#am not sure how to conclude this because my title isn't from a Song for once

[dxppercxdxver]

hello hello! in preparation for the opening of @tf2shipswag's oc bracket For Real i have written a vaguely persons-of-the-tale-esque bit of propaganda fiction in which our unwitting ocs experience a historical anachronism and discover they have been entered into the oc bracket! if you like early enemies to lovers and a tasteful dose of meta fiction (along with aggressively 18th century styled prose) you'll probably like this! i call it "there's such a thing as an author" or "persons of the tale But Worse"

Somewhere just to the left of the story well known, Samuel Mundy sat perched in the bay window, long legs stretched across the whorled-grain boards with languid content. Liquid summersong pooled in his lap with all the warmth of a loyal cat, golden and simple. The glass panes were thrown open to let in the comfort of the season—what little could be snatched from the jagged-toothed forest filled with the crack of gunfire, anyway—and he clutched a chipped china saucer in his fingers, picking at a fresh bread roll.

Gazing across the Manor’s ill-tended garden, Samuel sighed nearly dreamily, a reflexive smile playing across his cracked lips. For once, his little world was quiet, nary a disturbance to be found.

Of course, however, his peace was not destined to last, and Miss Pauling’s far off cry of, “Mail, boys!” roused the rabble from deep within the house’s corridors, who all came a-bustling with the energy of an anthill, and idle chatter filled the air, quickly snuffing the silence. Samuel, pointedly ensconced in his window-borne nest, merely watched his compatriots greet their friend and sponsor on the lawn as she distributed the sheaves of parchment and carefully tied packages amongst them. They were permitted some personal effects at their stations, which included a small allowance for assorted trinkets and treasures, and thus the days Miss Pauling ventured into town were filled with a quiet sort of excitement. Much as they were soldiers of a secret war, and trained for such, it grew dreadfully lonely and dreadfully threadbare.

This day, though… Something about it was different.

While the great majority of his fellows dispersed from the lawn as swiftly as they had come, their spy, Laurent, remained, conversing with Miss Pauling. Samuel could hardly make out a word at his distance, but his eyes were sharpened by his particular profession, and the feeling between their persons was a tense one. Her brows were furrowed sharply over the silvery frames of her spectacles, and Laurent’s hands formed clipped gestures at his sides. Whatever it was they spoke of, it hardly seemed a pleasant thing.

After mere moments more, Laurent plucked a paper from Miss Pauling’s elegantly gloved fingers and held it out before him, pursing his lips as he studied it, before shaking his head, offering Miss Pauling a crisp salute, and trudging across the lawn.

In what appeared to be Samuel’s direction.

Growling softly, Samuel wrinkled his nose, staring firmly down at his plate in some vain hope Laurent would pass him by, that the mysterious business he appeared so perturbed by was kind enough to leave Samuel alone. The last thing he needed was another catastrophe atop the neverending tumultuousness of his wartime existence.

“Bushman.”

In spite of his willing, Laurent’s infuriatingly smooth voice lilted into his ears with a weariness that belied an intent beyond an obligatory passing greeting, and Samuel found himself looking up to meet his tired gaze.

The warmer weather had done a kindness to the spy; his sallow complexion and skeletal frame were given a new life in the sun, and the embroidery in his suit shimmered like the finest of jewels. And still, Samuel couldn’t help but find him dour, unpleasant, and downright infectious in his discomfort. Almost in response to Laurent’s hardened grimace, Samuel shifted in his seat, his skin itching ‘neath his clothes.

“Spook.”

When the acknowledgement of Laurent’s presence failed to dispel him from Samuel’s immediate company, he sighed, and turned to properly face the equally beleaguered spy, letting his boots sway loosely beneath him.

“Unless it’s business, I’m not interested,” he said brusquely, fixing Laurent with a firm stare that he returned with unflinching readiness. Pale eyes bored into his own as Laurent shook his parchment bounty open with a sharp flick of the wrist.

“While my present port of call has little to do with our current occupation,” he said, calm and measured, “I have a feeling you will want to see this.”

