#algie writes things

[equalseleventhirds]

what up besties sorry i haven't been online much but would u like to read the piece i wrote for my final for creative writing? it's metaporically about being trans n neurodivergent n disabled n ppl loving an idea of you more than you, but also it is about a zombie who comes back, not wrong, but not quite what anyone wanted..

(cw for death, electrocution, being buried (not quite alive), and complicated feelings about gender & name but that journey not being completed yet.)

- - -

Grave News

Amelia Marquez, 34, passed away in a tragic accident…

            Later, when anyone learns she woke up already buried, she can see the horror movie assumptions playing out behind their eyes. The thought of waking up, trapped in a tiny, dark, airless space, scrabbling at the walls, gasping for breath, the weight of the earth above pressing down, down, down…

            She smiles and accepts their pity, their horrified dismay, and does not tell them about lying awake, perfectly motionless, trying to figure out how to move. About how easy it is not to struggle for breath when pulling air into your lungs takes conscious effort. About pushing at different groups of muscles, her body twitching and twisting in the dark, until she works out forward, works out force, works out the flex of her hand as it pushes through velvet, then oak, then dirt, then dirt, then dirt.

            Amelia claws her way out of her own grave, not frantic, not berserk, but deliberate. Gradual. Almost mechanical, as she practices moving by repeating the same thing again and again, her patient hands working their way through wood, through earth, to the surface.

            (It isn't until later, standing in her parents' doorway and listening to the screams, that she realizes what ceaseless digging does to the human hand. She realizes that she somehow did not feel the pain as she dug. She realizes she needs to buy gloves.)

…the home she shared with her fiancé…

            Cole had been so certain about his repairs. Fifty bucks at Home Depot and a couple of days of work, and Amelia’s concerns brushed aside.

            “I’ve got this, Ames. Way better than hiring a contractor.” And she had agreed, had let him do it himself, had made dinner for a week while he spent his evenings messing with wires and fuses, assuring her that he was nearly done, that the video on YouTube made it so easy.

            Cole hadn’t been home when the lights went out, when Amelia went to the fuse box and tried to flip everything back on. When the jumble of wires in their walls shorted and flared and spread electricity through her body.

            When it killed her.

            Once her parents call, Cole drops everything to rush over. He falls to his knees in front of her, staring up into her face through a haze of tears and hope and shock.

            “You’re back. Ames, Amy, you’re back, how…”

            She stares down at her lap, making sure her hands are covered by the blanket her mother had nestled around her.

…a beautiful light in our lives, extinguished too soon. Her friends and family…

            Her memorial photo, the black clothes, the incense on the table, are all gone the morning after she comes back, packed away in boxes or thrown out in opaque garbage bags. Hands hesitate before touching her. They keep her at home, talking about rest, about recuperating.

            “Since you’ve been…” She sees the glances, the mouthed no, don’t say it. “…in your condition. It’s important to rest up.”

            It’s as though they think one wrong move, one wrong word, will kill her again.

            She wonders a little bit if they’re right.

            Her mother is the gentlest she’s ever been brushing Amelia’s hair, her hands careful, her voice filling the air. “And I unpacked some of your nice clothes,” she says, working through a tangle. “You don’t have to wear sweatpants anymore, I found your skirts…”

            Amelia looks down at her loose, comfortable clothes, the t-shirt worn and soft against her skin. She thinks about struggling with buttons on a nice blouse, thinks about whether ruffles will still itch the way they did when she was alive. Thinks about the way the mottled colors on her legs have lasted too long to be called bruises. Maybe she should call it decay.

            Her mother clicks her tongue sadly as a few strands of hair pull loose from her head. “These knots…”

            “What if I cut it?” Amelia asks. She’d been thinking about short hair back when she was alive. And it would be easier. “I can’t make you brush it for me every day.”

            Concern melds with distress on her mother’s face. “You can’t cut it,” she hisses. “What if it never grows back?”

...bright, funny, resilient, the first to volunteer...

            Once, she accidentally sleeps for three days. That’s the kind of thing the living joke about—so tired I could sleep for a week, as impossible as that would actually be. Turns out it’s easy for the dead—easy to lie still, easy to stop pushing, easy to drift away into forgiving darkness.

            She wakes to her mother weeping, her father pacing in the hall, Cole pale and haunted and clenching his phone in two hands. The funeral home’s phone number must be burned into the screen by now, but he hasn’t pressed the call button. Not yet.

            Amelia makes herself sit up in bed, reaches out to him, and sees him flinch.

            Right. Gloves.

            Even as she twists her face into a smile, she knows she's done it wrong. Her eyebrows are at odd angles, her lips curled strangely. She tries for light-hearted: "Whoops, close one! Don't want to wake up in a grave again."

            No one laughs.

...kept forever in our memories and our hearts...

            Late at night, she hears her parents whispering. “Is she all right?” her mother asks. “My little girl, my Amelia—she’s not acting like herself. She’s so tired, so...”

            “She just came back,” her father says. His voice is firm, comforting. Determined not to let any uncertainty slip through. The same voice he’s always used when her mother worries—the same voice he used when Amelia told him her own worries, her doubts about the future, about Cole. She always ended conversations with her father sure that he was right.

            “She’ll be back to herself soon enough,” he says. “We just have to keep her active. Remind her about being alive.”

            “But what if she’s not herself? I know we said not to bring up…” Her mother’s voice drops, furtive. “…the Z word…”

            “We’re keeping an eye on her. We’ll notice if she does anything that needs… intervention.”

            She closes her eyes. Wonders if she can turn off her hearing. Wonders if it would have been easier, staying in her grave.

            The next day, she brings up moving back in with Cole. He says he'd be happy to have her, and she pretends not to notice the look he exchanges with her parents.

…brought out the best in people, always ready to help, to listen…

            Cole is attentive. He brings her pastries from the bakery near their apartment and tells her about his day—work, his hobbies, a dog he saw at the park. Shows her pictures and videos on his phone. Mentions people by name, and she's not sure if they're new, since her death, or if she managed to forget people she knew about before.

            She knows which muscles to move for an understanding nod, an encouraging smile. She knows how to make herself chew and swallow food, how to bring it back up later so it doesn’t just sit and rot in her stomach. She still remembers the right way to ask questions so Cole shares more.

            There’s no real reason not to do it, but the more she thinks about it—the more she imagines forcing her body into the right place, the ordeal she’ll have to go through later—the less she wants to do it. She sits silently, pastries untouched, letting the muscles in her face go slack.

            “Ames? You okay?”

            It takes a second; she has to fill her lungs to respond. She tips one side of her mouth up in what could have been a reassuring smile, once. “Fine. Just tired.”

            He sits next to her, worry pinching between his eyebrows. "Of course. I'm sorry. Let's just sit here and watch TV? There are new episodes of all our favorites."

            The shows all feel distant, the plots blurred, the characters unfamiliar. She watches with him for hours anyway.

...a kind and giving spirit, she wanted to create...

            Shattering the mug isn't intentional. Even if she's started to resent the comforting cups of tea Cole brings her. Even if she's sick of pulling latex gloves over her cloth ones so she can wash the dishes. Even if the cutesy blobs of yellow and pink painted on it have always been too much, too bright, too false-forced-cheer, from the moment she was gifted it eight years ago.

            She still doesn't mean to let go of it, the muscles in her hand (and there are so many muscles in the human hand, so many to keep track of, and most of hers are damaged already) loosening and spasming as she's walking to the sink.

            The jagged pieces of it surround her, and Cole's hysterical babble of questions and assurances—"Are you okay, I've got it, just hold still"—fades into background noise as Amelia leans down to try and gather the shards.

            A hand wraps around her wrist and she turns to meet Cole's wide, frightened eyes. "Amy, your foot."

            A full inch of jagged ceramic is buried in her heel.

            She does not bleed, even after Cole pries it out.

...although she will never fulfill those plans, her dream will live on...

            "Ames, I'm worried." Cole reaches out, stops with his hand just over her thigh. Puts it down on the chair next to her, not touching. "This is... I know you've been through a lot. But you're acting like—"

            She turns her head until she can look at his face. Her neck jerks in the wrong direction a couple of times, but she's getting better at it, faster. "Like?"

            Cole's eyes are red, and can't quite meet hers. "Like..." His shoulders drop. "Not like yourself."

            He waits a beat—two—and gets up, breathing out harshly. "Ever since you came back, Amy. You barely look at me. You barely talk to me. You don't even like doing the things you used to like. I understand about your... condition, but..."        

...pray she rests well, and waits in peace for her loved ones...

            She sits in their apartment—Cole's apartment—long after he's gone, watching the afternoon sunlight shift across the space they used to share. Her books are still on the shelf. She remembers packing up her childhood bookshelf to bring to their new home. The painting she bought at a flea market is still hanging on the wall. She remembers joking with Cole about picking up a masterpiece for two dollars.

            Looking at them now, she doesn't even particularly want to bring them with her.

...invited to celebrate her life at...

            Merely dragging her body across the ground would be easier. But, even though she's wrong, even though she's not the person they think about when they look at her, she's still not a mindless, lurching zombie. Mostly.

            She walks. One step forward.

            Was she ever the person they thought about when they looked at her?

            One step.

            Maybe now she'll find out.

            One step.

...in lieu of flowers, the family asks...

            She settles into her seat on the train, making sure her hands are covered. A new start doesn't mean much if she sends an entire train into a panic.

            Someone sits next to her, bouncing in their seat. "Hey there! Looks like we've got eight hours ahead of us. What's your name?"

            She hesitates. Amelia. Amy. Ames.

"Mel," she says. It's strange in her mouth. Just slightly wrong, the same way she's just slightly wrong. Maybe that’s the right fit.

[xclevername]

[UPDATED LAST: 1/9/25]

Mental health is taking a great toll on me right now. I might post something from now and then, but I will not be working on any major projects.

[KO-FI]

ABOUT ME:

My name is Clever, I'm 24 yrs old, Hispanic, Neurodivergent, and am in the LGBTQ+ community.

[My Caard] ❖ About Me, BYI, DNI, and Socials.

