#sheriff stilton

[hdlepre]

ʸᵉᵉ ʰᵃʷ

Thought it was going to be curtain call for the good sherrif, so I give him flowers.

This is Stilton from Gnollplaying Games's Deadlaws, he's the sheriff of Southpaw and the good possum is trying really hard but it's not easy to keep everyone safe, including himself.

Don't bully him, he will cry and his boyfriend will try to kill you

go watch the show : )

[aloysiavirgata]

Tiny AU where they just have a normal baby 🥹

They name her Rosalind Elizabeth, after Franklin and Blackwell. She has a thatch of dark hair like the pelt of a mink. She has the kyanite eyes of a storm witch.

*

“They look like a nice Stilton,” Mulder observes, Scully’s breasts blue-veined over skin so plump and creamy even her baggiest sweatshirts have a seductive air.

She wrinkles her nose. “You’ve been out of the game for too long,” she says. “That’s hardly complimentary. Mold, honestly.”

“I’m a fun-guy,” he says, and Rosalind turns her head to hiccup with disdain.

*

Skinner holds the baby with surprising ease. “Eleven nieces and nephews,” he tells Mulder, who surveys his daughter for any sign of distress.

“This baby is especially discerning,” Mulder says. “She is highly refined.”

Skinner pokes Rosalind’s fat little frog belly.

She gurgles with appreciation, reaches for Uncle Walter’s tie.

“You can tell the difference can’t you, sweetheart,” Skinner asks warmly.

Mulder scowls as Rosalind coos in reply.

*

“Fuck,” Scully hisses at her tiny daughter. “Sweet merciful Christ, we’re weaning her.”

Rosalind drools past four razor-sharp teeth, onto her mother’s bare, bitten nipple. Then she wails in disappointment, in deprivation.

Mulder pops a pacifier into her perfect rosebud mouth, watches her impossibly long lashes flutter against her cheeks like butterflies on Calimyrna figs.

The baby hums a little, settles. Sleeps.

Mulder nuzzles against the salt-caramel sweetness of her mother’s neck, his palm soothing the bleeding breast. “Sheriff Hartwell,” he murmurs into her pale throat. “I want a paternity test.”

*

“No,” Rosalind says sweetly to Uncle Byers. She pats his beard with fat starfish hands. “No.”

Frohike hoots. “Well, if that isn’t her mother’s daughter!”

Byers looks mournfully at his copy of the Junior Cryptids board book. “Rosie,” he says. “S is for Sasquatch.”

Rosalind beams back with a gummy smile. “Monkey,” she burbles.

*

Mulder holds her hand as she steps delicately across the grass.

Rosalind looks up at him, her hot chocolate hair a tumble of silken ringlets.

“Bye bye,” she says.

She releases his finger, staggers drunkenly towards her mother on the other side of the blanket.

“Daddy,” Rosalind observes. “Ma.”

She walks like Bambi on ice, like a coltish girl in her first high heels.

Mulder’s sinuses burn, his eyes are hot and wet as the deep-ocean thermal vents, where the most improbable life begins.

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[shadesmaclean]

