#must a thing be book accurate? is it not enough to see the crows together? doing things and involved in chaos?

[misterbrekker]

I've just been posting on my main because it's kinda hard to keep up with sideblogs now but I will say I loved season 2

[greenthena]

Unreliable Narrators

If you've watched Good Omens, there's a reasonably good chance you've got several conspiracy boards tucked somewhere in your brainspace. And what's great about a show like Good Omens is that we've been encouraged by the creators to poke our noses in deep and examine our theories. Even the show itself subtly tells us, "things are not what they seem." For evidence, might I call upon the book, The Crow Road, which appears several times throughout Season 2--notably when Jimbriel is alphabetizing books in his own special way and again when Muriel shows the Metabitch what they're reading. The Crow Road is a very specific *CLUE* because the book is written non-linearly and the reader must piece the story together. Sound familiar? You betcha.

Now I know a lot of us, myself included, are pretty invested in the time layers/time skips that may explain some of the incongruities of Season 2. (Crowley, I spent 90 minutes cataloging your ding dang sideburn length, sunglass style, shirt selection, and sigil placement. Short or long, dude! Sideburns don't grow down your face in the time it takes to walk outside.) But right now, I'm much more focused on the theory of the unreliable narrator.

So let's begin not at the Beginning, but in a graveyard in Edinburgh. Spooky. (I like spooky.) Let's talk about the uncanny Gabriel statue.

Crowley and Aziraphale are surprised by its accuracy.  It's surprising enough that Crowley actually invites Aziraphale to come up to Edinburgh to see something that might amuse him.  This suggests that MOST depictions of Gabriel that they've seen are not accurate.  The essence of Gabriel is rarely manifest in the art created about him. What does this say about sculptors?  Artists?  About writers?  About people who set out to tell a story and show a truth?  That they're unreliable at best, only being able to show the version of events or subjects that they've seen, and furthermore only able to demonstrate these events or subjects to the best of their ability. 

In other words, all art is unreliable narration.

Let's take a detour to another flashback to an earlier time. 2500 BC to be precise. We find ourselves in a memory of the story of Job, and in the recollection we meet a luxuriously goateed Crowley with a mane of flowing auburn hair. But this set of memories gets really screwy upon closer inspection, when you realize that Crowley's hair is markedly different at different points in the flashback. There are two distinct hairstyles, and it's up to us to figure out why!

Now, there's only one scene in which only one of our dynamic duo appears, the scene in which Sitis identifies Crowley as Bildad the Shuhite. In this scene, which we have to assume is from Crowley's memory, Crowley's hair is shoulder length and wavy. Going forward, this hairstyle will denote Crowley's perspective, and it is the hair style that Crow-dad (Crow-daddy? Grazie, lo detesto) wears for the majority of the Job flashbacks. So despite the fact that we enter these flashbacks through Aziraphale's musings in the bookshop, I have to argue that they're mostly from Crowley's perspective. However, when we get the giant camera shift from the Crow-dad/Sitis scene to the scenes that take place with Job's children, we also get a new hairstyle for Crowley. In this block of memories, Crowley's hair becomes significantly longer and also distinctly curly.

This is a different set of memories, and I think we have to assume that we're now seeing these memories from Aziraphale's perspective. This makes sense, because these memories are dealing with Aziraphale discovering more about who Crowley is (a demon who would disguise goats as crows to save them from God's gamble) and about who he (Aziraphale) is going to become (an angel who goes along with Heaven as far as he can.)

What this all tells us is that the narrative will be different depending on who is relating it. Crowley remembers his hair looking one way, Aziraphale remembers it looking another. We're all pretty unreliable narrators, since we can only express what we have seen or experienced from our own limited perspective and to the best of our ability. Everything we experience is filtered through the lens of our understanding. Even something as objective as an un-retouched photo frames the "truth" as the photographer sees it.

So for me, rather than seeing the indulgent use of clocks as a motif for dysregulated time, I'm choosing (for like this week, at least) to see time as a guardian. The use of clocks does more than demonstrate inconsistencies in time, it also gives us an objective framework from which to hang our unreliable narrations. Because Crowley's sideburns can't grow that quickly! But if we untangle time to reveal a linear flow, I think we'll see that it's the perspective or the narration that's shifted rather than the timestamp. I think that when all is revealed, it will be clear that our belief about what is true can be in direct opposition to another person's equally unreliable narration. Guess we'll just have to wait and see.

[yesimwriting]

Would you write a Kaz Brekker request where the reader is a bookworm and a crow and basically Kaz asks the reader to read to him as his way of apologizing after a argument that was his fault?

 it ​​a/n i did something kinda similar in a 'promise of rain' blurb,, but this concept is so cute to me:)) love it sm i moved it up my request cue lol

also IM IN COLLEGE NOW!! WHAT?? AND IVE BEEN TO A PARTY! AND IM JOINING A SORORITY AND I DID DRAMA AUDITIONS AND AHH !! SO DIFFERENT! I MISS MY MOM AND SISTER AND DOG AND EVEN MY DAD BUT IM HAPPY HERE!! 

also im a little worried this might not portray kaz superrrrr accurately bc it's been awhile so just let me know,, feedback leads to improvement:)) also kinda set this up for a part 2 bc...well youll see 

--

They've always said a lot of things about him, and I've always heard them. But I've never quite believed them. Sure, I get why the dark things that have flourished in the poisoned soil that is Ketterdam consider Kaz Brekker the darkest thing of all. I understand the nickname 'Dirtyhands' for the gloved criminal who has fooled each crime boss at least once. I understand each terrible thing they've said about him.

But I've never agreed with them. I've never even considered agreeing with them. Until today.

The thought that maybe everything people say about him is correct in a simple context struck me worse than the silence after our argument. It made me feel like both a fool and hypocrite. Kaz and I have had our fair share of spats over the relatively short time we've known each other, but never like this. Never so badly he stormed out of the room before I could. I squeeze the book in my lap even harder, desperate to focus on the words on the pages.

You didn't hurt him. He walked away because he decided you weren't worth the cost of his expensive time. I repeat those thoughts in my mind over and over again, letting them bitter me further. It's a lot easier to be mad than hurt. A lot easier to fuel your pain than try to understand your mistakes. Besides, tiredness is already dredging around in my chest and if I don't calm down a little I won't be able to fall asleep.

I had escalated the fight more than I should have. Knowing Kaz is like performing in a tightrope act. One must always be aware of where they're going. Watching what's in front of them without ever thinking too much about what's beneath or behind them. Today though, when I needed my balance most I chose to fall. I chose to dive, and apparently there was no net.

"Oh, you're doing that thing."

I roll my eyes at Jesper's voice as I fight down a yawn. I wipe my face with the back of my palm before turning. The burning behind my eyes never resulted in full tears, but I feel better after doing so. "What thing?"

"That terribly noble thing where you find it in yourself to take full blame for every single conflict you and boss man fall into." The slight humor in his voice is enough for me to roll my eyes again. "Between you and me, I'm sure the reason he's so angry now is because you didn't do that for once."

I press my lips together as my chin angles itself upwards slightly. "I never do that." He raises an eyebrow. The slight sympathy that colors the look is more offensive than his accusation. "If I pick and choose my battles, it's for good reason."

"Clearly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs once before further entering my room. I say nothing when he sits at the foot of my bed. "Oh, you know," Jesper stretches back casually, resting his back against the wall and extending his legs, "You and Kaz--Kaz and you."

Has he been drinking? Perhaps he's not here because of my unusual absence from downstairs after my fight with Kaz but because he's already too tipsy to think right. "What?"

At my confused look he grins, flashing all of his teeth with an arrogance that outshines the whiteness of them. He taps the still open book in my lap. "Let me put it in terms you'll understand." Jesper sits up a little further, amusement clear in his features. "You two make a shameful Elizabeth and Darcy--"

"Oh, shut up," I groan, glaring at him, "This isn't Pride and Prejudice. And Kaz and I," Jesper's smugness returns when I can't quite think of what I want to say, "We're barely friends--we're barely anything, let alone what you're implying."

Jesper pulls his legs up and shoves me gently. "Dearest, y/n," he ignores my glare, "You should know better than anyone that 'barely friends, barely anything' with Kaz is more than it is with anyone else?"

"That doesn't mea--"

"You two say goodnight to each other." Once. Kaz and I said good night to each other in front of Jesper once. How dare he assume it happens regularly? He's right, but that doesn't mean I'm okay with it. "You play cards with him. Not for money, not for skill--"

"It's for practice." The look Jesper gives me is enough to tell me that my defense didn't land.

Damn him for ever finding Kaz and I on one of those strange nights. One of those nights in which he lurks at the stairwell...the one that divides my room and his attic. One of those nights in which it feels like he's a phantom and I'm the only one that can really see him. A night in which we both silently find each other.

I couldn't quite believe it the first time it happened. I'm not exactly a Crow--I don't feel enough a connection to the Dregs to join them without some kind of guarantee--but I was needed for some obscure job. but I was needed for some obscure job. The Crows needed an insider who could blend into high society, and I needed a place to stay away from my father.

It worked. I worked. And with each passing day I found myself enjoying the Crows more and more. That's why I stayed. That's why I started checking the stairwell practically every night, a set of playing cards in my hand.

The first time had been awkward. I couldn't sleep and my room felt too quiet, but the rambunctious club felt too loud and a little unsafe considering the hour. So I settled for the only space in between. When Kaz found me sitting on the steps and playing a solitary card game I had been so stunned by embarrassment I just offered to deal him in. I had been more shocked when he silently accepted my offer.

"Practice?" Jesper repeats. "You were laughing, I heard you."

"That was one time--how do you know we didn't just happen to play cards together the one time you saw it?"

"Because you laughed about a play you considered 'predictable'."

Sighing, I sit up a little straighter. "I'm not having this conversation. Occasionally saying 'goodnight' to someone who lives in the same space I live in and sometimes playing cards with said person because we both happen to be up at a certain time doesn't mean anything."

"And the way he looked at the contact that was flirting with you?"

Oh...this conversation again. "For the last time, the contact wasn't flirting with me. We had to dance to blend in and when he leaned towards me to whisper in my ear...it was to tell me the intel Kaz just had to have."

"And when he tucked that strand of hair behind your ear?"

"He just wanted to sell our cove--"

"Y/n, he kissed your cheek and I'm fairly certain he would have kissed you if Kaz and I hadn't made it to the corridor at that second."

Why is everyone so obsessed with what would have never happened? The contact had been attractive, tall with fair eyes and hair. But it's not like I feel anything for him, nor would I have been so foolish during a job. A fact that Kaz refuses to believe. I'm tired of this argument...I'm just tired. This job required me to start getting ready early in the morning and lasted long into the night.

"I wouldn't have kissed him and even if I had, the fact that Kaz is so mad about feels...sexist." A stupid argument, considering that Kaz couldn't care less if the person he's working with is female, male, or anything in between because the only thing he cares about is profit. "It's a stupid thing to be mad about, but you hit on anything with a pulse at any time and--"

"I resent that--"

"For the first two weeks I was here I thought you might've been a prostitute."

I can feel him holding in a laugh. "Did you at least think I was a good prostitute?" When I glare again, he finally actually laughs. "Not the point--got it."

"Then what is the point? You're bored and obsessed with gossip so now you're shaking me for information you don't need."

"The point is you're oblivious." Rude...I move my leg in a weak attempt to push him off my bed. Jesper catches my ankle easily, ignoring my attempt at a fight. "You thought the contact was only doing his job and you don't know the real reason that Kaz blew up at you for the first time the way he blows up at everyone."

"Okay, well since you know everything, tell me why he's mad."

He lets out a sigh like he can't believe I even needed to ask that. "It's not the best look that the first time you let him pick a fight with you happens to be about some guy."

...Maybe he is drunk? "Don't be so cryptic. I don't like you enough to put up with that."

Jesper half-sighs again before pushing himself off my bed. "I'm going to pretend I think you're smart enough to piece things together from that."

"Asshole," I mumble instinctually as he walks towards my door. "Are you not telling me because I tried to push you off the bed?"

He turns when he reaches my door in order to lean against my door frame. "It's not not because of that." I should throw my book at his head. "In all seriousness, think about it. If you don't you'll either kill each other or kill me."

Ugh...he's so confusing. This time, I let him go. He leaves he door open, which is beyond annoying. I stand up to close it, promising myself I will focus on my book the second it's in my hands again. As I walk back towards my bed, my eyes land on the deck of cards on my nightstand.

Does it send a signal I don't want to send if I don't go the stairwell tonight? Do I want to send a signal? I don't know...actually, the only thing I know is that I don't want to think about this a second longer. I don't ease as I read, but my eyelids become heavier with each word they cross. I feel the weight of them as my focus slips, farther and farther away until I can no longer focus. When my eyes fall shut I can't bring myself to think or force them open.

--

I notice my surprised before I register that I've just woken up. Falling asleep feels so far and yet the crick in my neck confirms the obvious. Rubbing the eyes with the back of my hand, I push my book from my lap and sit up. The only indication of how much time has passed is how much my bedside candle has melted.

How long have I been asleep? How did I manage to fall asleep? I thought I was too mad at Kaz to manage anything but pouting in my room. I hadn't even decided if I wanted to talk to him.

I stand even though I haven't decided anything. I should at least change if I want to go to bed. But is leaving this alone for even longer a bad idea? I think Jesper thought so...though my conversation with him is far from clear. It's not the best look that the first time you let him pick a fight with you happens to be about some guy. I'm going to pretend I think you're smart enough to piece things together from that. What does he want me to do with that?

Maybe he was partially intoxicated and felt the need to play the role of a good friend. Or maybe this is his idea of a joke.

Whatever--regardless of Jesper, I have a choice to make. A tiny part of me hopes it's insignificant, but I know Kaz enough to know that nothing is insignificant to him. He holds onto things the way he holds onto his kruge. Perhaps I'll seek out Inej, she seems to be the best at rationalizing. Though she might be asleep by now, or on a job or...I don't even know.

How late is it? Is it late enough to be one of the few hours Kaz claims to reserve for sleep? Maybe my bad luck is still around and he's already in bed for once. Does that mean his anger will extend to tomorrow?

I shouldn't care. It's not like I'm in the wrong. Did I escalate things? Maybe a little...but I won't apologize for defending myself. Even though that makes everything a little easier. I feel stuck, like in some kind of place of half sleep. A single knock at my door is enough to make me want to jump. I rub my eyes a little more firmly in hopes of waking up more before someone sees me.

I approach the door without worry. Maybe it's not as late as I assumed. Or maybe it's really early? I open the door while still fighting against my slight disorientation. I'm so focused on acting normal, I almost don’t register the person standing at my door. 

I don’t know who I expected, or what--maybe Jesper, much more tipsy than he was before, slumped against the doorframe, only knocking because he’s too tired to push the door open. Maybe even Inej, on her way here to deliver some kind of job or notice of dismissal. But it’s nothing I could expect. It’s...Kaz. 

The Dirtyhands stands at my door, expression as hard as ever yet something behind his eyes that burns the sleep away from me. “Uh--hi.” I bite my tongue to avoid cringing at that very awkward beginning. “Are you here to kick me out yourself?” The only response I get is the slightest shift of his gaze off of my face. “No? Well then I think I’m going to bed. It’s late.” 

My tone and words are clear. Get out of my doorway, I’m in no mood to go back to arguing.  When he still doesn’t say anything, I’m emboldened by my nerves. I push the door between us without breaking eye contact. 

