#couldn't focus on much else until i wrote it down lmao

[cydanite]

The Scientific Method

Ao3 link:

Pix's fellow emperors weren't sure what to make of their friend flinging himself back into his work after the tea party. They were happy, of course, that the consequences of his strange death hadn't deterred him from his work. Pix loved what he did, it was clear to see. Uncovering mysteries big and small, learning of what had once been lost. None of the standard doom and gloom associated with ghosts had accompanied Pix's change. He was still the same old archaeologist, joyously engrossing himself in his empire's ruins.

But, that was strange too, right? Most people, upon dying and coming back a specter, would not immediately be so content. They would need time to process what had happened, to grieve what they have lost, to right themselves and prepare for the future. And Pix should be no different. He never struck them as a particularly resilient man. He was wise, certainly. But not so emotionally hardened as to let undeath roll right off his back. Right?

Yet as Oli flew over the capital's tallest hill, Pix was hard at work below him, taking careful measurements of stone foundations. He banked to land, circling in tight motions to slow his descent.

"My boy! My sweet history boy!"

Pix looked up, a smile breaking through the confusion on his face, and chuckled.

"Oli! Ahoy there!" he waved as Oli landed, skidded a few meters, kicking up dirt before coming to a complete halt. Safely grounded, he turned back to Pix with a grin. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Oh Pix, always a charmer." Oli waved him off in mock embarrassment. "Can't a guy check in on his buddy? His cool history friend? We're pals, we hang out! Y'know." He bounced with each sentence, shuffling his feet and waving his arms. "Not to distract you from your work, of course. Just for company!"

"Well," Pix turned back to the expanse of stone laid out before him. The groundwork for the castle he was carefully reconstructing. "I'm taking some measurements to confirm what I have here is accurate. I wouldn't want to start building only to realize I'd mistaken where a wall should be. You're welcome to keep me company if that isn't too dull."

"No, no, I love history! Big history guy!" Oli peered over Pix's work area. A journal was open next to him, flipped open to a top-down sketch of the castle grounds. Every coordinate, horizontal measure, and corner angle was annotated. The lines were thin and precise, tiny penmanship making the most of the space and crowding the paper in a sea of numbers. Over them, though, a scattered few corrections stood out like a sore thumb. Large, messy scrawl with uneven pressure and several blotches where the pen had slipped from his hands. The pen sat disregarded, half-submerged in the inkwell.

Oli shuffled on his feet. "Do you need any help, king? I could take notes for you if you'd like?"

Pix followed his gaze and smiled. "Not a king anymore but- thanks, Oli. That would make my work a lot easier. I, uh, still haven't got the fine motor skills figured out." He flexed a transparent hand before him, wiggling his digits. Oli picked the pen out of the inkwell and wiped the excess ink off of its stem, before sitting on the ground and placing the journal on his lap. Pix turned back around and resumed his measurements.

"You can flip to a new page and just write the measurements in a list. I'll transfer them to the plans later."

"Can do." The bard watched intently as the archaeologist fell back into his work, taking careful measurements of the lines of stone on the ground. The conversation lulled into the occasional back and forth of information.

“West gate western wall. Four meters.”

Oli turned away from softly tuning his lute and scribbled the numbers down. “Gotcha… hey, Pix?”

“Yeah?”

“I just wanted to say: You’ve been pretty gung-ho with your work recently! Really got that ‘go get-em’ attitude, despite-uh, the… complications?”

Pix is too far away for Oli to make out his expression, but there’s a few seconds pause before he responds.

“There’s been some growing pains, sure. But I enjoy what I do.” He peers over his tape again. “West gate western wall inset. Eighty-seven point five centimeters.”

“Eighty-seven… point five. Okay.” He holds the page up to the breeze to dry the ink. “...About those growing pains, I’m just curious-”

“Oli, you can just say you’re concerned about me, you know.”

“I’m trying to be tactful, Pixlriffs! You know I don’t have tact! All I have are my looks and the speech pattern of a poor Victorian orphan boy!” He stopped flailing the journal in his hands and set it down beside him for the sake of not flinging it down the hill. “You crumbled into dust! Dust, Pix! And now we can see through you, for Christ’s sake!”

“No need to remind me.” He gets up from his kneeled position on the ground, wiping the dirt from his hands and turning to face his friend. “I appreciate your concern, I really do. You’re a good friend. But I’m handling the situation.”

Oli crossed his arms. “Not by throwing yourself into your work, no?”

“No-” The usual warmth in his voice is gone for just a second. Pix pauses before steadying his voice again. “I’m not avoiding the problem, or coping poorly elsewise. I’m just… treating it as I would any other mystery I come across.”

“How so?”

Pix fiddles with the measuring tape in his hand, winding the cord around his fingers like a snake. “Well… first I set a question. What is the use of this artifact I found? How old are these carvings? What does it mean now that I’m a ghost?”