Tradewinds 21 CH 01

“UNREAL ESTATE” “Good morning!” Moira Stilton, the innkeeper, hailed. Middle aged, world weary, and seemingly always wiping something down at her counter. “What’s so good about it?” Roger Wilco, pilot of one currently grounded Albatross, muttered as he stumbled down the stairs and into the lobby of Pines Lodge, which also doubled as bar and dining lounge. Along with a mild hangover, his injured leg was still giving him grief, even a week after their crash landing at Camp Stilton. Though a tad stout and barrel-chested, his companions noted that he looked to have lost a little weight of late, and figured that days of staring out at those creepy Woods (and the Woods glaring back) would be enough to kill anyone’s appetite. His khaki shirt fitting loose and rumpled, his pilot cap stuffed down over his bed hair, and he still hadn’t gotten around to shaving. “Well, you could start with the fact that you’re still alive to enjoy it,” Max pointed out from a nearby table, where the young adventurer and his friend, Justin Black, were finishing their breakfast. “And Shelby did tow your plane all the way back here.” Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair, the pilot considered him a classic duo contrast to Justin, who as short and wiry, with a mop of black hair. “And I’m grateful for that,” Roger sighed, “don’t get me wrong. It’s just that now we have to get ’er up the coast to find anyone who can possibly fix my poor bird…” “Who’s this we?” Justin intoned. “You landed us safe and sound, and we came back for you. I’m pretty sure that makes us even.” “I’m sorely tempted to say you just came back for your damn cat…” he retorted. “I think you just did,” the put-upon publican chided him as she scrubbed the bar counter. The big cat was still sleeping up in Max’s room, from both his crash injuries, and six restless nights at Camp Stilton, with the Woods looming over them. “And I think that little nightcap has got you up on the wrong side of the bed.” Even making it back to Pickford by nightfall left Roger’s nerves jangled, after those harrowing days and nights out there. A couple on the house, out of sympathy for anyone having to stare down the Woods for nearly a week, but even he had to admit he may have overdone it. “Shelby’s willing to tow you upshore for only the cost of fuel. You’re lucky he’s willing to do that, after springing that tow job on him out there, of all places…” In the meantime, Sheriff Duhan assured him that his plane would be left alone for the time being. Though that still didn’t stop random townsfolk from passing through the docks just to gawk at the poor bird. Apparently even shooed some kids away earlier this morning, telling them to go play somewhere else for now. “Still no sign of Roxy or Erix?” the pilot groaned as he took a seat at the table. “Nothin’,” Justin told him. “Roxy would probably present herself, if she saw no harm in it,” Max extrapolated the bounty hunter’s most likely choices, based on their short, but rather eventful, acquaintance. “She’d probably ask around about us, too. Erix…” Would most likely be a thief in the night, leaving as little trace as possible, especially if Roxy still hunted him. All the same, they had warned Sheriff Duhan to keep an eye out for any missing stuff. As well as any breaks in the palisade walls around the edge of town, given the infamous outlaw’s energy blades, and general aversion to knocking, unless it happened to suit him. Much as Max was inclined to regard either of them as too stubborn to die, they did both chase each other in the direction of the doomed town of Rannigan’s Wharf, from which no one ever returned. Though they did find evidence of someone using energy blades around that abandoned logging mill up the river on their way… “I hope the damn trees ate him!” Roger grumbled. Then, recalling what they told him about a certain missing girl whose remains they recovered, whose grieving father still came to their aid, he mumbled, “Would serve him right, unlike that poor little girl… So, uh, where’s Shades at this hour of the day?” “Went for a walk,” Justin replied. What the third member of their crew had called a vigorous constitutional. What to him, at least, sounded like a euphemism for taking a really big crap. “We trudge for days through those goddamn Woods, and the first thing he wants to do after making it back to civilization? Go take a walk…” “It’s safe enough, here in town,” Moira reminded them. “Sister Clarice still maintains the old wardings around the outskirts.” “So, who is this Clarice?” Max asked her. He had heard the name dropped a few times since they first arrived in Pickford, but nothing much by way of explanation. She had yet to make an appearance, though they were told she wasn’t feeling well at this time. “Oh, I forget, you wouldn’t know…” Moira looked around, noting their conversation wasn’t being too closely scrutinized by any of the few patrons taking breakfast at the Pines this morning, though she doubted anyone would make any real objections by this point. “It’s a little awkward to explain to those who didn’t go through all the things we did, but things kept getting worse that first year after the Woods went bad. Until the Wall was finished, people kept goin’ missing. People, animals, things… The outskirts of town were already abandoned by that point, folks what hadn’t vanished movin’ up the coast, as many as could get away with it…” After all they’d seen in the past week, Max could picture it more easily than he cared to. A looming, lurking menace, and a frustrating limit to any search party’s range before having to cut their losses and write folks off. The more he pondered it, the more amazed he was there was even still a town left to speak of anymore. “It was about then that the Sisters first arrived,” Moira continued. “The Order of St Lucy, come down the coast from where they were staying when they heard about what happened here.” Max perked up at the mention of that name, and Justin raised an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of them?” “Sort of,” Max replied. “Just the name, though. Of an island, actually.” “Odd. I may have to ask her about that some time… Oh, where was I? Ah yes, the Order. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised you’ve heard of them, they rarely put down roots, though they tried to here. Pity it ended the way it did. “At first, they were a glimmer of hope in troubled times. Their wardings helped hold back the Evil, even before the Wall was fully completed. Things were going better than they had in a long time, but then they had to go and challenge the Castle.” “The Castle?” Roger piped up. “Shelby mentioned something like that.” “Vineholdt.” Moira nodded. “The Rigby mansion. No one knows what went on that awful night. Anyone who was in there at the time was never heard from again. Even when the police searched the place, they found nothing. Even lost the sheriff in there, never seen again. Old Willard Duhan’s done the best he can ever since.” “And I’m guessing there was no search for him, either?” Justin intoned. “No, and I can’t say I blame them. Not even Tully, who lost his wife. The ones who came back from that house all had the same haunted looks on their faces, as if they’d each seen things they’d rather not talk about. And they don’t, even to this day. The neighborhood around there started emptying out almost as fast the outskirts. Talk of bad dreams, queer lights, and nobody wanting their children anywhere near that place.” “Can’t say I blame them, either,” Roger commented. “That’s for sure,” Moira remarked. “That was also about when the Sisters decided to push back against it, seeing the place, and whatever happened in there, as the root of the problem. After all, they already made a name for themselves holding back the Woods.” “I’m guessing that didn’t end well?” Justin leaned back in his seat. “Elder Sister Leta believed, as many of us still do, that the spirit of Veronica Rigby still haunts that place. Even Clarice believes that the house wants something, and after what happened to them, she thinks it’s safer not to give it anything more. They tried to banish the evil power from the Castle, but it was too much for them. For all their spells and prayers, it still killed Sister Leta.” And so Pickford’s faith in the Mother Goddess would indeed be short-lived, as Moira related: “The others buried her in a local graveyard, took the next train up the coast. We never heard from any of them again. Only Sister Clarice stayed behind, and she does what she can. Wardings and talismans and such, but one lone Sister, against the Woods, I fear she overworks herself, even with Jarvis helping out. No wonder she took ill lately…” “And no one’s been in there since?” Max asked. “Not many,” Moira warned them. “Because of that, the place was never cleared out. Even though the Commonwealth at large was having a bad time— lumber was down, the shipyards in Hawthorne were out of clients, even the project to expand the railroad between Mountain and Mesa Districts fell apart. Talk of some stupid border dispute out in the desert, been years since the last time we had any word from the other side of the mountains… “Anywise, what was I saying? Oh, right, the economy was in a rut, but even so, while some of the other Founders were losin’ money left an’ right, ol’ Rigby seemed to hold on. No shortage of luxury in that house, at least according to Ethan…” She sighed, then resumed: “Oh sure, a few people tried, ramblin’ about treasures still hidden away inside that most won’t dare go after, just drunken bets and would-be treasure hunters. Occasionally, some bold soul might try— mostly outlanders, or rubes from upshore— but most are never seen again. The few what escape hightailed it up the coast, saying no treasure was worth the horrors they faced in there. After what happened to the Sisters, the whole estate was condemned, no one in their right mind will go anywhere near it.” “So I guess you do have an idea just how maddening it is,” Roger sighed. “To have the solution to your problems dangling just out of reach…” “We barely survived the Woods,” Max cautioned him. “I know you want your plane to fly again, but please don’t try anything crazy. There has to be a better way to get the money…” “Hold up lads, your friend’s got the right of it.” Even Moira jumped in spite of herself as Jarvis Tully materialized behind their table. “Whatever’s in that house keeps to itself,” the grim groundskeeper continued, “but woe be to anyone who goes muckin’ about in there.” “Even you’ve never cased the joint?” Roger gave him a wry smile. “As the caretaker, you must know your way around. Maybe you’d have a better chance than the others.” “And where would you get a damn fool idea like that?” “Well,” Justin piped up, “we heard they were rich, and nobody claimed any of their stuff…” “Now don’t be gettin’ any bright ideas.” From the look in his eye, one would almost think Justin spoke of looting his own home. “You’d have to be totally daft to risk it.” “I’m with him,” Max added. “Let’s go hit the marketplace, see what we can find. Shades said he’d catch up with us there.” With that, they thanked Moira for a hearty breakfast as Roger ordered his, and headed out.