Before the wood can meet the doorframe, he moves his cane, wedging it between us. “Y/n.” I don’t understand the way he says my name, but I’m certain he’s never said it like that. “I...” When he’s not prompted by the uncomfortableness of silence, I raise an eyebrow, my grip on the door tightening. “What I said shouldn’t have been said.” Wait--is he admitting fault? I’m so thrown I almost melt entirely. “Not to you.” 

The addition leaves him so lowly a part of me wonders if I’ve imagined it. I’m so thrown by it I don’t even think to reply until a long second has passed. “You seemed to believe the opposite a few hours ago.” 

His lips press together for a moment. “You didn’t ask me to play cards tonight.” He took that as intentional? At least that got me some kind of apology? I keep my mouth shut, greed making me want more information. I guess he must sense my silent tugging because he head inclines slightly. “Don’t push.” 

I fight down a grin. “Push what?” His only response to stiffen further. “I’m going to tell you something as a peace offering.” That seems to intrigue him in some way. I can’t tell if it’s a good kind of interested, but I note the slight raise of his eyebrows and his intentional silence. “I didn’t chose not to ask you to play cards.” He gives me no indication of anything, which is fair...considering my vagueness. “I was mad, obviously, and in the middle of deciding on a course of action...and then I fell asleep.” 

A long pause of silence. “You fell asleep?” 

I’m not sure if his incredulous tone should offend me or not. If I wanted to lie, I’d like to think he knows me well enough to know that I’d have thought of a better excuse than that. Or at least a less embarrassing one. “Yes, it’s not that difficult to believe. Today had been long and all I wanted to do was read, but then Jesper came in to say the oddest things and then leave me to...” 

Oh--oh. I guess there’s a reason people say to ‘sleep on’ something. Because now, actively remembering Jesper’s words for the first time since I fell asleep...I understand what Jesper was implying in the oddest way possible. He meant that Kaz and I...that perhaps there is a Kaz and I in a context that’s more than just grammatical. Wow. I really had to realize this with Kaz right in front of me. 

My face feels warmer than it did before, an irrational bout of anxiety forcing me to consider that me might be able to read impossible, embarrassing thoughts from my expression alone. 

“What did Jesper say?” I’m too lost in my own spiral of confusion and panic and some feeling I can’t recognize to register how Kaz asks his question. There’s an edge to it, an odd one, but that could easily just be Kaz. 

This is most definitely the last conversation we need to be having. I’m still mad at him for his earlier dramatics. So I just shake my head, feigning an exhaustion I could lose myself in. “Nothing and everything all at once.” I resist the urge to rub my eyes again. “I’m pretty sure he was drinking, and I wasn’t really listening. I was just trying to read.” 

Kaz’s expression hardens briefly as he takes in my words, and then he exhales, nodding once with the breath. “What were you reading?” 

My lips part instinctually, ready to spew off details about the latest novel that’s captured my attention. But before I can let myself take off, the reality of the situation strikes me directly in the chest. This is not Nina, or Inej, or even Jesper after what he considers a ‘good night’. This is Kaz Brekker, the man believed to not have a soul. I’ve spoken to him before about casual things, though most of the nights in which we end up playing cards or just sitting near each other are spent in silence. But he’s never prompted me before. Not in the one topic he knows is guaranteed to turn me into an overenthusiastic, gushing fountain of poor summaries and character analysis. 

I guess this is his peace offering. This shouldn’t warm the way it does. He was still unbelievably dramatic and treated me like I’m some kind of unreliable fool. “It’s late, and you know how I can be. I’d hate to keep you for nothing more than a poor summary and honestly, an embarrassing rant about plot or characters, because there’s just nothing as frustrating as when two people so clearly care about each other and both are too stubborn and oblivious to acknowledge it.” 

Kaz’s eyebrows draw together just enough for me to be able to make out a shift of expression in the poor light. Perhaps his lingering irritation is preparing to rear its ugly head. The corner of his mouth seems to threaten to tilt upwards as Kaz angles his head to the side slightly. “I can’t imagine that position.” 

No kidding. I bite my tongue to keep the sarcastic comment and awkward laugh that would sure follow it away. “Who can? That’s like half the point of reading.” 

How can interaction feel so over and just at its beginning all at once? I press my lips together to avoid filling the silence with things I’d no doubt instantly regret. It’s easy to be mad at Kaz in the moment. Too easy. But to stay mad at him when his temper has passed and he returns with some kind of begrudging and admittedly awkward and uncertain truce is another task entirely. 

“I’ve never understood your attachment to written words.” 

“It’s not about understanding, it’s about everything else.” 

“And you say I’m cryptic.” Is he...kinda almost joking? I straighten my spine, too tired to fight and too wounded to forgive. “There’s understanding in everything, nothing can survive on sentiment alone.” 

“If you read the way I did, you’d understand.” 

His lips press together as his expression remains unwavering in its hardness. “Read to me.” 

...Interacting with Kaz in any way often leaves me feeling like I’m wandering through unknown territory. But this, this is undeniably different. So different I can’t even think of a way to react. I watch his expression as cautiously as possible. He’s purely reserved, no distinction from the look he wears during business propositions. Except there’s a tightness I can’t quite understand.

Maybe it’s because I don’t want to fight anymore. Maybe it’s because exhaustion is leaving me partially delirious. Or maybe it’s the weird feeling in my chest that I can’t quite place. That I don’t want to place. “Okay.” I shift carefully. “If for no other reason then to prove you wrong.” 

Never did I think I’d end up in the position of sitting in my bed, book in hand, with Kaz Brekker sitting next to me. But here we are. I’m so tired, I almost let out a nervous laugh when he first walked in. So brooding and tall, gripping the head of his head cane as he sits at the foot of my bed, on my pastel quilt. 

I’m glad for the excuse to keep my gaze away from him and on the words in front of me. I read out loud, feeling more and more comfortable with each page I finish. But as my inhibitions slip away, so dos my hold on consciousness. My eyelids seem to grow heavier with each word that I read. 

“You’re falling asleep.” 

I straighten my spine on instinct. “Am not.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to deny something so simple. 

“You’re impossible.” 

From him, that statement is laugh worthy. “I’m impossible? Do you not remember earlier today?” 

From the way his jaw locks, I realize that he’s in no mood to be light about this topic. I don’t understand why. It’s not like I’m the one that wronged him. “I remember your lack of focus.” 

Keeping my hands at my side to avoid rubbing my eyes, I frown. “If you want to have this argument again, fine. Jesper is more ‘distracted’ than me half the time and you’re much more lenient on him. It’s not like I was flirting with someone or gambling or doing anything but having a two second conversation. One that I needed to have to get information that you wanted.” 

The last time we fought, I had more energy to restrain myself. This could be atomic. I hold my breath, waiting for Kaz’s retaliation. He exhales, eyes not meeting mine. “Arguing with you when you’re present is exhausting enough. It’s not worth it when you’re half asleep.” 

This angers me further. I hate that he’s right. “I’m not half asleep.” He leaves it at that. I glare even harder at him, slumping further into my bed. “But for the sake of argument, I’ll drop it. Something you’re incapable of doing.” 

At that, his eyes meet mine. I try to hold his gaze, but the harder I think about not seeming tired the more exhaustion slips in. A yawn escapes me before he looks away. Great. “I know when to lie in the grass in wait.” 

Rolling my eyes, I shift back slightly. He’s incapable of being less dramatic than this. Still, I can’t imagine the effort it’s taking on his part to not start an argument. Maybe this is why Jesper spent so long implying that there may be a Kaz and I in any capacity beyond a vague kind of friendship. “I’ll admit you’re tactful.”

“Resourceful people recognize that trait in other people.” 

Blinking twice, I lower my book slightly. Am I truly exhausted, or did he just compliment me in a way? “Careful, I may start to think you find me tolerable.” 

“Let’s not exaggerate.” Okay, now I know I’m exhausted because I think he might have just attempted a joke. Rolling my eyes, I decide not to acknowledge this lightness in fear that I’ll scare it away. “Y/n?” 

I press my lips together, worried about the destruction of our peace. “Yes?” 

“What did Jesper say to you? Earlier?” I pause, slightly unsure why we’re moving backwards. 

We’re in a decent place now, and I’d hate to ruin it. I’m too half asleep to lie eloquently. And it’s not like he’s an easily convinced man. “Oh, he said it so cryptically it took me longer than it should have to understand. And it didn’t help that it was something so...well, you might find it funny. As funny as you find anything, anyways.” Wow...I’ve spent such a long time talking. Rubbing the back of my eyes, I avoid his gaze. Exhaustion and awkwardness mix in my stomach oddly. “It seemed like he was trying to imply that you and I...me and you...” Why is this a difficult thing to say? It’s not like I was implying it and Jesper’s known for his oddness. “I think Jesper was implying that there was a you and I, or at least that there could be.” I’m too lost in a haze of almost sleep to watch his reaction. I let my head rest against my headboard even further. “Isn’t that odd?” 

He’s quiet for a long second, and then he finally speaks again. “Odd, even for Jesper.” The response doesn’t satiate me...what’s that about? I exhale, deciding that feeling is tomorrow’s problem. When I blink, I decide to let my eyes stay closed. Just for a moment. The sound of something shifting is what makes my eyes squint open. Kaz is standing, his expression unreadable as he straightens. “Goodnight, y/n.” 

At that, I sit up slightly, ignoring the exhaustion behind my eyes. “I haven’t finished the chapter.” 

“You’ve convinced me of enough.” A concession? How exhausted do I seem? My lips press together as I think of my next argument. Before I can get it out, Kaz leans forward. He grabs the quilt at the end of my bed and tosses it onto my legs casually. “Goodnight, y/n.” The meaning of his repetition is clear. His word is final. 

I find enough energy to manage a glare, but I pull the quilt over my legs anyways. “Goodnight, Kaz.”

[sirtwentyofhousegoodmen]

Arcturus at Orion's birth plz

July 5th, 1929

"Papa!"

Arcturus shifted his gaze from the newspaper to the four year old girl sat on his lap, who looked up at him, beseechingly.

"What is it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Can you read me a story?"

Arcturus rolled his eyes heavenward, and before he could tell the little hoyden to go bother her mother for one, he was hit with the reminder that Melania was rather occupied birthing his son at the moment.

He sighed—he'd come to his study to hide from his blasted uncles, cousins and siblings, all eagerly awaiting news of the Black heir's arrival with champagne and cigars, a noticeably more jovial celebration than there was at Lucretia's birth. No wonder, as Phineas Nigellus was no longer there to scream at everyone for their shortcomings.

Knowing that Lucretia inherited his strong will, and not having the energy to send her away after being awake for the past twenty hours, he begrudgingly put down his newspaper and, with a lazy swish of his wand, plucked an old storybook out of the bookcase.

"Just this once, Lucretia Black," He warned her, "Your father hasn't the time for such nonsense—so don't get any ideas about this being a regular occurrence."

Lucretia nodded, black curls bobbing up and down with each motion, and leaned back down onto his chest, waiting for him to begin.

It was one of Melania's books that she'd left in his study—they often took lunch there together, though rather than engage in conversation, an activity neither really favored, husband and wife preffered to read in each other's companionable silence.

It seemed innocuous enough—besides, it wasn't as if he could read Lucretia the tome he'd just acquired on Egyptian blood magic.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."

Arcturus raised his eyebrows at that, then nodded in approval at the statement. This was precisely the sort of thing an impressionable young girl like Lucretia should be reading.

As he continued, his voice grew softer and softer, owing to Lucretia's slowing breaths and drooping eyelids, but also to the fact that he was growing rather invested in the plot himself. He would never read this womanish dreck if Lucretia weren't here of course, but it was decently written, all in all.

The sound of the study door creaking open made Arcturus stop, but before he could look up to see who'd disturbed them, Lucretia said the last thing he wanted her to say at that moment.

"Burgie!!"

The girl in question darted into the room, a blur of black curls and white lace that Irma had trapped her in from head to toe.

Pollux's daughter was a terror. She looked innocent enough: all neat black curls and bright blue-grey eyes, but she was constantly running circles around her parents, and there wasn't an order in the world she couldn't flagrantly disobey. Unfortunately for him, Lucretia had taken to her cousin from the first—the girls were practically inseperable. In the first three years, it was often quite difficult to tell them apart—though now their faces were taking their own distinct shapes.

"Where were you, Lucy?" Walburga asked, her arms crossed and her face a mask of supreme churlishness.

"I found Papa," Lucretia said, as if the fact was a complete justification. "He's reading me a story."

Walburga turned her—far too sharp—gaze to him, and pouted. "I want to hear the story."

Arcturus's first reaction was a strong no—but then he realized that word didn't exist in Walburga's vocabulary, and if he were to introduce her to it now he'd be getting an earful from both her and her shrew of a mother.

Sighing, he ran a hand over his face. "I hate my life," he muttered to himself.

Walburga seemed to take that as a 'yes', as she climbed atop the couch and burrowed herself into his other side. Without a clue as to what to do, he just gaped at her nerve while she smiled up at him, looking damn near catlike.

"Go on, Cousin Arcturus," He narrowed his eyes at the cheeky, yet accurate form of address. The chit was good, he'll give her that. "Read!"

He raised an eyebrow. "Do you speak to your father that way, young lady?"

"Yes."

Arcturus blinked, then snorted. "Fair enough. But I'm not your father, so you'll take care to watch your tone when you speak to me."

She sighed, sulkily. "Yes, Cousin Arcturus."

Giving her a final stern glance, he put his focus back into the book and read until the two girls' breaths grew slow, and their eyes closed. Finally seeing they were asleep, he made to get up, then came to a crushing realization.

The bloody chits had him pinned to the infernal sofa.

Sighing, he made to lift Lucretia off of his left side but the girl had her arms firmly wrapped around his middle, and any sort of strong movement would have woken her—and in turn Walburga.

Turning to Walburga, he debated the merits of whether or not to pry her off him as well. On the one hand, she wasn't his (she'd be a damn sight less impudent if she were) and he did not want to be any more familiar than he already was . On the other hand, he was the official head of the family and he'd be damned if he was going to miss his son's birth over a sleeping hoyden.

Thankfully, the debate ended when the study door creaked open and Pollux came in, a sheen of sweat on his forehead—he'd never taken to cigars that well—and a glass of champagne in hand, beaming.

"Arcturus, it's—"

"Can you get your blasted daughter off me before you say what you have to say, Pollux?"

Pollux' seemed to take notice of his other companions and their state, as his eyes widened and he promptly put down his cigar and champagne flute on the table nearest them, and in one swift motion lifted up his daughter into his arms.

"Apologies, Arcturus," Pollux said, lightly rubbing a mildly fussy Walburga's back as she settled into her new position. "She can be a bit of a handful sometimes, our Burgie."

Arcturus raised an eyebrow in dissaproval at the look of pure adoration on his cousin's face at his daughter. First Irma, now Walburga—he was starting to get the feeling that Pollux actually liked his women impertinent.

How droll.

"Yes," he answered instead, "She certainly can. Anyhow, what is it you wanted to tell me, seeing as you've seen fit to come into my study?"

Pollux remembered himself then, and his bright smile was back. "Yes, of course—Congratulations are in order, old boy: You have a son."

Arcturus felt a wave of astonishment come over him, leaving him wide-eyed and dazed. "He's here?"

