spirit of this magnitude existed was remarkable on its own - the fact that he was conversing with it… unimaginable. But it had asked him a question, and he knew that the manner of his answer was of utmost importance if he was to obtain the aid of this being.

“Because with her I am less afraid to face that fear. It may always hold sway in my heart, but with her beside me, I have hope that all of my days won’t be dark.”

The orbs of light rose and fell… trembled faintly as though excited…

“Fascinating,” it breathed and its air caressed him like a triumphant spring breeze, smelling of honeysuckle and luscious young grass. “I feel the pull of the one that you speak of: she is palpable.”

He was glad to know he and Hope were of the same mind in that respect. 

“The prison she is trapped in is designed specifically to keep me - and others like me - from penetrating its walls, but despair not - you are close to finding the one you seek: there is a ripple in the firmament that you may exploit - a fold in a place of significance to her… a crack.”

Emmrich’s stomach dropped - that could be almost anywhere, and even with a network of eluvians at their disposal…

“The beacon you have set for her is strong and although she cannot hear you, her spirit is joined with yours: look for her in the same place where the initial spark of curious infatuation between you quickened and became flame.”

He looked down at his hand slightly obscured by the actuality of Hope, and turned his mind to the puzzle: was there a single defining moment? Was it a culmination of weeks of stolen glances, shy smiles, and utterly fabricated excuses to find themselves in each other’s proximity once again - innocent and coincidental? 

Yes - there had been a lot of that: dancing around one another politely, both undeniably smitten but neither willing to set aside the consummate professionalism that their vocation burdened them with. 

It could have gone on forever. They might have passed like ships in the night for all their efforts if it weren’t for that one evening that seemed like so many other evenings until it wasn’t: a night of research and reading - both of them hunkered down in the library well past midnight when everyone else had retired. 

The comfortable silence that dwelled between the soft husk of a page being turned every now and then. The easy conversation that flowed between them as they discussed matters ephemeral. Their knees almost brushed more than a few times on that uncomfortable couch. Amina, smothered a yawn here and there; Emmrich glanced up at her every time. 

“What?” She’d ask, a confused little smirk on her divine lips.

“Nothing,” he’d answer. 

He suggested she get some rest: he could continue reading - it was more important that she slept. 

A defiant shrug and a polite refusal - but she did tuck her legs under herself and rest some of her weight against him - nothing familiar… just her shoulder against his. 

Shortly after, he asked for her take on Orlok’s Theory of Asomatous Transitory Regression, and he thought she was taking time to consider her response, but when she remained silent for far longer than he knew was typical for her, he chanced a look down to find her sleeping soundly, her head on his shoulder and her book still spread open on her knees. He thought to rouse her - send her to her room where she’d at least be able to stretch out properly, but something held him back and he found himself gently slipping the book from her hands and setting it aside. Felt himself readjusting his right arm slowly - carefully - so it was around her, and he could share his warmth with her in the drafty space. 

His heart had leapt into his throat, and apologies and placations lined up on his tongue a few minutes later when she made a soft noise from behind her curtain of hair and shifted, lifting her head enough so he could see slivers of green under heavy lids. 

His lungs ceased working.

But instead of lurching away from him, blushing furiously and stammering her own stream of awkward, rushed excuses, Amina just blinked… once… twice… smiled groggily… shuffled down the couch some, rested her head on his thigh and fell back asleep, her hand on his knee.

He read until the morning - the same book three times cover to cover, in fact - because he didn’t dare move her - didn’t dare be responsible for ending that moment because whatever he had glimpsed in her sleep-filled eyes when she looked at him was a kind of magic he had never seen before. 

Everything about it felt like home.

Even when he plucked up the courage to softly capture a strand of raven hair between his trembling fingers… even as he guided it away from her face as she slumbered, even as his touch lingered and he stroked down the silken length of it, his heart thundered. 

That was it. That was when everything had changed for him - and for her. 

“The library,” he croaked, throat tight. “It was in the library. I– I need to go. I need to go there now!” Tears filled his eyes as hope flooded him for the first time in days. A broken laugh burst from his lips and he clutched at his hair, aware that he looked like a madman. “Thank you!” He wept. 

The orbs flickered again - rather like twinkling eyes - and then blinked out of existence. 

“Live well, creature, and of all things that you may choose to abandon in the days to come, may hope be the last of them.” 

He woke on the too-large settee to the cool green light of an aquarium that made no sense. He scrambled to his feet, flipped his hair out of his face, and bolted for the door.

Muffled voices… all familiar - one in particular. His voice. 

Then his shape - his outline - a shape she would know anywhere. 

A hand - a beautiful, soul-shatteringly, heart-achingly artful hand that was capable of healing and holding… destroying, creating, and calming; teasing and caressing - and everything else in between. 

She heard herself sob as she seized that hand with her own and felt muscles and tendons reflexively tense in surprise for a fleeting instant before slender fingers clenched around her wrist in an unexpectedly bruising grip that wrung a clipped scream from her. Her feet left the ground as she was dragged into the bright light, and she was falling forward, up, down, and in directions that didn’t exist all at once. 

Then something solid. Something warm and firm. The feeling of well-worn wool and meticulously cared for linen against her face… a familiar scent, though it was more rustic than usual…

The excruciating pain in her wrist persisted as her eyes struggled to adjust and she looked up. She blinked… once… twice…

“Emmrich?” 

He had a decent start on a beard for one - that was new - and his hair was messier and dirtier than she’d ever seen it. The dark circles under his eyes were a particularly haunting shade of aubergine, and his sclera were dull and bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He looked terrible…

“Where’s Varric?” She demanded hotly, panic rising in her chest as she tried to step back so she could get a better look at him - he wouldn’t let her, and she already knew the answer to her futile question. The grip on her wrist tightened and so did her throat as her mind raced to try to comprehend the situation. The grief she felt in Solas’ prison at the revelation of Varric’s death was rapidly being replaced with incandescent rage directed at the Dread Wolf: she was going to destroy him - spirit or not, he had gone too far… “Emmrich!” She yanked her wrist free and let out a cry of surprise as he toppled forward into her arms, a disheveled, weeping mess that took them to the ground. She managed to keep them both upright and Emmrich caged her in an embrace that took her breath away.

“I’m sorry, darling - I love you - I’m s-so very sorry…” He half-sobbed into her ear as he stroked her hair. His voice was so ragged... She felt tears splashing against her, wet and abundant, and her own joined them: confusion and anger and joy converged on her in a baffling wave - she couldn’t house all of this. And Emmrich…

How long have I been gone?

She managed to pull far enough away from him so she could cup his scruffy jaw in her hands and meet his gaze - his haunted, hollow gaze. 

“It’s all right now,” she soothed, summoning up enough calm for both of them - she was beyond furious, but he was despondent, and like any experienced Watcher she knew she needed to meet him on his level - manage herself for the time being. 

She softly traced her thumb down the familiar plane of his cheek and he leaned into her touch, his hand covering hers. “I love you too… I’m here and I’m safe, and I’m–” her voice trembled and broke. “Oh Emmrich… I’m sorry too.” If what she was beginning to suspect was true - if she had been lost to that place of regret for much longer than a few hours - it meant that Emmrich had been sitting on that argument for days at least, judging by the looks of him - her promise that they would talk about it at home a dangling thread that would remain forever untied if she never returned… 

She pressed her lips to his and he sighed into her, some of the tension finally leaving him. “You found me…” she murmured against his skin. “You got me out. Of course you did.” Her arms tightened around him and she kissed him properly - deeply. 

“I couldn’t live with myself knowing the state I had left things in.” He rested his forehead against hers and twirled a strand of her hair around a finger as they sat on the floor, both aware of their audience of companions - both utterly unconcerned about their presence. “Will you forgive me?” 

“If you’ll forgive me,” she offered: she carried her own regrets about that argument… though evidently not as long as he had.

His mouth curved into a smile for the first time and he chuckled weakly. “There is nothing to forgive, my dearest Amina.” His eyes continued to sweep over her as he took her in, mapping every line and angle of her, committing it to memory as if it would ensure she could never be taken from him again. 

“You really love me, huh?” 

“I have for some time, and I’m afraid that rather than embracing that fact with the deference owed to it, I acted like a cowardly fool. If I had only–”

She silenced him with another kiss, his mouth opening as her tongue brushed the seam of his lips. Her fingers stroked through the coarse, straight hair that covered his jaw and she realized with a jolt somewhere around her midsection that she rather liked it. She made a mental note to discuss the future of the beard with him later on, but for now…

“No academic theories right now, Professor…” she whispered. She was exhausted and overwhelmed. She needed to take a minute and just… come to terms with everything. With Varric, Harding, and Bellara; with how long she’d been gone… what the hell she was going to do next. What she was going to do to Solas when she got her violent, creative little Reaper hands on him… 

“Humour an old man,” he smirked tiredley. 