[cecilspeaks]

110 - Matryoshka

I once was lost. But now I’m fine with that.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Steve Carlsberg: Ahem. First I wanted to say that there are glowing arrows in the sky. You can’t see them even though you should. I can see them.

There are dotted lines and arrows and circles. The sky is a chart that explains the entire world. For reference, I printed up this diagram on poster board. Notice the arrows here, which curve around the circles. And the dotted lines. It’s pretty clear if you just look at it.

Please look at it. You’re not looking at it!

Well, I’ll just leave it here on this easel and you can look at it later. Or while I’m talking. Lots of people like to look at other things while I’m talking. It puts them at ease.

I say things people don’t like to hear. I show people things they don’t like to see. My brother-in-law sometimes says I give off a smell that people don’t like to smell. Well, I thought it was funny. [chuckles] It hurt my feelings a bit, but he kept doing it. I mean it was kinda funny, I guess?

Cecil Palmer: Fun fact. Did you know that a group of dragons is called a “weyr”? A pride of lions, a murmuring of starlings, an ennui of buffalo, and a weyr of dragons. Interesting, right?

And now the news. There’s a weir of five-headed dragons burning down City Hall right now. There is another weir of dragons stomping great holes in Route 800, the only highway leading out of Night Vale. And yet one more weir – did you know that it’s also correct to refer to this as a “flight” of dragons or even a “thunder” of dragons? – tearing open the aqueducts along the town reservoir. More on the complete annihilation of our city, as this story develops.

Mm. I’ve gotten several frustrated calls and letters about our program a couple of weeks ago. Because the program was called “A Story about Huntokar”, many listeners rightly anticipated a story about Huntokar. But all they heard was radio static over faint sounds of inhuman screaming. We apologize for the disappointment, and we will more closely review any programs before putting them on the air. I’m sure it was a tough time for you to voluntarily listen to a sub-par radio program.

[sighs] The town is.. nearly empty, save for flaming buildings, irate dragons, and a sky that has all but been replaced by an enormous hole, out of which pours continuous darkness, confounding visions and a deafening ripping noise, but again, sorry you didn’t like that one… radio show.

In related news, the city is in fire, and completely in control of Hadassah McDaniels and the five-headed dragons. The holes that have torn across our sky have merged into one giant hole, and false realities are converging into our town. Many citizens, including our Mayor, have chosen to run from their own unpleasant reality towards some more pleasant options offered up by the collapsing of all space and time into one. Frances Donaldson, owner of the Antiques Mall, said she discovered a reality where antiques were not sentient, venomous creatures but in fact, just old items one could resell. Frances left this Night Vale last week to go live in another Night Vale, which occupies the exact same space.

Bob Sturm, vice president of finance for the Night Vale Auto Insurance company, found a reality where cars were made of Stilton cheese, and another where insurance executives made almost 2000 dollars more year on average. He’s still weighing which reality better suits his lifestyle.

Steve Carlsberg: I see you’re looking at my chart now! I think I should have gone with a classier font like Helvetica, but this one looks just like the writing in comic strips! I couldn’t resist, it’s just so funny! [laughs] Makes all of these terrible messages so much easier to bare!

These arrows and lines in the sky are a message from someone named Huntokar. I learned this on the radio last week. Is she a god as she claims? Maybe, although I’m not religious. The folks over at the Joyous Congregation said there is no god but the Smiling God. I asked if she could be the smiling god, and they asked if she was smiling. I said I didn’t know, it was on the radio. They made weird gestures with their fists and told me I would know once we were all devoured.

I asked my other brother-in-law who’s a scientist, and he said the arrows and lines were probably a bunch of comets or solar flares or possibly an aurora. Then he got really excited about talking about space, and skipped away while laughing and clutching his hands to his chest, so I’m not sure if there’s a natural explanation.

What I do know is I’m not the only one who can see them. For a long time, I thought that I was. I told Cecil and he scoffed. I told Leann Hart at the Daily Journal, and she threw a hatchet at me. I showed them to my daughter Janice, but she’s a teenager and isn’t really interested in what her parents are interested in. My wife said she believed me, but showed little interest so – I think she was just saying that to be nice.

I told Mayor Cardinal and Mayor Winchell before her. Mayor Cardinal said she would look into it, but I’m positive she never did. Mayor Winchell totally agreed and got really excited about it, but she started telling me about how there’s a man that lives in the Sun, and all he does all day is sit at a little table with a phone on it. The phone isn’t plugged in, but he waits and waits for it to ring. The man often says to no one, because the Sun is so loud and hot an large no one can hear him: [old man voice] “I will receive the call. I cannot leave for I do not have an anshwering machine. But when that phone rings, boy howdy will that be shplendid!” Based on this story, I’m positive Mayor Winchell and I were talking about different things.

For a long time, I thought all of these people didn’t believe me. They politely or impolitely urged me away from that line of conversation. They said “sure sure” and “no way” and “you’ve got something on your shirt”, and then they poked my nose when I looked down.