Pollux nodded. "Yes—Irma told us all that Melania's waiting for you upstairs."

Without another word in his cousin's direction he stood up, lifting Lucretia up with him, and all but ran upstairs, past all the well-wishers no doubt using his son's birth as an excuse to get plastered in the drawing room.

A son, an heir, a true heir! Ha!—Arcturus hoped that Phineas Nigellus had a good view of his triumph in hell, he wanted to see that old bastard eat his words.

The House of Black already had a male heir—Alphard's birth, though met with distinctly less fanfare since Melania's pregnancy had been announced by then, had been two months ago and his uncle Cygnus had not stopped crowing since. But this was different—Arcturus had an heir now, his own heir. A son to carry on his name and his legacy, a son to shape into a fine young man and to teach what it meant to be a proper black.

He reached the same oak door he'd gone through four years ago, and grabbing the handle, pushed it open.

Melania was on the bed, her face pale and drawn, and the healer beside her had his face set in a frown. Arcturus approached the man, the feeling of Lucretia’s hands around the back of his neck growing tighter.

“Is she alright?” He asked, without preamble.

“Ah, Mr. Black,” The rotund man took off his comically tiny, fogged-over pince-nez, cleaning them with his handkerchief. “Yes, I assure you—Mrs. Black is doing perfectly well, as is your son. The birth was rather strenuous on her, I’m afraid.”

“How strenuous?”

The man grimaced. “She’ll be perfectly fine—but I wouldn’t advise having another for at least a few years. I don’t think her body could take it.”

Arcturus furrowed his brow, shocked. “What? She did perfectly well with Lucretia.”

“The boy was larger than Lucretia,” The healer said, as if he were indulging a dim-witted child, which only served to raise his hackles. “Combined with the birth being four times longer, it’s no wonder she’s unwell. Rest assured, she’ll be perfectly fine with some bed-rest, and in a few years, if you still want another, we can certainly discuss what paths we could take on that front.”

Before Arcturus could convey his supreme outrage at being spoken to in such a way, the jolly man had the audacity to give him a pat on the back, and direct him to the crib where they’d put his son. Gingerly, he put Lucretia onto a chaise in the corner of the room, and approached the crib with trepidation.

When he caught sight of his son, he felt the breath leave him.

The boy was his mother’s spitting image—brown hair, large, owlish eyes, and pudgy red cheeks. The only feature he’d inherited from his father were those classic steely gray eyes that most Blacks were blessed with.

Carefully, he lifted him from his crib, and positioned him properly in his arms. The boy stirred, before wiggling a bit more and turning his new eyes up to peer at his father.

His son. His son.

Arcturus had never felt more proud in his life. All the tests, the trials, every single accomplishment in his life paled in comparison to this one. His son was the totality of all his efforts, the ultimate triumph.

But there was something else. Something more.

His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of Melania’s stirring from the other side of the room, and, remembering himself, he approached her with their son in tow.

“Remember, Mr. Black, she’s too weak to hold him at present—I’d advise keeping a safe distance.”

Arcturus gave the man a glare, and he rightly looked cowed, excusing himself and all but running from the room. Taking a seat at the edge of the bed, he looked over at his wife, who was just beginning to wake.

“Arcturus?” She asked, her voice tired and muddled.

"I'm here, Melly," He told her, taking his free hand and using it to wipe off the sheen of sweat that had gathered on her forehead.

Melania opened her eyes, blearily, and when she looked over at him with their son, gave them both a shaky smile. "How is he?"

"Perfect," Arcturus replied, meaning it more than he'd ever meant anything in his life. "He's perfect—your spitting image."

"Really?" She peered over at his face. "I rather thought he took after you."

"He has my eyes," he told her, bringing their boy closer. "The rest is all yours."

She sighed. "Is he right? I can't have any more?"

Arcturus blinked. The healer had told him she might very well have another in a few years, but they'd told his mother the same. He didn't want to risk it—wizards had not perfected the art of childbirth and h wasn't about to take her to a muggle so he could cut her open like some fish.

The thought of Melania on the bed, like mother, covered in pustules, soft, sweet voice meant for songs gone wheezy and delirious—No. No, he wasn't going to let that happen. He couldn't let that happen.

"Yes," Arcturus said, decision made. "It's not safe for you. We won't be having anymore."

Her face turned doleful then. "Oh."

They sat in a sort of awkward silence then while Arcturus kept smiling down at their son, until it was broken by the sound of a slight sniffle.

"I'm sorry."

Arcturus started at the words, then turned to meet his wife's eyes, which had become wet with tears.

"What?" He asked, mildly annoyed at the fact he had to deal with womanish drama today of all days.

"I failed you. I can't give you more children—what kind of a wife am I?"

Melania's face seemed to be a mixture between dawning horror at the fact that she'd failed in her duties and genuine sadness that she'd never experience what it was like to hold another baby of hers in her arms again.

Arcturus moved to cut off the stream of tears before it became too much for either of them.

"You've given me an heir, and a daughter," Arcturus pointed out, voice measured. "There's nothing else expected of you."

"You should have more," She said, shaking her head, her breaths growing shorter. "I wanted more." The last sentence was spoken in a kind of hushed tone.

"More are not worth your health, Melania." Arcturus groaned, was she truly under the impression she'd failed him? Had he ever intimated he wanted a house full of little rapscallions running about? He didn't—two was more than enough.

"That's not—"

"It is, and it is the final word we will have on this subject." Arcturus sighed. "You will not die, Melania. Not for one more son, nor for ten. You, Lucretia, and the boy are all I need. You are all..." he cleared his throat, uncomfortably, "...more than I could ever deserve. I have an heir—Now, all that matters is you and the children. Nothing more."

Melania looked at him, flabbergasted at how candid he'd gotten, before nodding, still dumbstruck. "As you say."

Arcturus pretended not to notice her smile of relief, nor the overly loving way she was looking at him.

Those emotions made him...uneasy.

"Orion," Melania said, thought it came out as half a question. She elaborated at Arcturus's raised eyebrow. "I was reading a book on Black names when I went into labor. The one I liked best was Orion—I thought to bring it to you to see if you approved."

Arcturus raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised that his slip of a wife had gathered the nerve to put forth a name herself. Orion...Yes, it was a good name. A strong name—The Hunter. One of the only good memories he had left of his father had been sitting in his study, asking him to point out all the names of the stars enchanted into the ceiling—Orion had always been his favorite.

"Orion Arcturus Black," Arcturus said, nodding in approval. "A good name, Melly. I approve."

Melania beamed—though she promptly grimaced.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" She nodded. "Not to worry—I'll find that fat old man and order him to give my wife as much pain potion as she damn well wants."

He gave her a kiss to the forehead. "She deserves it."

[maraleestuff]

About: Alleilyn Willowwing

Tagged by @curiousartemis for this a few days ago, but getting around to it now lol. So cool to learn some more about Imi!

And now, a good character page for Alleilyn! Adding a Read More cause it’ll probably be lengthy.

Name: Alleilyn Willowwing

Alias: Leilie. It’s a penname she uses when she writes to Ayrenn (who has her own alias). Their letters are mostly personal, but it’s a precaution incase their letters fall into the wrong hands. Ayrenn is a Queen, after all. (Lore wise, I think Bosmeri use a special type of paper called vellum, if they write at all, with a special type of ink. So I might find a work around with magic.)

Gender: Female.

Age: 24.

Species: Bosmer (Wood Elf)

Zodiac:  aquarius / aries / cancer / capricorn / gemini / leo / libra / pisces / sagittarius / scorpio / taurus / virgo / unknown

Abilities/ Talents: Alleilyn is skilled in alchemy, restoration, and is well-learned in her knowledge of anatomy. She’s also worked closely with the Vinedusk Rangers, so on top of field medicine, Alleilyn has also been a scout, and can track/ hunt with a bow fairly well. Finally, Alleilyn is also a skilled necromancer, but she isn’t particularly proud of it; as she recovers her memories, she slowly pieces together how and why she has this skill in the first place. (I saw a writing prompt once about how healing and necromancy are similar, and I thought it would add an interesting layer to her character & story.)

~ Personal ~

Alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true

Religion: Alleilyn follows Yfrre. (My knowledge of tes universe religions isn’t that great tbh)

Sins: Envy / Greed / Gluttony / Lust / Pride / Sloth / Wrath

Virtues: Charity / Chasity / Diligence / Humility / Justice / Kindness / Patience

Language(s): The common tongue of Tamriel, and Bosmeri, though I’m not sure if the Bosmer officially have their own language.

Family: Alleilyn was close with her mother and her sister, Nivaia, but she never really knew her father, as he died when she was young. Her mother, since she raised them both on her own, doted on them and saw to their education and skills, so they could be independent. Nivaia (28) joined the Vinedusk Rangers, and helped against the Blacksap rebellion, but she died in the battle of Cormount. (Does backstory count as spoilers when Alleilyn is recovering memories in story?) Although she was never quite the same after Nivaia died, Alleilyn still remained close with her mother until she was sent, unwillingly, to Coldharbour.

Friends: Alleilyn has always preferred a good book to socializing, but she did make lasting friendships when she studied and practiced with the Mages Guild and the rangers. There was never any time, or will, for friendships while she was in Coldharbour; so even after her escape, she initially thinks of Lyris and the Prophet as tentative allies. She doesn’t know what to make of Razum-dar either, but after awhile, he starts to grow on her.

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual / Bi-Pansexual / Homosexual / Demisexual / Asexual / Unsure / Other

Relationship Status: Single / Dating / Married / Widowed / Open relationship / Divorced / Not ready for dating / It’s complicated (with the planemeld and getting her soul back, it’s the last thing on her mind. Of course, life doesn’t always take intentions into account... 😏)

Libido: Sex god / Very High / High / Average / Low / Very low / Non-existent

In unofficial lore, or so I’ve read, Bosmer have the highest sex drive of all the races 😂 so that’ll be fun once I get to Romance (within reason).

~ Physical ~

Build: Twig / Bony / Slender / Average / Athletic / Curvy / Chubby / Obese

Hair: White / Blonde / Brunette / Red / Black / Other - caramel brown/ blonde

Eyes: Brown / Blue-gray / Green / Black / Other

Skin: Pale / Fair / Olive / Light Brown / Brown / Very Brown / Other

Height: 5′2

Weight: 110

Scars: Knife wound above heart, whipping wounds on her back.

Facial Features: She has an almost gaunt, but youthful heart-shaped face with wide eyes, green as the deep woods, sharp eyebrows, an upturned nose, and full lips. Freckles are scattered over her cheeks and nose.

Hair Style: Alleilyn usually wears her hair in a braid or updo when she’s traveling, doing missions on behalf of Ayrenn, or working with patients/ alchemy. When she isn’t busy, or is doing light work, she’ll keep her hair down. If she’s roped into a formal/ political event, Alleilyn will wear a more ornate style, with complex braids or buns.

Tattoo(s): None. She might consider one though, depending on what it is or why she would get it.

~ Choose ~

Dogs or cats? I’m not sure she’d get a house cat, but I can totally see her with a senche cub. Undecided on how she’ll get one though—as a gift from Ayrenn, or maybe she rescues one in the wild.

Birds or nugs? I’ll be honest, I have no idea what nugs are.

Snakes or spiders? She’s not afraid of snakes exactly, but she’s not fond snakes after dealing with the Maomer.

Red or blue? 

Yellow or green? (She doesn’t have any particular favorite colors, so I’ll assume these are for aesthetic)

Black or white? 🤷‍♂️

Coffee or tea? I’m not exactly sure how it fits into the Green Pact, if they can, but Alleilyn buys teas from merchants that come from outside Valenwood. She tries not to make it obvious though, when around other Wood Elves.

Ice cream or cake? Alleilyn enjoys her treats when she can.

Fruits or vegetables? She follows the Green Pact pretty strictly, so her diet is mostly meats, nuts and dairy.

Sandwich or soup?

Magic or melee? Alleilyn isn’t much of a fighter, but she will fall back on conjuration magic in desperate situations.

Sword or bow? If she must use a weapon, and not a staff, Alleilyn will use a bow. She hunted frequently with Nivaia and the other rangers, so she has an accurate aim.

Summer or winter? Alleilyn is used to the heat and humidity of Valenwood, even if she doesn’t remember it right away.

Spring or autumn? Alleilyn has learned to be appreciative of life, especially in the jungle, which is rife with it everywhere. Spring is a time of rebirth, but autumn is the time before winter—or hardship—which is equally necessary in life.

The Past or The Future? Ironically enough, despite having little to no memories before the prisons and misery of Coldharbour, Alleilyn feels almost trapped by the past. She doesn’t know how she got there, what she could have possibly done to deserve her fate, and ultimately, who she is. The only tangible memories she has is being tortured, and nightmares of her tormenters.

Well...that got dark. It does get better for her, I promise. Anyway, I’m not exactly sure who to tag for this but I’ll list other writers: @daedriclorde, @parasite-core, @stardust-crow​, @maxgraybooks​, @pearlll09​, and anyone else who’s interested!

[katcadecascade]

New Qrow fic WIP

It’s a bit of a character study but mostly RWBY/JNOR/more doing shenanigans.

The only problem, I can’t think of a name for this fic.

Anyway here, Chapter One/Round One: Throwing Down the Gauntlet

Blake will admit, she’s a sucker for romance.

How could she not be?

In a world where morbid emotions attract monsters, where injustice breeds from hatred of culture and birth traits, something as simple and layered as love is beautiful and strong and can power people through their darkest moments but also bring them to their knees.

She should say she just learned this all from her books but honestly in the last year or so, Blake has certainly lived through some crazy shit.

But let’s not get into that right now.

Sure her tale begins with her people’s suffering, her parent’s pacifism, a poor boy’s spite, and her own frightful shadows. She could go write to great lengths on how the journey gained her treasured friends, bonds forged through fire, and how it lead them to the coldest place of the north.

That’s where this game begins.

Yes a game indeed or maybe a war by the sharpness in the Valkyrie’s eyes or the telltale song notes of glyphs charging up.

It began with a series of events that piqued the interest of the eight (and later on more) charges under the wings of Qrow Branwen.

The first thing they noticed took place on their very first night in Atlas, where one General James Ironwood hugged the scythe master. The two thought they were alone but the nieces back tracked to get their uncle.

While they made the wise decision to leave the men alone, the girls immediately blurted their findings to the rest of their friends.

Their reactions were of surprise and cooing but it only trigger their radars to look out for more of these moments. None of them could recall ever seeing Qrow be so vulnerable with anyone else. Granted they didn’t spend the most time with him but even Yang and Ruby were caught off guard.

This was their uncle so ultimately this was under Yang’s and Ruby’s discretion or wonderment.

That didn’t stop the rest of them from being curious to see what else will happen between Qrow and Ironwood.

Small and subtle were the ways of the General, lingering eyes or the quietly inviting the huntsman into his office. Ruby’s sniper skills were used for observations like these. Her skills in stealth could’ve been better to muffle her cooing.

Things were going steady, slowly seeing the man underneath the steel. Maybe then the kids could decide to trust him with the truth from the Lamp. Not that Qrow’s compromised in anyway, but seeing this spark between them certainly helps the kids trust the general a little bit more.

James Ironwood appeared to be able to offer up his heart to Qrow.

So imagine their surprise when Clover Ebi entered the game.

There’s that word again: game.

It’s a little immature to describe it as so but Blake couldn’t think of any other word.