The paper was rough and worn, stained deep yellow with the wear of travel, and the ink splashed across it was coming off on his skin and the leather of his glove in small flakes, but there was no mistaking the printing.

At first, Samuel blanched, presuming it a call for their heads, but as he read, the fear curdled into something far more baffling. Taking up most of the page was a sketched rendition of the two of them—sniper and spy—stood side by side, illustrated Laurent flashing a wry smirk at his ink-bound companion that the drawing of Samuel readily returned. Bold typeface toward the top spelled out “WANTED” clear as day, although there was no reward attached. Twirling arrows pointed to Laurent and him in turn, annotating precisely who was whom. There was yet more type at the bottom, but Samuel had rather stopped processing exactly what it said by then, and handed the sheet back to Laurent with an incredulous scowl.

“What in the hell is this?”

As Laurent crisply refolded it and placed it in an inner pocket, he replied, “We appear to have been entered into some sort of tournament.”

“Tournament?” Samuel’s mind whirled, spiraling out endless possibilities, each one markedly worse than the last, “As in… fighting?”

“Mercy of mercies, I do not believe so,” Laurent mused, crossing his arms and glancing into the distance. “Even with my considerable skill, we would hardly stand a chance with you on our side.”

“Watch your tongue, Frenchie.” Livid, Samuel snapped, instinctively reaching for the machete at his side. “Don’t pretend you’re not glad of this as well.”

Laurent snorted. “Of course I am, but it is hardly a matter of cowardice.”

“Yeah? What is it, then?”

“I do not wish to dirty my suit,” Laurent sneered, mouth curved sharp as his knife. In that moment, Samuel wished for nothing more than to knock that wretched expression from his face, but resorted instead to knotting his fist in the fabric of his shirt. It certainly would not do to lose his composure so early and in a place so visible to his superior, but oh how he longed to rattle Laurent around, maybe beat some sense into him along the way.

Samuel rolled his eyes. “Fine. If we’re not to be fighting, what exactly are we meant to be doing?”

“If I am interpreting the missive correctly,” Laurent said, smoothing the fine hairs of his wig, “it is really less of a gladiatorial affair, and more of a… popularity contest.”

“Oh.” Cocking his head, Samuel let the implications wash over him, feeling his body recoil in the wake. “Oh.”

“Strange, is it not?” Taking a deep breath, Laurent shrugged slow and deliberate. “Still, I suppose I might consider myself at an advantage. I have many a desirable quality to be considered…” He trailed off, but Samuel was suddenly alight with energy.

Held in his hands was the opportunity to be absolutely devilish, and he seized it with vigor.

“Oh, really?” he said, feigning innocence. “Like what?”

Laurent whirled, eyebrow raised in sharp relief. “Is this a joke?”

“No.” Samuel poured as much sincerity into his voice as he could, leaning forward with earnest. “You see, we’ve been friends for so long—” he stifled a laugh, “—and I’d never even realized! Please, tell me about these ‘desirable qualities,’ I would love to hear all about them, and at the greatest of lengths.”

For a long, terrible pause, Laurent only stared, and Samuel faintly worried he was about to receive a length of cold steel across the throat or wedged between his ribs, but then Laurent’s cheeks flared red beneath his powder, and his mouth hung agape.

“You— you arse!” he snarled, seizing Samuel by the cravat and drawing their faces close. “You would do well to mind your manners, bushman. I do not abide mockery, nor do I suffer a fool, and you, sir, are a prime example. Remember this, lest I be forced to remind you.” With this, he drew his suit back, revealing the delicately tooled sheath for his beloved dagger. Samuel swallowed, thought up every prayer he could, and grinned wolfishly, fiddling with Laurent's elegant sleeve cuff.

“Wouldn’t want to get this dirty, would you?”

Laurent’s nostrils flared, his breath hot on Samuel’s lips, before he released him, pushing him back roughly and huffing, indignant. Samuel massaged his neck, relief coursing through his veins. A scant few feet away, Laurent stood in profile, nearly serene if not for the subtle movement of mute, furious speech.