[My Pronouny] ❖ Outdated and will need to be updated soon.

MAIN TAGS:

#POST -> (All posts)

#CLEVERS ART -> (All of my art)

#CLEVERS VOICE -> (Voice work including: Voice acting, talking, or singing)

#CLEVER VA -> (Voice acting only)

#CLEVERS OCs -> (All of OCs excluding fan designs/AUs)

#FAN ART -> (Fan art only!)

#NMA -> (Not My Art, for reblogging.)

#IMPORTANT -> (For posts with important information others should really know)

#BOOST -> (Boosting a post so people can interact and support it)

ORIGNAL WORKS

#SENPAI FANON -> (FNF AU, revolving Senpai)

#WILD ALGIE AU -> (BFB AU)

#THING A THON -> (Personal object show, aka TAT.)

#HORROR HOUSE -> (Personal object show, aka HH.)

[inardescere]

Pitiful.

It was the word he couldn't help but think even as his face stayed blank in the presence of this man, tilting his chin up high to get a good look at his face. He was one of them. One of the men who had hurt his people; one of the men who had taken Konche and weakened him, ready to do heinous acts for their selfish greed. Oh, he had so much reason to burn fury in his eyes and look down at him coldly, let the seawater choke him with his hands over his throat, pluck his nails and slice his skin piece by piece and let him feel with his own body what it means to pull a Lemurian up ashore against their will.

Yet, he doesn't because he cannot find the greed in those eyes.

The hand that reaches out for him is too tender, mesmerized, and in awe.

A Lemurian's beauty was one of the many things praised by humans after all. However, it's been a long time since they had stopped worshipping the Sea God and their kin- not that they had ever really cared, opting to see them as another means of gaining riches, gold, pearls, and eternal life; as livestock or as pets to entertain themselves with.

Rafayel sees sorrow. Deep-rooted sorrow and fragility that feels grotesque in this setting. The way he begs him not for mercy but to end him, punish him as deserved, doesn't feel like the man was talking to him; no, they were always talking to the higher being that he had to be. The human was incredibly touchy, his hand warmer than his own skin as the wind blew his hair askew, hiding his shining blue eyes. Rafayel peers down through thick lashes at the gentle fingertips, revering in a way that confuses him for such a daring touch. Was he losing his mind as he got closer and closer to death? Was his last, dying wish to touch a beautiful creature and asking for it to be what took his life?

Either way, the thought made him scoff, easily pushing the man away and right into the depths, shoving him off by the chest.

He looked pitiful, but the God felt no remorse as he rose up onto his feet once more, watching as the man's body slowly sank into the depths without an anchor to the boat, the currents pulling him down deeper and bubbles of air were forcefully pulled out of his lungs. The cold water would seep every last bit of heat from his body, and as he is dragged further down into the depths, there would be a moment of calm before he too, would be part of the others that get bitten piece by piece to become fishfood for his friends. But he did have an objective. Nor did he feel like giving him the peaceful death he wished for.

So he lets himself plunge back into the sea, legs kicking as he swims down and floats in front of the body in a graceful swerve, a hand reaching out. In the same motion as that human did, he caresses his face gently, trying to trace it the same way he had to understand what was going through his mind in those last moments. Nothing. He didn't understand it, nor did he think it was that important to. But he was intrigued enough and had earlier made up his mind to bring him home to question him. Would anyone come after their last survivor? Are they no longer in danger, at risk of their children being caught? He would slowly get those answers, and thus he wouldn't grant him his wish to end it all.

Instead, he brings his face closer to his, lips nearing his.

Gently, he blows against their mouth, sending bubbles through his parted lips that fill his lungs and pushes the water out. Humans couldn't breathe under water, but he could easily grant him the ability to at this distance, watching his body spasm with coughs once again as all the water leaves his airways and his eyes twitch, blearily looking at him before they close. After all that happened, he doubts this human would awake anytime soon. Last time, it took them... about a week. Another hand goes up to flatten against their chest, feeling the soft pulsations underneath, a clear indication that he was alive and would continue to be as long as Rafayel had his power cast over him.

After getting a dolphin to help drag his body to the city's gates, he orders for him to be put in a room where he can sleep off the pain. The next few days, Rafayel mostly leaves him to rot, going on about his own life and checking up on Algie and Konche, the both in tears and clinging onto each other at first but luckily, not much harm had been done. While shaken up and a bit bruised, hearing plenty of threats and mockery, they had yet to truly harm him. Someone had tried to pluck a scale, that painful stinging tug that would render any Lemurian cry in despair at the control it would grant them, but they had come just in time. A relief, he thinks, never wanting any of his people to go through that pain.

Soon enough, Algie was nagging Konche to stay still as he recuperated and it felt like they were slowly healing, even if they always seemed to flinch and snap their heads in alert when they heard someone approach.

One day, while he laughed as he watched Algie try to feed Konche another spoonful of a vile looking concoction that was supposed to heal his wounds, a guard came to inform them that the man had awoken. There was a moment of silence, before Algie immediately dropped the food on the side table and stomped her feet, ignoring the cries of Konche who shouted that humans bite like Lemurian children's tales, that she shouldn't go near him at all. Rafayel promises to be with her as he follows her towards the room he should be in, leaning against the doorway and watches as she slows her steps, pretty braid flowing behind her. She is so small compared to the man who towered over her by a head or two.

Then she slaps him right across the face, the sound echoing in the large room.

Rafayel crosses his arms as he peers at them, amusement dancing in his eyes at the girl's bold move. He kept alert, making sure he was ready to bind the human with his powers if he saw a single move to harm Algie under his watchful gaze. However... he somehow thinks he wouldn't dare. He just knows it, somehow, and slowly takes his steps in and softly puts a hand to Algie's shoulder before she exerts herself. "It's okay, I'll deal with it. Go take care of your brother instead."

a gray sky. he once hear from the elder woman that took him in, it was a sign of bad luck. good thing a captain never hesitated, in fact, it seemed like a challenge-- one of those he truly enjoyed.

the storm roared across the sky, almost ripping it off and he could swore he could hear the gods warning him about what was about to come. still, the captain's feet stood firmly on the deck, hands glued to the rudder, moving the ship through the wild waves that were aiming to throw the ship down. his crew scrambled, shouting, panicking, sending warning about a strange figure rising from the waves. however, his voice echoed along with the thunders that threatened the ship, his voice cutting through the chaos because a captain did not panic, a captain commanded.

"do not get any closer!"

it was frustrating to see how the pirates did not hear. there were tales about lemuria: an ancient civilization conceived in the ocean. his crew was excited about it, about the treasures that could be found there, the women they could get their hands on and more importantly, the glory of being the ones discovering and conquering such place. after all, the pirate life was all about prestige and disorder, a chaotic and extreme life that came with adventuring through the seas. at first, caleb was not happy to pursue some fantasy land that did not even appear on the map yet at the same time, the thrill of finding tangible proof rushed through his veins. and still, they did not hear. as soon as they found those civilians instead of trying to talk, they immediately ran towards them, attacking, acting like the scum they truly were.

it only took a few seconds for the blue seas to dye red. one by one, his crew being destroyed. caleb simply stared, hesitant to fight at first. has he lost control of his emotions... or, did he lose them completely? no, it was the consequence of their actions for not listening to their captain. and then he saw it, a silhouette full of grace and menace, standing naturally atop of the water as if it was solid ground. a type of god he did not believe could exist, a tale that he was probably not going to be able to tell and live forever engrave in the depths of his soul when it returned to earth along with the haunting yet intriguing melody coming from that flute. he gulps, feeling how his heart sinks along with the ship and having a glimpse of what his life was, multiple stories that he had scoffed at diverse taverns across the world passing through his mind in a cinematic motion, hitting like the waves against the wooden surface of the deck. these truly were lemurians, the cursed children of the deep.

"step back! captain we should--"

but the words barely reached the captain or the men in the ship sinking as the sea turned against them. tendrils of water surged as it it was sentient, dragging the men one by one before he could keep ordering them to retreat. there was no escape, and the wounds on his skins were screaming at him, warning him there was no another place to go or escape. at least, the screams were brief, being overshadowed by the melody of the flute. a scoff leaves his lips, lowering his head in defeat and cursing under his breath as his knuckles hit the raddle. his mind running like crazy. he had faced other pirates, several naval armadas and storms that seemed worst that this one, but this is the first time he has seen such a deliberate force like this one. of course, this is not nature's fury after all, it is pure vengeance, cold and personal. yet he couldn't blame them, as they were defending what belonged to them.

seconds seemed like hours, days-- even weeks. caleb didn't notice when the flute's melody ceased or when the water calmed. the ship was battered and sinking and his breath was unstable. he was fighting to stay awake, and he knew it was only a matter of time for him to stop seeing this view. his last moments, before the water sucked him in and stopped his heart. it felt almost like judgement day, as the other man-- the lemurian, approached, ready to give him a verdict. and before he could swear, caleb found himself gasping for air as the salt started burning his throat along with his blurred vision. he didn't realize he had been thrown overboard, in a last hope, attempting to cling and float desperately. feeling completely dizzy, he gathers the strength to finally look up , only finding the lemurian crouched before him, holding his chin so tenderly. the calm in his expression was anti-climatic to the shred of blood that happened just seconds ago

'do you want to live?; it resonates in the back of his brain. a simple uestion, yet the voice coming almost gentle, carrying a weight that he was unsure if he was ready to face. the captain starts coughing, unable to form any word but being able to keep hold his stare. this is the inevitable.

'can you carry the weight of mortality?'

he remembered those words that certain person once whispered to him. not the first time he has been in a near death experience, but definitely the last one as he realized there was no way out. usually, humans had a primal instinct to survive. but caleb? he barely remembered the person's face. he could hear fragments of her voice resonating in his brain: the weight... of mortality.

suddenly, and holding onto his last breath, caleb was able to manage a chuckle out of his damaged throat. the burning sensation not going away any time soon, and simply wanting for it to stop. his arms started to slowly go up, fingertips slightly touching the face of the god. is this creature finally the one getting him out of his suffering?