Blake and the others keep noticing certain events focused on Qrow, usually engaged by one man or the other.

Small side glances, a brushing of hands, coffee treats and many more that can be listed as intimate or thoughtful or purposeful. Although, Clover’s flirting are rather forward. Most importantly, Qrow’s happiness is the growing outcome.

And pray tell what game is this? Where two men woo a common thread that is slowly becoming enamored by these actions?

A courting game.

Hands slam down on the kitchen table. “Everyone, place your bets!”

“We are so not betting on this!” Weiss crossed her arms, perfectly poised and unmoved.

“Come on,” Nora whined, “There’s nothing else to do here.”

“Aside from doing our jobs and brainstorming how to save the world?”

“All I’m saying is that we need a break from all the seriousness and focus on Team Dad.”

On the couches, only Blake noticed the resident nieces share a glance. They don’t argue against their uncle’s title, instead they quirk their lips in a knowing look.

(Blake later understands their silent exchanges when a game changer occurs)

“Nora’s right,” Jaune agreed, “and I usually never want to say that.”

“Hey!”

“You’re the one who broke the coffee machine by trying to fix it,” Oscar pointed out. Behind him said device has a despairing groan.

Ruby follows up, “And then got the rest of us blaming each other for it.”

“Enough, enough,” the redhead shouted, “We’re getting off track!”

“We are not conspiring on Qrow’s love life!” Weiss proclaimed.

“She’s right,” Ren said with the composure of a sage, highlighted as he sipped his tea, “There’s no need to.”

Yang raised an eyebrow, both curious and surprised, “What do you mean?”

Everyone waited for their resident ninja to finish another long drink, for dramatic effect Blake must note.

Then simply enough, he answers, “Qrow would fall for the General.”

That was clearly not the answer Nora wanted.

She’s a sputtering mess while next to her, Weiss holds her head high.

“Thank you, someone else sees my point,” the ex-heiress nods.

Sharpness in Jaune’s voice catches her off guard, “Your point? You think Ironwood’s gonna get with Qrow?”

“Is it not obvious?”

Nora butts in, a strange tension in her shoulders, “Sure yeah but look at Clover!”

Her team leader listed off, “They’re mission partners but also hanging around each off in their downtime.”

“Yes,” Nora nods enthusiastically, “Just like Jaune with Marrow.”

“H-hey wait-“

“You haven’t seen Qrow with James alone though.”

Again, everyone is quiet as they stare down their resident cute wizard boy.

Oscar squirms a little under the attention, backtracking, “Oh, um, I only mean um I would see them right before James tutors me? And Qrow would sometimes be there too and,” he sighs heavily, “honestly it’s like my aunt’s romance novels.”

Blake immediately guesses the classic tropes of longing, quiet vulnerability, trust and intimacy. She doesn’t voice her thoughts. No need since Weiss happily regales her own findings.

“Winter says that she’s never seen Ironwood so relaxed before. Sure she’s a little teed that it was Qrow’s doing but the results are still good.”

“But what about Qrow’s ‘results’ when he’s with Clover,” Nora argued.

Ruby does her little head shake, musing over her thoughts, “He is a lot calmer or relaxed.”

Nora cackles at the fuming Weiss, affronted at her girlfriend not on her side.

That’s rectified as Ruby taps her chin, scholarly and not noticing Weiss’ heat, “Although he is a lot more teasing around Ironwood.”

“See!” Weiss grins as if this is victory. Her current rival is unbothered.

“He’s the same with Clover,” Nora counters and honestly Weiss can’t possibly argue with that.

Too many times have the kids witness Qrow becoming a bumbling, blushing mess when Clover compliments him. There’s so much bi/gay tension there to even think of denying.

“Qrow must be taking his time then,” Blake voiced. “With both Ironwood and Clover, maybe he’s a bit overwhelmed.”

Next to her, Yang sighs, “Knowing him, he might not realize what’s going on unless someone tells him.”

“Or he’s aware of all of this happening and dismisses it as something that can’t actually happen to him,” Jaune painfully accurately describes as what is probably going on.

This type of denial of happiness, this consuming pit of numbness and pain, people who loved and lost and felt guilty for even loving and losing need to be told they’re deserving of love.

Maybe Jaune’s speaking for himself or maybe Blake’s interpreting for her own experiences.

But one shared glance with the knight confirms her thoughts. Qrow must have talked to him too about this type of grief.

The blame and the guilt and the responsibility of losing someone, be it person of goodness or of spite, it’s a heavy feeling that Blake, Jaune, Qrow and possible the others too have carry.

So while the huntsman tries to assure the two kids of their grievances, there hasn’t been an opportune time to ask how he’s coping. As the young adults under his care, they all worry about him, especially his nieces. At first he was the mysteriously cool uncle as proclaimed by Ruby and later on the secretive and paranoid uncle explained by Yang but in their shared time together, each kid gotten to know the crow by their own definitions.

It’s like that little thing Blake does, associate a word with a person.

She told Sun about her girls, Earnest, Defiance, and Strength.

Then there’s team JNPR, Tenacity for Jaune, Zestful for Nora, Ascendancy for Pyrrha and Acuity for Ren. It took some time but eventually Oscar became Perseverance.

As for Qrow, well, she jokingly thought Mother Hen but now she’s satisfied to call him Memory.

It’s mostly because of all the Muninn parallels but there is just so much history behind Qrow Branwen. Carried in the creak in his bones, dips in his scars, the grey of his feathery hair, the surprise in his laughs, like he’s relearning how it is to walk with ghosts and angels.

So yeah, Blake sometimes worries about him and then she and Weiss worry about Ruby and Yang getting worried too.

But maybe there’s no need to.

From the soft gazes he sets on James and Clover, maybe they’re the ones making sure their Team Dad/Uncle is doing okay.

Now if only Qrow’s love life can move to the next stage.

Their conversation during breakfast was more than enough as food for thought, analyzing everything they know of Qrow Branwen and how he interacts with two men in particular.

Early mission meetings are obviously designated Clover Flirting Time as they get to their seats.

“I wouldn’t mind having another match with you,” Clover said casually as if it didn’t take weeks of near begging for a one on one fight.

“Really? You enjoy falling on your ass that much, lucky charm?”

“Sure do,” Clover slides close, letting his hip press against Qrow’s. “But I like seeing you down on the mats just as much.”

That flirt was meant to be whispered, low and teasing and it definitely sends a blush down Qrow’s neck. It’s a real shame that Blake has an extra set of ears to hear this.

Then from the sight of Marrow almost choking on his coffee, he probably heard it too.

The dog faunus and the cat faunus exchange silent misery.

“Ooh, another match?” Nora, being her glorious self, pops right at Qrow’s side and the two men nearly jump. “Hah, that’s a bit boring by now.”

Clover raises a brow, slightly wary and challenged, “Boring?”

Nora nods her head as Ren-like as possible, “Yep, I mean, training doesn’t have to be combat does it?”

Qrow blinks at her, and so does her teammates because hey, this is Nora complaining about combat training. “Nora, you got something else in mind?”

This encouragement, openness and trust, Blake wouldn’t have noticed it before but Qrow has been putting a lot more faith in them since Argus. It’s really nice to have an adult take them seriously. Then again this is Qrow. He encouraged Yang and Jaune to start a prank war.

Their resident lightning in a bottle had a million volt grin, “Parkour and freerunning! We all saw the Ops jumping around in the mines and that time Qrow and Winter destroyed the campus.”

“Miss Valkyrie,” hissed the ice queen, “I advise you to refrain from telling that anecdote.”

“What, feeling sore since you lost?” Qrow grinned.

“I did not lose, Qrow,” she glared, “it was clearly a stalemate.”

“Wow, now I’m really curious,” Clover said.

“I’ll tell you all about it then,” Qrow winked, “like how I clearly would’ve won.”

Next to Nora, Jaune added in, “There was a recording of it going around campus, like from the moment Qrow bushed back his bangs to the end where the General stopped the fight.”

To Blake, it’s a little odd to see Jaune gush about this since majority of them choose to ignore the usually mushiness of Clover Flirting Time. But then she notice the way Jaune subtly elbowed his teammate.

“Brush your bangs?” Clover’s focus on that little detail had him reach over to do said action, “Huh, you don’t look that intimidating like this.”

Like this, as they all observe, is Qrow blushing madly at the close contact and gentle action, the way Clover’s fingers glided through his dark hair like water.

Oblivious to the two men, everyone else in the room saw Jaune and Nora fist bump each other. They don’t even hide their smugness. No they toss it over at Weiss and Ren.

Ren is slightly alarmed.

Their resident ice princess on the other hand is silently fuming.

Like Blake mentioned before, this is a game.

It may be petty, invasive, and a tad immoral.

And yet it has begun.

-

So yeah, I need fic title suggestions and ideas

pls

[august-anon]

Still Got It

Hello friends, I got into an intense lee mood and wrote this and made this blog before I could talk myself out of it. 

This is loosely based in one of my regular fics from my regular blog (the identity of which will be kept under lock and key because I don’t want anyone to know about this secret blog) and I wrote this so I wouldn’t have the urge to put a weird tickle scene in the fic. All you really need to know is that all the sides are seniors in high school and Virgil’s mom died when he was like 8 or 9 (which is briefly mentioned in the fic, so if you aren’t down with that please be careful or just don’t read).

Prinxiety with some pining barely-there Logicality in the background.

Word Count: 2,350 (because apparently my rambly, long-windedness isn’t reserved for just regular fics)

Also this is the first ever tickle fic I’ve written so please don’t judge me too harshly lol

(Also I didn’t edit this so I wouldn’t talk myself out of posting it so it may have mistakes or characters may sound weird/ooc at times)

-----------

It had been a few weeks since Roman and Virgil had started dating, and things were going shockingly well (in Virgil’s opinion, Roman never seemed to have any doubts) despite their rough start. 

Things at school were still pretty awkward (the most loved and most hated people in the school getting together? The student body would need some time to adjust), but they were happy and that was all that mattered.

For now, they were taking a break from the mess that was their school lives, relaxing on Logan’s couch, with Logan and Patton relaxing to their left (still pining after each other, despite Roman and Virgil’s best efforts). 

Patton was scrolling through his phone and laughing at memes while monitoring Logan out of the corner of his eye to make sure he didn’t try to start studying again, and Logan was actually reading a book for fun for once.

Suddenly, Roman sat up straighter, turning towards Virgil. “You know,” he started, “I can see those walls you have up breaking down every day, you’ll smile a lot more often around me now, but I truly and genuinely don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh.”

“Maybe you’re just not as funny as you think you are,” Virgil teased with a smirk.

Roman gave a mock-offended gasp, a hand coming up to clutch at his chest.

Patton giggled at his dramatics.

Roman waved a hand in Patton’s direction. “See? I’m funny!”

Logan raised an eyebrow and adjusted his glasses, leaning over to look at Roman past Patton and Virgil. “Forgive me for saying this Patton, but he’ll laugh at just about anything. I’m not certain he’s an accurate representation of how funny you are.”

Patton giggled again and shrugged. “He’s not wrong, Roman.”

“Well, you two are accurate representations, either!” Roman argued. “You guys barely smile, let alone laugh! Who the hell even knows what it would take to get even the barest of chuckles from you.”

Virgil shrugged, still smirking, and relaxed back into Roman’s side when he sunk back down, pouting. His arm came up to rest on Virgil’s shoulders while the other hand dramatically went up to his face.

They relaxed in silence for a few minutes more before Logan leaned over Patton again, a gleam in his eyes.

Virgil gave him a suspicious look. Nothing good ever came out of that particular gleam.

“Roman,” he said, as calm as usual, but Virgil still tensed.

Roman hummed to show he was listening and shot a questioning glance at Virgil. Virgil ignored him, keeping his eyes locked on Logan.

Then, Logan smirked, like only childhood best friends holding the secrets to the universe could. “I wonder if Virgil’s still ticklish,” he finished, a barely-there lilt to his voice that probably only Virgil could pick up on.

The betrayal.

Virgil’s eyes went wide and his fight or flight responses kicked in. He tried to launch himself off the couch to run (he knew this house better than Roman, and he could still fit in some good hiding places), but the arm around his shoulders worked to Roman’s advantage. He used it to pull Virgil to his chest and fling them both to the ground, Roman being careful to cushion Virgil’s fall.

Virgil tried to pull away, leading to a light wrestling match breaking out. A wrestling match that Virgl was doomed to lose, considering that Roman played on half the school’s sports teams and the only working out Virgil did was sneaking out his bedroom window.

“So it’s true, then?” Roman asked gleefully.

“What’s true?” Virgil bit out, trying to push at Roman’s hands and gently throw him off with a foot to the stomach (a quiet thought of “throw him off his rhythm” almost caused Virgil to lose his focus).

“You’re still ticklish!” Eagerness was rolling off of Roman in waves.

Virgil suddenly stopped fighting, frozen in place. Roman stopped, too, probably worried he’d crossed one of Virgil’s boundaries or overstepped.

“I don’t know,” Virgil finally said, brows furrowing.

Roman relaxed above him. “Don’t know…?” He trailed off, eyebrows also scrunching up together. “If you’re ticklish?”

Virgil shrugged and nodded, finally meeting Roman’s eyes.

“Well you used to scream pretty loud when your mom used to get you,” Logan said, somewhat oblivious to the silent conversation the two lovers were having.

Roman leaned forward and spoke lowly enough that their friends couldn’t hear. “If this is something you really don’t want to happen let me know now. You know I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable or do something you didn’t like.”

Virgil remained silent.

Roman gave a subtle nod with an eyebrow raised.

Virgil returned the nod.

Roman grabbed his hand and squeezed once before relaxing his grip. “Squeeze once for me crossing a line, twice for ‘stop this instant.’”

And after another brief moment of careful eye contact, they were wrestling again. Virgil could feel the anxious anticipation rolling around in his stomach and took a moment to remind himself of what Roman had promised.

That moment of distraction was all Roman needed, beaming as he was able to toss Virgil’s hands away and latch onto his sides and squeeze.

Virgil immediately gave up that fight to start a new one, his sleeve-covered fingers shooting up to cover his mouth.

Evidently, he was still ticklish.

Very ticklish.

But as ticklish as he seemed to be, he wasn’t going to make getting that laugh easy for Roman.

That just wouldn’t fit who he was, now would it?

Roman laughed victoriously as he gently squeezed up and down the fleshy parts of Virgil’s sides. “Come on, darling,” he said, a teasing lilt to his voice, “just give in! You know you want to!”

Roman switched to digging into Virgil’s ribs causing Virgil to lurch and squirm, eyes squeezing shut as he fought his giggles down.

Scary emo teenagers that put entire high schools on edge did not giggle.

But damn, how did that tickle so much through a tshirt and his hoodie? That just wasn’t fair.

“You’re going to break eventually,” Roman teased, “you’re just dragging this out much longer. Though, who’s to say I’ll even want to stop once I get a taste of that adorable laughter?”

Virgil briefly wondered how Roman got so good at this. Then, he remembered that not only did he grow up with the bubbly Patton, he also had Patton’s younger brothers to practice on. Not to mention his own older brother (and from what Roman told him, Remy definitely seemed like the teasing, tickling big brother type).

In a desperate attempt to keep his laughter in, his competitive nature getting the best of him, Virgil frantically tried to recall where he was most ticklish when he was young. He’d been pretty ticklish everywhere, but if he remembered correctly, his most ticklish spot was--

“Get his tummy!” Patton called out with an affectionate laugh.