“I’ll consider humouring him in the bath.” 

“You’re no basket of roses either, dear.” 

“Regret bringing me back yet?”

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss to the back of it, his eyes locked on hers - as red and puffy as they were, the love that dwelled within them was unmistakable, and Amina knew they would never be parted in this life again. 

“Never.” 

[imari4444]

My reaction to the Natlan archon quest I guess (very much spoilers BEWARE)

MY DAUGHTER!!!! MY CHILD!!!! NOTHING BAD BETTER HAPPEN TO YOU MY SWEET PEA!!!! (bad stuff happened and I am not okay-)

No… you didn’t-

NOOOOOOOO!!!!!! (Crying cat in the BG is me-)

I HAD A WHOLE GAG IN MY FIC FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER ABOUT HOW THE TRAVELER NEVER REMEMBERED THAT POWER AND IT WAS GOING TO BE SUPER IMPORTANT WHY HOYO?!?! WHY NOW!?!? YOU COULDNT WAIT LIKE ONE MORE UPDATE 😭 (this is my fault for taking to long tbh-)

BAHAHAHA!!!! Venti mentioned(?)

We love the broken holy lyre <3

This made me laugh… this lady is slowly becoming one of my favorite archons (which this is very odd to think about but human archons? I feel like venti would’ve done something like this since he wanted humanity to be free of gods? Why didn’t he do it((well I have an idea as of why but more importantly why does venti seem to dislike the ‘pyro archon’ or at least describe them as a war mongering wrench? Could he perhaps be speaking of a specific archon or is there more to the human archon than just humans? Maybe we have another Furina situation? So many questions!!! So many theories how exciting!))

This brings up more similaritiesand quesitos I have about Natlan and Mond (you know I have to bring up Mond because I’m constantly thinking about how to fit everything into my messed up fics timeline. forgive me 🙏🙏🙏) but the Abyss/abyss order.

This is the first time they attacked another nation and was the main perpetrator since Mondstadt and Dvalin!

Liyue was the fatui, Inazuma was the fatui, sumeru was… the fatui. Fontaine was celestia and one of the sinners pet narwhal(plz let me know if I’m wrong on that-) now finally the abyss makes an appearance again but I don’t think it’s the abyss order, just the abyss (?) how Intresting. So many ties with Natlan and Mond already it has been at a puzzle.

That brings up a sort of theory that’s been in my head recently.

There are six tribes and one each represents an element in Natlan. But we’re missing pyro, which could be because it’s the nation of pyro but then we remember that Vanessa’s clan left Natlan. The ‘children of murata’ I’m starting to realize was not the pyro archons name but the tribes name, like the children of echoes.

So Vanessa’s tribe was the pyro tribe and maybe Vanessa being able to ascend to godhood like the OG pyro archon suggests that maybe only Natlan humans can ascend, and if so why?

Does it have something to do with natlans non existent leylines? That also suggests why we’re currently being introduced to another ‘spirit realm’

So far we have four (five?) different mentions of the afterlife and how it world of genshin.

Venti: being able to guide souls to the afterlife or ‘home’ hu Tao and the exorcists in liyue introducing wayward souls, sumeru and the rebirth of life(? Samsara??? Idkkk :|) (it’s complicated I might be wrong I’m not going further into it-) and also the possible shade of death (like istoroth shade of time) but now we have the night kindom and the ode of resurrection which sorta reminds me of the souls stuck on the island in Inazuma…. Also the night kingdom lowkey feels like hell- so…

AHHH SO COMPLICATED, I wonder how it all ties together… what is the actual afterlife? Maybe non of them are and they are all just different levels of ghostly shenanigans.

Anyways no more ramble apologies… (I’m not really good with lore despite my love for learning it , so please tell me if you have any canon info or if I made an error in assumptions 😓)

OKAY! OUCH- (someone write a fic where her family reincarnates right now, I beg of you-)

Im so proud of her I feel like a mom UHABNAA

…. I’m building her DPS

She’s going to be unstoppable >:)

I’ll put her on my Klee team too muahahhahaha!!!!

[thedrunkenreadersreviews]

Alastor's Villain Era ...

EDIT: It has been confirmed on Alastor's official Hazbin Hotel Wiki page that he was, indeed, having a panic attack.

Fireball seemed fitting.

*Long sip, sip*

Okay, I have had some time to calm down and think about things. I rewatched it all and thought long and hard.

*Sip, sip*

What the heck was going on with Alastor in the finale? Well, I think it is tremendously complicated.

To be honest, I know the popular theory is that via his deal he HAS to be at the hotel probably to defend it. While I want to agree with this theory, I can't put my full faith in it. It is a good theory, a great one, one that I held onto for most of season one. Now I'm not saying I'm dismissing it, rather, I am having doubts.

Because he left after he was hit. And who in their right mind would send Alastor, a deal-making demon, to where Charlie is?

But for the sake of this post, I'm going with the popular theory that he is there because of the deal he made.

*Sip, sip*

But let's look at episode 7 and episode 8 as sort of a package. Viv is the most detailed animator I have ever seen. She puts the smallest details in everything; from the news crawls to Vox's blue screen, Alastor's coffee mug, Adam eating ribs, the pictures in the background of everyone's rooms, like there are so many things that give you more information than what the characters could give you themselves. Nothing is in there just to be there; it is all connected.

*Sip, sip*

Alastor's microphone is an extension of himself and that is made exceptionally clear in episode 8.

In episode 7, he gives Charlie his microphone.

He's slipping. And by that "fuck" moment in episode 8, he knows he is slipping.

I am of the mind that Alastor made that deal with Charlie for future plans regarding breaking his contract. He didn't ask for her soul (not entirely sure, but I have some theories as to why), and then took her to see Rosie.

Rosie, who he considers to be one of his only few friends. And while Charlie, who is going through a rough spot that Alastor is completely aware of, is trying to speak to the crowd, Alastor offers her his microphone---an extension of himself. He gives her a small thumbs up (such a dad move), and builds her up throughout the number.

And when he is alone with Rosie, watching Charlie sing about her stepping up to be the Princess of Hell, this is what they tell each other:

Rosie: They're marching along. They're singing her song!

Alastor: Surprised? Why, I knew she could do it all along!

Both: She's bound to pass the test as Princess of Hell! Like her daddy, she is madly powerful!

Alastor: She's filled with potential that I could guide.

Rosie: I concur!

Both: Stick with her and you'll be on the winning side!

Now let's look at episode 8 and what he says to Niffty, his other close friend:

Alastor: It's been a surprising thrill to witness these wayward souls find connection. It almost makes one sentimental, ay, Niffty?

Niffty: I really like them, Alastor. They let me put on roach puppet shows without booing.

Alastor: Ah, an enjoyable collective to be around. I admit, one could become accustomed.

It should be noted, that he is looking at them from above with his face in his hands, leaning on the rail of a balcony, as if he doesn't feel like he belongs among them ... but almost wants to be.

*Sip, sip*

While I think his verse with Rosie is more about being on Charlie's side for power, he didn't need to give her his microphone. And he was alone with Niffty, he didn't have to put on a front or say anything like that but he did.

*Sip, sip*

It is obvious that they talked battle strategy prior to the fight. Charlie, without question, is the strongest person in the hotel. Even Alastor knows this as he also knows Charlie does not know how to use her powers in such circumstances. So it is decided that he, the second strongest who knows how to use his powers in a battle-way, would go onto the roof of the hotel. It is decided that Alastor will cast the forcefield.

But more than that. After the "fuck" moment, when Charlie sees Adam return to the main melee, she says, "But Alastor was supposed to ..."

Meaning they agreed that Alastor was going to SOLO fight ADAM! That was the arrangement. And Alastor seemed all too happy to agree to it. But this is how he handles beings he knows have superior powers to him.

With Lucifer, he finds something he knows will get under Lucifer's skin.

With Adam, he openly mocks him and for a while, he may think that Adam is too sloppy to really do any damage.

*Sip, sip*

And then ... "ffffffuuck."

And he nearly dies. That wound is not small. Alastor is cut. Bad. And in that moment, when he is on the ground, looking around, manic eyes, that is pure prey behavior. That is pure terror.

Alastor is terrified. Because he got hit. Bad. And he is on the threshold of death.

In the stream before the premier, Amir refused to answer the question of what scares Alastor, saying it would be too much of a spoiler and Viv agreed with him.

Alastor is terrified of dying. He retreats to heal up; granted, after a blow like that, I am not sure he would have been any help should he have lingered. Was it cowardly? Yes. Did it make sense? Absolutely. He is terrified and too badly wounded to push on after that.

