#I'm kind of proud of this one

[fallen-flier]

Where There’s A Will…

i’ll figure a better title out later,,,

so uhh here’s my dimension/time travel will au for the january gathering assessment @rangergathering

Will wakes up slightly groggy, back aching from the hard floor underneath him. It’s only then does the panic set in as he stumbles to his feet, wincing in pain when his head throbs. Calm down, Halt murmurs in his memory. Assess your surroundings. Where are you? Why are you here?

Will can’t remember. His head hurts and his mind is racing, and his body is slow in a way that it hasn’t been since Skandia. Will swallows shallowly, taking deep breaths as he looks around. He’s underneath a tree, a few of his belongings scattered nearby, and Will breathes out a sigh of relief when he finds his recurve bow. The bow is nicked with familiar scratches, the string lightly frayed from use, and Will takes comfort in the fact. It’s also concerning, because whoever brought him here allowed him to keep his weapons.

Wherever Will is, he doesn’t recognize this section of the forest. His knives weigh comfortably against his hip as he unsheathes his saxe, turning it over in his hand. Focus, he thinks, and studies his surroundings. There’s nobody around. The forest is disturbingly quiet, which works in his favor and sets alarm bells ringing through his head because the only time a forest is quiet is when there’s something worse than the biggest predator.

He’s still in Araluen— his mind is not so muddled to not recognize the trees and soil composition, but Will hasn’t lost track of his whereabouts and his own self in years and it terrifies him beyond belief. He gathers the rest of his possessions and slips his hood on, marking the nearest tree with his knife.

Okay. Will has been through worse. He’s fine, even if he can’t remember what he was even doing before this. He briefly closes his eyes, then sets out, marking trees along the way. The sun has barely risen— the day is young and the light shines through the leaves, as if nothing has changed at all.

It’s been a few hours since he left his original position, and he’s found a creek, collected water, and finally, found human footprints. They lead toward a well-worn road, one Will still cannot recognize. Right. At least he’s found his way to civilization, and once his finds the local Baron, he’ll be on his way back home and they can figure out what happened to him. Will steps away from the path, making sure to stay hidden as he follows it down through the forest. He hasn’t stopped to eat food, unwilling to risk eating the food he found in his pack. Will had assumed he would run across some animal along the way, but— the birds are silent, and the forest is nearly devoid of game.

He frowns, tracing the ground with his eyes when an impression on the floor catches his attention. It’s big, almost bear-like, but off. It had stampeded through the forest, scaring most of the animals off. But there’s no sign of injury or blood, a tell-tale factor to that type of behavior in animals. Instead, the tree trunks are covered in a sticky, wax-like substance. Oh. Oh.

It was never a bear. Will takes a step back, as if it’ll bring any distance between the beast and him. For whatever reason, the Kalkara were back.

Will pulls an arrow from his quiver, carefully controlled. His hands are shaking, he distantly notes. Will had been through far worse than a Kalkara since he killed one, but the last time he had faced anything related to Morgarath— Will needs to find the nearest village, and he needs to do so quick.

Will finds himself in the village of Trenton a hour after finding the Kalkara tracks. It’s a quaint village, quiet and unassuming, and filled with an undercurrent of tension. And there, hung upon a bakery wall, a few houses, and a bar, is a red and black flag with a yellow lightning bolt running through the middle. It flaps in the wind, almost mockingly at him. Because Will knows what King Duncan’s flag is, and he knows what flag Morgarath once used.

He presses himself against an alleyway, glad for the shadows that provide a cover, because Will doesn’t think he can breathe. Well, he thinks hysterically, at least he knows why the Kalkara were back.

Are back. Because wherever he is, they never left. It’s 636 CE and Will is not safe, never will be safe here and he doesn’t even know what happened to the rest of the rangers. If they still existed. If Halt was still alive. Halt was pivotal to the First Araluen Civil War, wasn’t he?

If Morgarath had won here, then where was Halt?

The first thing he does is buy food, vaguely grateful the coins he has are still in circulation. He shouldn’t be out in the open, but it didn’t really matter here, did it? Nobody even knew he existed. Will had stuffed his ranger cloak into his pack and clipped his silver oakleaf into his inner pocket in an attempt to seem inconspicuous. It seemed to have worked, or at least given off the sense that he was some world-weary hunter looking for a job.