Pix wakes up in his bed back home, gasping for a breath he couldn’t take until now, adrenaline still welling inside of him. Once he realizes where he is and what just happened he doesn’t hesitate to throw on a spare elytra and zip through his nether portal. Though his hands fumble with his rockets, the flight back to Glimmer Grove gives him a few moments to calm down and think about what just happened. Had he just been caught? Was it a hidden assassin’s attempt to claim his crown? Maybe Glimmer Grove’s curse had suddenly exhibited a new and deadly effect?

And then he arrives, cautiously rounding the corner to speak with his fellow emperors, all huddled in a group on the stairs he’d just succumbed under. And when their eyes finally settle upon him, the horror they’re filled with makes his blood run cold.

Oli listens intently. “Alright, then what?”

“Then I hypothesize. Think about what direction I should take my research in.”

The tea party is decidedly over after this. Pix drifts away from the dispersing crowd, unease filling the empty space. It’s… he’s not gonna lie, it’s a lot. Sighing, he presses his palms to his temples, rubbing them. Something sharp makes him pull his hand away. Curiously, he feels around on his head and runs his hand over a few sharp points, and connecting those points is something shriveled and ashy. He traces the vines around his head, culminating at the sunflower he had placed in his hair. A petal falls into his hand, gray and withered. He goes back to the vines, feeling how they circle his scalp. The occasional larger thorn pointing upwards like a shark’s lower jaw. It’s almost as if… like it’s blocking him from… it would be impossible to wear the Crown like this, right?

The grave look he saw in Scott’s eyes replays in his mind.

Pix continues. “Next is research. Consulting my studies, my books.”

His floor is carpeted in scattered paper. Historical texts, maps, theses, investigative reports, legends, folktales. Anything that might mention the Crown in any capacity. A web of signs on the wall spout disjointed theories and leads. Several are dyed an approving green. Even more are dyed a discrediting red. He’s fairly certain that the Crown had killed him, though through what means he doesn’t know. An enchantment, perhaps? Or maybe a curse? Whatever it was, it did not want him putting it back on.

He hangs a sign on the wall. “Crown only allows those it deems worthy to wear it.” He steps back, thinks for a bit, and dyes the sign a cautious yellow.

Assuming the Crown had this effect before it was last sealed away in the Capital’s catacombs, what makes him different then its previous owners? After all, none of them wore it and withered away, as far as he knew. It would probably have to be something objective. Enchanting a crown meant to be transferred between owners with a subjective kill switch trigger would be incredibly dangerous. And if that was the intent, he’s surprised there isn’t any record of this curse in his books.

In that case, it would probably have to be that he isn’t royalty. He may be an emperor, i.e. the land he lives on gave him its blessing. And have the abilities that come with that, i.e. access to the magic of inventory, respawn, crafting. But being an emperor does not royalty make. He’s simply the caretaker of the Ancient Capital, one with no subjects to his name. Much like how Shelby acts as warden to The Evermoor, home to just her and a healthy population of frogs.

He places another sign on the wall. “Crown only allows royalty to wear it.” This one feels more solid. The crown was only meant to be worn by royalty, so a curse preventing non-royalty from wearing it doesn’t dissuade its purpose. It was extreme, yes, but so was the history of the Crown. A legacy of assassinations and betrayal. A well of dark emotions that stray magic could easily leech onto and, over a long enough period of time, solidify into a dangerous curse! It fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. The Crown is cursed to kill non-royalty. This curse wasn’t enchanted by a person, but by a pattern of events, so it isn’t deliberate or necessarily useful. Pix dyed the sign green.

Then a wire crosses in Pix’s brain. The curse isn’t deliberate. It’s crude, simple. If A, then B. If not royalty, then execute. Pix is both non-royalty and an emperor. He has access to the magic of an emperor. He can respawn.

The deathrattle curse of the Crown. An unstoppable force. The undying blessing of an emperor. An immovable object.

Both dead and alive. His breath hitches in his chest like a brick.

And so the logical conclusion.

Should he ever lose the Ancient Capital’s approval…

Oli sits back down, pulling his lute back into his arms and fiddling with the strings.

“Alright, I see where this is going. I’ve taken a science class before. Next is testing, right?”

Pix looked past him, staring down at something intangible behind Oli. He then turned back to his foundations, unspooling his measuring tape again.

“I’m in the middle of that now. West gate pillar footprint. One point two five meters squared.”

[until-another-one-comes]

To The Right Person (Milkplane and Businessreport fic)

(A little short conversation between Francis and Izaack regarding their respective love interests I wrote at like... 1 am lmao)

(ships involved are Milkplane and Businessreport but they're not the focus)

Izaack sat back down on his seat next to Francis, loosening the collar on his shirt and catching his breath. The man was no stranger to an exciting night's out but even he needed to take a break after some time. The press of the people around him was starting to feel suffocating and he felt his body heating up. He ordered an iced drink from the bartender who nodded and went to prepare it. Izaack turned towards Francis, who was watching the people still dancing. His drink was right next to him, half-empty.