"i don't." his voice barely comes out of his mouth, defeated yet sincere. the sparkles in his eyes only showing he is about to treasure this moment for the few minutes he had left. his fingertips kept moving through the ethereal being's face. it seemed straight out of a fairy tale as he couldn't tell if this was real or his delirious stage. whatever it is, he never experienced something like this. "punish me. i deserve it." his world turned cold and dark as the weight of the sea started pressing in. his lungs pleaded for air, but all he could see were the glowing scales of the being.

and he wonders if the lemurian had already decided what use he might serve.

[littleapplle]

change. 𝐈.

melancholy and the bitter taste of homesickness fill each corner of his brain when you're away. between broken sobs, stormy skies and lost pearls, rafayel is glad he can still find comfort in what is left of his long forgotten home and loved ones.

cw: nothing really. fluff, angst if you squint. mentions of fem!reader. weird way to describe jellyfishes... bare with me. 2.1k w. mermay event masterlist.

note: first chapter for mermay out! this was so fun to write<3 talking about lemuria and writing about it are one of my favorite things. i hope you all enjoy it. also this turned out a little angsty?? it wasnt the intention really LOL.

There are some days where getting his hands dirty with paint isn't enough to drown the feeling of being homesick. The days where you're away and his melancholy gets the best of him. 

There are days where Rafayel’s eyes match the dark stormy skies and he doesn't bother to pick up the solidifying tears that quickly turn into pearls and bounce on the floor.

And like a toddler in search of comfort, his limp body crosses the sand, getting soaked by the rain in the process. He doesn't bother to take his shirt off, nor his watch and jewelry. As soon as he's knee-deep in the water, Rafayel lets the following harsh wave swallow him entirely.

The scene would make anyone witnessing it panic. A man, apparently out of his mind, mindlessly walking towards the ocean while a storm roars in the skies and creates turbulent waves that crash against the shore violently. His figure is engulfed entirely in a single breath, leaving no traces behind.

Rafayel does not fight against the raging waters. Instead, he lets them guide him to wherever they want as a punishment. Shame hits his bones with the pain of a gunshot, crawling up his spine like an itch he can’t scratch.  His wish was for the waters that created him to eat him from inside out, filling his insides with salt and sand and devouring him whole. 

An unfortunate, hypothetical end that was impossible for the lemurian to reach. How would the waters of fate, that sculpted him with prayers and devotion, fill the lungs of the god of tides with  agony  and disrespect and take his last breath?

God of what now? Rafayel scoffs in his mind.

Rafayel would trade his royalty, adoration, praises, people, everything, for you a hundred times again and never look back. He'd wait for you, alone, looking for you in every corner of the world, more than a thousand times. Rafayel would trade the whole sea for the bond you two made all those years ago but still – his heart aches with loneliness. 

With his pale arms holding his tail close to his chest, Rafayel lets his body sink as deep as it can. He no longer can hear the raindrops stabbing the surface, just the misery haunting his mind.

He misses home. His studio is right there, the white curtains on his tall windows are probably waiting for him to get back and close them so the rain doesn’t soak the fabric. The painting he started earlier, a frustrated attempt to soothe his troubled mind, still waits for him to be finished, or burned. Everything he has achieved as Rafayel Qi is right there but he misses home.

He misses Konche and Algie’s rare banters, where he’d pet their heads with a hearty laugh and make both go quiet in the blink of an eye. He misses being surrounded by art, his culture. He misses his aunt brushing his hair while singing him praises, he’d puff his cheeks and say she’s family and he’d rather be viewed as a nephew than a god. Talia is alive, Verona is a flight away. He should call her later. She’d listen and if he cried for a lullaby, she’d fulfill his wish. But it’s not the same.

He isn’t sitting on his vanity while Talia plays with his hair. His luxurious room, where he’d lock himself in and silently curse the tome of the sea god that everyone expected him to follow strictly, does not exist anymore. The mothers with their chubby babies cradled in their arms that would stop him in his tracks and ask for a blessing — not an actual one, but the comfort of being seen by their leader — vanished. Corals dyed in crimson are the only things proving they once existed.

If Rafayel didn’t care for the pearls leaving his eyes and hiding in all the tricky and messy spots back in his studio, then he definitely doesn’t care for the ones slowly sinking in the deep. Maybe humans would find them years later and sell his suffering. They did it before, they’d do it again.

He does not dare to move, only sobbing and hugging his tail closer, maybe in an attempt to shift into something smaller and dissolve like sea foam.

The world is quiet around him, nothing dares to move.

“Is that him? Is he back?” At a chirp from afar, his ear fins twitch.

Another voice joins, answering the first one with a ‘pruuu’  sound. “Of course it is him. Who else would swim this deep?”

Rafayel’s inhumane eyes dart to the direction of the noise. He isn’t scared. It is not fear that fills him. Maybe some embarrassment for being acknowledged by the, apparently, unknown in such a weak moment.

His body relaxes once he realizes it’s no human language. It is fish language he hears. Rafayel does not know what goes through his mind at the moment but relief washes over every scale in his body. Maybe it was the quick distraction from his desperation, maybe it was the comfort to not have his mistakes pointed out by the first thing his sharp hearing could focus on in the deep. He doesn’t know. 

Swimming closer, his long body moves flawlessly to the direction the voices come from. 

“Ouughh!! He’s coming closer! Do my tentacles look okay?” The first voice fusses. To human ears, if they were ever capable of listening to the voices of the abyss, it’d sound more like a bunch of high ‘mimimi’s’. Rafayel is already certain of what he’ll find.

Taking shelter under a few large rocks that made it impossible for the human eye to see anything, he finally finds what has silenced his cries. Two jellyfishes ‘stare’ at him. The color of their tentacles almost drain out comically from being caught stalking the merman they’ve missed so dearly.

“Stalking is a crime on the surface, you know? You two are lucky my bodyguard isn’t here.” He teases but his stuffed nose fails to make him as intimidating as he wished to be. 

“Oh, we are so very, very sorry mr. Rafayel! We did not mean to intrude!” The pink jellyfish, Mimi, apologizes with high pitched chirps. Kiki, her lilac friend, swims in slow circles in agreement. “Yes, ‘ayel. We meant no harm but there are barely any visitors that swim this deep.” She sleepily adds, helping her friend out. “Only you.”

Tiny, misshapen pearls leave his eyes as he closes them tightly and laughs softly at their antics. 

Kiki, once stuck in the sand thanks to the high tides, was saved by Rafayel, who was taking a walk for inspiration. In gratitude, all the following times Rafayel’s body sinked into the dark abyss trying to find some comfort in what was left of his world, Kiki, and her loud friend Mimi, would make an appearance. Today wouldn’t be different.

“I’m not mad.” He chuckles and sniffles, cleaning his red eyes with his wrist. Mimi’s thin, pale pink tentacles twitch. “Were you crying mr. Rafayel? What troubles your mind?” She squeaks, worried ‘mimimi’s’  buzzing in his ears.

Everything. Rafayel thought. The absence of lemurian children that would love to play with you two, he’d like to say. Algie would adore them. The pair acts just like the siblings sometimes. Another tear falls from his bicolor eyes and quickly solidifies into a shiny, white pearl. 

He sits down on one of the rocks with a sigh, like a father that was about to give them the biggest and most valuable advice of their lives. The two delicate bodies rush to his sides like little kids, frightened to see a rare display of weakness of their guardian. 

“Back on the surface, I messed up one of my paintings,” he tries, “A commission. I did everything the clients asked for, but once I tried adding another person to the picture, the paint I used blended into everything else and it turned into a big mess.” 

His voice softens, he talks to them like they were toddlers. “And it made me really, really upset since the person I tried to paint was beautiful. The prettiest lady I've ever seen.” Rafayel’s does not care if he is making any sense or not. Well, venting to jellyfishes wasn’t already something common but he does not feel like being direct and say ‘I want my home, Lemuria. The one you two didn’t have the privilege to be born in. Algie’s favorite color was lilac, you’d be her best friend, Kiki. I miss my people.’ 

“Pretty like a mermaid?” — “Prettier.”  

Another whistle like, ‘pruuuu’ noise escapes both jellyfishes in acknowledgment.

“She must be really pretty then!” Mimi chirps but Kiki turns her translucent crown to the side in confusion. “Can’t you start again, ‘ayel?” She whispers with her tired voice.

Rafayel bites down on his already bruised, pink under lip in an attempt to stop it from quivering. “I can’t.” A pitiful whisper. 

They all remain silent for a long time. The pair spins around him in gracious, slow circles. Their long tentacles tickle his face and sides by accident. He chuckles.

“Well!” Clapping his hands, he gulps down a weak sob. He has been busy lately and did not have enough time to visit his little friends. The little ones shouldn’t be fussing over him while he drowned in his own pearls. “I’ll paint something prettier when I go back to the surface.” A peaceful life with his bride.

“How have the two of you been?” A webbed finger pokes Mimi’s pale crown, she whistles as a response. “Good! But the water has been colder and it makes Kiki too sleepy.” The pink one chirps, whatever sound a jellyfish could make closer to a giggle. Her lilac friend fights back, her crown pushing Mimi away weakly, “Not true…”

‘Mimimi’s’ and ‘pruuuu’s’  escape the pair while they discuss in whispers Rafayel’s ears can’t really catch a glimpse of. He chuckles anyway. Mimi, as energetic as a jellyfish can be, is the first to snap out of their argument, tentacles going static when she suddenly remembers something. 

“Oh! Mr. Rafayel! With spring coming soon- did you find your mate?” Not ‘a’ mate, your. Lemurian’s mate with someone they are completely devoted to and their bond is sealed with the ocean’s approval. At the subtle mention of your name, his usual smug smile returns to his face.

His back hits the cold rock and his arms rest behind his head. If he had to be honest with himself, he has been holding back since you two started dating, afraid his ‘inhumane’ side would overwhelm you. Lemurians love with fervor, it’s intense, they’d trade everything for their soulmates in a heartbeat. He doesn’t want to scare you, really. It’d break his heart in a thousand pieces if he ever saw you shy away from his touch.