Will is pretty sure half of the village is looking at him with pity and the other half with suspicion but he can’t bring himself to care. Time travel, how did he even get here? He makes his way into a bar, sitting down near the corner, making sure the exit is in his peripheral. The server, a plump lady walks toward him, a friendly smile on her face.

“Here for a drink?” she asks, a look towards him. Will should probably put more effort into looking happier.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. He’s exhausted and drained and misses Alyss and Halt and everyone—

“It’s been a long day.” Will is pretty sure his smile looks painful. The woman hums sympathetically.

“You up for a warm bowl of soup? You look like you need something to wind down.”

He laughs, a little rough. “Yeah. That would be nice, thank you.” Will slides a copper coin towards her, and she takes it, making her way toward the kitchen. The bar is half empty, but it’s still early in the night. A few knights sit around drinking, and Will tears his eyes away, wincing at the symbol on their chest.

A few minutes later, the server returns with a hearty bowl of stew, smelling strongly of herbs and meat. Will nods his thanks, taking a long sip of the broth. The knights across the room are getting louder with alcohol in their system, slapping each other on the shoulder.

“I heard King Morgarath is planning on moving in on Clonmel! Ha, serves the cowards right for refusing a treaty. Knock ‘em right off their high horses once they see us.”

“They refused a treaty? I heard they can’t even keep their own royalty in line— King Ferris keeps Prince Halt locked up in the castle. Apparently Prince Halt attempted assassination on his own brother.”

“He’s still alive after attempting to kill the king? Psh, if one of King Morgarath’s tried to murder him, his majesty would have had him tortured and hanged.”

Will stands, pushing the bowl of stew as far as he can. No. It couldn’t be. Halt hated that place, but he wouldn’t go so far as to attempt murder on his own brother. For some reason, Halt had stayed in Clonmel. He was alive. His twin brother had apparently trapped him inside the castle, but at least he was still living.

Still living, in a way that would have killed Will’s Halt inside. This Halt, whoever he was, didn’t even know Will. Will was never his apprentice, and it wasn’t as if he could break into the king’s palace and what, get Halt out of there? Halt wouldn’t even trust him. There was nothing Will could do here— one man couldn’t fight against a whole army. And who would listen to him? He wasn’t a knight, he had no status, no reason to go running to Clonmel to warn them of Morgarath’s attack. They probably already knew.

Will is going to be sick. The knights are staring, probably because he just abruptly stood out of nowhere and is staring off into space. Mechanically, he picks the bowl up and drinks the rest of the soup, turning sharply and walking out, plans whirring in his head.

He ends up paying a few coins at an inn to stay the night, too tired to haggle a cheaper price with the innkeeper. He’s near silent as he walks along the streets, the path dimly lit by a few candles and knights making a night watch. All of a sudden, a child’s scream pierces the air, the sound of a struggle all too loud against Will’s ears.

The nearest knight looks up then away, because that’s a child, struggling against another knight who has a too-tight grip against the boy’s wrist. “Let me go!” the boy screams, high-pitched and terrified, the false bravado in his voice faltering under the fear.

The knight growls, grip tightening on the boy before throwing him to the ground, ignoring the whine of pain he makes. “You know what you did, return the money you stole,” the man threatens, foot pressing down on the boy’s back and Will sees red.

He’s moving, throwing knife in his hand and his saxe in the other, and then the knight is on the ground, whimpering in pain just as the boy had. The knight from before, the one who had ignored them all of a sudden notices the ruckus, drawing his sword and yelling furiously.

Will ducks, letting the man drive his own momentum and pushes him toward the ground, pinning him with a knife to the neck. “I suggest you gentlemen leave,” he says, and his hand is shaking and Will can’t. There’s a dull fury running through his bones and he’s so tired. He pushes off the man, picking the boy off the ground and stepping into the shadows, returning to the inn. It wasn’t exactly the best idea, but he had faith there was no way the knights could track him, and he would be gone by sunrise. The boy shifts in his arms, looking up at him suspiciously.

“Where are you taking me? Who are you?”

And oh, isn’t that just his luck. Because under a mop of blond-brown hair and a scrunched up face is Horace Altman, in all his eight-year-old glory.