*Sip, sip*

And then we hear his verse in the song. And these lyrics, coupled with Amir's fantastic ability to convey so much emotion into Alastor's voice (who needs it the most on account of his permanent grin), and the eyes, the hand placements, his body language, even his smile is off.

Alastor is having a mental breakdown. He is having the mother of all panic attacks. He is on the brink of foaming at the mouth in madness.

Because he knows he is slipping, and this deal is going to get him killed.

He defended that hotel (probably because he was forced to) but also in part because he cares to some extent for the hazbins. At least, he is rather fond of them, as we see when he speaks to Niffty.

And the thought that he is slipping, starting to have emotions, is forced to be there (possibly), and cannot access all of his powers (as is implied in the lyrics of his verse) because of the deal he made, he cannot fathom it. He cannot accept it. It is mentally destroying him.

I got hurt. I got hurt bad. I almost died. I barely escaped. All because of this damn hotel and my damn deal!

The visuals of that scene, from the background and the accompanying music---which is much darker for Alastor's than any of the other character's verses---compounded spectacularly by Alastor's movements show us that he is slipping into madness. He is becoming desperate to be free of his deal, he wants not power per se but security. If enough people are afraid of him, if he has enough power and influence (which is where I think Charlie comes in) then others won't try to hurt him.

*sip, sip*

Alastor's verse starts off somber, him reflecting on the fact that he almost got killed. And then it is shifts into his own mocking.

I do not think he sings, "Great Alastor, altruist, died for his friends," seriously. He says it like it is a headline in a newspaper. And his expression! His eyes are wide and wild, his smile large and somber, his brows are furrowed, he's dragging a hand down his face. He is distraught at the thought of this. Me? Dying for them? No! Not going to happen! I won't let that happen!

And he immediately corrects us and himself for thinking that that is the case. "Sorry to disappoint [us, those watching]. That is not where this ends!" Here, he is angry. He slams his fist into the control panel, draws his claws through it, and emphasizes that not. He is telling us as much as himself that he will not die for such a noble reason. And he is certainly not done in Hell yet, as obvious by his very next line.

"I'm hungry for freedom like never before." His hands are around him---around where he got cut---before spreading outwards. His eyes, the whole time, are on his hands. This deal is suppressing his powers. And this deal probably put him into the hotel. He is looking at his hands as if willing his freedom and his power to come back to him, because if he had them, he wouldn't have nearly gotten killed.

*Sip, sip*

Now is where we truly start to see him slipping into madness.

This deal, this oppression of my powers, and the people I have met because of those two things nearly got me killed! No way in Hell can I accept that.

Alastor is now more desperate than ever.

"The constraints of my deal surely have a back door."

The animators zoom in on his face. His eyes are going all over the place, his hands are approximately covering his ears, his smile is more clenched teeth than anything. It is the purest expression of a panic attack I have ever seen (and as someone who has suffered from panic attacks so severe I had to be hospitalized on numerous occasions), it is spot on. Everything just seems so loud when you are in that bout of excessive worry. You look all over the place for possible dangers, it is difficult to stand up straight (Alastor has been slouching this entire scene when he usually has perfect posture) and you hunt for an answer with such eagerness that your mind runs a million miles a minute trying to find one while also sifting through every possibility of what could go wrong. That is Alastor's expression at that moment. I have seen myself having attacks. It looks exactly like that.

"Once I figure out how to unclip my wings ..."

You don't even see his face anymore. It's a back shot and he's walking toward an ominous green light, the color of his power when it is manifesting. And he is still slouched slightly, still unsteady.

*Sip, sip*

Now here is the tumble.

"Guess [his "ears" are down in airplane mode, guess who is tormenting me right now] who will [now his ears go up and he fully turns around to face us, but I won't be leashed to them for long] be pulling all the strings!"

This is when we see his face again, back to its more calm appearance. That is him telling himself that he will never be put in such a situation again. He is going to be the one moving the pieces, not the other way around. And he slowly comes out of that slouching position as this line progresses. And he lifts his arms up while emerging from the green light is his shadow---his powers---rising with his voice, his body, his eyes too.

*sip, sip*

And what seals it for me is that laugh. That is not the laugh we have heard from Alastor all season. Alastor starts with like a giggle in his throat that bubbles up into something louder and more sadistic. The laugh that we hear at the end of episode 2 is very similar to the one in episode 5 just before he goes on his rampage.

This laugh is manic. It doesn't start as a low giggle in the throat. It is in full volume from the get-go. The only way I can describe it is sort of like a Joker laugh. He is gone.

*Sip, sip*

It is a treat, a true treasure, to see an evil character again. Every time Alastor is on the screen, you really don't know what he is going to do next. Even though he said he is at the hotel to see people fail, I call BS as I think most people do. Sure, that may be just a perk to him, but that is not the main reason. At the end of season 1, we still do not know for sure what Alastor's motivation is. We still don't know beyond getting himself free what is his goal.

That is why he is so incredible to watch. He can go anywhere, he could do anything, and it will surprise us.

I don't think he is leashed to Lilith but there is certainly something there. As for being gone for 7 years, I have a few theories. Lilith apparently made a deal with Adam or Lute or someone, as when Lute tells her that Adam is dead she mentions that their deal is off now. I want to think more on my theories before I post them but the main one is, for whatever reason, I think Alastor was in purgatory for 7 years.

"How to unclip my wings." That's a very interesting choice of lyric and if there is one thing we know for sure about this show, every lyrical line is chosen very carefully.

*Sip, sip*

Well, I think this post is long enough. I see Alastor soon going into a manic rampage. What I wanted most since the trailer for season 1 dropped (based on some of the scenes that were in it) was for Adam and Alastor to fight on the roof of the hotel. And man, even though Alastor lost, I still loved it! It showed us so much about Alastor's character and why he thought he could handle Adam alone. Going into season 2, I want to see Alastor unleashed. Fully unhinged, manic out of his mind, unleashed.

And please, let me know what you guys think! I love reading your comments. It helps me develop new theories too.

As the King Roach himself said in the Pilot:

Stay tuned!

*Sip, sip*

[misqnon]

one piece x inuyasha au bc I'm insane and wrote this during my break today

luffy is a human kid* sent to the great demon era (I'm great at naming <3) where demons rule the lands after he falls through a cursed well in the forest where he and sabo and Ace grew up. he seeks to collect all the pieces of the shikon jewel and put them back together into....one piece. (loud booing) listen,

in this era, the wielder of the shikon jewel becomes the most powerful demon that rules over all the others. luffy does not care that he's human. he wants that damn jewel

zoro is still a swordsman. not much changes. people think he's a demon, but he's actually just a really strong human who can use techniques like asura. he was a demon hunter for spare change after he got lost leaving his home village. not much changes there, either

nami is a petty thief and navigator who used to work for the demon arlong. she starts to awaken some priestess powers with usopp's help and the staff he gives her, though she doesn't really follow any other priestess rules. she learns other magic, too, still messing with the weather and wielding a variety of attacks without a care for whether they're sacred or demonic

usopp's following in the footsteps of his father- a priest turned adventurer killing wayward demons along the way. his weapon of choice in this au is a bow and arrow which sometimes he and Nami will work together to bless the arrows!

sanji is a travelling cook who's secretly the son of a daiyoukai. due to his mother's intervention, he's a hanyou, but he passes as human and his crew doesnt know he is one.

chopper is a little reindeer demon who's learning medicine and priesthood under the care of lady kureha, joining luffy's crew after they defeat the demon wapol

robin is a demon from ohara who works under the demon warlord Crocodile for a little while, fulfilling a role similar to kaguya. she deserts him after luffy and crew save vivi and the alabasta region from his reign, but she's still wanted by the world at large for being a "dangerous type of demon" with knowledge of the old world and the creation of the shikon jewel passed down in her clan.

franky is a human/zombie/demon hybrid who survived an explosion after his mentor, a demon named tom, was attacked. he put himself back together with human and demon parts alike, similarly to how sesshomaru and naraku would absorb spare body parts in the og show. he's a blacksmith!

Brook is a revived man much like kikyo was brought back by demonic methods. he has to consume souls to keep living, but he only steals the souls of their enemies. he's also pretty bad at it. he's still a musician, though his instruments are a bit more traditional

jinbei is a whale shark yokai, so a fish yokai from the same clan as Arlong...but not evil lmao. he used to be a warlord too, but decided he didn't like the whole feudal part. he's the crew's cultural guide and diplomat of sorts, attempting to keep peace between demon territories and human villages they visit alike from freaking out when a rag tag group of thieves, demons, priests, and fighters show up on their doorstep. he and robin discuss history and archeology often, and in theory robin has a lot of the same knowledge jinbei does, but jinbei has better....people skills.

the setting would be the inuyasha universe, feudal / yokai infested Japan. however, the world government is an issue in luffy's time (1500's fictional goa kingdom) that secretly has ties to accessing the demon world. I haven't thought out the logistics fully, yet. but you can bet your ass luffy's mentor shanks, who is often gone on long "journeys," was actually traveling back and forth from the feudal era and the goa kingdom this whole time.