“Nice talking to you,” Samuel said cheerfully, and, strange as anything, Laurent actually laughed. It was a brief, choked thing, barely identifiable as humor, if not for the smile playing across his face.

“You, sniper,” he said, reaching out and taking a bite of Samuel’s bread roll, “are a ridiculous, ridiculous man.” With this last remark, he about-faced and trudged across the lawn, spine ramrod straight and be-ribboned hair flouncing against his back.

“I know you are, but what am I?” Samuel called after him, and Laurent retorted with a sharp, “Go fuck yourself!” which Samuel could only meet with a thrown bread roll. It collided with the back of Laurent’s head with a satisfying muffled thunk, and Samuel cackled as Laurent let loose a long stream of French obscenities, harshly adjusting his wig so rudely whacked askew.

“I hope you know I despise you,” Laurent hissed once he had deemed himself presentable, and disappeared inside the house with the slam of the heavy oaken door.

“Yeah, yeah, hate you too,” Samuel said. Tucking his legs back into his window seat, he inhaled the lively summer air, and discovered he could not stop his beaming.

[as ever, flintlock fortress is a collaboration with @chiropteracupola]

[that-angry-noldo]

When Stars are Close (The Home is Far Away)

[my take on a StarWars!Finrod, inspired by @arafinweanappreciation post]

The Holocron activates with a single touch. It's Force signature is hesistant, but it's longing and curious. A person appears; their gender is hard to tell, but under further inspection it's possible to conclude that he's a male from unknown species, similar to humans. He has pointy ears, his expression is frowning.

So... I just. Start talking. Right. That's it?

He exhales.

It's weird. Guys, I could have simply wrote a book. Instead I'm staring at my own self. But blue. Like - like a mirror.

So- um. The council told me to just start talking. It's... supposed to help me? Help them. Understand me.

So, uh. Name's Finrod. Or Nom. Finrod Findarato Artafinde Ingoldo Nom Felagund, from the Third House of Noldor. Uh- king of Nargothrond, if we're going with titles. Or- wait, am I king if I kind of un-kinged myself? That's- that's a story for another day, I suppose.

Uh, oh, right, that doesn't really matter because it's not like there's another Nargothrond or something. Sorry for, um, wasting your time on that nonsense. Right, so I'm an Elda. Or Elf. As long as I know, this galaxy doesn't... have... any? Oh Eru, it's really weird, saying "this galaxy", isn't it. Yeah, right, to the point.

I'm... kind of... not from here.

The place i'm from is... wait, how you'd call it? Underdeveloped? Man, that's rude. We're pretty developed. The only reason we're not building skie- skyscrapers or space... ships is because we mind our business inside of Arda. So yeah, we don't have tech... nology... man, Feanor would have so much fun with this words... But like, we're good. Uh, and I'm pretty sure our Arda is flat. Shut. It is. I literally had no idea what horizon means until I came here. Man, round planets are so weird?

Anyways, to how I came here.

I, um... died.

There's a pause.

So... yeah, sorry, it's not the prettiest memory I have. But, like, it's fine. Dying. In Arda. If you're an elf. We, just kind of, ressurect. I had a friend who fell of the horse and broke his neck and died. Came back in like, ten days. I'm- I'm pretty sure he had a good time? Namo gave him cookies. My theory is that since he was a child, he didn't have a sorrow to heal from. Just general confusion.

Finrod frowns.

Don't... don't think he had the same luck the second time, though. Since... kinslaying and doom and all that... stuff.

So- yeah, technically speaking. I should be dead. Even though my elven nature allows me to ressurect. I- my kin- Noldor- we- uh- oh Eru-

Man, it's complicated. To simplify, the Big Bad in my world stole three gems my uncle was really... obsessed with, killed the source of light in the world, killed my grandpa and. Ran. Then my uncle - half-uncle - kind of went mad and... um... stole ships. Killing their owners first. Which was... a big deal since we didn't have wars back then. Plus, the owners were my relatives. So, uh, yes, he was preparing to sail in them but then the god of doom appeared and said that we're doomed, pun intended. Basically, anyone who goes with him will experience sorrow and pain and death. And won't ressurect. He sailed either way, but there wasn't enough ships so we were waiting on the shore but then boom. He burned them. Oh man, you don't really need such details, do you?