Horace shifts under his scrutiny, looking away nervously. “I didn’t steal anything,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I swear I didn’t, I just wanted to see their swords and I know I shouldn’t have gotten close but—”

Horace falls silent when Will puts a hand on his head, gently ruffling his hair. “It’s okay,” Will says. “I believe you.” His stomach is turning, because Horace’s first reaction was to defend himself instead of ordering Will to bring him home, something his Horace would’ve done at this age. But here he was no ward at Castle Redmont.

"My name is—" Will pauses. Even if he had a younger self here, he wouldn't have the last name of Treaty. But it still felt wrong in a way, to take a name that would belong to another eight-year-old boy who would probably never get the chance to earn his last name the same way Will did.

"Treaty. What's yours?"

"Horace," the boy mumbles, then as he gains confidence, "Horace Altman. I have a last name, but uhm..."

He trails off, clearly ashamed. Another spark of fury runs through Will, and he keeps his face carefully blank. Horace had always been so proud of his family name, of who he was— perhaps sometimes to the detriment of Will's younger self, but there was something about the shame that set Will off. Horace should've never been afraid to proclaim who he was.

“We’re going to go back to my inn room and I’ll patch up your side and check your arm, then you can tell me where you live so I can drop you off, all right?”

Horace relaxes at his lack of outward reaction and nods, and then they're off.

okay so author’s notes + extra plot:

wow that was way more depressing than i actually planned it to be. i promise i didn’t make this purely so will was sad. the plot may have ran away from me.

oh gosh i feel so bad for the characterization. any concrit about will is greatly appreciated. i feel like i may have made him a bit too grim. sorry will. :(

ugh i forgot how long writing takes. why are there so many scenes i have to write before i get to the actual plot points i want to write about.

it has been 5-7 years since i read ra and please can anyone explain what will canonically knows about halt and clonmel because i do not remember and the wiki is not helpful 😭😭

uhh i basically made up morgarath's flag based on the cover of "the tournament at gorlan" because i'm pretty sure there's no canonical flag that he used

i have way more ideas and plot i have to flesh out, like if i’m gonna replace prince halt with ranger halt or not (because the angst potential is there)

but essentially i was gonna have will run around being a hyper-competent cool ranger helping people and basically being morgarath’s number one hater. hmm maybe have crowley locked up somewhere or in hiding, or gilan a disgraced knight for disagreeing with morgarath’s rule?

will will (teehee) definitely keep horace once he realizes horace is being mistreated. but will is probably not okay with putting like, a 8 year old in danger so idk where will would put horace once they set off. but it would be kind of funny to just have an army of disgraced, downtrodded people following will?

morgarath is probably going to be the same one from will’s world. yeah, that’s not gonna be pretty.

if anyone was looking forward to seeing will meet his tiny self, unfortunately tiny will is kind of dead. like, canonically, daniel’s wife was not gonna survive that assault while giving birth without halt.

also i find it funny that i have to defend the monarchy in this strange british-adjacent fantasy world. uhh we’ll see how it turns out.

[iwillpunchyouinthenose]

Silly cat I did for my silly cat @otterlis birthday

[theerurishipper]

-

-

-

-

"So, I talked to Clark today."

"Hm," Bruce grunts, as the voice of his eldest fills the Batcave. He has a brief idea of what this is about.

"What did you do, Bruce?"

Bruce leans back in his seat. "When Superman first created an account on Twitter, Clark figured it would only be a matter of time before Luthor followed suit. So, he approached me for help. He had the idea of taking up every handle that Luthor could possibly use for himself." He pauses. "I thought it was childish and irresponsible."

"Naturally."

"Nevertheless, I helped him out by developing a program that would generate all possible combinations of usernames involving the words "Lex" and "Luthor." It developed all possible combinations by cross-referencing—"

"I get the jist, thanks."

Bruce grunts. "So we generated the usernames, and Clark used the Batcomputer and his superspeed to create all the accounts. That very night, Luthor created his own account without being able to use 'Lex Luthor' in his name."

Dick whistles, and he can hear another voice whooping in the background. "I see Tim is visiting Bludhaven."

Dick ignores the change in subject. "Wait, is that the day I found the Batcomputer keyboard completely annihilated? Because you and Clark wanted to pull a fast one on Luthor?"

"...There were a lot of usernames."

"Well played, B! I didn't know you had it in you! I apologize for all the times I called you humorless."

"Hm."

"So that's why you and Clark were giggling so much that morning, huh?"

Bruce stills. "I didn't... giggle."