* spoilers below

* I haven't gotten ro gear 5 yet myself but I imagine luffy is secretly the reincarnation of the demon "joy boy", which will. aid the whole shikon jewel thing. and is also why he is able to traverse the cursed well.

though, humans like shanks seek out the jewel too, for the power it can hold in controlling demons or perhaps (myth?) giving them the power of one.

[pasharuu]

THIS IS THE SECOND PART.

so yeah, a lil technical issue, lets move on.

IX the hermit - waywardness, detachment, self-knowledge. i'll be honest, this is my favorite card of all. i firstly wanted to put Arana here since she fits here well, but she went on the lovers card so there is Arakunti. Arakunti is a literal troll, the man of charisma, using his detachment from people excellently, he is unfairly underrated among others. yet he is hiding in his grove of dreams for whatever reason (fr i dont know). this is where he is on the card btw, but this place doesnt have any red shiny stuff, i added these for the sake of catching the classic scene of this card. AND IT WORKED SO WELL, NONE OTHER BUT RED WOULD WORK THIS GOOD. really, i love how smoothy this card just works, and Arakunti's stare of course. 11/10 best card.

X wheel of fortune - destination, knowing of the higher powers. "the higher powers" is the source song in this case, and these guys are really willing to find out what it is. not even i know... forever a mystery. 7/10, looks appealing.

XI strength - taming the beast, fondness of life. once again, epic card that i dont have to explain, this dude is too popular with people. solid 8/10.

XII the hanged man - the dead end, uncertainty. i already made a tractate about Ararycan that explains much about why i chose him for this card, but for those who doesnt want to spend their time reading that tractate, heres it in a nutshell.

i hate Dottore clone theory. i personally think that once Ararycan used to be a strong lad like he says nowdays, but one day he forgot everything due to casting his powers for something important and since then he is kinda lost, since around that time he as well loses his good friend. that may be why he mentions us being his friends so often, simply because he worships it so much. i find this scenario cute in a way. 8/10, protect my child Ararycan.

XIII death - the end, tendancy to renovation. oops, a bad bad thingie. but in the whole picture, the Marana avatar might be just a symbol of that renovation, it had to be destroyed to create something beautiful after it. 7/10.

XIV temperance - the angel, guidance, reaching the perfect middle. this was the first card i ever drew btw, which is ironic cuz Aramuhukunda was the first aranara. this card kinda differs from other, showing some rather abstract scene, but i decided to just leave it as it is.

Aramuhukunda was sort of a guide for us in the quest, the one who blessed us by giving his memories to Arama and removing the last seal, which was closing the way to Marana avatar - the end of our journey. he also was some really epic dude in the past, giving him some cheers for that. 6/10, rest in peace, small ancient wise vegetable.

XV the devil - the enemy, overcoming internal contradictions. Arashakun because of the meaning, the hilichurl because of the devil. i recall Arashakun called it something like "masked furry demon" which is hilarious. i actually couldnt decide anything for this card for a long time cuz i placed Arashakun in the moon card already, but eventually i understood the potential of this card. 7/10, worked well.

XVI the tower - redemption, a phase of drastic changes. if "death" may be interpreted as a drastic change, then im not wrong with the choice. usually tower also has some defending motives, so shall Mawtiyima be their tower then. 8/10.

XVII the star - wisdom, desire for knowledge. we dont know who the hell is Arakarman, but this lad indeed knows a lot. maybe he is as well ancient, although he still refers to his knowledge as "stories", not "memories". but keeping in mind the fact that he is technically cinnamon, he still might be ass old. however, for now we know very little about him. 7/10, this card looks nice.

XVIII the moon - the rise, changing direction. since i removed Arashakun from here, i had a chance to put my little silly Arakanta somewhere in this deck. however, he is here just because he is lucky, but i dont know any alternative that fits well for this card. Nahida would do, but by the meaning she is not really connected to Aranyaka questline. so yeah i placed Arakanta here just because. 7/10.

AND THAT IS ALL. only three cards left... to the third post.

[man-down-in-hatchet-town]

Wayward Guide Crack Theory: Ryan Reynolds is Low-Key Psychic

Okay, yeah, this sounds ridiculous. But it's actually not that far out there? After all, Prism seems to be an absolute cash-grabbing hack, but her tarot cards nonetheless predict her death from a werewolf attack, establishing that Divination and psychic happenings are very much a part of Connor Creek's world. And Ryan... just seems to know things. He feels the most strongly of anyone that Miner Mole is up to no good, reads Artemis like a book and believes she's the person to help save Connor Creek, predicts his own death just like Prism's cards, and even pre-quotes exactly what Lesly is going to say about his story. (Yeah, okay, that last one is a repetition joke but why can't it be both that and a prediction??)

Ryan obviously doesn't consider himself psychic--he doubts himself when he talks about people trying to kill him--but he still picks up on a lot, including some things people would rather keep hidden. Maybe his powers aren't strong enough for him to know they're there, but impact his behavior and world-view all the same.

(The big hole in this theory is that Ryan doesn't seem to have picked up on the town's biggest secret--the existence of werewolves. But who's to really say he hadn't? Maybe part of the reason for reaching out to Artemis was to save them...)

[sleepy-shinx]

Identity Theft - a submas fic

I had a crack theory and it turned into a crack fic. Here ya go.

Summary: A story based on the events of Pokemon Legends: Arceus, except something's not quite... right. Seems there was a slight mishap when a certain amnesiac warden fell into Hisui...

Warnings: Some swearing. At the very end. I initially said there was a brief identity crisis then realized the ENTIRE FIC is one long identity crisis so plz forgive me

Pairings: none. especially not bl@nkshipping. blankshippers DNI!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44985460

His name was Ingo.

When he’d first fallen, he’d woke in a strange land, confused, injured, and with no memories except his name. He’d been only half coherent, brain muddled with exhaustion and pain. They’d asked him his name, and he’d looked down at himself in a panic, taking a moment to center himself before he spoke the only memory he’d retained from his unexpected detour. 

His name was Ingo.

He wore a black coat, with red accents and a blue band around the upper left arm. The hat that rested atop his head matched the coat, black with a red band and an odd emblem in the middle. Items of clothing that matched no other in Hisui, that made him stand out from everyone else in the region. Even the other clothes he’d been wearing when he fell had stood out from everyone else’s, an odd, white button-down shirt and black pants, accompanied by a pair of oddly shaped black shoes as well.

When he looked at the items, the name Ingo was always associated with them.

When he looked at himself in the mirror as he was wearing them, he saw Ingo. 

And yet. 

The name had never felt quite… right.

He had no justification for the feeling, no reason to believe that the only name he’d ever known since falling in Hisui wouldn’t be his own. The one time he brought it up with Lady Irida, it had only confused her beyond belief. Because how could his name not be Ingo? 

He hadn’t brought it up with her again.

But the feeling never left him.

It wasn’t enough to derail him beyond function, so he had stopped thinking too much into it long ago. 

As far as he or anyone else was concerned, he was Warden Ingo.

⇅ ⇅ ⇅

“Take care not to come uncoupled from me!” He called back to his young companion, the one he was guiding through Wayward Cave. The cave was, frustratingly enough, unlit, despite the dangers traversing through an unlit cave wrought for passengers unaccustomed to traveling through the area. He highly suspected Melli was at fault for removing them, but he had no basis for the suspicions, at least not of yet. 

The young girl nodded, trailing only slightly behind him as she followed him through the cave. 

“So you don’t remember anything from before Hisui?” Akari asked, clearly trying to prevent an awkward silence.

“Very little,” he admitted with a nod. “Though I will admit, leading a young companion through tunnels to safety… seems to ring some bells.”

Talking a lot always seemed to take a lot out of him, though he could never quite understand why. That was supposed to be his thing… right? Yet, it always felt like a chore, drawing out his words to the length he thought they were intended to be. 

“Maybe this will help you remember some other things, then?”

He hummed, letting his thoughts wander, though he still kept a watchful eye out for danger. “Perhaps…”

Something, a vague, incomplete wisp of a thought passed through his mind, and he decided he may as well tell her about it, hoping it might lead him further down those tracks. “I recall, faintly, that I had a partner once…” Lightning danced across his mind, accompanied by dancing flames. “A precious one.” He initially felt pulled to the sparks, but no, that couldn’t be quite right. His partner was the one with purple flames, it had to be… “Its name escapes me, but I remember that it wielded flames with mastery. If only it were here, I’m sure it would light the way, luring us onward…” 

Their path was impeded by an Alpha Crobat. He quickly rerouted, leading her down the other way towards the exit so they would not be forced to fight such a powerful Alpha in the dark. 