Anyways, onto the next point? The Jedi say I'm open to Force. Force being magic. Oh come on, Mace, it flows in everything that's alive. That's basically our Great Song. Back in Arda you can master it, if you happen to be an Elf or a Dwarf. It... we use it when forging or smithing or singing or speaking. We have... spells? I guess? It takes time to master, but it's not like elves suffer from the lack of it, really. (Chuckles.) Um... we don't divide it into dark or light side, though.

You see, using the Dark side... uh. Our analogy is the Dissonance. It's a part of the Great Song, though; when creating the World - Arda - Ea - the Big Bad - oh my, I'm calling Moringotto "the Big Bad" next time I see him - the Big Bad decided to create its own Song, so that's where all the evil stuff originates from.

Yeah, we don't divide magic into "Light" and "Dark" because we don't use Dissonance. But, like... if we're going with Jedi teachings, there's a Dark inside our Light.

Yep. (Smiles. The smile is nothing but friendly.) Uh, for example, the Songs of Power. It's... it's heavily based on emotions and manipulating. Of course, there's more to it, don't worry! But-

When I was singing-

Man, I- I really had to go into that, didn't I.

Anyways, the Song is more to that: you can make people warm with it; you can heal; you can charm people; but... when it comes to the Battle of Wills- the Battle of the Songs-

There's very little holding you. Every emotion is a spare bit of Power. Every memory is a source of the Song. It's... You have to weave your Song carefully, though.

I... I didn't.

Cost me greatly, didn't it. (Shrugs.) I... built it on the wrong thing.

But, like... I'm pretty sure I culd've been considered a Dark user in that moment. Or no! (Laughs.) If somebody saw me, I'd be appearing as a beacon of light compared to the thing- power- person I was fighting.

Sauron's kind of a stinky guy. (Laughs louder.) He would probably be considered a Sith. A Dark Lord, even.

Um- is a person still considered Jedi or Sith if they were basically the Power of the World? Oh, you don't have those? Um. Pretty sure he's a Dark Lord, then.

Pause. Then, under his breath:

The Dark Lord sounds cool, though. I wanna be a Dark Lord.

Oh my- I was joking. I was literally killed by the man, I want nothing but to kill him in return.

Oh- that's a bad thing? Op, yep, revenge, sorry, just slipped. Still wanna kill him, but whatever. A bunch of dudes in the robes who are also two millenias yonger then me won't let me. Sure, sure, let the kids play adults.

Oh my God, Mace, I am joking. But you know what, let me get a Dark Lord to kill you so I can talk to you in the afterlife.

Brothers and sisters in Song, don't speak to me of revenge if you didn't get yourself killed. I'm proclaiming it a touchy subject. I'll get all sad and upset if you try to talk me out of it.

Oh, yeah! Forgot to mention, I'm immortal, if another Dark Lord doesn't decide that I'm a delicious breakfast for his werewolves.

Um- guys. It's alright. Traumatic experience, but I'm alive, am I not? Yoda, you tell them.

Oh- Yoda, for Morgoth's sake. It's fine. I killed that werewolf, too. It's not like it's eaten me whole, I was exaggerating. That was a pretty badass moment, actually! I kind of broke my chains and saved my friend and-

... oh. Now I'm sad and stuff. I have no idea if I saved him or if I just gave him a few hours of spare time.

Another reason to figure out how to get me back faster, right?..

~

The next recording starts with Finrod being silent for a minute. Then, he takes a sharp breath. He was crying.

I- I miss them.

There's... Council isn't listening on this one, but they said I can use it, so-

I miss them so much it hurts.

I- I miss Father. Atya. He... he was smart. Wise. I- I miss him, gods, why do I miss him so damn much- and... mother, my dear mother, oh-

He stops. A silenced cries can be heard.