--His stomach.

He very much regretted leaving his hoodie unzipped as Roman’s fingers scribbled over his thin lounge shirt.

He couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Virgil’s hands shot down to grip Roman’s wrists, though he very carefully made sure not to squeeze. His eyes shot wide open, as did his mouth as he started letting out loud laughter.

Roman’s face lit up. “Well isn’t that just the best sound for sore ears!” He crowed, switching his technique to alternating between light squeezes and spidering fingers that drove Virgil absolutely insane.

“Aww!” Patton squealed from the couch. “He’s so cute!”

“Even I must admit,” Logan leaned forward, smirking, “I haven’t even heard him laugh like that, not in years.”

If Virgil’s face hadn’t already turned red from trying to hold his laughter in (and from Roman’s teasing, not that he would admit it), he was sure he would be blushing at their words.

“This may just be the most perfect sound in the universe,” Roman cooed, leaning down to get his face closer to Virgil’s. “I really do think I need to hear more of it, I might just die if I don’t!”

Roman slowed down to give Virgil a slight breather, though he didn’t stop his fingers entirely, keeping Virgil giggling. It seemed that once the laughter started, Virgil couldn’t make it stop.

Not that he necessarily wanted to.

Roman slowly and carefully started maneuvering his fingers under Virgil’s shirt, giving Virgil ample time to squeeze Roman’s wrists to back out or tell him to at least back off.

If anything, Virgil actually loosened his grip. He brought one hand back up to his mouth to muffle the giggles.

Roman mock-pouted. “Now why would you do that? I wanna see those cute little dimples bouncing around!” 

His fingers, now fully under Virgil’s shirt, switched back and forth between sweeping with the pads of his fingers and spidering with his short nails, making Virgil’s giggles grow in volume and intensity.

Roman smirked. “I suppose I’ll have to just make sure I get to see them again, won’t I?”

Virgil brought his other hand up as well, so that his entire face was covered by hoodie-clad fingers, save for his eyes, dancing with mirth.

Bring it, they said.

Roman narrowed his own in response. “So be it,” he growled out playfully.

And Virgil’s break was over.

Virgil didn’t even try to hold back his laughter again, howling out as Roman went back to work. The tickling feeling on his bare skin was so much worse. It was a struggle to keep his hands over his mouth, muffling his loud belly laughter. He knew he’d lose this game eventually, too, but he was determined to hold out as long as possible.

“Tickle tickle, sweet Virgil!” Roman sang. “Don’t you just wanna drop those hands? Give in and let me hear the sweet melody that is your laughter? The gorgeous gift that is your smile and sweet little dimples?”

Virgil’s face was on fire. It wasn’t fair that Roman knew all the right buttons to press to make him blush, and after such a short time of dating, too! Not to mention how good at tickling and teasing he was.

Roman’s fingers tickled up his torso, landing on his ribs once more and playing them like a piano. Unlike before, with both his hoodie and shirt in the way, Roman could actually stroke between each bone, wiggle his fingers along the bones themselves.

Virgil squealed as his arms shook, aching to come down and protect himself. He squirmed from side to side as much as he could with Roman straddling him (and Virgil wondered when that happened), which admittedly wasn’t far, and certainly didn’t bring much relief.

“Oh?” Roman said. “What was that cute little sound? I really wish I could have heard it, but there seems to be something in the way! Maybe if I just…”

Roman slid his fingers up into Virgil’s armpits, scratching away; and, despite Virgil’s best efforts, his arms came crashing down just in time for a loud shriek to pass through his lips.

“Aww, there he is!” Roman cooed. “My sweet prince! What adorable sounds you make!”

“Roman!” Virgil cried out through his laughter, not entirely sure where he was going with the sentence.

“Yes, dear?” Roman replied, and Virgil could hear the shit-eating grin in his voice.

Virgil just shook his head, not having an answer.

“Tell you what. If you can lift your arms up so I can get my hands back, I’ll stop.”

Virgil shook his head again and called out through his cackling, “I can’t!”

And he didn’t know if he really wanted to, either.

Virgil hadn’t been tickled since his mom died, and he’d been so young when it happened. He can’t remember disliking being tickled as a child, but he’d been so worried that had changed now that he was practically an adult.

But, as it turned out, Virgil thought he might actually like it.

And wasn’t that an embarrassing thought?

But when Roman started blowing raspberries, swapping between his now-exposed stomach and his neck, Virgil knew he reached his limit for the time being. Especially with those fingers still wiggling away in his armpits.

Try as he might, though, Virgil couldn’t raise his arms. It was all too overwhelming. His hands flailed as much as they could with his arms being glued to his sides. He latched onto one of Roman’s arms as tears of laughter finally started trickling down his burning cheeks, frantically squeezing twice.

Everything immediately stopped.

“I guess I’ll have mercy for now,” Roman said with a grin, trying to play it off in front of the others. He started wiping away Virgil’s tears. “My fingers were getting tired anyway. But there will be repeat performances. Especially since I’m sure I didn’t find all your spots!”

Virgil’s blush, which had thankfully started fading, flared up again. Roman chuckled and pulled him in for a hug.

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” Virgil mumbled before he lost his nerve. It was as close as he could get to saying he liked it.

Roman pulled back and grinned at him, wiggling his eyebrows. Virgil rolled his eyes and gave him a playful shove.

They both looked up to find Logan still immersed in his book and Patton back on his phone, though both of them seemed to be smiling. Logan looked up from his book and stared back at them.

“I’d consider this experiment a success. It seems you are just as ticklish as when we were kids.”

“Watch it, Specs,” Virgil threatened with a playful grin. “I know your secrets, too.”

“Is that so?” Patton asked innocently, though he had a predatory grin.

Logan shifted in his seat, eyes wide, but mouth wisely kept shut.

Roman and Virgil cuddled back up together on the couch next to Patton and Logan and started scrolling through their respective phones, occasionally turning to each other or the others when something particularly funny came up.

Then, Patton broke the peaceful silence once more.

“By the way, Virge,” he said casually, eyes still on his phone, “Roman is still super ticklish, too.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: Nocturne (11/30) - Ao3 Link

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV Pairings: Mostly Gen (variety later to come)

Summary: In which Cor Leonis loses his temper, accidentally acquires a kid, and tries to single-handedly dismantle the Lucian immigration system – and that’s before he and his lawyers find out about this Prophecy business. If the Astrals think Cor’s going to let his kid’s best friend die without a fight, they’ve gotten the wrong cheetah ‘taur.

(a young adult novel set in @kickingshoes’ ‘taur AU)

—————————————————————————————— ——————————————————————————————

Galadh is just as Clarus remembers it: a positive riot of color and sound.

Each house is painted in startlingly bright tones with different colors for the windows and doors and sometimes - often, really - having twisty, almost flowery designs painted as further decor, and buskers and street-sellers line virtually every street to sing out their wares or play an instrument. Even the people follow the same theme: with the exception of those in black mourning, the clothing they wear is bright and cheerful and noisy, their hair worn long and woven through with beads and feathers and braids. Even the Hunters here find that greens and yellows work better to blend with the wild jungles deeper in the islands than the dark browns and blacks preferred on the mainland.

And there are birds everywhere.

Colorful birds, loud birds, talking birds, birds perched on rooftops and on trees growing in the center of the sidewalk and on parked cars and bikes and even some birds sitting casually on people's heads as they sit at the cafés, speaking as much with their gestures as with their words.

And that's not to mention the monkeys. Just casually there, sitting on garbage cans and chowing down the way raccoons or squirrels do on the mainland, or at least did before the Starscourge started to reduce their numbers and turn them into mutated creatures out of nightmare.

Ah, Galadh. Nowhere quite like it, in Clarus’ view.

Interestingly, despite Galahd's long history as undisputed Lucian territory, the population here tends towards canidaetaur rather than felidaetaur, with inlanders generally being woodland creatures, like wolves and foxes, while beachsiders are often creatures that enjoy water, like bears and beavers and jaguars - though of course the population here, like everywhere else in Lucis, is growing increasingly mixed and diverse over time.

And, of course, let Clarus not forget to mention the food – the heavy scent of spice in the air, peppers and chilis and other mysterious spices that are hot enough to burn even people from Leide, who pride themselves on their spicy peppers, right alongside the stalls filled to the brim with freshly-caught fish or unusual fruit brought down from the jungles.

Clarus must admit that he enjoys Galahd's determined fondness of food and their resulting appreciation for heavier figures. He knows the tendency probably stems from the famines that still sporadically strike the islands whenever more severe hurricanes than the usual yearly fare batter them, but – as a tiger with, shall we say, not as much time to exercise as much as he probably should – he still appreciates it.

Oh, yes, and there’s the hurricanes.

Can't forget those.

That is, of course, the part of Galadh that Clarus doesn’t like, particularly as midsummer marks the onset of the rainy season, or more accurately the rain-and-storm season: Leviathan’s blessing, Ramuh’s curse, as the islanders liked to joke.

Galadh, wild child of the sea and storm.

Poetic, really.

At least their passage here was pretty quiet, thanks be to Leviathan – the Tidemother is generally blissfully calm for the period right around midsummer, her favorite day of the year – and they arrive without any large fanfare, just as planned.

The poor Harbormaster who came to collect their papers had something of a bad moment when he saw his King and Queen holding the paperwork with polite smiles that only barely covered how amusing they found this whole situation. It was rather funny, but, more importantly, it allowed them to disembark with remarkable swiftness and without all the ridiculous pomp that usually accompanies pre-announced royal visits - speeches and surprise presentations by local choirs and bands and whatnot. Always extremely charming, always extremely irritating to a traveler who just came rather a long way and just wants to take a nap.

Of course, no matter how quickly they managed their arrival, there still managed to be just enough time for Regis to be swamped by the (very surprised) local Galahdian politicos, but Regis is an old hand at these sort of events: he and Aulea are very effectively glad-handing them with the goal of putting them off their scent and reassuring them that there's no reason to be concerned. By all rights, Clarus ought to be helping with that, but instead he’s with Scientia, watching the children run around acquainting themselves with the harbor town – something he prefers by far.

The children, at least, are having a positive blast.

They're all keeping quite busy – Gladio looking through the stalls selling bright clothing and beads and jewelry made of shells, Ignis staring enraptured as one of the street vendors efficiently butchers and then sizzles up a giant shrimp in a medley of spices, Noctis and Prompto leaping over each other and rolling around in the sand of the beach...even Luna seems to have escaped her usual reticence, looking around her with a broad smile.

"Hey, pretty lady!" a local girl around Luna's age, holding a basket of brightly colored flowers with more flowers woven into her hair like a crown, calls out to her. "Buy a flower for your hair?"

Luna turns to look. "Oh, they're lovely!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together and trotting over to look closer.

The local girl – a maned fox 'taur, if Clarus is getting his more obscure species right – gapes at her. "Oh, wow," she says. "You've got the daintiest hooves I've ever seen."

Luna blushes.

Clarus is reminded, suddenly, of the first time Luna met Cindy, back in Hammerhead – her eyes going as wide as saucers and her cheeks going pink as the normally precociously self-possessed girl stuttered over a basic introduction – and he smiles. A pity, really, that the Glaciad is so far away at the tail end of winter – it looks like Luna will have her hands full of people she might want to ask to join her for that romantic festival's traditional joint cup of hot cocoa.

"Thank you," Luna is saying. "I love your legs, too – they're so long and graceful –"

"Oh, you don't have to say that –"

"No, really!"

Now both girls are blushing. Clarus pretends to inspect a vase, enjoying the little childhood romance unfolding in front of him – it's like something out of A Springtime's Stroll, the paperback romance novel he's currently reading. Cyrella thinks he's ridiculous for enjoying them, but Gladio certainly enjoys them as well when Clarus reads them aloud to him – he’s currently very invested in the resolution of the ongoing love quadrangle...

"Would you like a flower, then?" the girl blurts out, clearly desperate to get back onto some sort of even footing. "For your hair?"

"Oh, yes, I'd love one," and here Luna falters and glances down at the ground, "but I’m afraid I don't know how to put them in my hair."

"Oh," the local girl says. "Well – if you like – I can show you..?"

Oh, smooth, smooth! Clarus thinks admiringly. Well done, Luna!

(He is particularly amused by the idea that Lady Lunafreya, born amongst the beautiful blue sylleblossoms of Tenebrae, might find anything to do with flowers difficult.)

"I couldn't possibly bother you while you're at work –"

"No, no, I was just about to go out on break – my name's Crowe, by the way –"

"And I'm Luna. Do you mind if we go to the shade somewhere? It's only that I'm not used to it being so bright – it's my first visit to Galadh –"

"No wonder, what with you being so pale. Sure, come with me – you know, if this is your first visit here, I could show you to a nice ice cream parlor – the best one on the islands - my parents run it, it's just down the block –"

Luna glances briefly at Clarus, who nods his approval. "If it's just down the block, I don't see the issue. Keep your phone on," he advises. "I'll tell Scientia."

The two girls beam and run off.

Clarus is barely able to restrain himself from laughing at how efficiently Luna secured herself a date, even though he suspects that neither girl is entirely certain of what it is – after all, Crowe can't be much older than twelve to Luna's eleven. Ah, kitten love! Or puppy love, in little Crowe's case, and fawn love, in Luna's.

Oh, he wishes that Cyrella was here for him to share the joke! If only that damn doctor hadn't absolutely forbidden her from sea travel...

Ah, well.

He goes over to Scientia, who has her nose buried in a book that's half the size of his torso. "Luna –" he starts.

"Has run off with that Crowe girl to the ice cream shop, yes, I overheard," Scientia says, not looking up from her book. "They'll be back shortly – I saw it as we passed earlier; there's no room in there for them to sit. We should plan our next steps after that."

"Technically, the Hydread isn't until tomorrow, on midsummer itself; it’s only the Eve," Clarus offers. Luckily, he's already gotten used to the way Scientia's mind is already five steps ahead of everyone else's – he's learned to take it as a compliment that she doesn’t feel the need to explain herself to him. When she's in court, or dealing with people she thinks are slow, she suddenly becomes remarkably clear and straightforward and just a touch judgmental. It's a bit frightening, not least of all because Ignis does the same thing – and Clarus suspects that Gladio and the other boys are starting to pick up on it. They’re going to be terrors, each and every one of them. "We could spend the day doing tourist things, instead."

"What a marvelous idea," Regis says, limping up towards Clarus – no worse than usual, Clarus is pleased to note. He's managed to lose his Galahdian escort, probably by fobbing them off by promising to go to some fancy dinner later, and leaving it in their hands to prepare something suitable to his rank. "I don't think I've ever gone tourist-ing. What's there to do?"

"There are several famous landmarks," Scientia says dryly.

"No, thanks," Aulea says, following Regis closely. "Those we'll see by necessity when they want Regis – or I – or Noctis – to appear at all of them to wave at the local populace."

"Probably true," Clarus agrees ruefully. The price of being royalty...

"We could go to the beach and sun ourselves," Cor suggests. He looks rather fond of the idea. He would be, the overgrown kitten.

"Beach!" Noctis shouts. "We want beach!"

"Yeah! Beach!" Prompto joins in.

"No, thank you," Ignis says, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. "I don't want sand in my fur, thanks."