“Have you remembered anything else?” Akari asked, looking at him curiously.

Anything else… yes. Another memory briefly flashed by, spurred on by the vague familiarity of traversing dark tunnels alongside another. “I’m starting to recall a man who looked… like me. We’d battle and discuss Pokemon, I think…”

Two scripts began warring in his head as vague battle memories flashed through, too scrambled together to be anything coherent. He was almost completely unable to get anything out of it, but then… “The words ‘I like winning more than anything else’ flashed through my mind just now…”

⇅ ⇅ ⇅

He stared in the mirror, frowning. Warden Ingo stared back at him.

Frowning, he had realized, took almost the same amount of energy out of him as talking so much did. He couldn’t quite understand. He was supposed to frown, it went right alongside his words and the black of his coat and hat. 

So why did it feel so exhausting? Feel, so deeply inside, so wrong?

Without thinking too much, he allowed the corners of his lips to move, to curl up into a smile. It felt… right. 

A stranger stared back at him.

It looked wrongwrongwrongwrongwrong

⇅ ⇅ ⇅

“Now then… Follow the rules and drive safely! We’re headed for victory! All aboard!”

The script felt right and yet still wrong as it came out. He knows he’s spoken these words before, but drawing them out, carrying them on this much, felt so wrong. 

He didn’t quite understand. His brain kept telling him this was right. He was Ingo, was he not? He was supposed to be the one who talked a lot, who frowned, who expressed himself through words less than his face. Who wore black and battled with one Pokemon at a time (why wouldn’t he? One Pokemon at a time… that was how battling worked, was it not??)?

Who was he comparing himself to? Was there someone he knew back then, before Hisui, who didn’t do these things? 

He didn’t have time to ponder these things, right now. He had a challenger- Akari was stood in front of him, her first time challenging him at the Training Grounds in Jubilife Village. He sent out his Gliscor, and she sent out her Samurott (who looked… different, somehow, than he expected. He isn’t sure what it was that he expected). She had been training hard, in the time since she’d closed the rift, trying to prove to Jubilife and to herself that she was worthy of the nine stars that adorned her scarf.

When she beat him, he wasn’t able to prevent his lips from curling into a more natural-feeling smile, even for just a few seconds.

⇅ ⇅ ⇅

He walked into the cave his Lady called her home.

He enjoyed spending time with Lady Sneasler and her kits, he’d soon come to realize after being appointed Warden. She was a wonderful distraction from the thoughts that plagued his mind, stopping him from constantly wondering who he was.

She didn’t quite have kits at this point, however. The eggs that laid comfortably in her nest were due to hatch any day now. Akari, who he’d surprisingly found himself growing closer to over the last few months, was beyond excited to see them after they hatched. She’d started calling him Uncle of all things, which felt strange yet still incredibly endearing. He hadn’t seen her for a few days, however, as she had told him she was heading out with Volo, one of the Ginkgo Guild merchants, to look into the local legends. She said she should be back in only three days.

Today was the third, and she had not shown up in Jubilife that day while he had been situated at the training grounds. To say he was worried was a slight understatement.

Lady Sneasler mewled contentedly at him as he entered, curled up near her nest as she watched her unmoving eggs. Well, not quite- one wobbled right after he thought that. A good sign! He hadn’t quite understood why helping his lady with her eggs felt so… right, to him. Like he’d done this before. But he never questioned it, just lent his assistance to his noble whenever the time for a new litter came around.

“No major changes?” he asked, approaching her nest. The eggs had been moving slightly for a day or so. Lady Sneasler shook her head, but didn’t seem worried. Things were progressing on schedule. 

Suddenly, they both heard the frantic call of a flute from somewhere above the cave. He recognized Akari’s tune for Lady Sneasler almost immediately, and alarm bells went off almost immediately in his head. He’d never heard his niece’s playing sound like this. 

Sneasler jumped to action immediately. He desperately wanted to accompany her, to see why Akari sounded so desperate- but he knew his Lady would feel a lot more comfortable if her eggs were not left completely unattended this close to hatching. 

“I will make sure nothing happens to them,” he promised her as she nodded, knocking his hat over his eyes before taking off quickly.

His answers came not long after, as it turned out Akari asked Lady Sneasler to bring her straight to him for comfort. Volo had betrayed her, had turned on her as soon as she’d had the 17 plates he didn’t have and likely would have killed her if she hadn’t managed to scrape a win. His blood boiled with anger, but there was nothing to be done now. Volo had disappeared after his loss, and left her with the last plate she’d needed. 

He hugged her close as she sobbed into his shoulder.

⇅ ⇅ ⇅

Akari was missing.

He had spent the last week or so frantically scouring every corner of Hisui for his niece, alongside what felt like the entirety of the Galaxy Team (and Irida and Adaman).

The last time he’d seen her, she had told him she’d almost completed the Pokedex, had only one more Pokemon left to catch. Arceus. Creator of all. She had been heading to fight it, had stopped to ask him a question.

“Do you… want to go home?”

He hadn’t given her a definitive answer and had spent the rest of the day pondering it (getting no closer to making a decision) before growing worried over the fact that he hadn’t seen her by the time night fell. He’d went back to Jubilife to see if she’d gone home, and Laventon thought she was with him.

She hadn’t been seen since.

He was beyond worried, had barely ate or slept as he helped search for her, only taking breaks to stop and refuel and recharge when his Lady physically forced him to. He could tell she was worried as well, but didn’t let that stop her from making him take care of himself. 

It reminded him of someone. He wasn’t sure who, but more flashes of electricity and also soft yellow fabric danced through his mind.

Right now was one such occasion, as she’d forced him into her basket and brought him back to his tent to eat before he collapsed on her. 

He was nibbling on an oran berry when he heard it.

The familiar pattering of running feet, but that wasn’t quite all, there were… multiple sets? 

All he knew is one belonged to his niece, and he leapt up and threw the door to his tent open as Akari launched himself into his arms.

“Uncle!” she cried happily, throwing her arms around his neck. 

“Akari! I was so worried!” he exclaimed, relief exploding through him.

“I’m so sorry I disappeared, Arceus accidentally sent me back home before I was ready, but you’re never gonna believe who I found and brought back to Hisui with me!”

“Who?” he asked curiously, setting her down.

“EMMET!”

…

“Emmet, why are you wearing my pants?”

Emmet looked down, coffee in hand, still waking up. “Ah! It would seem I grabbed the wrong pair.”

Ingo snorted, grabbing a tie and throwing it around his neck. “Well, you’ll want to change quickly, so we still make it in to the station on schedule.”

Emmet stood to change, then had a mischievous idea pop into his head. His smile turned sly as he leaned over and pulled Ingo’s hat off his head, putting it on his own. 

“Or maybe I will go as Ingo to work today!”

Ingo looked exasperated as Emmet snickered. “We are not swapping places again today.”

“Aw, but why not?” Emmet made his way over to the coatrack, grabbing Ingo’s coat and throwing it over his shoulders with a dramatic flair. 

“We have never been able to pull off a successful swap ever in our lives,” Ingo pointed out, walking over to snatch his hat back. “Mostly because someone can’t be loud enough to save his life.”

“Says you who can’t be quiet enough to throw suspicion!” Emmet countered, pulling Ingo’s shoes on. He threw his arms up in a mirror of his own normal pose, raising his voice as loudly as he could get it to go as he yelled, 

“ALL ABOOOOARD!”

It was not nearly as loud as Ingo’s, and he even heard his voice crack. Ingo snorted, and it quickly turned into laughter. “See?! Case in point!”

Emmet pouted, but the mischievous light refused to leave his eyes. “Well, let’s see what the depot agents have to say about your theory!” He threw the door open. Ingo rolled his eyes. 

“Well, don’t blame me when you get caught in less than a minute.”

Ingo headed back down the hallway as Emmet cackled and walked out of the door to make his way to work ahead of his brother, who clearly was not going to play along. He could at least have a little fun before his brother inevitably joined him there and brought his harmless ruse to light.

Unbeknownst to either of them, Emmet would never make it to the station.

…

A man, frowning, in a black coat and hat and slacks and shoes, stood in front of him, looking like he was about to completely fall apart.

“Ingo,” Emmet breathed, realization and subsequently, memories crashing over him like a tsunami.

Ingo broke, throwing himself at Emmet, who was more than happy to catch his sobbing brother in his arms. He soon found himself joining him in his cries as memory after memory of his twin brother played through his mind, memories of the subway, of their beloved partners (his first partner was Eelektross, not Chandelure, the lightning that he had recalled suddenly making much more sense), of their friends and family. The two of them collapsed to the ground in each other’s arms.