I- I had two brothers. They... they died, they... burned to crisps- I- I identified Aegnor's body because Andreth was layng beside him, she... didn't... didn't burn all the way- and Angrod- he- he had a sword in his chest and- his hair- there was only face left- oh- I- I wasn't in time- I-

A pause.

I... still have Artanis and Orodreth- or- had. Oh, I miss them. I want. I want to see them. I want to say Orodreth that he'll manage. Want to bicker with Artanis one more time. Oh, Eru- gods- Force- am I asking for too much?!

I... I wonder. I wonder if he's alive. If Beren's alive. If my death didn't go in vain. It-

Edrahil. Gods, I miss you, Edrahil, please- Force, if you want to syphon someone else- let it be him, please, I need- he always-

And Amarie, my Amarie, my gold, my lady, my-

Why are attachments considered bad?

Does attachment equal love?

I- I love them. I love them.

I love them, I love them, I love them-

Same words continue in broken whispers. Eventually, the recording dies out.

~

I love them.

I don't know why, but it matters.

~

They call me, Yoda.

Finrod's face looks as if it's carved from stone.

Every day.

It starts with Father. He calls me. He wants me back.

Then there's Artanis.

And Turgon.

They all call me.

Yoda, If I can hear them, it means there's a way out.

~

The new recording starts. Finrod is looking past the frame.

They are magnificent. Gods - Varda, they are magnificent.

I have never seen stars this close.

Oh... It's like- they're liquid. Oh, I should've guessed. Liquid! Oh, they're wonderful. Oh my-

Hah, right, Qui, we elves are obsessed with stars, it's just-

Have I ever told you of the Awakening?

It's a beautiful story. I heard it from Grandfather. He was one of the Awaken.

When we first opened our eyes, Qui, the first thing we've seen were stars.

~

I hear them.

They are close.

In every star. In every string of the Melody.

They call me, and their calls are like a song.

Yes, Qui, I am sentimental. I would like to see you in my shoes.

~

I am going home.

I swore I'll be back, Qui.

And when I swear, I don't do it lightly.

~

Thank you.

For stars.

For Force.

I am going home, Qui.

I am going home.

~

Holocron holds no more recordings.

As long as Qui-Gon knows, Finrod found those who were calling for him.

[verobatto]

Free Will Is Not An Illusion

Visual Narrative Meta. Destiel Meta. TFW meta. Castiel meta. Chuck meta. Supernatural 15x08 meta.

Hello My dears! Here we are now with the third meta about Visual Narrative... I can talk about a couple of interesting things here, and it will be a mix of everything, as you could read in my title.

If you want to check my other metas You hace the links here and here.

Thanks to my friend @agusvedder who made the gifs and took the screenshots! Love ya girl! 😘💕

Yellow and Red. Because Chuck wants just Sam and Toxic Dean in his ending

Chuck was surrounded by yellow color and red all over it...

The drink he was drinking...

Yellow and red, and as I pointed in my meta, those are Sam and Toxic Dean, and that blue umbrella he threw away so disgusted is Castiel. Again the theory about Chuck not wanting Castiel because the rebellious angel can't be written.

Another fabulous frame was this...

Yellow and red again, is what Chuck wants, a toxic dangerous violent Dean killing his brother, a dramatic ending.

And it's very clever to talk about God's weak point: his Achilles' heel, and then we had this... Chuck threatening the guys with their weak points... Jody, Donna... Eileen (looking at Sam, of course), Chuck is aware of Eileen...

@espejonight28738 wrote about what if Chuck wrote Sam bringing Eileen back to life just to control him? Well, my friend... I think you have the answer here. I'm sure he did that now. Chuck will control what he can write. And he will avoid FREE WILL, the gift humanity thinks God gave them, but in reality, it was just a crack on our chasis.

As I pointed in my meta, our Michael had said in season 5 FREE WILL IS AN ILLUSION, and now, is the biggest weapon we will have against Chuck, because it isn't an illusion, it is real, and very powerful.

The Triumph of the Two Hearts

When we were with Chuck in that casino bar, one of the frames was this...