I’ll get to the angels in a second. I promise this relates.

Cecil Palmer: An update on the estate of Old Woman Josie. The hearing to decide the legal ownership of Josie’s estate has been postponed indefinitely, as City Hall is completely overrun with dragons, and they’re not letting anyone schedule the hearing room. Not even for, like, 30 minutes. Josie’s daughter Allondra Ortiz and her lawyer, Emilio Tavarez, have claimed that in the absence of a will, the estate should go to the next of kin, in this case Allondra. However, the angels who cared for Josie in her final years have claimed that they have joined ownership and stake in Josie’s assets, as they built and maintained her home and helped develop Josie’s cultural foundation. The angels’ biggest hurdle so far in this ugly battle is that they legally – don’t exist. As they are angels. The Hall of Public Records is holding a hearing today to determine the validity of the angels’ existence and whether to officially recognize their being. We’ll report back when a decision has been reached.

Steve Carlsberg: But it’s not that people don’t believe me. They do believe me. You believe me. You just can’t accept it, acknowledge it and understand it. We have customers in our bank all the time who don’t want to know their account balance. We can just print it on their receipt, but they always decline because they don’t want to know there’s only 168 dollars and rent is due in a week. They know, but they don’t want to have to acknowledge it.

Which brings me to the angels. They’re real. You can see them. They’re standing at the back of the room right now! And yes, I hear the city’s “angels acknowledged” sirens, and I see you Sheriff Sam, sitting right there in the front row, taking out your handcuffs. But there they are in the back of the room. Just turn around! Look! They’re super tall, and have several arms and long faces and wings. You see them? They’re the ones that glow bright black and sound like French horns. Yeah, them. Wave at them. They’re waving back!

There are a great many crises facing our town. The holes in the sky, the dragons chasing us into hiding, The Woman of Italy threatening to flay us alive. The Distant Prince slowly creeping less distant. All of the unrepaired pot holes, all kinds of stuff that may seem more important than a simple clerical matter of existence. But I ask the city officials present, the administrators of the Hall of Public Records, the people of Night Vale, please legalize the acknowledgement of these angels! They are protectors. They have saved our city from evil corporate encampments, from that beagle. They built us an Opera House. They cared for Old Woman Josie through hospice. They are recorders. They memorize our history without judgment. They are beggars. They have like a billion dollars in our bank, but they constantly roam the streets asking people for ten bucks. It’s not because they need money, it’s because they need connection. They just want to know you heard them ask.

[thunder and banging noises]

Cecil Palmer:: Listeners, I’m getting word that the dragons have stopped their rampage across town. No more burning buildings or crushed cars of devouring of pets. Every single dragon in town has gathered out in the Scrub Lands near the Sand Wastes. They are facing outward toward the mountains, silently watching – for something.

The city is quiet again. I do take some comfort in not hearing shouts for help or glass shattering. It is a relief to not hear reptilian roars or car alarms, to not see plumes of smoke. There’s so little solace, an inexplicable peace. The chaos in our streets was – normal, predictable. I mean it was upsetting, but we knew why it was happening. But for no clear reason, the dragons have stopped. Something they have not done since they began months ago.

The last remnants of the sky… have gone. There are hundreds of people out wandering the streets, but they aren’t actually here. They’ve living in some other Night Vale that is not attacked by dragons, some other reality that is not in flames, I-I-I-I can see them. Solid figures moving through – each other. Unaware of the layers, upon layers, of reality.

My brother returned to see me last night. But I do not have a brother. Nearly all of his hair and teeth were gone and he could barely walk. Every few steps he would fall only to get back up and walk slowly again toward me. Line of dried blood down the front of his polo shirt. He couldn’t speak, only groaned. “The bomb”, over and over. “The bomb!” He grabbed my arm. And I couldn’t pull away, I only said, “You’re not real.” But he just stared distantly, as only a person who has seen death can stare.

People ask me all the time, “are we at the end? Is this it?” And I tell them no. We must keep moving forward, that’s all we can do. But… I’m lying. I can hold tight to what I think is real here, but it’s done no good, I’m just one person. I’m afraid.. we’ve broken it. We’ve. Broken. Night Vale. I am so sorry.

Stay tuned next for… everything. Nothing. And for one, last time, from the voice of your town to all listeners out there: Goodbye, Night Vale. Goodbye.

[end music, silence]

Hang on. I just thought of something. While I figure this out, have a listen to today’s weather.