“You’re alive,” Ingo sobbed, clutching Emmet close. “I was so scared, Emmet, I thought I had lost you, that- that you’d-”

“I’m alive,” he whispered, holding Ingo just as tightly, his quiet voice making sense to him for the first time in years. “I’m here, Ingo, I’m here. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to leave.”

“I know, it’s not your fault, Dawn- er, you still know her as Akari- explained everything she could. I’m just so relieved. I missed you so, so much.”

They didn’t move for several minutes more, until they both had calmed enough to break from their hug, but they didn’t move far. Emmet held his brothers trembling arms as Ingo cupped his face, the two of them touching their foreheads together. 

“So, I guess you’re Uncle Emmet now, huh?” Akari piped up. Emmet looked over at her with a smile on his face (it felt so much better, so much more like himself), and nodded. 

“Though I guess you do still have an Uncle Ingo, if that’s what you want.”

⇅ ⇅ ⇅

Explaining the situation to everyone in Hisui had been an… odd experience, to say the least. Lady Sneasler at least didn’t seem to care, more interested in the new coat he wore (Ingo had brought his regular white coat for him, which Emmet felt so much more at home in) and the identical man in black who refused to leave his side. She could tell them apart with ease, which didn’t surprise him much. For his team, it was much the same. 

Lady Irida and the other Pearl Clan wardens had been confused, to say the least. It had required quite the explanation to fully get across to them that the man they had known as Warden Ingo for the last four years was, in fact, named Emmet, who had remembered his brother’s name before even his own. But eventually the point got across, and it especially helped having Akari there to back them up. The Galaxy Team and Diamond Clan had, at one point, just decided to stop questioning it and just go along with it. 

At the very least, it had been easy to prove that Ingo wasn’t a Zoroark.

Being called Warden Emmet was odd. But in a verrrrrry good way. He definitely was struggling a bit with identity, having grown so used to accidentally pretending to be his brother for four years. But Ingo was helping him to remember what being Emmet meant, and he was most certainly happier than he’d ever been before in Hisui.

And as more and more of his memories returned to him, he quickly grew more and more homesick for the life he’d left behind when he disappeared. He had a whole team of Pokemon waiting for him, dozens of Joltik who Ingo had spent so long caring for in his absence. Elesa, Uncle Drayden, and Iris waiting to welcome him home with open arms. An entire subway full of trainers stronger than he could ever have imagined in Hisui.

He missed it so, so much.

So it was to no one’s surprise when he decided, only days after Ingo had appeared in Hisui, that it was time for him to go home. Akari- who also had not been going by her real name in Hisui, he’d discovered, and was actually named Dawn- had already had her happy reunions with everyone she’d left behind, and had only come back to Hisui to help Ingo get there and to reassure everyone there that she was okay, that she had found her own true home again.

Lady Irida had taken his resignation better than he expected, admitting she knew that it was an inevitable possibility. She saw no reason to prevent him from returning to his own space when he so clearly longed for it. 

Lady Sneasler had promptly decided not to accept his resignation at all, and decided she was, instead, coming along with him, along with three kits from her most recent litter. She handed her title down to her eldest child. 

Emmet vehemently refused to admit he had cried a bit when she had told him. Leaving her was going to be the hardest part of leaving Hisui, and now he didn’t have to!

After that, he’d only had a few scarce goodbyes to say, his Hisuian team also deciding to join him even after he gave them all the opportunity to stay behind with Zisu (the third hardest goodbye out of all of them). 

Then, as soon as he was ready, with Ingo and Dawn by his side, Arceus sent them all back home.

⇅ ⇅ ⇅

“YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING DUMBASS!”

This was exactly the reaction he had been expecting from Elesa, Emmet realized, as she threw her arms around him, and he snorted as he returned her embrace, holding her tightly and not even trying to stop the tears that formed in his eyes. This was the reunion he was most looking forward to. 

“You scared the shit out of us, you asshole,” she sobbed. “Don’t ever do that to us again.”

“I won’t. So long as I have any say in it. I promise I won’t.”

⇅ ⇅ ⇅

His Pokemon had been left in Elesa’s care while Ingo had gone to find him, he found out. Elesa, much more calm than she had been not even thirty minutes ago, handed him one Pokeball in particular with a soft smile. He cradled the ball carefully, eyes shimmering as he let his beloved partner out.

Eelektross spun on him, screeching with joy as it slammed into him, wrapping its body around him in its own version of a desperate hug. Emmet curled around the Pokemon. “I missed you, too,” he whispered.

⇅ ⇅ ⇅

“So you ended up in Ancient Sinnoh, with no memories, except Ingo’s name?” Drayden’s eyebrow rose. “Because you were wearing his coat and hat when you disappeared.”

“Yup!” Emmet popped the p. At his side was a very clingy Iris, who he had one arm around. His other hand was in Ingo’s, as it had been for most of the last week or so.

Elesa buried her head in her hands. “I cannot believe this. You two are so identical, you mistook yourself for Ingo. Despite remembering nothing about him or yourself.”

He looked at Ingo with a smirk on his face. “See? I told you I could pass as you if I really wanted to.”

“NO ONE IN HISUI KNEW EITHER OF US BEFORE YOU FELL THERE.”

[daisyishedwig]

A not so short introduction

Hello! My name is Milo, I am 28 and have been on tumblr for more than a decade.

I am primarily a fandom blog, but I really post whatever I want. So what you will find here will vary from day to day. My biggest fandoms are Glee and Starkid, but you will also find Woe.Begone, Magnus Archives, Malevolent, Good Omens, Heartstopper, Marvel, DC, Omgcheckplease, Stargate, Farscape, Supernatural, Doctor Who, and any myriad of other pieces of fiction that strike my fancy.

For everything fandom related, I do tag so if you don't want to see a particular fandom's content, feel free to block the tag. For the majority of them, it will simply be the name of the media, but for Glee and Starkid I have specialized tags that I will list below a read more for ease of knowing what to block.

I am a fic writer, though I only recently started writing again. Previously I wrote exclusively Klaine fics but more recently I've switched to primarily writing Seblaine with a sprinkling of Hevans and Klaine. You can find my AO3 here and my old FF.net here. I no longer post to FF.net so if you want to keep up with what I'm currently writing, you'll want to follow my AO3.

Lastly, for the Glee fans. I am a multishipper and I have been for years. I welcome fans of any and all ships and I love to hear theories and ideas about pretty much any ship involving Kurt, Blaine, Sebastian, or Sam. So feel free to tag me in anything, message me about anything, or send me anything that you think I might like to see. I am always open to making new Glee friends since there's simply not enough of us out here anymore.

That being said, Klaine is obviously the most popular ship that I will be posting about and as such you will see a lot more content for them than for my other ships, simply because there is more out there. So if you don't like Klaine, it is probably imperative that you block my Klaine tag. I also understand if for that reason you don't want to follow me, but you can still come chat with me about the ships you do enjoy, even if we're not mutuals.

And as stated before, Glee and Starkid tags listed below the cut

(any character or ships not listed will be tagged simply with their name)

Glee

General tag - F: land of misfit toys

Klaine - OTP: bowties and neckerchiefs

Seblaine - OTP: you're kind of my favorite person (this one is new, so also block Seblaine in general as I get in the habit of using this one)

Kurt - C: Im still here

Blaine - C: little ball of sunshine

Glee Cast (and partners)

Miarren - OTP: partners in crime

Darren Criss - P: sexy mcderpy pants

Mia Swier/Criss - P: sexy is a state of mind

Chill - OTP: xo

Chris Colfer - P: porcelain prince

Will Sherrod - P: Disneyland boy

Starkid/Tin Can Bros

General tag - F: actual five year olds

Jeff Blim - P: rumbleroar

Curtwen (Spies are Forever) - OTP: the warmest hello

Show titles will usually be abbreviated - tgwdlm, npmd, nmt, nmt2, avpm, avps, avpsy, mamd, tto, hmb.

Unabbreviated show tags - Starship, Twisted, Ani, Little White Lie, Black Friday, Firebringer, Spies are Forever, Solve it Squad, Wayward Guide.

And my overall tag for the Hatchetfield shows is Hatchetfield Verse

I did once upon a time have unique tags for more of the starkids, but at this point Jeff's and Darren's are the only ones I still use. Now everyone else just get tagged with their names.

[valiantvillain]

WIP Wednesday

Chapter 3 of Duty, Diligence, Devotion (The Bastard of House Cordaign)

Snippet from my more Miraz-centric chapter for this fic. Also I meant to do this earlier today but totally forgot so sorry for late night tags to my mutuals.