He smiles, looking fondly at the animals that acted more like little children. How could he not get baby fever with two little ones that clinged to his arms every time they spotted him underwater? His grin grows bigger, a ‘Yepppp’ leaves his pretty lips, his mouthing making a ‘pop!’  sound for the dragged p’s.

They giggle at his silly smile, multiple tentacles twitching with their tiny, breathy laughs. “Lucky fish…” Kiki murmurs and swims closer to Rafayel’s tail like a lapdog. “Indeed! Are they pretty, mr. Rafayel?” — “The prettiest.”

“Pretty like a mermaid?” — “Prettier, Mimi. Like an angel.” Prettier than anything in this world, was his sincere answer but maybe the concept was too complex for a jellyfish.

He laughs as they have the same dialogue once more. Kiki does not intrude nor does she try to keep up with the conversation, quietly resting on the lilac and blue scales on Rafayel’s body.

An understanding ‘ohhh’ sound escapes the little one as she swims in circles. “Mr. Rafayel! You must show them to us! What could possibly be prettier than a lemurian?” 

“Do not fret, silly.” Again, a finger, glossy with mucus, pokes her crown. “I plan to, but she’s a dummy. Does not trust me when I say she won’t drown with me by her side. Humans are a pain, Mimi, do not talk to them, ever.” Rafayel sighs dramatically.

Misery and torment let go from his scales and bones and sink alone into the abyss, swallowed by the darkness they once came out of. Comfort is found in the silliest and strangest places. 

Rafayel sighs in relief as his eyes close, he keeps chatting to the energetic, pink child, entertaining her as much as he can before he has to come to the surface once more and deal with the, most likely soaked, curtains and maybe burn his half finished painting. 

His only wish now was for you to be able to understand fish language. Oh how delighted you’d be to chat with a jellyfish that acts like a four year old. The pair would love you, too, he thinks. He finds his mind in peace, the storm no longer suffocates him and pearls no longer try to choke him.

⊹ ࣪reblogs are very much appreciated. thank you for reading!(*´▽`*)

[adventuresofalgy]

It was a perfectly beautiful early spring day, and although Algy got up a wee bit late after his amazing birthday party, which had continued well into the middle of the night, that was perhaps just as well, for there had been a widespread frost again in the night, and despite the glorious sunshine the air was cold.

Wrapping his brand new birthday spring scarf around his neck, Algy borrowed a wee blackboard and some coloured chalks from his assistant's studio, and sat down to write a thank you note to all the wonderful friends who had made his 13th birthday party so hugely enjoyable.

Algy was profoundly grateful to everyone who had sent him birthday greetings and special posts, and to all who had contributed with "likes", comments and reblogs – for without your participation, Algy's birthday party would have been just nothing at all!

Algy thinks that you are all amazing, and he is exceedingly lucky to have so many wonderful friends around the world. He sends you all his very fluffiest hugs and thanks 🤗

I thank thee, friend, for the beautiful thought That in words well chosen thou gavest to me, Deep in the life of my soul it has wrought With its own rare essence to ever imbue me, To gleam like a star over devious ways, To bloom like a flower on the drearest days­ Better such gift from thee to me Than gold of the hills or pearls of the sea. For the luster of jewels and gold may depart, And they have in them no life of the giver, But this gracious gift from thy heart to my heart Shall witness to me of thy love forever; Yea, it shall always abide with me As a part of my immortality; For a beautiful thought is a thing divine, So I thank thee, oh, friend, for this gift of thine.

[Algy is quoting the poem Gratitude by the late 19th/early 20th century Canadian writer Lucy Maud Montgomery.]

[s4ggygr4ndma]

HI !!!!!! i'm interested to see how you think the nerds would be like when camping 😆

The Nerds going out camping!

So sorry for the late post 😭

Anyways, shitty writing incoming.

Earnest Jones

- He’s forced to collect firewood with Fatty, you might need a few pair of hands to carry some wood if one couldn’t carry the rest.

- He would be a lazy bastard for camping, you had to force him out of his bed to get him to join you guys. He isn’t really an outdoor guy as you can tell.

- Earnest is somewhat not afraid of the dark or any “monsters” out in the woods but scared him with a noise or just scare him in general you’d get girl slapped in the face while earning a high pitched scream from Earnest, had you holding your stomach for dear life due to how much you were laughing at his reaction.

- Would be an early bird and wouldn’t even realize it, he’d be awake while everyone is just asleep.

- He thinks you all disappeared but overall it was a fun trip

Melvin O’Connor

- Due to him losing his grasp of reality and slowly being in the world of GNG, he genuinely acts as if he’s in the game itself. It got you and the others concerned but it’s just Melvin being Melvin, so you couldn’t really do anything about it.

- He would point things he would see in the woods which genuinely scared ALL of you, especially Algernon.

- “Is that an orc?” He pointed at the woods

- “What.” (Everyone was either staring at the woods or at Melvin, they nearly shat themselves)

- You had to force Melvin to go to sleep because he was out sitting near the campfire planning for a new scenario for gng, since you guys played throughout the duration of the camp or tell creepy stories that definitely didn’t make someone cry out of fear

Fatty Johnson

- Guess who was in charge in gathering the firewood? This guy!!

- He wouldn’t mind helping but he was A BIT distracted in stealing some grub and you had to force him out of it.

- Fatty would make some very odd jokes during the whole night when you and the nerds gathered by the campfire to tell scary stories or to play some games. When you talked about some stories about creepy creatures that lurked in the woods, he had to look to his right, left, and his back to see if it was safe, he was scared as hell.

- “Did you guys know I shat myself?” “Get out.”

- He would be the loudest out of all of you when he slept, which was the reason why you guys couldn’t get some shut-eye, aside from the scary stories.

Algernon Papadopoulos

- You would enjoy the whole day scaring this guy, one singular “boo!” And he pisses himself.

- This guy is in charge of nothing other than sitting down because you know how he’d slow down your progress and dirty everything in his path. You don’t trust this guy with anything at all.

- Algernon would start shaking in his boots once nightfall came, he shouldn’t have agreed on this camping trip AT ALL. It’s like having to take care of a toddler for the duration of it and it annoyed everyone.

- For the scary stories, the answer would already be obvious.. He pissed himself due to how scared he was along with crying because of how dark it was which just caused more paranoia for Algie.

- Couldn’t sleep but was forced to because he was still awake at 2 AM.

Beatrice Trudeau

- Beatrice was first hesitant about the camping trip but she thought it would be fun and maybe a way for the nerds to be more exposed in the outside world.

- She would make a list of all the necessities and other things that are important for the camp, she doesn’t want anyone to sleep outside in the cold air and that scary forest that you definitely didn’t tell scary stories about..

- Beatrice is just chilling and yet normal throughout the whole thing aside from the others. She’d ask if you need any help in preparing all the things because she didn’t want to be a lazy bum and sit around all day doing nothing, she has to do something once in a while or she’ll get bored of the whole trip.

- She would write in her diary about the camping experience with the nerds, complaining about the nerds’ actions and how the whole day went for her. But she would bring a camera to take pictures of the environment. She enjoys nature, it’s canon(to me).

- The best part of the day for Beatrice is when you all went home aside from the pictures she took of the woods and a few butterflies.

Bucky Pasteur

- Scaredy cat like Algie if i’ll be honest. He wouldn’t handle being in the woods after nightfall then he’ll start staying in the tent due to how terrified he was.

- The only thing he’d enjoy would be GNG and roasting marshmallows.

- He’s worried about his grandma since he went away and will overnight in the woods, while he wondered if she was okay.

- He helps in setting up the tents

- He also goes out fishing with Thad and Donald!

Thad Carlson

- Dragged him out his bed and placed him in the back of the trunk with the help of Fatty in order for the gang to be complete. Poor guy was just kidnapped and he wanted to stay home, but he likes fishing anyway so he would bring a fishing pole with him.

- Would disappear to find a nearby lake to fish while bringing Donald and Bucky with him.

- Most calmest mf during the whole experience, he’s like every dad or grandpa that enjoys fishing.

- He’d endlessly yap about war stories he saw online or studied himself.

- Best part for him? GOING HOME AND FISHING.

Donald Anderson

- I don’t know what to say for this guy, but he would disagree on the camping trip which caused you to kidnap him with the help of others.

- He somewhat hates the whole thing, until he went out fishing with Thad and Bucky.

- He added you to his list

- He would enjoy telling scary stories, it’s his specialty. He would steal a turn to tell scary stories which made the whole group make him stop for a while so they can talk about something else other than scary stories all the time.

-

Cornelius Johnson

- He agrees with the camping trip, he might even bring food for the trip incase the marshmallows run out.

- Best guy to bring around for some reason. He will help with the tents or also join the fishing with Thad and the others if he ever gets bored.

- He would sit by and enjoy the campfire while being surrounded by his friends, basically enjoying the peace and quiet along with the chatters and laughs of his fellow nerds. He would talk to Melvin about the plans for another GNG night to pass the time.

- Obviously, would get scared in the scary stories and all the mythical creatures in the woods of Bullworth but he likes mythical creatures so let’s just say he’s scared and not scared at the same time.

- Cornelius enjoyed the nature, but he also enjoyed spending time with the group.

[bbunnieee]

Bif Taylor Hc’s (BULLY)

(js to say this rq, i had decided to write a couple of hcs for Bully characters starting with bif because the fandom is DEAD butt i kinda have no experience in writing n stuff, so i’ll learn as i go :). )

“Not cool man, not cool.” - BT

Regular

- starting off, i do see him having brothers, not sure why i just thought of it and it seem like it fits. him being the like the second youngest or something, and having older brothers that tease him back to back (because it’s what brothers do) and younger ones that just get on his nerves fits him to me somehow. (plus goes along with another hc i have)

- He’s gotten teased/bullied since like 7th grade. and that same school year is when he’s actually gotten into boxing and started bulking up because of his more scrawny figure. and when he was confident enough, he actually stood up to his bully’s and began talking back to his brothers when they’d tease him and been left alone ever since. (besides by his brothers)

- he’s lowk condescending. like he only is really that way if he doesn’t know you. but once he does get to know you and is more comfortable being around you, he drops the attitude and acts how he really is,

- nerd.?? I only say this because i imagine him liking comics, books, video games, and star wars. now the comics he likes are just DC with his favorite character being batman,(he’s literally batman in his mind/j) but he’d read some marvel but only for spider man, deadpool and maybe hulk. and he’d like games like gta, resident evil, silent hill and just popular games with storylines. as also i imagine him liking star wars for a longg time, so he’d probably watch it for a nostalgia type feel.