Do you see that card alone right there? Is the TWO HEARTS. And it means a success for romance, for two persons in love, for marriage. It could be related to Saileen, and maybe, to Destiel, now that we know they will be fixing my his things... And will begin in Purgatory.

But also a song was playing..

If you read the lyrics, and thanks to Agus for the song lyrics... Is very Saileen and Destiel.

Someone that thinks he wasn't built for love finds finally a person to be with. A person who doesn't want to change him, and who loves him for what he is.

Take me for what I am, is a very romantic song, and it matches in contrast with Chuck's plans.

Saileen keeps showing Destiel vibes

As I said before, Saileen looks like a guide, and Destiel needs to follow each step they're making now. Till the holding hands to the... Oops...

We said in the last meta, helped by my friend @bre95611 , Eileen was dressed with Dean's colors. And this episode was more evident...

When the spell to enter to Hell was in progress, Eileen was dressed in green and pink again. If you recall my color coded craziness, this represents Happiness and Dean, Wich is the mortal combination for Castiel.

Chuck plays slots and tenis, while Castiel plays chess

Let's come back to the first gif, Chuck is playing slots, a game that depends on luck, and he even yelled THE WINNER! Calling to himself that...

After this when he was using Donnie as a mic, he named another game...

He said that he played throwing the Winchester a ball, differents situations, and watch how they will answer to that. Again, is a game that depends on strength and reflexes, you don't have to think much, and mostly you need to react to the ball to hit it correctly.

Now... What is Castiel playing?

The camera made twice this kind of focusing. The chess and Castiel while he was contacting Michael by prayer.

This game requires intelligence and strategy. It takes time, to think meticulously your movements and try to predict your enemy's. So, I'm guessing this is what Chuck fears the most... The unwritten and unpredictable movement of TFW, but mostly, Castiel.

The Spell to lock God

I will talk briefly about the spell mentioned by Michael here... The ingredients are very, very meaningful, and is it caught my attention why it is related to Purgatory.

Myrrah is a perfume used on dead bodies, to embalm them, it was a gift given by Baltahzar to Jesus when he was born, predicting his sacrifice, and it was used too by Rowena spell in episode 15x03 to lock down the souls in Hell. So it talks about sacrifice, but it also has abortion properties. And is so, so significant because is what they want to do with Chuck.

Kassia is a flower with purge properties!!! Like!! Do I need to explain more here?

Rockrose is a flower, yes, but not just any flower...

Is a pink one... Okay I'll stop. Okay no, pink is happiness, my friends... Happiness related to Purgatory? Yes!!!!! Because there is where Dean realized... (Putting the mic for the people in the back) HE WAS IN LOVE WITH CASTIEL!

Okay, no I will stop...

But seriously, recalling again my friend's spec @weirddorkylittlediana , from peace of mind and how they locked the psychic into his own mind, living a fake happiness.

The last ingredient was the Leviathan Blossom that was the big excuse to send Cas and Dean together back to Purgatory.

To Conclude:

Visual Narrative was perfect thanks to Richard Speight Jr! With the frames and the colors and the lights.

We had a lot related to Destiel and Saileen, and how Chuck is playing bad his game while Castiel plays chess strategy.

I hope you enjoyed this meta!! See you soon!

Tagging @metafest @gneisscastiel @emblue-sparks @magnificent-winged-beast @agusvedder @weirddorkylittlediana @michyribeiro @whyjm @legendary-destiel @a-bit-of-influence @thatwitchydestielfan @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @lykanyouko @evvvissticante @savannadarkbaby @trickster-archangel @dea-stiel @mybonsai1976 @anarchiana @angelwithashotgunandtrenchcoat @trashblackrainbow @destielshipper221b @mishtho @dancingtuesdaymorning @feathered-castiel @bre95611 @zoerayne2426 @justmeand-myinsight @that-one-fandom-chick @proccastinate @studio-hatter @pepevons @liwopanyaasss @poorreputation @mrsaquaman187 @staycejo1

Buenos Aires December 13rd 2019 5:08 PM