Dick laughs on the other side, while Haley's barks and Tim's laughter filter in from the background. "I heard you, Bruce. I was there."

"At 6 in the morning?"

"Yeah, I wanted to use the bars in the cave, but when I showed up, the both of you were bent over the Batcomputer giggling about something." He chuckles lightly. "I didn't say anything because I knew you wouldn't tell me anyway."

"Hn."

"Oh, chill out. So I saw you being a human being, big deal." Dick sounds exasperated, but Bruce can hear the smile in his voice. He allows himself a small one as well.

"Hm."

"So, was it worth it?"

Bruce thinks about the way Luthor's face had turned red with rage, so red that he could make it out with startling clarity even from the heavily pixelated picture Clark had sent him. The picture, of course, had been taken when he'd gone over to LexCorp as Superman to discreetly spy through Luthor's window and enjoy his reaction in real time.

"It was."

Amidst Dick's snickers, Tim's voice pipes up. "For amateurs, it was a solid prank, Bruce. But I think it's time to take it to the next logical step."

Bruce stops. He takes a moment to think about the millions of possible consequences and ramifications that this could lead to. He considers his options. He comes to a definitive decision.

"I'm listening."

-

Here's the link to the video Bruce linked if anyone is interested. It's actually really funny, I recommend checking it out.

First <- Part 4 <- Part 5 -> Part 6

Masterpost

[minhosblr]

The only singer ever!

[eldritchblep]

I’m not entirely sure when or why I decided to slowly work through stylized cities of Exandria in gold but they’re very soothing to create and I’m slowly but surely developing the style for them as I go. 

[butch--dean]

I was housed by your warmth / thus, transformed

my manifesto on dean's relationship with love and faith and what it means to be saved <3

hozier // shrike - yt

[bredforloyalty]

"Liam's like a dog and I'm like a cat. Cats are very independent creatures. They don't give a fuck, right bastards. Dogs are fucking... "Play with me, play with me, please, fucking throw that ball for me", because they fucking need some company. It's as basic as that. Can't change the way that you are."

[moralcandy]

fifteen things that don't come back, by charlie slimecicle:

number one. the paper airplane you and your daughter throw at your husband while his back is turned in the kitchen, the two of you hiding behind the counter as you snicker quietly when he stops humming and yelps a curse as he turns around with a faux angry expression and a poorly-hidden smile.

number two. the glass your daughter broke trying to grab it from the cabinet on her tippy-toes. you didn't look over until you heard the glass shatter against the kitchen floor, too preoccupied with grabbing the jug of cold orange juice from the fridge to notice until it was too late. golden, afternoon sunlight shone warmly on the both of you from the open window as you swept it up while she stood to the side with a sheepish expression.

number three. your husband's soft shirt he let you borrow when you said you couldn't find your own but really you just quickly shoved yours under the bed when he wasn't looking. you absently noted that it smelled like him. your lips curved into a slight smile without input. your foot shoved your shirt under the bed a little bit farther.

number four. the pictures you took of your daughter and niece, hugging eachother as they posed for the camera, the photo incinerated into ash when you blew up your house. you frantically dug through your daughter's chest afterwards, soot covering your hands as you searched for the photograph. you did not find it.

number five. your niece.

number six. the feeling of a cold glass of wine held tipsily in your hand, the waterdrop of condensation slipping down the glass at the same pace your tears did down your cheeks. you downed the alcohol until there was nothing left except a burning feeling and a lump in your throat. the bartender did not give you another drink.

number seven. your friend, the one who used to laugh hysterically with you as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders before he began to scream at you while he wrapped his hands around your neck. he pushed you into the dirt, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth and the feeling of wet dirt on your skin as you absently question whether the water dripping on your face was the rain or the tears slipping down your friend's face. you know that was the funeral of your children, but you think both of the real 'you's died that day, too.

number eight. the warm, rumbling feeling of laughter in your chest as a smile hurts your cheeks, the sensation long gone. your mouth, for a moment, twitches into a small smile at the memory of the feeling.

number nine. the feeling of hands on your own, your husband's warm hands intertwined with yours as your cold, golden rings clink against eachother. your daughter's tiny hand clasped around yours as she leads you to a butterfly she found, grass brushing your ankles as you walk.

ten. the sound of your daughter's amused laughter, snorts interrupting occasionally. her head leans back as she giggles, her eyes scrunched up in happiness.