- sneakerhead. At home he has hundreds of all types of shoes waiting to be worn in his large closet (i just had thought of him being a sneakerhead. i mean like he’s rich isn’t he? plus the dialogue in the game he says “cool kicks!” complementing jimmy on his shoes so just imagineeee)

- dimples.!!

- i’m not saying he’s obsessed with school drama/gossip but he might as well be. once he hears something , definitely expect derby and pinky to know.. no gossip nor drama goes untouched by him. (but according to bif you didn’t hear it from him yk)

- hes more “street smart” than “book smart”. he has average, decent, passing grades, but the other preps (besides pinky) would ask him about “slang” or terms that they naturally wouldn’t know.

- dude can be meann. like really mean, he’s heard things from his brothers and bullies so putting that stuff together is brutal. depending on how sensitive the person is he can send someone like algie crying in a bathroom stall just by his words. or if your not as sensitive, you’ll at least be thinking about what he said for a good while.

- he actually respects old people very much. literally the type to walk a old person across the street then continue to fight a guy on the street for messing with a poor old woman.

- dry ah texter. he prefers irl convos and facetime so a texting convo would definitely be something like:

y/n: heyy bifff

bif: hi

y/n: wyd rn?

bif: nothing

y/n: i’ve got plans tmr if you wanna tag along?

bif: no im busy

and yea.

- usually the quiet type, but when it’s a actual conversation going on he’s pretty funny.

- while he might not be exactly too arrogant or anything, he’s definitely greedy in ways.

- randomly says his outta pocket thoughts out loud, it’s pretty much a habit for him to just be like “i wonder how many 7 year olds i can beat up” and that’s that.

- smartass

- perfect ah teeth

- snores soooo fucking loud that you wouldn’t believe it. can literally hear him 3 doors down if the walls aren’t thick enough.

- likes rap, especially 90s rap but he’ll listen to new gen rap as long as it’s not mumble rap (he js might still listen to mumble rap at times)

- batman for halloween

- i forgot to add this- but i feel like he sometimes adds his 2 cents during awkward situations, or if not already awkward, he makes it awkward

Dating

- he is a simpp. literally will do anything for you. To taking his dads credit card to spoil you, Beat up people giving you a hard time or just scaring them off, and to just sneaking in your dorm to talk for hours

- he doesn’t do PDA really, but he will kiss you and play in your hair. or even whisper sweet things in your ear just to see you giggle or just smile

- he’d literally beg his dad to get his own car just so he can take you to even nicer places for dates

- he invites you to his house for dinner often and gets his cook to make your favorite foods

- (for girls) i’d think he isn’t around women a lot besides his nanny, pinky and some classmates he sits next to. but that’s about it. so when he first started dating you, pinky and his nanny were the ones he went to for advice, and so he basically did what they recommended just because he didn’t want to lose you as you were his first real and actual partner.

- his flirting isn’t actually bad.. i mean he’d hear his more experienced brothers say all types of things to girls, and he’d just try it on you and it works.

- let’s say bif is with a greaser.. he definitely wouldn’t see that coming at all. Bif taylor dating a greaser.. he probably be a bit hesitant showing you off with the preps (derby) simply because of the things they might say to you and he wouldn’t want someone he loves to hear that. but eventually he tells them something like “that’s y/n my partner,” and leaves it at that

- definitely needs validation and affection in the relationship.

End.

lmk how i did ‼️

[sholiofic]

I finally have a Biggles prompt-

Biggles sees EvS get wounded in the daytime, and then sees him at a white tie gala in the evening. He can’t believe he’s even standing, much less performing Culture.

I'm sorry it took me so long to write this, anon, and I hope you're still around to see it!

--

"Stop that," Algy murmured, nudging Biggles, who was tugging at his collar again.

Biggles jerked his hand down. "My suit is badly fitted," he muttered back.

"No, you just hate wearing it."

Biggles impatiently waved off a waiter holding out a tray of champagne flutes. Algy took two and held one out to his fidgeting cousin. 

Nearly snatching it out of his hand, Biggles muttered under his breath, "I would rather be at the office filling out the paperwork on the case. Nothing is going to happen here."

Algy rolled his eyes. "You mean von Stalhein isn't going to be here and you've completely lost interest."

Biggles glared at him, but there was an underlying sense of -- something. Algy heaved a sigh and drank from his champagne flute. He absolutely was not going to say anything reassuring, he simply was not.

They had rolled up most of the operation earlier today; it now remained simply to provide a quiet security presence for the jewels until their owner, the princess of a small principality subsumed into a larger country in the past half-century's wars, presented them as a goodwill gift to the Duchess who was sponsoring her resettlement in England. Ginger was back at the office, dealing with the paperwork and the details, and Bertie likely would have been here if he hadn't been wounded in the hand during the fighting. Biggles had insisted on him taking the night off. Algy wished he'd been so lucky.

Von Stalhein, who had been providing security for the gang, was still in the wind, but there had been a good deal of blood left behind after Gaskin's men had shot at him. Algy supposed it was too much to hope the man had crawled off to die somewhere. Unfortunately, he had been so taken aback by Biggles's stricken expression at the time that he had been startled into saying something reassuring along the lines of "Stop looking like that, at worst they've only winged him; the man is a cockroach and we won't be rid of him so easily" .... which probably meant he had only himself to blame for Biggles looking round into all the corners of the room while holding the untouched champagne flute carelessly in one hand.

Algy was just thinking they had just about got through it all right when Biggles sucked in a sudden breath and raised his champagne flute in a quick, involuntary brush against his lips. Algy looked where he was looking, thinking Oh no -- but he relaxed a little when he saw who Biggles was looking at.

Good old "Tosser" Talbot, surprised Biggles remembers him; wasn't he in Mumbai this last decade or two? Wonder if he has inherited his father's peerage yet. Or if he remembers he owes me ten pounds ... wait, who's that he's talking to?

The dawning resurgence of "oh no" came with the recognition of the slim, upright figure chatting with Talbot. Algy still thought he (and Biggles) must be imagining things, until the slim upright fellow turned his head, and Algy glimpsed him in profile and turned a resentful look on Biggles. Biggles, who had been bored out of his mind a few minutes earlier, was now practically quivering with eagerness.

"Stop looking so happy about this," Algy said out of the corner of his mouth. "This just gives us another chance to arrest him, doesn't it?"

"In the middle of the Duchess's affair? We should never hear the end of it," Biggles said, and began sidling through the crowd in von Stalhein's direction. Algy allowed himself to be caught up in Biggles's wake because at least that way he had some hope of influencing the direction of events somewhat. "The blood must have been from a lesser wound," Biggles murmured, almost to himself. "You were quite right, Algy, I should have listened to you."

"I was lying to make you feel better," Algy said under his breath. But as they got closer, he thought he did detect a certain stiffness to the way von Stalhein was standing, perhaps a hint of the bulkiness of bandages beneath the neatly tailored jacket, and the man's characteristic pallor was even whiter than usual. With any luck, Algy thought grimly, all they'd have to do was push him and he'd fall over, straight into the arms of a security guard if they were lucky.

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

What I partially have for the History Teacher AU for HP. This is unedited.

“Alright,” Professor Ridley had forsaken the robes most of the teachers wore for a nice pair of pants and a black vest over a white shirt. She rolled her eyes at a look from one of the Board members. Harry thought he looked like Malfoy a bit. “This is an informal class Mr. Malfoy. I wear robes during school hours. I just don't outside of them. They can be a hazard when working with runes or potions or… well a lot of stuff.” the woman strutted past the Board members and the press, head held high. “Good evening Hogwarts,” Ridley said as she casually tapped her throat. Her voice began to boom.

“Was that a wandless and silent Sonurous?!?” a fifth year hissed further down the table. No one answered given Ridley continued.

“This is our first lesson on Magical Theory and History, and as said given the… abysmal teachings done before I am holding this for all of Hogwarts,” the woman said. She took out her wand and conjured a blackboard that was large enough for the hall to see. “The Board here decided to invite the press to show that their decision to finally give the okay for a proper history teacher was well thought out.” Ridley smiled sharply as Granger gave a little gasp.

“They didn't want a proper teacher before?” she asked in horror. Harry frowned, looking at Ron who seemed stunned as well. The guy who looked like Malfoy was angry though, a dark look on his face.

“First and foremost, a question. How many alignments of magic are there?” Professor Ridley looked around the room. A seventh year raised a hand from the Ravenclaw table. “Ah, yes, McDonald?”

“Two,” the student said, voice bored.

“Incorrect,” Ridley said. “Anyone else?” a hushed sort of silence fell over the hall, everyone staring. Ridley frowned. “… anyone else- and, Mr. Longbottom?” she nodded at Neville who was shakily raising his hand.

“Umm, my Uncle Algie. He said that there was… seven? Umm that there wasn't much teaching of it in Britain?” the boy said with a bit of a stutter. A loud scoff came from the Slytherin table but Ridley smiled.

“Ten points to Gryffindor… and five points from Slytherin Mr. Malfoy. I told you I expect respect to everyone while I teach,” the woman eyed the green table with a frown. “My. Longbottom is correct. There are seven magical alignments. Three of which are Core types.” Ridley went to the board to write down ‘Light, Grey, Dark’ on it. “These are the way our magics naturally align within ourselves. As well these are the way magic itself can be described, along with two more.” ‘White’ and ‘Black’ appeared on the list, next to light and dark respectively. “Now, the difference between light and dark is that light magic is more willpower focused. You more or less force the spells to work. Meanwhile dark magic is emotion based, you have to WANT them to work and feel the emotions inside you.”