"The sand's somewhat inevitable everywhere you go in the beachside," the girl from earlier, Crowe, says. She and Luna have indeed returned, holding ice creams in one hand and holding each other's hands with the other.

Clarus is going to die of cuteness overload, he just knows it.

"Sorry, kid," she says apologetically to Ignis. She clearly hasn’t recognized any of them, which clearly pleases Regus immensely. It won’t last, of course, but it is nice to go a little incognito for a change, and Regis is clearly relishing every moment of it. “It really does get everywhere.”

"Is there anywhere we can go that won't have sand, then?" Ignis asks with a sigh. "I assume going inland would be too burdensome..?"

"Sadly, yes," Aulea says. "We need to be here tomorrow for the Hydread ceremony. Besides, I rather like the sound of sand."

"Well, there's always the caves," Crowe offers hesitantly, Luna squeezing her hand supportively.

"The caves?" Regis asks.

"Oh, they're lovely," Crowe says effusively. "They're technically inland, but they're right by the waterside, not far at all. No one ever goes to them in the summer, since they're lots prettier in the winter, but you can't come to Galahd and not see the Caves of Wind and Wave."

"Are those the ones with the cave paintings?" Scientia asks, even putting down her book – a major achievement. "I've heard good things."

"That's where the old ceremonies to raise Leviathan used to be held," Luna murmurs, leading the adults to glance at each other meaningfully.

"I could do caves," Gladio says, glancing at Ignis. "Caves are cool. They're spooky."

"I don't want to do spooky, though," Noctis pouts. "I want to go to the beach."

"Well, how about we split up?" Regis offers, smiling. Clarus likes the look on him: he looks years younger, and lighter. He's needed a vacation for far too long. This isn't a real vacation of course – they're here for the Covenant with Leviathan – but it's just close enough to one for it to already have good effects. "I'm rather interested in these caves myself – Aulea, Cor, why don't you take Noctis and Prompto to the beach, while the rest of us go look at these caves?"

"Really, no one goes in the summer," Crowe says hastily, clearly embarrassed now that they're taking her up on her suggestion. "The tides are high, you know – you can't really get the full impact of it –"

"The paintings are still supposed to be visible, even in the summer," Scientia says crisply. "We'll take our chances, I think. Will you show us the way to go?"

People do not generally say no when Scientia asks something of them. Crowe does not do so now.

Clarus arches an eyebrow at Regis. He knows his old friend well enough: this little splitting up isn't really about preferring the caves to the beach. It's about Luna's statement – that this might be where they need to go for the Covenant – and the fact that Regis wants to check it out first before letting Noctis anywhere near.

Regis smiles back, utterly unashamed of being seen through.

"Fine," Cor says. "You take three-fourths of the guard."

"What? No. Half, at most. Someone needs to watch over Noctis."

"Two-thirds. I’m watching over Noctis."

"Fine."

"Guard?" Crowe echoes with a frown.

"Don't worry about it," Luna says with a bright smile. "Can you show us the way?"

"Sure," Crowe says, smiling helplessly back, utterly distracted. "Come with me."

"Have fun at your beach," Clarus tells Cor with a grin. Cor rolls his eyes back.

Cor and Aulea head off towards the beach with Noctis and Prompto, while Regis, Clarus, and Scientia take Gladio and Ignis and follow Crowe, with Luna in tow close beside her, on a much less crowded trail inland. Their Crownsguard escort drifts along with them, quiet and unobtrusive.

It's a pleasant walk – somewhat steep, but nothing they can't handle, especially at the slow strolling pace they've adopted – for the first half-hour.

Then they discover that the main road to the caves is apparently closed for repair.

"Damn," Regis says mildly, frowning at the roadblock with its large and very unhelpful sign. "Guess we'll have to go back."

"Nah," Crowe says dismissively. "We can go in the other end, if you don't mind walking single file."

"We don't," Scientia says. "Other end?"

"Yeah," Crowe says. "It's not really an official entrance, but all the local kids go through that way. Cuts down on the line. And you end up on the Oracle's platform, the ancient one, which is pretty cool."

Clarus frowns. He's not sure this is a good idea –

"Excellent," Regis says. "Let's go."

Clarus sighs faintly. The vacation business is clearly going to Regis' head.

Still, Crowe is starting to stride down a much smaller dirt path and Regis is following, not to mention Ignis leaping along the rocky road like – well, like an excited goat kid. So there's clearly no choice but to go onwards.

It's another half-hour, this time padding along increasingly small and shabby roads before they get to the cave entrance. Still, that's more due to their slow pace – Gladio and Ignis keep dashing off to look at flowers or plants or even small animals – than the distance, even if the last portion of the descent towards the cave is, in fact, such a narrow path that going down single-file is the only way to proceed.

Crowe seems to have belatedly realized that she's guiding around some moderately important people (it was probably the Crownsguard's presence becoming increasingly less subtle as they left town and trees behind and forcing them to go out in the open despite their best attempts to remain subtle) and has been spending the last few minutes attempting to downplay the loveliness of the caves she spent the first half of the trip boasting about.

"– really, it's summer, so you won't get the full effect, like I said," she's saying, somewhat desperately. "The light's all wrong, you know, and the water level's pretty high, so you don't really get a sense of scale – there's a reason people don't ever come here in the summer –"

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Luna says, not for the first time.

"I mean, the cave paintings, they're there, sure, but we're coming in at the weird end, you know, since the other road broke down, so I don't know exactly how many we'll be able to see –"

"I'm sure it will be fine," Scientia says sternly.

Crowe shuts her mouth with a small peep.

Clarus and Regis share amused looks. It's rather nice not being the intimidating one of the group, for once.

Unfortunately, Crowe's nervousness is such that even Scientia's implacable force of will can only stop her for a while. "It's just that I wanted to say it up front," she murmurs as she pushes aside the vines growing on the cave wall to reveal a battered old door so well hidden that even the Crownsguard that preceded her couldn't find it, and stepping straight though before they could stop her and insist that they go first, "so that you won't be disappointed when...wait, hold up, what in Leviathan's name is –?"

Clarus, who slipped in second – he's the King's Shield, he doesn't need a Crownsguard escort to go gawk at some cave walls – puts his hand firmly over Crowe's mouth.

"Say nothing," he murmurs into her ear, his eyes fixed at the sight over her shoulder, even as the rest of their party filters in through the door.

The caves are lovely – as huge as promised, with the famous blue-and-green sheen – but Clarus has no time for that.

The caves which no one visits during the summer, the caves with the main road to them marked as being under repair –

The caves are not empty.

"What is that?" Scientia asks, keeping her voice as low as possible. She's picked up Ignis and covered his mouth with her hand; Gladio stands by her side, looking with increasing alarm at the grave-faced adults around him, but luckily he's had enough training to know that it’s time to go quiet.

"That," Regis says grimly, his voice low, "is a Niflheim airship."

"No," Clarus corrects quietly, looking at the gigantic ships wrought in black metal, with glowing red windows – it's not one ship; it's two, no, three massive airships, each one of them a fleet ship capable of holding multiple attack ships filled with MT soldiers or the carrier ships which Niflheim traditionally fills with daemons to help terrify the local populace after the initial conquest, and next to those behemoth ships there are also a number of smaller sea-ships equipped with tows designed to pull the airships into and out of the caves. "That is an invasion force."

Crowe starts struggling in shock for a moment, but then it fades and Clarus feels comfortable releasing her. "Invasion," she whispers, pasty-faced with terror. "Of Galahd? But..."

She trails off.

Clarus knows what she meant to say. Galahd's long history as undisputed Lucian territory is primarily for two reasons: one, sea-averse Niflheim wasn't particularly interested in a territory that dealt with yearly hurricanes that ranged unpredictably from 'problematic' to 'devastating', and two –

Two, whether they came by air or by sea, the isolated Galahd would see them coming.

But that didn't apply if they were already here.

They must have started smuggling the ships here piece-by-piece the very second the tourist season ended and built them up in Galadh itself.

"What are the forces available on Galahd?" Regis asks, quietly but forcefully – the relaxed father on vacation gone and replaced by the King of Lucis. The ring on his finger is glowing faintly, only noticeable because of the gloomy darkness of the caves.

"Not enough, your Majesty," Clarus answers, knowing what Regis really wants to know. "Not to resist a force of this size. The Galahd Coast Guard is formidable, but it will be utterly overwhelmed. We could call up reinforcements from Insomnia Port, but their warships will take hours to equip, and then more to get here – particularly since they'll need to keep some back to protect the Port itself."

"Still, a few hours will surely be enough –" Scientia starts.

Clarus cuts her off with a firm shake of his head. "They were probably originally planning on attacking during the notoriously calm weather of the Hydread tomorrow," he says, his sharp eyes fixed on a platform on one of the airships furthest away from them and closest to the supposedly "closed" main road to the caves. He recognizes one of the figures there, one of the Burgomasters of the port town in which they landed. He was part of the party greeting Regis and Aulea with vaguely panicked expressions earlier, except evidently his panic wasn't because he need to find a way to host the royal family in a suitable manner. "It would've been a massacre, all those people unarmed and celebrating, Insomnia Port all cluttered up with the paper ships for the holiday and slow to respond...if they kept to that original schedule, we’d be able to summon help in time.”

“You don’t think they will?”

“No. They weren't expecting the King of Lucis to arrive with a squadron of Crownsguard, and it's thrown off all their plans, since they don’t know why we came. Regardless, the reason doesn’t really matter: whether we’ve come to try to fight back against them, or whether it’s an accident that gives them an opportunity to strike at the royal family and shatter Lucian morale, they know they need to move quickly, before back-up arrives. They'll be attacking now, instead."

Even as he watches, the first of the great airships creakily begins to cast off, the ropes and chains holding it in place by the dock starting to fall loose, one by one.

"My parents –" Crowe croaks.

"Scientia," Regis says, taking control. There's that tone in his voice, the one that draws the eye irresistibly towards him - that deep, almost-growl that precedes the roar of the lion. There can be no doubt in anyone's mind, now, that the King of Lucis is speaking. "I need you to take the children back up the path as quickly and quietly as possible. When you get back to an area with cell service, immediately inform my wife and Cor of what is happening, then alert Insomnia Port. The local town must be evacuated at once, with their Coast Guard and every able-bodied member of the militia – or who's willing to try to fight – told to expect invasion. The Crownsguard will go with you to assist with preparations."

He turns to Crowe. "Do not despair. This is Galahd, and you, its children, are born of the sea and storm," he says to her, and her back goes straight, her head lifting higher under his regard. "You will not fall so easily before Niflheim's might, and I swear to you that Lucis will not stand aside and let it happen. Are your people trained in civilian evacuations?"

"Oh, yes," Crowe says eagerly. "We're all trained – but the alarm is only meant to go off in the event of an unexpected tsunami –"

"You will go at once to activate that alarm," he says. "You may do so on my authority. Know that Insomnia Port will send what reinforcements it can as soon as it can."

"Will – do you think we’ll be able to hold them off, your Majesty?" she asks.

He puts his hand on her shoulder and looks her in the eye. "We will fight to defend your country," Regis Lucis Caelum vows, and no one who looked at him would doubt that he meant it with every fiber of his being. "Whatever we can do to ensure that Galahd does not fall, we will do. But even should it fall in the end, know that Niflheim will pay for the privilege in a river of blood."

Crowe's eyes are shining. If she survives, Clarus would wager that Cor will have another new recruit for the Crownsguard in a handful of years. She nods and goes without another word.

Scientia lingers a moment longer after Crowe has left running at full speed. "Your Majesty," she says.

Regis looks at her.

"There is – another thing," she says, uncharacteristically hesitant. "That we could do. Perhaps. To make the odds a little less – overwhelming."

"At this point, all suggestions are very welcome," Clarus says wryly. "We're facing a force that's likely four times the size of the existing military power on this island, assuming Niflheim hasn't changed their typical approach to invasion. Every little bit might help."

"More than a little bit," Scientia says, and her habitual impassive calm has settled over her once more – her hesitation before was merely uncertainty as to the extent of their need, Clarus realizes, and now that he has confirmed the direness of the situation, she has put aside all doubt. "Let me remind you that we stand now at the Oracle's platform, where once, long ago, they called upon the sleeping Leviathan."

They all stare at her, Clarus and Regis and even the head of the Crownsguard escorting them, a sturdy 'taur named Riyad. Her meaning is quite clear.

Scientia turns to Luna, who has very nearly been her adopted daughter this last year and who she loves dearly, and yet her voice is calm and certain when she asks, "Can you do it?"

Luna swallows, and nods. "If I had the Trident –"

"The royal Armiger," Clarus says, looking at Regis. "It's only a shadow of the real Trident, of course; the real one is in Sylvia's care, but it might do the trick regardless. And if Leviathan rises –"

"Then the raging sea will come with her," Regis finishes. The Tidemother rather famously does not enjoy having her slumber disturbed. "I see the mission I sent Crowe on was more accurate than I realized - there may indeed yet be a tsunami here today."

Luna stands up straight – only eleven years old, dressed in a white frock selected more to be appropriate for the beach than for formal ceremonies, but with steel in her eyes. Sylvia's steel, but Scientia's, too. "I will do it," she says. Her voice brooks no disagreement – not any of theirs, nor even of Leviathan herself. "With or without the true Trident. I will summon Leviathan."

"You will, and you will do it well," Scientia says, and Luna's back, somehow, goes even straighter with pride. "Two instructions: do not die, and return safely to us when you are done. Come along, Ignis, Gladio."

"But –" Gladio starts to protest, looking at Clarus. "Dad –"

"I need you to go, Gladio," Clarus says firmly, fixing the image of his son in his mind. He prays this will not be the last time they see each other alive, but he knows all too well the risks of war. He’s always known. "I am needed here, to guard my King and Luna, but I need you to go to the town to help with the evacuation, to help save lives. You are an Amicitia, my son: a Shield. This is what we do. Go now."

Gladio's lower lip is trembling, but he nods firmly. This time, when Scientia begins to move, he goes with her without complaint.

Clarus watches them until they disappear up along the face of the cliff, then turns back to his King – and his Oracle.

"Let us begin," Regis says, and summons the Armiger.

Cor ends the call on his cell phone.

Aulea, standing beside him and listening to Scientia's report from the second he realized what it was, looks grim. "What do we do now?" she asks, her eyes fixed on the surf where Noctis and Prompto are still leaping over each other, splashing and rolling in the wet sand like the excitable kittens (well, kitten and puppy) that they've barely outgrown being.

"Scientia reports that Crowe has gone up ahead, so the evacuation alarm should sound any minute now," Cor says. "Everyone will go inland, I assume; we'll join them. Once I see you and the children are safe, I will go help with the resistance efforts."

"There's nothing else..?"

"The priority is keeping Noctis and Prompto safe," Cor says firmly. He knows he should add that Noctis' safety is especially important now, given the Prophecy, but he can't bring himself to do so – it's true, of course, but he can't voice anything that would suggest that if Aulea finds herself in a terrible position of being only able to rescue one child, she ought to pick her own, the Chosen King, future savior of the world, instead of...

Instead of his own.

Aulea puts a hand on his shoulder. She understands, without words, what he means. "I will look after them both," she promises, grabbing her bag and tossing him the sword he brought, because he always has at least one sword even for supposedly innocent trips to the beach. And to think Clarus was teasing him for being paranoid! “Remember, should the worst come to worst, I can in times of dire need call on Regis' shadow Armiger, too, and I'm pretty handy with that bow."