-----

One would think they could get used to walking into nightmares at this point. Everyday another corpse. Everyday another tragedy. A raging fire seemed so mundane compared to the slimy stinking bodies of mindflayers and the violent depraved delights of goblins. It inspired a most shameful relief in the knowledge that the screams were the result of smoke and flame and not broken bodies bursting with the snapping of bones and shifting of sinews. You could help someone from a fire and leave them in tact. Disturbed and changed in spirit, but still themselves, minds and bodies yet their own. The mindflayers offered no such mercy. 

Fires Miraz could handle. Even if the ghostly tendrils of gray were more akin to tentacles than she would have cared to admit.

With Wyll, Karlach, and Gale not far behind, Miraz strode into the still burning ruins of Waukeen’s Rest with purpose. She saw the wide doors of a building and the line of Flaming Fist straining against the burning wood and hissing iron. From there she did not think. Only acted, guided by the unerring flow of experience. Without hesitation the paladin joined the struggling soldiers and, clasping her hands, bore the weight of her broad shoulder upon the door. Heat flared against her cheek, wrought forth beads of sweat upon her brow, as it gave with a groan. Miraz was vaguely aware of Karlach’s bulk beside her, adding her strength to the chain. A flash of memory. Of breaking down similar obstacles with Armand gritting his teeth at her side, synchronizing into a rhythm of one…two…three. This door proved no different, caving in on itself in a shower of splinters as it surrendered to their collective assault. 

Miraz drew in a long, acrid breath before she followed the lot within, the party close at her heels as she followed the lot inside, up the stairs. Then they repeated the process twice more to allow a slender elven woman to race out to safety and a poor fellow far more injured to be guided along until the mere sight of a sliver of blue sky spelled safety and he stumbled off on his own. 

So busy had they been with freeing those trapped within the flames that Miraz had hardly bothered to look at them save for the passing realization that the woman had been dressed too splendidly to be a commoner. Perhaps even a distant inkling of familiarity in her low voice swiftly forgotten in the chaos. She had not expected to recognize the elf that stood before them as they exited the building, coughing smoke from their lungs and half-heartedly shaking ash from their hair. She had not expected Counsellor Florrick, even less so that she would recognize her and Wyll. 

The shock at his new fiendish appearance however, was sadly a little too expected. She called upon him first and so it was revealed that the Blade of Frontiers was in fact Duke Ulder Ravengard’s wayward son who had been whispered to have been unceremoniously exiled from beloved Baldur’s Gate. A shock to say the least, but it made sense, when Miraz thought about it, followed the path through the years past. When she and her old crew had returned from a job dealing with a group of Shadow Druids trying to breed manticores to find hushed whispers of the boy’s forced departure abound. You could have scarcely stumbled from one market stall to the next without catching wind of another wild theory or speculation. It was a matter of great interest to Lord Cordaign at the time, Miraz remembered. Or rather the potential for political gain, the subtle poking and prodding of a powerful man nearly as aloof as he to find a newly received chink in his armor. A sliver of grief to seize and exploit. She had always been rather pleased to know he had come up with little opportunity. 

Now the boy of rumor stood shoulder to…well, not exactly, more like shoulder-to-some-unclear-point-on-his-jaw with the boy of legend. Now a young man of age with her second brother and with a career of heroics behind him. Who would have thought that the Blade of Frontiers and the young Ravengard had been one in the same all this time? 

It begged the question of whether Mizora might have been involved. How very like wily patrons to isolate their charges. 

Miraz offered a silent prayer to Helm that the reunion between father and son would be far warmer than any she would have with her own family. Provided avoiding one entirely was out of the question. 

Rescuing the duke. Yet another reason to pursue the trail of this Absolute cult, if the glowing members of bodies of drow and goblins were any indication. What was another item on the list of impossible tasks? 

Then the Counsellor turned her steely gaze on Miraz. Instinctively, her spine straightened, shoulders rolling back as though a soldier awaiting orders. Instead, the woman’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her an instant before something like a knowing relief eased the creases in her face. 

“Saer Miraz Cordaign,” she said, letting each word fall with a gravity befitting of something more dignified than a bastard. “How fortunate I am that you bear little in common with the rest of your family. Though I rather imagined I'd not see you again, given the circumstances of your departure.”

Shame tore through her, burning and white hot. The phantom of fear, however, gripped her heart with icy fingers. The shattering of bones and screams rang in her ears. She had not thought then either. Only acted. Only swung her hammer. Up, down. Up, down. Until her arms were nearly numb. 

It hadn't been justice. It shouldn't have been justice. It should have broken. Why had it held? Why was it guilt that haunted her and not a broken path?

Miraz’s hands clasped behind her back, then squeezed one hand around the other's wrist. She sensed the eyes of her companions upon her. The astonishment of wide-eyed revelation bore into her skull at three angles. She stared straight on at Florrick, just as she was taught. Muscles made rigid by memories of blue-veined hands manipulating her posture until it was acceptable and made to stand still as a statue. 

“They were most regrettable circumstances, Counsellor.” Miraz’s answer was level, formal as befitting one of Florrick’s lofty status. Though if she knew of what Miraz had done, than regrettable was a gross understatement. The paladin swallowed a sudden hard lump in her throat. “How does Aldred Cordaign fare?”

Her jaw clenched at the thought of his death. Tighter when Florrick arched a brow, her own face as meticulously unreadable as that of Miraz. 

“Your brother yet lives, if that is what you are asking. Though if there exist healers capable of restoring bones from dust, then they are not to be found in Baldur’s Gate. He will never walk again. As well as a fair few other things. Some, given his reputation, might consider it a just punishment. Would you agree, Saer Cordaign?” 

The briefest bubble of relief to learn that her brother had not succumbed to his injuries. But then Miraz’s grip tightened around her wrist, so hard she could already feel the steady bloom of a bruise like a flower unfurling under sunlight. Tension hung thick in the air, thicker than the smoke that burned her nostrils and irritated her throat. 

“I…am not sure I can say, Counsellor. Judgment was warranted, I will say that much. Whether the one I gave was fitting however, of that I have my doubts.”

“Does your oath still hold?” 

Miraz nodded. “It does.”

“You are certain?” She asked, the tentative shadow of skepticism creeping across her unlined features. 

“With all due respect, I am a paladin. I would know if I was an oathbreaker.” 

A half-truth. In the heat of the moment it was easy to mistake the sick sensation of guilt rising in your gullet for the sundering of an oath. Yet all the abilities granted to her by the oath of devotion had been just as present as before even after days of doubt had gnawed at her heart. Miraz certainly did not relish the thought of losing them, of losing that which had defined her by the virtue of her own deeds, her own will, the one thing that had always been well and truly hers to claim. But it seemed so very, very wrong to consider what it meant: that violence, raw and angry and uncontrolled, unburdened by restraint, had been justice. 

The elven woman’s shoulders sagged incrementally, almost imperceptibly, with what looked like relief. Why would she be relieved? What did a single inconsequential bastard of a disreputable noble house matter to her? Especially one who had fled before the blood could stain the carpet.

“Should you rescue Duke Ravengard, I shall ensure you may return to Baldur’s Gate without being accosted.” Florrick’s words were sharp with the edge of an offer, likely an additional incentive should Miraz consider the duke’s rescue low on the list of priorities. If there was one thing the Counsellor had in common with her grandfather, it was that they were both shrewd. “From the Flaming Fist anyway. I unfortunately cannot say the same for whatever sellswords Gaetan may have hired.” 

Of course he had. She had finally given him reason to retaliate in full force, hadn’t she? All these years spent loathing her ugly illegitimate existence and now he could justifiably persecute her in the eyes of the coin-swayed law. 

A rueful grin worked it way across her lips with a snort. “So he’s already set his sights on arresting me.” 

“To the fullest extent of what the law will allow, from what my people have told me.” 

In a way it was a relief, to have the breadth of the animosity laid bare. The threats would be veiled no longer, all the aggression divested of the passivity he’d displayed for so long for fear of a broken jaw. 

She supposed it was too much to hope that Aldred would have grown a conscience. The sigh that left her lips tasted of cinders and regrets. 

“I thank you for the generous offer, Counsellor Florrick but such promises will not be necessary. I would have agreed regardless, with or without Wyll. Nor do I intend to return to the city once our work is done.”

“You would prefer a self-imposed exile? When even your oath sees fit not to condemn you. Most in your position would argue their innocence far more vehemently.” 

“My intent is not penance,” replied Miraz, shaking her head. “Merely to get out from under the Cordaigns’ long shadow. Nor was I innocent. What that means for my oath, however, is something to ponder in time.” 

Preferably when her head was blissfully absent of a parasite. 