eleven. the sound of your husband's soothing voice, lilting with fondness as he looks at you. a smile absently crosses his face as he speaks, audible in his voice. you always remember smiling back.

twelve. your golden wedding band your husband lovingly slipped onto your ring finger so long ago, the one you furiously tossed into a dusty corner with particularily bad aim. you blame the poor aim on the tears blurring your vision, but it could've been the alcohol, really.

thirteen. your husband. you try to go to sleep in the center of your bed now, knowing that he won't be there. when you wake up, you always find yourself on the left side of the bed, as if you've moved in your sleep to accommodate someone. you scowl and think that your asleep self should stop being so stupid. ..you make the bed just in case he really does decide to come back.

fourteen. your daughter. whenever you make yourself breakfast now, you keep accidentally making two bowls, the muscle memory automatic, familiar, and no longer needed. you sit down at the table and set the bowls and begin to eat, but you always end up just stirring the cereal with your spoon as you stare at the untouched bowl across from you. you always end up throwing them both away. without your input, a frown tugs slightly at your lips as your pour out the second bowl but you know that nobody else was even here to eat it anyway. your eyes burn.

fifteen. your daughter, the one you know isn't the real one. sometimes you walk down those train tracks where you found her, hoping she'll be here this time. she never is. ..you still keep checking, just in case.

[thefanciestborrower]

Ain't nothing better than eating your bestie and washing him down with a glass of Ktarian beer

[diamondsheep]

Zorooo ⚔✨!!!

this is a redraw of this fanart that i made in 2022

[ferociouslycreativemystery]

Remember that time ABBA predicted Good Omens 2 a decade before the book was published? ↳ available in 4k on youtube

[iamfuckingsorry]

"Do you know where we are going next?" I asked ART.

Y'know what, I think maybe I don't need any more Murderbot books. I think maybe ending things here is fucking perfect and as much as I love Wells's writing I'm genuinely not sure it can get better for me.

Like, so much of the books are about MB learning how to be a person, about becoming okay with being a complete individual with everything it entails. The first thing it does once it's actually allowed to decide on its own is it runs away from it all (admittedly to go on a mission to confirm some things about its past, because it genuinely just wants to be *good*). It shoves all its emotions away as much as it's able to. Then shit happens, and it makes its first friends, makes decisions based on these friendships, goes through a lot of emotionally intense situations...

And we get to this point here. MB having zero doubts about going with ART says a lot about its relationship with ART, but it also says a lot about its relationship with its humans - it knows that wherever it goes, when it comes back, the humans will still be there. Its humans actively acknowledge its struggles with being a now-free SecUnit and MB is willing to entertain the discussions to an extent and share information about its deeply personal experiences. Hell, System Collapse ends with MB admitting it might be somewhat broken, but that's okay as long as it can keep doing its job, and agreeing to basically do counselling - this is the guy what would rewatch its favourite TV show again and again in order to avoid acknowledging it even had Emotions a couple books back.

Reading this, I know that MB will be okay. It has hopes and goals and genuinely believes in itself and it has an amazing support system that its willing to lean on for the first time in its life. I'm convinced it'll go on to do great things with ART. And that's really the only thing I need to know.

[omaano]

"Cassian's face is a brittle thing, no person's eyes should shine as painfully tearful as his. Kino offers his hand and Cassian - bright as the sun, steady as a roc, fluid as water Cassian - accepts it with shaking fingers. He tells Kino everything."

Art for we're spitting off the edge of the world by Xenomorphic for the 2024 Star Wars Big Bang @swbigbang. It is an amazing Canon Divergence Fix-it fic from one of the most memorable moments of Andor onwards, with beautiful prose that fits the mood of the show so so well and will make you feel just as deeply for these characters. Please give it a read and heap some love on my team's amazing and hardworking author, they were such a delight to work with!❤️

[sunshinetrinket]

5th grader voice. i am going to draw the coolest looking eye

was gonna do more but this is like 4 hours of work details are not for the weak. zoomed out vers + reference under cut

i unfortunately dont have credits for the photo i was unable to find anything with reverse image search

[butchsophiewalten]

Thought I had posted about this already whups. Martin made a really important twitter thread earlier:

[surrealsunset]

my page for @dgm20thproject that i forgot to post...! i worked on the glitch effects on this until the very anguish of this page was screaming at me straight into my burnt out retinas lol