"You always were the cleverest," Cor tells her, but he's unable to laugh at his own joke, so it comes out sincere. "Come on, let's get them."

Neither Noctis nor Prompto particularly wants to stop playing, but one look at the faces of their guardians puts an end to their complaints.

The alarm begins to ring.

Alarms, plural, would be more accurate – blaring sounds start coming from all directions, and flags colored red suddenly unfurling from the tops of all the highest buildings.

"Tsunami!" someone shouts.

"On the Hydread?" someone else exclaims disbelievingly.

But, disbelief of no disbelief, they all start moving inland. The people of Galahd do not play games with the sea, Cor is pleased to see.

The noise of all the beachgoers abandoning their bags and towels and picnic baskets and trudging up towards the town, and the safer high ground of the inland beyond, is very nearly deafening, but Cor's ears have been trained since childhood to hear and identify sounds even through the roar of the battlefield. That talent has saved his life more than once.

He identifies such a sound now.

"Aulea, stop," he orders, and she does, clutching both children's hands in hers and pulling them in closer as Cor draws his sword, turning just in time to deflect the dagger thrown at their backs.

They look like regular Galahdians, out for a day on the beach – loose clothing, one of them even shirtless – but they move like soldiers, and there are weapons in their hands, pulled out of baskets and sun-umbrella poles.

Niflheim trained, Cor determines, even as he darts forward to attack those nearest to him. If Scientia's report of Clarus' prediction of an attack expected tomorrow is right, and he has no reason to doubt it, these people would have been mingling with the crowd for days to ensure that they looked familiar to the others, safe, and then they would call out for people to follow them, and people would have done so – and only once they had led them somewhere out of sight would the swords and the guns come out –

They're good, these infiltrators. They have to be to do their jobs – to go alone into enemy territory to murder panicked and unarmed civilians who might try to fight back is not a job for the weak or the untrained – but, at the same time, they're infiltrators. They're disposable; they have to be, to be sent ahead into such danger.

They're not that good.

Cor kills the first three before they've taken another step, and the next two after that before they've even fully finished drawing their weapons.

But there are more still coming.

Many more.

Cor lifts his sword in a ready stance, his mind calm and clear. Niflheim’s forces have identified them, then; this many infiltrators all blowing their covers, all at once, can mean nothing else. They have been given new orders – to get these particular targets – that supersede all others.

Good.

That means none of them will be left to murder innocent civilians in the retreat.

Aulea has put Noctis and Prompto behind her, producing a gun from her beach-bag.

Cor’s trained on sand before, and he doesn’t let the uncertain surface slow him down, even as the ‘taurs rushing him trip and fall as they try to pounce. He ducks and darts between them, rearing back on his hind legs to rip at their bodies with his forelegs while he strikes at them with the sword in his hands. The daggers he rips free from their hands he throws back at the ones with guns, and he can hear Aulea start firing at them as well.

The crowd has started to run away from them now, leaving them alone on the beach – his Crownsguard are here, Basiana and Serio and Maero and Tristus and a bare handful more, and on his orders they form a protective ring around Aulea and the children – but the infiltrators are doing a good job separating them from the crowd.

And the sea has started churning.

“Leviathan is rising!” Aulea shouts, jerking her head towards the sea – it very effectively distracts the ‘taur Cor is fighting now, and Cor uses the opportunity to strike him down before glancing at the ocean.

The waves are coming hard now, large and choppy and frothing white at the tops as if a hurricane is approaching, and yet Cor is standing on the beach: there is no wind to explain the winds, and only a scattering of clouds in the sky.

Leviathan is, indeed, rising.

“MTs!” Maero bellows. “From above!”

Not good. Cor leaps ahead, cutting down two more infiltrators – he’s gotten most of them, now – but he sees what Maero saw: a drop ship, buzzing in from above. It’s been sent ahead from the fleet ship Scientia had reported seeing undock itself, no doubt in response to the infiltrators’ report that the Queen and Prince appeared to be (relatively) unprotected.

Cor glances towards to the town. The nearest Galahdian Coast Guard outpost – a lone station – has seen the oncoming threat, and the poor lone ‘taur that was manning it is screaming on his radios, shouting out orders and gesturing towards their little group, but back-up will clearly be some time in coming.

He gestures to Basiana and Serio – stay back, watch them – gestures for Maero and Tristus to back him, and he charges straight into the MTs as they land on the sand.

This is much harder – the infiltrators were more agile on the sand, having been trained for it, but the MTs are wearing full armor, and their unnaturally jerky movements sometimes make them harder to predict than standard fighters.

Niflheim MTs, soulless robots with armored metallic bodies shaped like a standard hound ‘taur, like machines but with the intelligence and reaction times of regular ‘taurs behind those empty glowing red eyes – Cor knows, from the information that he obtained from Justina’s laboratory, the monstrous way in which they are made, but it doesn’t matter to him now. It can’t matter now.

Now, all that matters is the fighting.

Cor has always known that one day he would come across a battle he would lose, and this one isn’t looking great. But he will not let them have Prompto or Noctis, even if it costs him his own life.

One MT – a gigantic axe-wielder – manages to get him with a nasty backhanded swing, forgoing the sharp side of the axe in favor of just walloping Cor on the side of the head, knocking him off his paws, but just as he’s lifting the axe to bring the sharp end down at Cor – Cor struggling to lift his sword in an attempt to at least deflect the blow –

The MT’s head gets blown off with a massive blast.

That’s not Aulea – she only has a pea-shooter, really – and none of his Crownsguard have a gun that powerful.

The Coast Guard...?

No.

There are ‘taurs charging out of the water, guns in their hands – two otters, a capybara holding the rifle that probably saved Cor's life, and even a frankly massive hippopotamus ‘taur dual wielding two-handed bastard swords, one in each hand. They’re not dressed like Coast Guard – in fact, Cor’s never seen the slick wet fabric they’re wearing before, something like waterproof neoprene that shimmers wet in the light.

“Queen Mother!” the capybara ‘taur calls out. “Bring the Chosen King here; we can keep him safe!”

Aulea starts, badly, and one of her shots goes wide.

Cor understands her concern – no one should know that Noctis is the Chosen King of Prophecy, because they haven’t told anyone – but he can see more drop ships in the distance, the gigantic fleet ship not far behind, and he doesn’t think they have a choice about who to trust right now.

He gestures to his Crownsguard – keep formation and advance – and calls to her, “Bring the children, Aulea! Quickly!”

She nods, putting her gun away, and snatches up both crying children from where they were hiding behind her.

They’re only six.

Cor’s eyes narrow in a burst of fury, and he takes advantage of the MTs trying to cope with this unexpected threat from an unexpected angle to throw a lightning bomb at them. He’s standing close enough to it that his fur goes on end, but the vast majority of them go down all at once, and between him, his Crownsguard and the otters from the sea, they’re able to kill the rest of them quickly.

“Quickly,” one of the otters says, glancing back at the ocean with concern. “The bubble won’t last that long at the surface.”

Cor doesn’t understand, but he runs towards the ocean, his Crownsguard at his heels, because Aulea is nearly there, coming up to the hippopotamus.

“Into the surf,” the hippopotamus ‘taur is bellowing. She’s a massive woman, with deep black skin and tight corkscrew curls that are already defying gravity despite the thrashing waves of water all around them. “Now!”

They follow her into the raging tide.

Prompto is crying, Cor can hear him, crying and howling; Noctis is wailing, a high hollow shriek; Aulea is shouting, desperate for answers; the waves are crashing around them, louder and louder and –

They all tumble forward into what Cor can only describe as - well, as a giant bubble.

The water is held back by the clear almost plastic-y sides of the bubble and the roar of the waves is muted. Perhaps most importantly, they seem to be breathing without difficulty. The capybara is at the front (Cor thinks) of the bubble, doing something on some sort of keypad, and the bubble begins to move forward, first simply away from the beach in a straight line and then, once they’ve gotten past the shallower waters of the beach, starting to turn down to head deeper into the waters.

“Woooooow,” Prompto – always inclined to look at the bright side of life – says, his tears drying up. He elbows Noctis. “Look, Noct! Fish!”

There are indeed many brightly-colored tropical fish around them.

“You should also look at the coral reef,” the hippopotamus ‘taur suggests kindly. “We’ll be passing that soon.”

Noctis sniffs a little, still not fully recovered. “Coral reef? I think Iggy was talking about that on the boat ride over…”

“Yeah, he was,” Prompto says. “He had that book – with all the colors! When will we see the reef, Ms. – uh, sorry, what’s your name?”

“I am Dido,” the hippopotamus ‘taur says. “The capybara is Bomilcar; the otters are Mago and Minthos.”

“My name’s Prompto Argentum,” Prompto says proudly. “That’s Cor Leonis – he’s my Cor – and this here’s Noct and that’s his mom, Aulea. And then there’s Basiana an’ Tristus an’ Maero an’ Serio an’ –”

“What sort of ship is this?” Basiana interrupts to ask, looking around. She hasn’t put her weapon down: good. They might be trusting these 'taurs, but there's a limit to any amount of trust. “I’ve never seen anything like this before – where did you get this tech?”

Aulea has different concerns. “Why did you call –” She hesitates a moment, since the other Crownsguard members are not necessarily in on the secret yet. “Why did you call Noctis what you called him?”

“Because he is, of course,” the capybara ‘taur – Bomilcar – says, relinquishing control of the bubble to one of the otters in a practiced hand-off. “We were sent by our King to yours, so as to offer our aid when you approach the Hydrean for the Contract. We are the closest land to the Tidemother’s domain, after all.”

“Your King?” Cor echoes, eyebrows arching. As far as he knows, there’s only one King – that of Lucis – while Niflheim has an Emperor, Tenebrae an Oracle, and Accordo a Secretary.

“Oh, yes,” Bomilcar says. “King Hasdrubal the Third – the King of Atlantioi.”

[spamzineglasgow]

(REVIEW) Tinkering with the Code of Reality: An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in GTA Online, Michael Crowe (Studio Operative)

Text by Denise Bonetti

>Between the 18th and the 20th October 1974, Oulipo BAE Georges Perec - a Pisces - sits in a Parisian cafe on Place Saint-Sulpice, meticulously recording in his notebook every detail of the busy life of the square. His eyes are alert to 'what happens when nothing happens'.  The more inconsequential the particulars he manages to pick up on, examine, or classify, the more excited he seems to become:

 'Means of locomotion: walking, two-wheeled vehicles (with and without motor), automobiles (private cars, company cars, rented cars, driving school cars), commercial vehicles, public services, public transport, tourist buses.'   

>The conceptual/obsessive experiment in cataloguing is a response to a writing prompt of his own devising, published about a month before in a collection of essays on public and private spaces (the adorably-named Species of Spaces and Other Pieces). Perec's practical exercise calls for the reader/writer to carefully observe the street around them and note *everything* down: one must set about it slowly, 'almost stupidly'; forcing oneself to see the space 'more flatly'. 'If nothing strikes you', says Perec, then 'you don't know how to see'. As it turns out, Perec himself is really good at seeing: after 3 days on Place Saint-Sulpice, his notes are over 50 pages long - mainly one-line annotations about buses, passersby, pigeons, gestures, more buses. He calls it An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris.

>Perec made of this modality (a dry and neutral encyclopedic gaze at the unnoticed) a manifesto. In both writing and living, he called for a shift of attention from the exceptional to the ordinary, for an abandonment of the charmingly exotic in favour of the invisibly unexceptional - according to a philosophy he labels 'anthropology of the endotic'. In the essay 'Approaches to What?', in a somewhat self-referential aphorism, he remarks that 'railway trains only begin to exist when they are derailed, and the more passengers are killed, the more the trains exist.' That the ordinary, in other words, only lives in our attention as soon as it stops being ordinary.

>If this statement is true as it sounds, then, the virtual world of Grand Theft Auto Online must without a doubt be more real than the one we live in. The game's universe is expansive and hyperrealistic to the extent that navigating its space is an experience of an undecidable quality; the abundance of detail is so accurately mimetic and uncannily convincing it that the digital artifice both disappears into an ambient background, and never leaves the centre of the stage. The minutia of IRL city-walking, and of existing in a world that follows its own will (flecks of dust dancing in the wind, catching the sun; overheard fragments of strangers' phone conversations; the gas station attendant's body language in between serving customers), are alienated from us, digitally re-engineered, and presented back to us in the guise of a crime-ridden fictional world. In this sense, the GTA series is one of the most Perecquian exercises to ever exist. (Of course, amusingly enough, Perec's aphorism is also appropriate here on a more literal level: the game franchise is entirely built upon the premise that derailing trains  - but also provoking car accidents, and especially murdering innocent pedestrians - is recommended if not required).

>Because of these underlying continuities between Perec's 'infraordinary' and the process of hyperrealistic world-making in sandbox video games, when I first read about Michael Crowe's re-enactment of Perec's experiment in GTA online (in a cafe, open-mouthed, holding a scone mid-air), I just blurted out 'Of course!' to the stranger sitting across from me. It made complete sense; the connection was there all along, only no one had ever written about it. In his wonderful introduction to the small volume, Jamie Sutcliffe confesses that he is 'jealous and frustrated [Crowe] got there first'. Although he follows this with praise for the book's undeniable 'inventiveness, inquisitiveness and relentless mirth,' I think the underlying reason for the (admittedly shared) envy is not only that Crowe exhausted a conceptual exercise skilfully, and in beautiful prose. He also hit a nerve, exposed a crucial side of the relationship between video games, literature, realism and simulation - and he did it playfully.

>At times, An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in GTA Online time follows closely Perec's model: it obsesses over weather, numbers and registration plates, the colour of people's clothes, passersby (especially women) eating things, commercial slogans, etc. Of course, these strong echoes can only highlight the essential polarities between the two universes: what in Perec's Paris is nature or chance (clouds, the pedestrians' trajectories, their conversations), is always artifice and intentionality in GTA. Even if the the game's phenomenology might be randomised, it is always layers of carefully contrived code that engender it: the player can never forgets this.

>One other definition that Perec devised for the kind of everydayness that escapes our perception is 'the infra-ordinary' - the swarm of details that hover just below the threshold of attention. If Perec's term is certainly appropriate for his preferred subject of writing, the choice of word seems even more significant in the context Crowe's Attempt because its meaning necessarily expands to the digital nature of the space explored. In the city-space of GTA, the 'endotic' and the 'infra' quite literally consist of the hidden workings below (or behind) the surface of game: the structure of its programming, the software's rationale - mechanisms that Crowe often lingers on, his phenomenological descriptions often slipping into conjectures about the game's logical engines:

'That woman is still parked at a green light. Melt down. As other cars approach they brake differently, some jerkily in stages, others in a smoother manner. The computer players seem to have different levels of driving proficiency.'

'There's a pristine jewellery exchange store opposite. Dilapidated buildings probably cost more to design and create in this game, as they would generally have far more detail. ... Directly opposite is the Elkridge Hotel. It can't be entered. I wonder what's inside. Is the book/cube poured full of colour, or transparency, with the road/pavement continuing on the floor? If hollow, how thin are the impenetrable walls?'

Crowe's asides often touch - more or less directly - upon questions of realism and effective simulation:

'The palm trees in front of me are slightly different heights. None look copied and pasted'    

'It would be great if learner driver were going around, veering off cliffs, etc.'