Florrick, however, seemed to remain unconvinced, frowning haughtily. Truthfully, Miraz had only seen the woman a handful of times when her grandfather had dragged her to those cursed balls and events of the Gate’s rich and powerful, and always at a distance. Standing near the walls, ever in the backdrop like a piece of crudely hewn decoration someone had placed there more for the novelty than any sense of aesthetic pleasure. Yet it appeared that the Counsellor had taken more notice of the bastard of House Cordaign than she once thought. Did Miraz dare to consider such interest may have carried a touch of admiration? That an illegitimate half-orc such as her could garner enough of a cutthroat patriarch’s respect to yank her out of the temple to which he had given her at his discretion? To sculpt and chisel her into his version of perfection? 

Nonetheless, in that moment the woman did not yield, only nodded in an imitation of acceptance. 

“Be that as it may, the offer will stand,” she eventually said, after having given Miraz one last appraising once over. Perhaps trying to catch a hint of trepidation, an uncertain shuffle of her feet or an instant’s aversion of her eyes but finding nothing. “Baldur’s Gate may yet benefit from your strength.” 

You mean my hammer, Miraz thought to herself. Such was always the case, wasn’t it? Both beneath notice when all was at peace and yet vital when something needed doing. Either way, some form of ridicule or reticence usually came with it. At least when it came to nobles anyway. 

“Of that I have no doubt, Counsellor. Rare is the city that does not have a use for strong arms and stronger wills. May Helm watch over you on your journey.” 

“You as well, Saer Cordaign, Wyll.” 

It wasn’t until the Counsellor and her retinue of Fists had passed beyond the smoldering outer gate that a long exhale released from Miraz’s lungs. Her eyes briefly shut with relief and the muscles pulled taut in her shoulders finally relaxed. A faint soreness ringed the wrist she had held for the entirety of their conversation. Even so, her heart thudded knowing that she still felt the weight of her companions’ stares. 

No pressure tags: @poetikat, @arendaes, @captastra, @perhapsrampancy, @isobel-thorm, @mxanigel

[biromanticwritergal]

"You can only keep 20 books out of all the books you own" tag

I saw this originally on @theinquisitxor 's page. I thought I'd do my own version of their tag.

Hypothetically, you are only able to keep 20 of your books. Only one book per author/series. So what books are you keeping?

This was hard. I only picked from books I've read all the way through. This list also includes two honorable mentions (because I couldn't limit myself :/). I'll list the titles and authors at the end.

Frankenstein (1818 edition) by Mary Shelley

Mary's Monster by Lita Judge

Agnes Grey by Anne Bronte

Take Courage: Anne Bronte and the Art of Life by Samantha Ellis

A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf

The Yellow Wallpaper and Other Stories by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls by Emilie Autumn

Byron in Love by Edna O' Brien

Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michelangelo and Me by Ellen Forney

The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee

Female Husbands: A Trans History by Jen Manion

Persuasion by Jane Austen

My Plain Jane by Cythnia Hand, Brodi Ashton and Jodi Meadows

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

Hark! A Vagrant by Kate Beaton

Literary Theory by Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan

Black Beauty by Anna Sewell

My Lesbian Experience with Loneliness by Nagata Kabi

The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall

(Honorable mentions)

Abigail by Magda Szabo

The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy

The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity and Love by bell hooks (not pictured here- but I do own a copy, I just couldn't find it in time for this post).

I tag: @paperbackpropensity, @thatwritererinoriordan, @godzilla-reads, and anyone else who wants to do this! :)

Because of how long my post already is, please make a new post for your own version of the tag. Feel free to tag me back, if you want, but also credit @theinquisitxor for making the original tag.

Thank you and have fun, everyone! :D

[lina-does-anthro]

anthropology tbr

will i read all of these? no lol. but the ones with ** I'd really like to

owned

Gender, Race, Class, & Health by Amy Schulz and Leith Mullings

Archaeological Theory: An Introduction by Matthew Johnson

Wayward Women: Sexuality and Agency in a New Guinea Society by Holly Wardlow

Vanishing Voices by Suzanne Romaine and Daniel Nettle

Population: Quantity vs. Quality by Shirley Hartley

Writing Anthropology edited by Carole McGranahan

Anthropology: A Student’s Guide to Theory and Method by Stanley Barrett

The City Cultures Reader edited by Malcolm Miles et al.

textbooks I might skim ;

A History of Anthropological Theory + Readings by Paul Erickson and Liam Murphy

Sociocultural Anthropology: A Problem-Based Approach by Maggie Cummings et al.

Cultural Anthropology by William Haviland et al.

at library

** Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious Violence by Mark Juergensmeyer

** Censors at Work: How States Shaped Literature by Robert Darnton

Context & Method in Qualitative Research edited by Gale Miller and Robert Dingwall

Designing & Conducting Ethnographic Research by Margaret Lecompte and Jean Schensul

Fieldwork in the Library: A Guide to Research in Anthropology and Related Area Studies by R.C. Westerman

The Call of the Mall by Paco Underhill

to find

Field Ethnography: A Manual for Doing Cultural Anthropology by Paul Kutsche

** Deculturalization and the Struggle for Equality: A Brief History of the Education of Dominated Cultures in the United States by Joel Spring

The Essence of Anthropology by William Haviland et al.

Research Methods in Anthropology by H. Russell Bernard

** Anatomy of a Civil War: Sociopolitical Impacts of the Kurdish Conflict in Turkey by Mehmet Gurses

** Material Perspectives on Religion, Conflict, & Violence by Lucien van Liere and Erik Meinema

[captaincleverusernamehere]

O_O

Huh. ok. Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool

So Truman is descended from the McMans, the other founding family of Connor creek... Oh shit is this vampires vs werewolves?

Because unless she’s also just a werewolf, no human could be able to do that.

[not-mary-sue]

If Riley is living with Olivia and Quinn is at the very least spending a lot of time around Desmond, I find it hard to believe that they never noticed any strange behaviour. It's possible that they were just super good at hiding it, but here's my personal theory just because I find it kind of funny.

Most of the town actually knows werewolves exist. They either are a werewolf or are very close to a werewolf. Unfortunately, they have no idea that other people have access to this information, so they act ignorant in normal times and very anti-werewolf during the show to avoid suspicion. By the end of Wayward Guide, nearly 80% of the town know about werewolves and are just playing along with the LSD story, convinced that everyone else has no idea.

[noobsomeexagerjunk]

Guys, isn’t weird how the Wayward Guide podcast exists in-universe at all??? Based on the podcast, Paul and Artie recorded the scripted chapters after their time in Connor Creek

So like, what let the wolves + Connor Creek allow the Schue-Horyns to reveal werewolf existence to the world?

[hatchetfieldtheories]

Not a single death in this town before then... ever!

He didn't say "Not a single murder." Do people not age and die in this town.

[kateeorg]

Wayward Guide - Werewolf Jobs

Looking at the confirmed werewolves' jobs in town, they seem carefully chosen to secretly support the werewolf community as well as live alongside full humans: 

(Spoilers for Episode 7 below)

Sybilus is a banker who is in charge of the silver deposits, one of the most important substances to the werewolves. He is also a town councilmember and the one who works with Miner Mole, presumably to keep an eye on them.

Helen is the meter maid, monitoring the roads, possibly looking out for dangers. We see she keeps a close eye on Paul and Artemis by giving them inane violations throughout their time there.

Rita, like Sybilus, is on the town council. Her job as a mortician also offers her some refuge in audacity - even the gossips thought she was too obvious (though she also seems to be just genuinely just like that).

Odie Doty admitted to reading everyone's mail, so he not only knew everyone's secrets - he safeguarded them too. If anyone started getting suspicious of the wolves, he would know.

Can this give us a clue about possible other werewolves? Here’s my theory:

Vern is the butcher, who of course keeps the wolves and others well-stocked with meat. And he does tend to like his meat raw, and seemed to understand the mayor’s speech. Quinn was the one who suggested a vegetarian menu to root the wolves out. Now it might be that Vern is too obvious, but if Rita could be one, you never know.

It’s been noted multiple times throughout the series that it makes no sense for the guns and ammo businesses to be separate. Unless Olivia - who also has a preference for raw meat and seemed particularly worried about her friendship with Riley in last week’s podcast - did this on purpose as a safety precaution. Remember- Connor Creek has faced at least ten dozen werewolf scares in its history. And storing bullets  separately from guns is a noted gun safety technique.

Desmond, as the barkeep, is a confidant. He, like Odie, is privy to peoples’ secrets. Yet one gets the sense he’s separate from Sybilus, Helen, and Rita, plus he’s not explicitly anti-mining. Yet the big reveal happens in his bar. Presumably with his permission to keep others out. Which makes me wonder if he might be a casual ally, but not a wolf himself. 

Aubrey is a tough one. On the one hand, he could easily hide the history of werewolves in Connor Creek from his position. And he’s been fairly neutral on the mining so far. But he seems almost too obvious - he’s too obsessed with werewolves to actually be one.