Ridley has already proven herself energetic in class, so Harry isn't surprised when she begins moving, waving her hands around. She looks eager to talk and he's never had a teacher so eager to actually explain things. Its nice.

“White magic is truly just even more powerful light magic that has the addition of needing a strong power output, with black magic being the same for dark magic. Grey magic though is basically both light and dark. You need willpower and emotion. Such as the patronus charm!” She lifted her wand. “Expecto Patronum!” from her wand, a huge silver grizzly bear tumbled out with a roar. She smiled at the crowd as she flicked her wand and had the animal vanish. “Meanwhile, the light charm- Lumos-” she created a white light at the end of her wand. “Is pure willpower. Then, the Diffindo charm,” here the woman conjured a scarf to cut in half. “Is dark because you need to want it to be cut in half and feed a small bit of anger into the charm.” she sashayed around the front of the hall, smiling. “Now, a white magic spell is much more complicated to cast and sadly I can't cast many as my own magical core is dark. I can brute force a few of them, but I'd rather not have a minor core suppression to handle. That's unpleasant.”

“Shes dark?!” Ron says in horror as the hall erupts into whispers. Ridley rolls her eyes, slumping over dramatically.

“Oh please. Dark and light magic only mean that one requires emotions and the other willpower. Do you know how these terms even got popular? A light wizard by the name of Gamp, might know him from Transfiguration, came up with it. Now, this is somewhat unproven but its known he was courting a woman at the time he came up with these ideas, and that she had another suitor who you would term dark.” Ridley opened her arms. “Take it what you will but its noted the woman spurned Gamp anyway. And around this time dark magic began being really hated. Of course this is all gossip but… often times history is written by people who end up putting their own bias into it.”

“That can’t be true!” shouted someone from the Ravenclaw table.

“It is. I checked with Madame Pince and we do have the history books on it. I asked her not to let them be checked out so that no one just hoards them, I knew to many people like that in school.” Ridley shook her head. “Ruined learning for everyone… but she will let people read them to check. It is true. History as a whole is something I'm sad to say has a lot of bias as we can tell. Lawrence Bagman’s book Historic Incidents in the Magical Community has no mention of the fae wars being fought in Ireland in 1850. Yet they happened and caused enough of an incident the ICW changed laws. He seemed to think that discussing it was below his interest. Along with that, you just need to read his account of the House-Elf and human accords, and then Madame Dupain’s account in her book The Complete History of Magic until 1900 to discover that there is a bias. Both are written incredibly differently.” Ridley spread her arms out. “Hence why I assigned two books and will be using books from the library. Different perspectives. But anyway, that's how the alignments got their names.”

“The what accords?” a Slytherin asked and Ridley stared.

“… Professor Dumbledore i am hosting three more classes like this. Why did the governors let this get this bad?” Ridley shook her head as the board glared.

“Shes really bringing it up,” Harry said softly.

“She wants to make it clear who is at fault,” Seamus said. “Me mum said that everyone thought it was Dumbledore blocking the change but apparently the board seems to have been more at fault. Wonder what other things are the result of their hands and not Dumbledore.” Seamus mused.

“I heard that to,” Ron admitted. “Mom never believed it.”

“Seems she was right,” a third year Gryffindor muttered as Ridley moved back to discussing magic, remarking she’d make posts about the ‘needed information why was this not included at all’ lessons.

“Grey magic are spells using both emotion and will as stated. Because of this they can cast both dark and light magic easily.

[oneinathousand]

Mediocre Extras in Drowned God: Conspiracy of the Ages Re-release Leaves Price Questionable

Since the Epic Games Store doesn't let you review games and it's not on Steam yet (a release there is supposed to happen eventually), I'll have to make my review here.

Some of my followers may recall that when the 90's point-and-click adventure game Drowned God: Conspiracy of the Ages was illegally put on Steam for $15, I raised the alarm about it to get it taken down. As I came to learn later, this incident inspired the rights holders (producer Algy Williams, co-creator Alastair Graham, and creator Harry Horse's estate) to come together and produce a re-release that is currently on the Epic Games Store for $25.

Since the original source code was lost long ago, all the developers could do was polish it slightly to make it run better on modern computers and hopefully iron out the bugs, but to justify the price point the advertisements on the new website promised several enticing extras including: a new walkthrough, the original pitch documents, an all-new art book with never-before-seen art, and most exciting of all - Diary of a Plagiarist, the 11-volume tome Harry Horse created in the 80's that served as the inspiration for Drowned God but was thought to have been lost (well, not really lost, the guy Harry sold them to refused to sell them back).

When I brought up the illegal version of DG on Steam, I said then that the game by itself would not even be worth $15 even if it were an official re-release because 1. It's a short, linear point-and-click game 2. It's over 25 years old now. Do the extra materials make the $25 price tag worth it? I'm not so sure, right now I'm leaning towards "no, not really". I'll tell you what's in this package and you can decide for yourself.

First, the game, which is fundamentally the same as it was before. This is not a remake or a remaster, there are no subtitles to alleviate the often awful audio mixing, it's just the original game made easier to play now. The producer of the re-release said in a Q&A video on the DG Youtube channel that he thinks the audio mixing sounds a little better now than it did then, but I couldn't tell you because my Airpods broke recently and I had to play the sound through my potato laptop's speakers.

Well, at the very least, from what I've played of the re-release so far (I'm not planning on playing through the whole thing right now, I'm not strong enough to go through that goddamn 9 Men's Morris puzzle again, I'm sorry ;_;), it is indeed functional and the mouse sensitivity felt better from what I remember playing on my emulated version.

So the re-release delivered the bare minimum with the game, and if that's all you care about and don't mind spending $25 on it, have at it, but now onto the extra materials, which I feel are a mixed bag that wouldn't have been so disappointing to me if the advertisements had been more honest about what they contained.

I have no qualms with the new walkthrough and the original pitch documents. The former is made to look like a top-secret folder complete with bits of redacted text and handwritten notes, it's very cute. The latter is very interesting to those interested in the lore of the game, as it gives a very different picture about what the story could have been. There are many pieces of art and writing that depict very different scenarios for the player that were changed for the final release, such as a description of the original goal being to collect a key plus several pieces of a UFO to fly to Atlantis and raise it from the ocean, with no mention at all of Kether and Malchut.

As for the other main extras, I have my qualms. Firstly is the purported Drowned God Art Book, which isn't really a book at all but a booklet, a short collection of concept art and musings from Alastair Graham about Knights Templar and Mayan mythology that abruptly stops and mostly only shows art from the Binah section of the game.

Don't get me wrong, the concept art that actually is in there is great, but I was left wanting more. If those pieces of art that were there were all that the developers had managed to track down after all these years and they titled the collection something like "Drowned God Art Booklet", I would understand, but they oversold the art "book"'s contents by a long shot, I feel.

And I know for a fact that there's more artwork out there that for whatever inexplicable reason wasn’t included anywhere in this re-release, but I can’t go into more detail at the moment, I’m in the process of trying to find out what’s been going on with this topic and will hopefully be able to give an update on it in the future.

As for the "Diary of a Plagiarist", that was a straight-up lie. It's in fact just a handwritten letter from Harry Horse giving the premise, a few story details, explaining how and why he made the volumes, and apologizing that he couldn't remember a whole lot about what was in them because he could never get them back. Imagine paying 20-something bucks for what you think is a copy of Moby-Dick, only to open it up and just see a note from Herman Melville going "I think it was about a guy in a boat chasing a whale, I forgot, lol".

I'm glad we have these notes from Harry in this case because it's probably the most detailed information about DOAP that we're ever going to get, plus it has more concept art of what looks like an even earlier version of DG before the pitch documents. However, the ones who put this re-release together could have avoided pissing me and potentially other people off by just being honest about what it really was rather than pretending like it's the real deal on the website.

So what we've got here are a few pretty good pdfs that have been blown out of proportion in terms of their contents. If you think that plus the old game is worth $25 and you can spend that, go right ahead, but for the rest of you, I would recommend waiting for a sale.

I have a few ideas for what they could add onto the package in the future to make it more worth the price tag: 1. Include a text file of all the spoken dialogue and hard-to-read pieces of writing in the game for those who might need it. 2. Expand the art book to include interviews from the developers about the making of the game and put in those other pieces of art that weren’t there the first time. 3. Update the website and social media to be more honest about the contents of the extras. 4. If tracking down the creators of the game's soundtrack is feasible, create a new, remastered soundtrack that makes the music longer than the original short loops.

If they cannot add any of these things in the near future, then there is really no excuse for this to be $25. Other PC games that are about as old as Drowned God such as Fallout 1 and 2, Diablo 1, Half-Life 1, Quake 1, and more are not only much cheaper to buy, but have more to offer.

[offorestsongs]

Hello Algy! ♡

Oh Algy :c I'm so sorry to hear that you feel this way, and I completely understand where you're coming from. We always seem to be our harshest critics, and I've done the same thing too (compared my writing/art to others and feeling not good enough) The important thing to remember (and something I keep reminding myself) is that it's supposed to be fun, and as long as you're having fun, that's all that matters. Do what you love, do what makes you happy ♡

This post really helped me as well, and I hope it can help you too ♡

I hope this week gets better for you, and just know that me (and so many others) love your work ♡

Thank you! ♡

AHHH SHEEPY THANK YOU 🥺💜💐 this means so much to me, i'm really glad you appreciate my work and that you're willing to say such kind words to me 💞

and yes, you're right, i'm trying to do what i enjoy, but sometimes the bad moods get the better of me. but i'm gonna be fine i just need to rest and get over it!!