"Don't want to join them?" Izaack asked, pointing his thumb towards Steven and Angus still in the middle of the crowded room. Francis shook his head.

"No, I'm already tired," the other man replied, shaking his head. It was then that Izaack noticed the lack of red tint on his cheeks- Francis wasn't a heavy drinker, but at this point during their night outs the other man would already be slightly drunk, his face flushed and head nodding tiredly.

"I see you haven't been drinking," Izaack commented, moving slightly to see what was in Francis's cup. He wasn't sure what it was but judging by the other man's sober state it definitely wasn't alcohol. Francis shook his head again.

"Mmm, I want to cut down on drinking. Never really liked how being drunk makes me feel, you know?" Francis explained, finally tearing his eyes off the crowd and looking at Izaack. The reporter nodded, never being a huge fan of drinking himself, it was only ever a way to slightly cut loose and spend time with his friends.

"I understand. Why now, though?" Izaack asked, his usual curiosity peaking through. Francis went silent, fidgeting slightly with the sleeve of his shirt. He was silent for so long that Izaack almost took back his question until his friend finally spoke.

"Can you promise to keep a secret?" Francis said, looking at him with a strangely worried expression. Izaack blinked in surprise. Well, this was not the answer he expected.

"Asking a reporter to keep secrets probably isn't the smartest move, Francis. Our job is to uncover secrets," Izaack said, laughing slightly to ease the tension. Judging by the unimpressed look Francis was giving him, it didn't work. Izaack cleared his throat and tried again. "Of course, what is it?" he put on his usual charming smile to reassure him. Thankfully, it actually worked as Francis relaxed and spoke again.

"I never actually like drinking. It makes me feel miserable and I hate waking up hangover the next day," Francis avoided looking at Izaack as he said it, but the words were said in a hurried hushed tone as if he was worried everyone else in the bar would listen. For the second time tonight, Izaack looked surprised at him.

"Then why do you always drink when we go out?" He asked. A thought came to him. "You don't have to force yourself to drink with us, you know. We don't mind and I don't drink much either," was that the reason for this sudden change? Francis shook his head.

"No, no, it's nothing like that," he ran a hand over his hair. "I just..." his voice trailed off. Izaack put his hand on the other man's tense shoulder.

"Francis, you don't have to tell me what's wrong if you don't want to. But just know I won't judge, alright?" He said, squeezing his shoulder in a reassuring way. Francis looked down on the floor but made no move to move aside Izaack's hand. He took that as a good sign.

"I drink because it makes me feel good, even for a moment. I get to forget about my problems. But then it all comes crashing down and then I regret drinking. And then I do it *again* because I couldn't think of how else to distract myself when I'm... feeling down,"

Izaack stayed silent the whole time. Francis remained silent after his explanation, eyes still on the floor and his shoulders slumped. After a while, a chuckle broke out of him.

"I'm sorry, forget I said anything," Francis said, turning his body away. He tried to look nonchalant but his tone gave it away, dripping with shame.

"What about now?"

"Hm?"

"You said you drink because you can't think of anything else to take your mind off your problems. So what about now? Did you find something else to do that?"

Francis didn't answer, but Izaack saw his dark brown eyes darting to the center of the bar. Steven was laughing and holding a mug in his hand, his face red and bright. Izaack smiled.

Not something, someone.

Francis looked back at him and realised Izaack saw who he was looking at. His face went redder than it was when he was drunk and Izaack laughed.

"So thats it," he chuckled. Francis ducked his head in embarassment but gave a small smile. At the moment, the bartender returned, handing Izaack his drink.

"I'm glad you found someone that makes you happy, Francis. I think you deserve it," Izaack said. Francis looked at him curiously.

"You do?"

"Of course, we all deserve that,"

"Thank you," Francis smiled. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Have you found someone like that? What with your, um..."

"Popularity? Charm? Well, I have some admirers, but none that catches my eyes,"

"None? Absolutely no one?"

Izaack gave a small smile but didn't answer. Suddenly, they both heard a loud crash and turned their heads once again to the sea of people on the other side of the bar. Angus was waving around a handful of cards, loudly exclaiming something that was drowned out by the rest of the crowd's noise. Izaack turned back to Francis.

"There is *one* person I might consider," he said, sipping his drink and grinning. Francis looked incredulously again at Angus's direction. He shook his head but decided not to comment any further. If that was what Izaack liked, who was he to judge?

"To the right person," Izaack said, lifting his mug towards Francis. The other man smiled slightly and tapped his mug against his.

"To the right person."