[“Everyone I Know Will Die” by Erin Lovett. soundcloud.com/erinlovett]

Steve Carlsberg: Unless we pay attention to our true reality, all will be lost. I believe recognizing angels is a vital first step. It’s like my brother-in-law saying mean things all the time. I tried to ignore the mean bits, I just put my head down and kept moving. The main thing was to keep moving, not to bog down in tears and fights and emotions. Just move forward, because facing it would mean pain.

But then a few weeks ago, I looked him in the eye and said, “Stop.” He looked shocked. I inhaled and just as I did, he did too. And in a synchronous moment of breath, I started crying. I wasn’t weeping in sadness, I was just crying from the intimacy of truly seeing someone and having them see me. We were vulnerable and raw and I said, “It hurts me when you joke. If you don’t like me, just tell me why and we can work through it.

And he told me about his childhood and his mother, and his tumultuous relationship with his sister, and how difficult it is to let strangers into his world. And it was just easier for him to keep me as an interloper in his life. I could never understand his difficult childhood. And I said he was right, but that I could try.

He let me hug him. He even hugged back, which is rare for Cecil. He stopped saying rude jokes about me. In fact, even saying nice things about me. We acknowledged our issues. Nothing is perfect, and I don’t think it will be, but it is better. Perfection doesn’t exist! All we can hope for is better. Thank you, officers of the Hall of Public Records, for letting me speak at the hearing here today.

Cecil Palmer: My brother-in-law Steve Carlsberg didn’t know Old Woman Josie, not like I did. I loved her like a mother. Steve did not know the angels, either. I’m sure he had heard me talk about them, I’m sure like all of us he had seen them, and known them to be real, but averted his eyes for fear of violating the arcane law against acknowledging angels. Yet, he went to the hearing to support them. Because I am doing the show today, I could not attend the hearing. A hearing I desperately wanted to be at, to proclaim my passion, to change our out of date laws. I am sad I could not.

But Steve told me he would speak for me at the hearing. He listened attentively as I told him everything I felt about the issue, and then he said, “It’s like the arrows in the sky, the-the dotted lines”, and I rolled my eyes, because Steve has always been a conspiracy theorist, seeing patterns where there are none. He got upset at my dismissiveness.

Um, [sighs] my sister Abby and I rarely got along, but after our mother died, that began to change. I spent so much time with her, and with her infant daughter Janice, whose spina bifida was costly and and and terrifying and exhausting. And then Abby met Steve, and Steve took care of Janice financially, and of Abby spiritually, and I was just an uncle again. I was no longer wringing my hands every day over the health of this struggling girl anymore, I wasn’t spending away my savings on medical care, I wasn’t having to comfort a sobbing mother. And Steve took all that away from me. You can read that two ways. Steve relieved me from stress or, Steve relieved me from duty. I interpreted it as the latter. It’s hard to forgive him for simply being a responsible father and stepfather but… I’m learning to let my anger go.

I’ve said terrible things about Steve. And he’s been nothing but supportive of me, of my sister, of my niece. He is a good father, and brother-in-law, and a good citizen of Night Vale. He is a patient friend, and I love him for that. I think, I even think his arrows in the sky theory might be right.

Did you- did you ever have one of those dolls that opens up, and inside is another doll, and inside that another? I, uh… I sometimes think we are one of those dolls, inside a similar doll and outside a similar doll. Each one nestled in another, infinite possible dolls all in one visible doll. But all of the dolls have been opened and removed from one another. They’re split halves strewn across the floor. Which parts go together? And which doll are we? Did our doll have the blond hair or the brown hair? The red bow or the one with the green-laced trim, the headscarf with the floral print? Or the dotted print?

The angels hearing is completed, and the Hall of Public Records has officially recognized the existence of angels as Night Vale citizens. The angels celebrated with poorly aimed high-fives, which were warmly reciprocated by fellow non-angel citizens, now legally allowed to see the angels as real.

The recognition and acknowledgement of angels seems a small victory, in light of our ending world, but as I speak to you now… [softly] part of the sky has returned.