AND AH the two cakes comic!!! i actually think about it a lot when creating stuff and it always manages to make me feel a little better - it's such a good way to think about it 💜

thank you again !!! 🩷

[equalseleventhirds]

been reading through apocalypse world for game designing reasons bcos i haven't actually before (in spite of playing Several Many pbta games)

and maybe it is bcos it is the second edition but it's honestly kinda notably different even mechanics-wise from a lot of the most popular pbta games? like, wildly more intricate and strange than motw, for instance, often in ways that i find very interesting and am thinking abt how to incorporate into things.

but also just in general a very interesting and cool game, with rly fun mechanics and some fascinating worldbuilding built into its mechanics, i like it a lot. should play it sometime.

[philippmichelreichold]

Space Dreadnoughts by Dave Drake

Space Dreadnoughts is a Military Science Fiction anthology by David Drake, Martin H Greenberg and Charles G Waugh. The contents in order of appearance are:

"Introduction: A quick Look at Battle Fleets" by David Drake

"The Only Thing We Learn" by Cyril M. Kornbluth

"C-Chute" by Isaac Asimov

"Allamagoosa" by Eric Frank Russell (won the Hugo Award for bestshort story in 1955)

"A Question of Courage" by J. F. Bone

"Superiority" by Arthur C. Clarke

"Hindsight" by Jack Williamson

"The Last Battalion" by David Drake

"Shadow on the Stars" by Algis Budrys

"Time Lag" by Poul Anderson

The first Military Sci Fi story I remember is the Star Trek TOS episode "Balance of Terror," in which Enterprise duels with a Romulan interloper. The military conflict was setting to other conflicts between the crew, the story was full of suspense, and actual battle was a small part of the story. And so it is here.

The book's title is a misnomer. The back cover blurb is misleading-- "Massive and arrogant, they patrol the final war zone-- deep space. All great battleships before them-- . . . are mere toys in comparison." It goes on about "bristling artillery" and "battalions of souldiers." I expected fleet actions involving capital ships. Tactics. Maneuvers. Gunplay. While there are fleet actions and even battleships in some of these stories, they are mere backdrops on a stage where people play out the stories. Truly good Science Fiction involves people, and in all these stories, the people overshadow the military settings that serve only to bring out the characters and whatever lessons there are to be learned from them. All of these stories are well worth reading.

"Introduction: A quick Look at Battle Fleets" Mr Drake's introduction is a wonderful introspective about the history of the Dreadnought battleships with a mention of two 1950's Astounding essays on the armaments of spaceships-- one by Willy Ley, the other by Malcolm Jameson. If one is going to write stories about ship-to-ship combat, the introduction is a good starting point. But only a starting point. One should definitely read Mahan, and consider the lessons of Taranto and Pearl Harbor. And the US Navy's Harpoon's and Tomahawk's are wonderful arguments in favor of missles over guns. One should also consider the time honored techniques of ramming and boarding actions.

Perhaps the question of guns vs missles is mooted today. The arms race has continued in Sci-Fi beyond what could be imagined with a knowledge of 1950's physics. The Ley and Jameson essays were written before Empire of Man fighters raked Formoria, before rail guns, and CTD imploders, before GRASER's, X-ray LASER's and phaser banks, before the Moties bombarded Mote Prime with asteroids, and before Captain Sheridan laid a gigaton on Z'ha'dum.

"The Only Thing We Learn" Kornbluth tells a cautionary tale of faded Imperial glory. The barbarians at the gates will one day have descendants that are as decadent and prissy as the effete and ineffectual empire they deposed and replaced. History blurs and magnifies the epic tales of glory. The details are lost. The character is lost. One day a fresh wave of barbarians sweeps aside succcessors that their ancestors would be ashamed to acknowledge. The reader may decide what relationship if any there is between this story and the quote from Friedrich Hegel. A fun story despite the dire consequences for the past and future losers. In his column, "Rereading Kornbluth", Robert Silverberg calls The Only Thing We Learn, "a subtle, oblique, elliptical, sardonic piece of work."

"C-Chute" Dr. Asimov wrote this story in 1951. It is a psychodrama set aboard a passenger ship taken as a prize by a race of chlorine breathers in Earth's first intersteller war. Each of the passengers is sketched by Asimov to reveal their several flaws of personality, physicality or character. Each has reasons why he should not exit the cabin via the C-chute, EVA, and enter and retake the control room from outside the ship. The reason for the dubious hero to take the heroic action required to retake the ship is one unlikey to appear in the work of any author but Dr. Asimov.

"Allamagoosa" This story won the 1955 Hugo for best short story. It's a farcical look at officious bureaucracy of the greatest gravity. It's sort of a shaggy dog story, wink, wink. This story in and of itself is worth buying the book for. The build up and so obvious in hindsight ending is fresh enough to be as enjoyable today as it was then.

"A Question of Courage" Sometimes flair and heedless risk taking can be mistaken for true personal courage. When the genuine article appears, there's no mistaking it. Bone craftliy deveops his characters and sets the reader up for the old maidish Captain "Cautious Charley" Chase of Lachesis to reveal his true nature. It is available from Project Gutenberg.

"Superiority" Sir Arthur requires no introduction for this story, a reductio ad absurdum about the principle of Illusory Superiority. Technology and bedazzlment with the latest, most theoretically wonderful advances are no substitutes for common sense and sound military doctrine. Perhaps this should serve as a cautionary tale at a time when Iraqi insurgents hack into our drones. According to Wikipedia, this gem was required reading at West Point. The reader easily empathizes with the narrator and his plight, revealed at the end.

"Hindsight" Jack Williamson has won both the Nebula and the Hugo Awards, and had a career that spanned about seventy years. This story involves temporal mechanics and love, oppression and liberation, and meeting engagements. Incidentally, the guns employed by the Astrach's fleet are of 20-inch caliber and fire four salvos per second. It's a tightly written story, though I think the ending is a little drippy.

"The Last Battalion" Imagine that Hitler did not die in a bunker in Berlin, but escaped via U-Boat to a secret Waffen-SS base in New Swabia. There German scientists built flying saucers from which they reached the moon to to mine aluminum and build more flying saucers. Now imagine them getting into a war with aliens. With things not looking so good, they kidnap a US Senator to let him know what is going on, intending to drag the US into the conflict. Before they can get where they're going with the Senator, the aliens lay a nuke on their Antartic base. They drop the Senator off to find his own way home. He asks them what they will do. Their colonel replies, we are SS-- we will fight.

"Shadow on the Stars" Budrys's Farlans are felinoid aliens who at first blush look like humans in cat suits. But they are, on a closer look, "raving paranoid quote." The paranoia is pathological and eventually fatal for Farla-- any military leader with sufficient ability to be effective cannot be trusted by Farla's rulers, and will be killed at the earliest sign of that fatal disease, military competence. The story is a retrospective, the central character telling how he and Farla came to be in their present straits. It is too late for him to convey the warning against trusting Earth, and to late to avoid the inevitable dissolution of Farla.

I have a problem accepting the plot device Budrys uses to set up the narrative, but otherwise the story is interesting and fun to read. The prose is a bit over decourous and affected, but that brings out the effeteness and pretentiousness of the Farlan culture. At the start, the Farlans are hard-pressed by a barabarian culture, the Vilk, and need a strong, capable leader to drive them back. OF course the strong, capable leaders keep their heads down so has not to find themselves assassinated by the Ministry of Preparedness-- and then comes L'Miranid. A previously unknown reservist, he quickly dominates the Fleet and whips them into shape. Victory follows victory until the Vilk host is driven back, their subject planets pounded to rubble, and a Farlan imposed king seated upon their throne.

The real story action is not fleet engatgements and daring raids, though. The story is related by Henlo, one of those capable leaders who has balanced command of a capital ship wtih avoiding notice by the governmental hunters down of competence. He starts the story as having a clear understanding of Farla's problems and the steps necessary to remedy them, but can't afford to be noticed. He becomes L'Mararind's aid, admirer, vice-admiral, intended assasin and successor, and finally, his unwilling co-conspirator and successor. Unwilling to be assasinated himself, he seizes control of the Farlan government. By this time, the sad (for Farla) truth is known to him, but (I love Latin quotes.) "alea jacta est." This is a fine little story with a lovely twist toward the end.

"Time Lag" Poul Anderson has won both the Hugo and Nebula Awards. Time Lag is a study in contrasts-- evil, greedy invaders against noble, selfless defenders. Chertkoi is a heavily overpopulated industrial planet, drowning in pollution and resource starved. Vaynamo is pristine, with a population sustainable through resource management. Vayanmo is never the less technologically advanced, with the technology's goal as preservation rather than exploitation. Expolitation is the name of Chertkoi's game. It's people conquer other worlds to fuel the industrial fires that smother their world under a cloud of pollution.

The archetype of the Chertoi is the Admiral commanding the invasion fleet. He is matched against the story's view point character, Elva. Elva is the widow of a Vayanmoan noble and prisoner of the Admiral. He is gross, vulgar and uncouth. She is pretty, cultured and well-mannered. He is a love struck boor, hopelessly smitten by her. She subtly endures his presence to manipulate him so that she an return herself and the other captives to Vayanmo in a portrayal that is believable and sympathetic. The invasion is a leveraged takeover in three stages-- a scouting raid, a strategic strike to destroy what little industry the Vayanmo posses, and a full-scale invasion. The title relativistic time lag (fifteen years) gives the Chertkoi time to build their invasion fleet and the Vaynamo time to prepare their reception.

References

Space Dreadnoughts by Dave Drake. Philipp Michel Reichold. JUL 19TH, 2017

Space Dreadnoughts. ed. David Drake, Martin H. Greenberg, Charles G. Waugh. July 1990.

Star Trek. "Balance of Terror."

The Mote in God's Eye. Jerry Purnelle and Larry Niven.

Various Polity universe stores. Neal Asher.

Babylon 5. "Z'ha'dum"

The Battle of Sauron. John F. Carr and Don Hawthorne.

[dotsayers]

I am HORRIBLY TORN between Biggles Meets The Family and stray cat evs (metaphorical)

in that case i will give you a little bit of both of them!