'It's a shame there are no birds, it would add greatly to a sense of realism ... Perec had all kinds of pigeon action in his book'

>Even more interestingly, at times his observations go as far as hinting at the inherent opacity of the concept of mimetic representation itself: what is realism, when truly accurate depictions often seem even more surreal in their uncanny effect? Doesn't GTA's lifelike graphic rendering - like meticulously inventorial writing - draw attention to the very artifice of artistic creation? 

'Very light rain. This slight rain seems realistic, but in Perec's reality the rain stops "very suddenly". If that happened in GTA it would seem like poor attention to detail'.

>In a review of Auerbach's Mimesis, Terry Eagleton elaborates on Brecht's idea that realism really is a matter of effect, not a matter of technique. The definition cannot be applied at the level of production or its methods, it has to depend on reception - at the level of reading, or, in this case - playing. Realism happens between the artwork and the audience's expectations; it's not about verisimilitude, or about whether a text (or video game) recalls something familiar; it's about whether or not the experience of the work matches an unmediated experience of reality: 'Realism is as realism does'. 

>Eagleton concludes that 'artistic realism, then, cannot mean "represents the world as it is", but rather "represents it in accordance with conventional real-life modes of representing it". Realism as we normally understand it, then, has more to do with convention; it is more like an autonomous process of creation than a neutral mode of reporting. At one point, Crowe wonders 'what poets like T.S. Eliot would've added [to the game] by way of details within details'; the underlying idea here is that a deeper and deeper level of realism can only come from fabrication and designed artifice. A truly realistic world doesn't exist, it has to be manufactured and carefully weaved together. Perec, Eliot, the nerds at Rockstar Games: all mods, tinkering with code to fashion a world that feels more real than the invisible one we live in.

>The most prominent strand of reflections in Crowe's Attempt, however, is dedicated to imagining a future in which GTA is so utterly realistic that it surpasses reality itself. Crowe pictures the horizon towards which the GTA series is moving not only as a simulation indistinguishable from its original, but as a utopian uber-world populated by perfect AI characters:

'In future games, players will be able to chat with all computer characters about any topic, for any length of time. The only problem would be that the computer characters would likely find us too boring and go off to chat with another computer character that has also read every line of text and seen every film/artwork.'

'I wonder how detailed these games will become. Could growing a zit in the game affect your character's day? ... Could millions of players all live as microorganisms on the face of a GTA character?'

>The beautifully apocalyptic scale of Crowe's prophecy is made somewhat more ominous by the hazy, yet closed, temporal arc that his little book follows. Whereas Perec opens and concludes every section of his Attempt declaring the time window of his observations, Crowe rarely if never talks about the passage of time in the game ('I dont keep track of time as i should, here or irl'). The only real time marks - vague, atmospheric, possibly just conceptual - are in the names of the 5 sections the book is divided into: '(Daybreak)', '(Morning)', '(Break)', '(Nightfall)', '(Night)'. Crowe's 24-hour cycle - whether referring to IRL or GTA temporality - is possibly more compellingly symbolic than Perec's 3 days. The self-contained movement from dawn, to sunset, and then darkness, lends the volume a sense of closure that it would otherwise lack - given its status as a semi-conceptual exercise aimed at an inherently unattainable objective ('exhausting' a place). 

>This explicitly closed timeline also means that Crowe's subject, and thus his literary project, assume more gravitas than one might expect. What could begin in the reader's mind as a playful pastiche actually becomes more like a tragedy, with Crowe's avatar helplessly standing and witnessing unstoppably violent events, most of which utterly gratuitous. The text is so ridiculously faithful to the Aristotelian unities of time and place (one day, one place), that one might turn a blind eye on its complete lack of any unity of action ('events strictly tied together as cause and effect, adding up to one single story' sounds pretty much like everything this book is not). The book does funny, but it also does serious, poetic - although possibly not cathartic. In a sense, Crowe's avatar is a bit like a postmodern Hamlet: a passive and melancholic intellectual antihero, surrounded by farcical death in a corrupted society.

>In the last section of Crowe's Attempt, '(Night)', the more beautifully poetic descriptive fragments that populate the book gradually increase in number as if to signal the nearing calmness of closure. These are nominal phrases that choose to go nowhere; many are about things that are far away, abandoned, or circular:

'A very high crane in the distance.' '1000s of lights visible from my spot.' 'The window lights have different hues, every light isn't just white. Slight yellow, greens.' 'One side of the sky is pink, the other blue, held apart by purple.' 'A plane flying by way off in the distance.' 'An ambulance is burnt out, two people inside burnt entirely black.' 'A human is spinning around in circles in their car (...).' 'Dropped cigarette on the floor.'

>Before you know it - much, much before the last section - you'll feel stupid for ever thinking this book would be just a parody to lol at, or a kool koncept show your other Highbrow x Lowbrow friends and pat each other on the back for knowing the experimental French literature reference. You'll be moved by how beautiful Los Santos can be - the geometry of its facade architecture; its computer-generated clouds drifting above sports cars, reflecting the light in coupé red or neon purple; private (NPC) citizens relaxing on benches or outside cafes, smoking, eating donuts, eating bagels, talking into their phones to their private (NPC) citizen friends about their job, their boyfriends, their drug problem. I won't say you'll forget the world you're in is a video game you're in - because Crowe won't let you - but I think you will stop caring. 

>An Attempt at Exhausting a Pace in GTA Online is published by Studio Operative, and can be bought at Glasgow's Good Press, or here. 

[thequagmirenotebooks]

The Beleaguered Bank - Chapter Two

The expression “to be unable to get a word in edgewise” is a very useful one, and one of the few expressions that can still be understood if you take it literally. Unlike the expression “to let the cat out of the bag,” which means to let a secret slip but sounds as though you have just finished smuggling a cat through a particularly lax security checkpoint, “to be unable to get a word in edgewise” means that someone else is talking so much that you cannot find any space to interrupt them. Because words are, at most, two-dimensional, being written on paper or typed in ink, turning them edgewise would result in a very, very thin object, and a person would need to be talking a great deal for there to be no space in the conversation for the edge of a word.

As Mr. Hume led the Baudelaires upstairs, explaining what their lives would be like during their stay at the bank, none of the children could get a word in edgewise.

“I would like to give you three a relaxing place to live, but I may need your help around the bank every so often. As you can observe, we are shorthanded around here. When I first received a message that we were on the verge of losing our charter again, I didn’t believe it, of course, but the evidence has since become clear to me, and I’m sure to you children. I have been working here the longest, so I will not be laid off until our charter expires completely, but being the only remaining employee of the Twelfth First Bank of the City, it has been difficult to keep the entire bank running. When you are not helping me run the bank, though, you may do whatever you wish. I believe the bank is the safest place for you, because I can only keep an eye on you while you are inside, but if you really must go out into the city, let me know about it first so I can accompany you after banking hours. I don’t like leaving the bank very often, you see. I live in one of the rooms above the bank. You children are very lucky, by the way, because there will be several rooms available for you to choose from, so you may stay wherever you like best.”

The Baudelaires exchanged skeptical looks. They did not think of themselves as very lucky, or even remotely lucky, and the availability of rooms for them to choose from was not sufficient to change their terrible, terrible luck. If, on the other hand, Mr. Hume had told them they were very lucky because Count Olaf had been captured and put in prison forever, then they would be more inclined to believe him.

“And by the way, Mr. Poe has described your troubles with previous guardians to me. I must say, I would have a very hard time believing any of it if I hadn’t been following your story in The Daily Punctilio. But let me assure you, there is no need to worry about that dreadful man or his accomplices infiltrating this bank in disguise. Because I am the only employee of this bank, nobody but you three children and I has any reason to be inside at any point. Unless any intruders present me with evidence as to their identity, I will be forced to continue believing they are Count Olaf and his accomplices.”

“Mr. Hume,” Violet interjected, finally finding space to get a few words in edgewise, “what if Count Olaf shows up in disguise and gives you false evidence about his identity? Plenty of evidence can be faked or stolen.”

Mr. Hume turned around and smiled at the children. His very round face, with its very round cheeks, got even rounder when he smiled. “Well of course, you children know him better than I do, so I will certainly take your word as evidence, too.”

That answer, far more than the opportunity to choose from a variety of rooms, made the Baudelaires feel as though they might be rather lucky after all.

As Mr. Hume showed the children the tellers’ rooms above the bank, leading them up and down the little flights of stairs that led to each room, it became clear that, while they could choose any rooms they pleased, the choice hardly mattered - they were all exactly identical. Each room was located above one of the turrets in the points of the crown, and they all had one round, jewel-colored window, two skinny beds, two old desks, and four yellow stone walls. Even Mr. Hume’s room looked exactly the same, with the notable exception of the large pile of books.

At this point, it is necessary to discuss the concept of hyperbole. When an author, a poet, a journalist, a comedian, or an unusually precocious and cranky child uses hyperbole, they exaggerate the situation to the point where their description is humorous and no longer accurate. For example, if you dropped your ice cream cone and said, “This is the worst thing that has ever happened to anybody in the history of the entire world,” this would be hyperbole, because even if dropping your ice cream cone is the worst thing that has ever happened to you, other people have experienced devastating fires and salads made entirely of cilantro, both of which are much worse things. If, on the other hand, you were kidnapped by your enemies and presented with a cilantro salad and you said, “This is a little bit bad,” you would be under-exaggerating, a word which here means “the complete opposite of hyperbole.” When I write that Mr. Hume’s room contained a large pile of books, the words “large pile” represent an under-exaggeration, and you may find it helpful, when you come to these words, to put this book down and never pick it up again, so as to avoid the misery contained in the following chapters. However, if you persist in reading, you may also find it helpful to replace the words “large pile” with the words “towering mountain,” so as to correct this under-exaggeration.

In order to contain the large pile of books in his room, Mr. Hume had pushed both of the old desks together. Even so, the large pile was so heavy that the legs of the desks bent slightly under its weight. The large pile was stacked all the way to the ceiling, and even if the Baudelaires stood on tiptoe, they couldn’t see the titles of the books at the top. As they stood in awe of the large pile, several books on the edge of it slipped off and cascaded to the floor, where they joined a smaller, but still very large, pile of books.

“Ah, yes, my library,” Mr. Hume said, waving his hand at the large pile of books. “Or, well, I call it a library, although I have no shelving units or organizational system to speak of, and you children ought not to believe this is a proper library when there is evidence to the contrary right in front of you. Still, it is a lot of books on philosophy and epistemology, and you are welcome to read any of them at any time, provided I do not need your help in the bank while you are reading them.”

Not wanting to wait any longer to ask about the definition of an unfamiliar word, Klaus found space to get a word in edgewise. “Epistemology? What is that? I know anything with ‘ology’ at the end means ‘the study of,’ but-”

“Knowledge!” Mr. Hume crowed, apparently tired of letting Klaus get words in edgewise. “Which, I’m told, is power, although I don’t believe it myself. A great many people without any knowledge at all hold too much power these days, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Farfu,” Sunny said, and her siblings agreed with her. She meant to say, “Mr. Hume is right - Count Olaf has never read a book in his life, but he always seems to have power over us.”

As if he had not even heard Sunny, Mr. Hume continued talking. “I believe that concludes our tour, children, given that I have run out of rooms to show you. While my role as your guardian is only temporary, I hope you will enjoy your stay here. If nothing else, I believe you will be perfectly safe in my care. Now, it is getting late. Why don’t you take a few books and go choose your rooms? You can begin helping me in the bank tomorrow morning. Good night, Baudelaires.”

Mr. Hume shook their hands again - first Violet, then Klaus, then Sunny - as though they were meeting for the first time. Then, once Violet and Klaus had each chosen a book from the large pile, he shooed them out of his room and down the short flight of stairs back into the round hallway of the bank.

“We can hardly get a word in edgewise when he talks,” Klaus said once he was sure he and his siblings were out of earshot, a phrase which here means “far enough away from Mr. Hume’s room that they could talk about him without him overhearing them.” Generally, it is very impolite to talk about someone when you are out of earshot, but if you and your siblings were recently orphaned and are making sure your new guardian is suitable, impoliteness is easy to overlook.

“I know,” Violet said. “But at least he’s skeptical of everything if he doesn’t have evidence. Maybe he’ll see right through Count Olaf’s disguise if he shows up to try and steal our fortune.”

“Maybe Count Olaf won’t show up at all,” Klaus said.

“Aporia,” Sunny grumbled, and Violet and Klaus knew she meant something like “yeah, right, and maybe I don’t have teeth.”

“Sunny’s right,” Klaus said. “Count Olaf always shows up.”

“We can’t worry about that right now,” Violet said. She was not exactly telling the truth. The Baudelaires found it very easy to worry about Count Olaf at any time, because it seemed as though he could show up at any time. However, as the eldest of the three Baudelaires, Violet felt a duty to take care of her siblings, and she didn’t want them to worry about Count Olaf prematurely, a word which here means “before he showed up in a bizarre disguise to try to steal their fortune.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Klaus said. “We should go choose a room so we can do some reading before bed. I’m excited to learn about the study of knowledge.”

Although there were enough rooms for each Baudelaire to have their own, the children knew without saying it aloud that they would all prefer not to be alone.

“Roho?” Sunny asked.

Violet smiled. “I liked the room with the red window best, too.”

The children made their way around the hallway of the bank, searching for the stairs leading up to the room with the red window. When they finally found the appropriate stairs, Klaus made sure to note that they were across from a slot labeled Horticulturists’ Fees and a door labeled Safe Deposit Safe, so they would have an easier time finding their room again.

Before the fire that had claimed both the Baudelaire mansion and the Baudelaire parents, the children often passed their evenings reading together. Sometimes they would be in the library, although other times they would all sit together in the kitchen or Violet’s bedroom. Klaus and Violet would take turns reading to Sunny, or the three of them would discuss a difficult passage from a book, or they would spend the entire evening in companionable silence, reading and biting whatever they pleased. Some nights, their parents would join them, bringing their own books, and the entire Baudelaire family would enjoy a very pleasant evening enjoying the company of both books and each other.

Although the room with the red window was just like all the other rooms above the Twelfth First Bank of the City, when the Baudelaires climbed into bed and opened the books they had borrowed from Mr. Hume, it felt a little bit more like theirs. Violet and Klaus read quietly, and Sunny chewed contemplatively on the wooden headboard of the bed, which was pleasantly firm beneath her four sharp teeth, until the last evening light had faded and they had to turn on a lamp.

“Violet? Sunny?” Klaus said. “Did you know that King James VI of Scotland wrote about a character named Epistemon to discuss theories of knowledge?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Violet said. “That’s very interesting.”

“I thought so too.” Klaus paused. “Violet? Sunny? Mr. Hume said he believes we’ll be perfectly safe in his care. Do you think that’s true?”

Sunny stopped biting the headboard. “Nusa,” she said, which meant something like “I’m not sure, but he hardly believes anything, so there may be a good chance that he’s right.”

“Sunny’s right,” Violet said. “Mr. Hume doesn’t believe anything without evidence. If he believes he can keep us safe, he must be right. Even if he is only a temporary guardian, I’m sure we’ll be safe here.”

When she said this, Violet was again not exactly telling the truth. She wanted to keep her siblings from worrying prematurely, so she said “I’m sure we’ll be safe here.” However, if her siblings could have translated her words like they often did Sunny’s, what they would have heard was “Mr. Hume believes we’ll be perfectly safe here. But judging by our past guardians, he doesn’t have any evidence.”