Ah, as has Hiram McDaniels. Out in the Scrublands, the gathered dragons welcomed back one of their own. Hiram had left town to be alone, to gather himself. His Violet head was executed by Night Vale officials last year – the incident that sparked this entire conflict. Hiram spoke to the other dragons. “A great injustice has been perpetrated upon me,” his Gold head announced in a quiet, tired voice. “We’ve been trying to make sense of why it happened,” his Blue head said. “We’ve been very emotional,” his Grey head said, “but we are learning to let go of our anger,” his Green had shouted hoarsely. Hiram asked that the dragons leave Night Vale and all return back to their world. “We have truces to uphold. They attacked me only because they are scared of me,” his Gold head said. “We cannot find forgiveness in relentlessness.” There was a grumbling in dissent. But the dragons have called off their attack for now.

But it was not the dragons who tore open our sky and split our relaities. We are not safe merely because there is peace. We are the ones who tore apart our realities by refusing to see them for what they were. Our years of denial, carefully cultivated, has made our reality fragile. Look at the angels, Night Vale, they are real. They always have been, right there in front of us they are – our protectors and we denied them. We loved Old Woman Josie so much and yet, we couldn’t accept those whom she loved as her own family. Look what we did to Hiram! He conspired to kill our Mayor, but the one head that tried to stop the others? Was the one we executed. And in the throes of our town’s iron-clad denial, we could not own up to our mistake.

It’s one wooden doll inside many similar wooden dolls, and if we don’t notice the little details… we won’t know which one we are when they are all dismantled. As the dragons began to leave our town, Mayor Dana Cardinal approached them and asked for forgiveness for the death of Violet. “The destruction of our town did not bring Violet back, it did not fix anything. I remain fearful and angry at you for this,” she said. “But that does not change the fact that I made a grave error. Hiram. I am sorry.” The dragons paused to hear her words, and when she finished, they left Night Vale without reply. And a bit of the sky returned.

Following the hearing, Allondra Ortiz said she was incredibly moved by the angels’ case, that she had never really thought of them as anything but imaginary freeloaders. But now that she had taken time to see how much love and effort they put into Josie’s health, life, and artistic endeavours, she plans to rework her claim on her mother’s estate to include only personal items and heirlooms. She also said she would like to stay in Night Vale a little while longer, spend time with her mother’s friends. And a bit of the sky returned.

Members of the Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency resumed their routine of following people and recording private conversations, and those under surveillance waved hello at the agents. “Have you ever noticed,” we all asked each other, “that we are being watched by secret agents? That’s not normal, that doesn’t happen in normal places.” And a bit of the sky returned.

The librarians slithered - or possibly skittered? – back into the library, ready to devour book lovers. The City Council returned to their chambers after a much needed vacation in the Catskills, except for their newest member, 16-year-old Tamika Flynn who, instead of vacationing amassed a disturbing amount of weaponry. “Most towns, I think, aren’t run by literal monsters and heavily armed teenagers,” we said to each other. And a bit of the sky returned.

The radiation-sick man in my home named Cal is gone, once again. As are the countless layers of people walking our streets, but existing in some other streets.

As the angels were acknowledged as truly existing, the other realities began to fade, as we began to accept the full reality of our world. As Mayor Cardinal remembered that her father had died years ago, and the father she was with was not her reality. As we looked each doll over carefully, we began to truly notice the fine details of what made ours particular and special. We could nestle them all back together into a single doll, each multitude safely contained. And the last bit of the sky - returned.

Now our reality is badly damaged, and the only thing keeping it together is our acknowledgement. Finally, this –strange- town that we live in, no more denial. We must see ourselves clearly, or risk losing ourselves forever.

[gleefully] Angels are real. Our town is a deeply weird place. We know and acknowledge that it is a deeply weird place. There are dotted lines and arrows in the sky, and I love my family. And I love my brother Steve, he was right about everything, he always has been.

So stay tuned next for eye contact and breathing, in unison. And as always, and for as long as I can keep saying it: Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: If you only read one book this year, then you have reached your approved book quota.

[shadesmaclean]