Biggles Meets The Family (aka the yugoslavia fic) is about frau lowenhardt enlisting biggles' help in rescuing evs from Something Bad in yugoslavia, although the details only come later in the plot. fritz also unhelpfully ran away to try and rescue evs himself, which is why frau lowenhardt risked her life to go to the sap offices and (she assumed) stage a sitin to get evs's worst enemy to help him. it's very surprising to her when biggles almost immediately says yes obviously we'll be rescuing them both. and then biggles is surprised when she insists on coming along

“I feel bad for this Frau Lowenhardt,” said Ginger. “She seems at the end of her rope and I can’t blame her. I can’t say it looks good for her son, or for dear old Erich as it happens.” “Poor kid,” mused Algy. “There’s no love lost between Erich and I, as you know, but I’m inclined to pitch in on this just for his nephew. It’s an admirable thing to do, but damned stupid as well. Just the sort of thing a young lad would do without thinking of the consequences.” Biggles nodded. “I couldn’t in good conscience agree to help without consulting all of you,” he said. “It’s outside our remit. We’d need to get the okay from Raymond, although I admit that not having to cross the Iron Curtain leaves me with a substantial spring in my step.” “And if we said no,” said Algy, with some finality. “You’d mope about it so long and so dismally that we’d end up agreeing in another month. We may as well skip that step and get down to business.” Ginger nodded sagely.

stray cat evs (metaphorical) is about evs being adopted by his new neighbours in kensington. i'm writing it in outsider pov which is one of my favourite gambits and not one i've tried in biggles fic yet so we'll see how it shakes out!

Now, she set her side of the chair down outside 3F’s door and put her hands on her hips. “Any more furniture need shifting?” She asked. “I think a sofa would be a bit beyond me, but if the rest of the dining set is knocking about I could help you with that.” “I – no, there’s nothing else,” said the man. He paused with his keys in his hand, then turned to face her properly. He might have been handsome, if Janet was in the habit of noticing such things, and if he hadn’t so clearly missed more meals than he could afford. “Lothar Boelke,” he continued abruptly. Then he put out his hand, hovering awkwardly between them. “It is. A pleasure.” “Nice to meet you, Lothar,” said Janet. She took his hand and shook it, feeling unaccountably pleased by the gesture. He had a strong grip; she could feel calluses on his fingers. “I’m in flat 3C. If you find yourself in need of a second chair, I’ve got one that’s been gathering dust in the spare bedroom since about nineteen-forty-eight.”

[cranberrybogmummy]

Edwardian tinged fantasy.

Cousin Gwendoline’s bright mood after leaving school had slowly faded over the summer, by  the end of it she hardly stirred from her bed unless required.  She wasn’t writing to me much either, and usually our correspondence was voluminous.  She was one of my best friends because she and I had the same kind of strangeness stamped on  our souls, the queer inverted kind. 

    Not that it mattered much, in my case my family were pushing eligible bachelors who ‘preferred the manly touch’ at me. That was fun, the bachelors and I enjoyed ourselves immensely, however none of them made my heart flutter like I knew it would when I found the one I could love.

    Because of this and my closeness to Gwen, my aunt gave me an invitation to visit Bramblehill, their country estate in August. So I did. I was distressed, by her lying about like an indigent slug. I knew there was something happening. Something is deeply wrong. So of course in the third week I went to her room in the early morning, drew back the curtains and plunked myself on the bed.

Gwendy stirred and growled: “Algie go away.”

“No you and I are going to that patch of brambles (the house’s namesake) and picking the berries until our fingers are purple, and our legs are scratched, we are going to have a berry picnic, I’ll get the footman to bring us some whipped cream and biscuits and a delightful bottle of bubbly. We will drink and eat our spoils, get tiddly, laugh and then go swimming in the lake. You will be happy, Gwendy!” I demanded.

She groaned and covered her head with a pillow: “Algie we aren’t children anymore! We can’t be larking about like that! Anyhow I don’t want to!”

“Pff,” I scolded “Don’t make me use my magic to peel you out of bed and get you into the sun.”

Gwendy’s eyes narrowed and she laughed it hoarse and harsh: “You try that and I’ll slump to the floor here as boneless as an eel.”

“Ugh,” I sighed. I laid back on the bed with my head next to hers. “Tell me what has gotten you so miserable, I won’t breathe a word, if you don’t want to.”

“You remember that girl from my school: Lillian Tremaine?” She sighed deeply.

“Yes, the one who visited last summer, she was delightful, you had a bit of a thing with her didn’t you?” I said.

She scowled: “Bit of a thing!? Algie she was my one true love! We were going to run away together, change our names, live far away doing art by the seaside! We were going to be married! She … she…”

Gwendy grabbed me and started sobbing into my shoulder. I let her go off on her crying jag. I patted her shoulder. “It’s alright you can tell Cousin Algie all about it.”

“At first she was writing to me about how she was almost ready to leave, but she had to go to one ball, held at her house. Then this man, a Mr. Cadogan crept into the narrative, he apparently was visiting his father nearby. She was doing things with him: boat rides ‘round the lake, croquet, tennis and dancing. All the while she was saying how she was almost ready. Then she mentioned how handsome and agreeable he was, and if she wasn’t my girl, then how rich he was, and how much her family liked him. I wanted to go to her rescue but she told me no, she’d come to me. Then her letters were nothing but Mr. Cadogan, finally she told me that she LOVED HIM and she wasn’t running off.  That he proposed and she accepted. Now I suppose she’s Mrs. Cadogan. It makes my stomach hurt Algie! She betrayed me, she broke my heart! It hurts so much!”

She started crying into my shoulder again, my shirt was getting rather damp, but I let her. There were many trite and meaningless things I could have said, but I let her cry more.

“Gwendy?” I asked. “Your maidenly weeping has soaked through my shirt.”

She sniffled: “Oh, sorry Algie. Have you ever had your heart broken?”

I shook my head: “Yes, he decided it was more important to go and fight some stupid war in the hinterlands, I think against a Fae incursion.. then well…”

“He’s dead then?” Gwendy asked.

“I hope so, the Fae are not good to their captives.” I sighed.

It was silent for a while and then she raised her head. “You know what, she was always a fickle little cunt, maybe berry picking and a picnic is just what we need.”

“I’m glad you see it my way, dear cousin.” I said.

“Now leave, you aren’t supposed to be here this early and with me all by myself.” She said with a smile.

“Alright, fine.” I said with a wink and I left.

That afternoon we went to Bramble hill, the events there would change the shape of our lives from then on. 

[forgaeven1]

i'll meet her as long as she agrees to not buy a thing for me then, hermione says determinedly — and neville would have been delighted, he thinks, over the very sight that he could already a semblance of life bursting through her eyes... if it isn't also overwhelmed by the thought of hermione meeting his overly stern and traditional gran and blatantly rejecting what surely will be a non-compromising position on his gran's end.

despite his offer to accompany her—which is still quite sincere, mind you; and he would gladly go with her on the day if she asks—neville could immediately tell he might spend the whole of he visit in agonising anxiety. and it isn't as if he doesn't think augusta longbottom would not have liked hermione—in fact, it's the opposite; his gran had steadfastly approved of the friendship and hermione's character since the moment neville had mentioned her in his first year—but it's quite an ordeal still, isn't it ? when two headstrong people met ?

nevertheless, neville couldn't help himself from smiling at hermione's willingness to argue at all. it's a private thought, but he thinks she's rather... charming like this.

❛ uh — yeah. yeah ! i mean, you could write to her, 'course. i'll owl her, as well. just so she could anticipate you. ❜ neville says calmly, leaning back against the couch; his thumb absent-mindedly running down her fingers. ❛ gran's, uh ... she can be ... i just don't want you to be disheartened by it all. we don't mean any harm, really—about the dress, that is. it's tradition, i think. as in, your dress is supposed to match my robe or somethin' like that. you should see a photo of my da' when he first debuted with my mum. she had this—yellow flapper dress. ❜ at this, neville smiles coyly, laughing a little from the memory of when uncle algie reiterated what exactly happened to his parents that day.

❛ gran was so mad, because she'd wanted mum in this heavy ballgown, i suppose, and i guess mum just... well. she clearly had a different idea. ❜ a pause, before neville inhales. he looks again at hermione and quickly shakes his head. ❛ sorry. i went off-topic, hadn't i ? ❜

it has been three years now since the end of the war. the first one, she had kept soldiering on, going wherever they told her she was needed, helping at the ministry, especially the wizengamot with all those new people to judge. she had fought then too, she had fought for their rights to be respected, she had fought for justice rather than revenge, testifying when she had something to say. hermione remembers how shaky her hands felt as she walked up to malfoy's trial, remembers the hollow of his grey eyes, the arrogant arch of his eyebrow as he recognized her, something like distrust in his features though you had to have known him for some times to hope reading anything on his face. but she had testified, of his unwillingness to say it was harry at the manor, of what she knew of his role during the battle. she had been FAIR, unwilling to see resentment in the ones that were on the other side : hermione knows enough about wars from the muggle world to know the consequences of crushing your enemies.

but then she had fallen apart, once it was all done, once a sense of normalcy had settled over the society. because she had then realized she had no place there anymore, that all of it scares her because she was so inadequate, unwilling to find others' glance, unwilling to answer their questions or stomach their pity. slowly, little by little, she had made of grimmauld place her castle and prison, the thought of going out one that was maddening, the entrance a step she simply couldn't take. harry and her stay there, safe together, letting those they love and care for inside though harry is braver, harry does get out from time to time, she hears the front door in the middle of the night. but she does not ask him a question about it, they all need their secrets, they keep themselves warm, as if it gave them something to protect now that they were armless.

a blink brings her back to neville's sweet face, fingertips brushing against eyelashes, a remaining tear from their earlier conversation brushed away, listening to him with a gentle smile. she's always known that he came from an old family, though it does not show the way it does on malfoy, thank merlin for that, it's always been known. but she is not gryffindor for nothing, there is pride in her heart, ❛ i'll meet her as long as she agrees to not buy a thing for me then. i'll let you be the messenger. or would you rather i write her ? ❜ lips bend into a mischievous smile, knowing how difficult it is for neville to argue with his grand mother but unwilling to let anyone dictate anything in her life. not the ministry, not her friends, not neville's grand ma.