Tradewinds 21 CH 17

“So, what kind of ship do you want to get?” Justin asked his friends as they neared Pines Lodge. After that eerie fortunetelling machine, they had walked on in contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Yet it was also hard not to think about all that money they just made from selling a dangerous artifact from a haunted house, to the shop that wasn’t there yesterday, so they finally found themselves deferring their individual reveries to start discussing plans, now that Justin brought it up. After all, rather than a dire search for direction up the coast, it looked as if they were back at the helm of their own destiny. “I don’t know,” Max admitted, “but I think we should try to do something about the Albatross first. I think we owe Roger that much.” “It’s his plane,” Justin pointed out, visibly put out by such talk with fresh credits in hand, “not ours.” “He did bring us down safely,” Max reminded him. “He’s the reason we were up there in the first place. Him and Roxy…” “Or we could’ve gone down with the Excelsior,” Shades piped up, having said next to nothing since they left Obscura Antiques, “with no one to save them from Erix’s revenge.” “You’re the one who found it,” Max told him, “and we did agree to split all treasure three ways, so I guess it’s up to you to decide what to do with your share…” “Damn skippy!” Justin muttered as they approached the inn. Though he suspected he would end up spending part of his share on it, even if he didn’t quite match Max or Shades’ contributions. Just couldn’t bring himself to do less with Max around. “And I’d kinda like to enjoy it for five minutes before we start spending it all.” Inside, they found Roger sulking at a corner table, barely poking his fork at Moira’s fine cooking. “So, where were you guys all day?” the pilot asked. Somehow he doubted there were that many places to shop around in Pickford, even in its best days. Having tired of moping around the inn all day, he spent the better part of the afternoon attending to his Albatross as best he could with his gimped leg. Every minute trying his damnedest not to picture himself placing a For Sale sign or, more likely, selling her off piece by piece for scrap. “Taking a tour of the Castle,” Shades replied, his sheer nonchalance earning him a fumbled mug when those words finally caught up with Moira. “You didn’t…” she gasped. “We most certainly did,” Max declared, “and that’s not all.” “We saved a little girl who had gone in there on a dare,” Shades explained, “and we kinda ended up breaking Veronica Rigby’s power over the place while we were at it.” “Sister Clarice and Sheriff Duhan are probably done searching the house by now,” Max added. “And here’s the best part!” Justin started emptying his pockets of both money and jewels. “We’re back in business!” Roger’s face lit up as Moira’s turned white taking it all in. “Back in the black!” Shades crowed, “and we can surely sell the rest of it up the coast.” “With that much money…” the innkeeper speculated, “you might actually get someone up there to take a look at that flying machine of yours.” “Hot damn!” the pilot laughed, possibly for the first time since they crash-landed at Camp Stilton, “Let’s perc some joe!” Moira’s perplexed expression ground him to a sheepish halt. “That is to say,” he reiterated, “um, you got any coffee?” “Oh. But where did you sell any of it?” she stammered, as she was quite sure none of them had even a fraction of that money to their name when they first stumbled into town. “I doubt there’s even that much money left in the town treasury…” “Well, we sold it at this basement shop over near the harbor,” Max answered. “I think I may have shopped there before,” Justin elaborated, “though back then the shop was somewhere in Centralict…” He trailed off as he realized the implications of what he just said. For his part, Shades just shrugged. “That can’t be right…” Moira murmured. “There’s been no store down there in five, six years…” Shades realized now that he had been so preoccupied with visions of desert highways and road signs, the thought never crossed his mind to look back and see if the store was still there as he walked away, as he originally meant to. From the looks on his friends’ faces, he suspected that neither of them did, either. Just another thing that left him wondering at the time of it all. Even so, he felt that such a dangerous artifact was probably safer with that fellow than with most stores. After all he’d seen along the way, he now found he couldn’t help but wonder what ever happened to the first amulet they sold off… About that time, Bandit appeared at the top of the stairs and started ambling down the steps into the lobby, and Max looked up at his feline friend. This was the first time, besides the Woods, when the big cat was still too injured to even try, that he had not followed him into trouble. Decided it must be a measure of how exhausted the poor panther was after that weeklong ordeal. “You’re supposed to be resting…” Max said, matching Bandit’s quizzical head tilt. “Yeah, I’m glad to see you, too.” As Bandit came down the steps, Shades headed toward them. Light as he felt at the antique store, it was starting to feel as if his body was turning to lead, his mind growing hazy. As if he had pushed himself too far, in some way couldn’t fully wrap his head around. Whatever he did back there, he now understood that it was not a power to be used on a whim, rather a desperation move, assuming he could even figure out how to do it again. “Hey! Where’re you goin’?” Justin called out. “The party’s just getting started!” “Sorry, guys, I think I overdid it in there,” he told them, starting up the steps, one foot, then the other. “I believe I’m gonna call it a day.” “I’ll bring you up some dinner, then,” Max assured him. “Sleep well.” So, as Shades went to get some well-earned rest, his companions celebrated, discussing plans to make their next move up the coast, Albatross and all.