#tmots

[margowritesthings]

THE MEANING OF THE SCAR

a RDR2 x Black Badge crossover

pairing: N/A for this chapter, will eventually be Arthur Morgan x reader word count: 2650 words warnings: spoilers for RDR2 ending, violence, Micah Bell, explicit language, major character death and subsequent resurrection, brief mentions of domestic violence YOU DONT NEED TO HAVE READ THE BLACK BADGE TO UNDERSTAND THIS SERIES, EVERYTHING IS EXPLAINED DURING THE STORY authors note: What's that, you say? You want a RDR x Black Badge crossover?? No??? WELL IM DOIN IT ANYWAY

The series that no one asked for tbh. If you haven't heard of the Black Badge, it's a wonderful series of books by Rhett C Bruno and Jamie Castle, where the audiobooks are narrated by Roger Clarke. This series puts Arthur in the shoes of the protagonist, who is doomed to hunt the supernatural to pay off his karmic debts. The prologue explains it a little better, so sit back and enjoy! There will be romance, there will be monsters, what more could you ask for?

BLACK BADGE ORIGNAL SERIES

PROLOGUE

I have seen so many incredible things. 

Living on the land for as long as I have, you tend to. I’ve camped under the most breathtaking sunrises, that big orange orb scattering unimaginable colours over our poor souls as it creeps over the horizon. I've seen nature at its finest: baby deer learning to walk, wolves running together in tight packs not unlike us outlaws, even saw a little chick hatching once. Beautiful women from all around batting their long lashes at me, not even all of them because I was a prospective customer. I’ve been a lucky man, to have experienced so many sights.

Never did I think that the last thing I saw living on this Earth would be Micah Bell’s goddamn ugly mug.

The barrel of his gun was shaking in his tight grip, and I used the absolute last of my strength to keep my head up and look right down it. 

“You’re not better than me, Morgan.”

Never claimed to be, but if I had more time, I might have argued it, the rat. But that was the thing… I didn’t have more time. I could tell, the simple act of breathing was becoming just too much. I might have gotten a few more days, if Micah hadn’t just knocked the seven bells of shit out of me and the last few days had been a little calmer, but such is life. Such is death, I should say. 

After a wheezed cough was pushed out of me, I still managed to get one last jab in, as laboured and choked out as it was, 

“Whatever you say, you fool.”

Everything hurt, and I could hear the clock ticking my final seconds out as Micah’s finger trembled on the trigger. He was mad, I could see the fury spreading across his face as he registered what I was choosing to do with my final words. 

Maybe it was supposed to be the time for prayers, the time to have my life flash before my eyes while I count my regrets and mourn the things that will never happen, but there’d been enough of that ever since that doc told me my days were numbered. I hadn’t lived a good life, I wasn’t a good man, but I got some peace knowing my final hours were spent getting Marston and his family out safe, making sure Milton didn’t, and insulting the gang’s little pet rodent. If I had any regrets in that moment, they would only be that I didn’t manage any more permanent damage to Micah’s ugly ass mug before he got me. Actually, I might’ve wanted to die at dawn, to see one last sunrise, but mostly the Micah thing. 

“Damn you…” he spat, the glow of the moon casting the most horrendous shadows from his twisted expression. 

“Damn us both!” 

And that was it. 

A shot,

and it was all over. 

No sunrise, no grand redemption in the last few minutes of my damned life…

Just me, the moon, and goddamned Micah Bell. 

═══════☆═══════

I never expected I’d get into Heaven, but I never thought it’d be so goddamn dark down here in Hell.

I stirred as if waking up from a fitful sleep filled with nightmares involving Micah shooting me in the face, and even though my eyelids flew open, there was no light to speak of. There was a crushing weight on my chest, and a burning behind my right eye. What felt like dirt fell into my face with each little movement, and suddenly it all fit together, forming a terrifying reality of my predicament. 

It wasn’t a dream. Micah fuckin’ Bell had shot me. Tuberculosis ran ragged through my veins and filled my lungs, I’d been captured, hung in an O’Driscoll camp and tortured for information, hell, I’d been shipped off to goddamn Guarma with nothing but the shirt of my back… and in the end the sorry sight to end my story was a rat with a revolver. 

The dirt fell in my eyes relentlessly, so much so I had to close them again. It wasn’t like they were being much use anyway, what with me being buried alive and all. Moving my limbs was hard, but not impossible, I found, giving me hope that I wasn’t too far down in the ground. I never thought I’d hope for a shallow grave, but then again I couldn’t have predicted waking up in one either. None of it made much sense, but I reckoned it’d probably be best if I got back out into open air before figuring out why I couldn’t feel my toes, why breathing felt so strange and unnecessary, or how I’d survived a gunshot to the head. 

I started with small movements, flexing my numbed fingers in and out until there was enough room to ball them into fists. I would have shouted for help, if I could, but I knew all I’ll get from it is a mouthful of dirt. I’d have to do this alone, it would seem. 

The movement spread from fists to arms, the dirt starting to mould around me until it didn’t feel so crushing anymore, and I was soon clawing upwards. I dared to squint one eye open, finding small holes of light poked through the blanket of nothingness like stars. I felt triumphant when I reached upwards into open air, but it was short lived when I failed to feel the wind or the breeze or the sun or anything to let me know this wasn’t all some death dream. 

I pressed on, scraping at the skies until big patches of the Earth fell apart around my body and I could pull myself out of my grave. The sun beat so brightly that I couldn’t help but continue to squint, trying to make out my surroundings. It was dawn, ironically. I always assumed Hell’s skies would hold a lot more fire in them, but the blue hues and yellow rays were anything but hellish. They were beautiful, a sight I was sure I’d never see again. 

After my eyes adjusted, I made out the tombstone standing above my grave, a handcrafted wooden cross with my name scratched into the centre. Folk aren’t usually lucky enough (or unlucky enough, I hadn’t yet decided) to see their own graves, and yet here I was. Why? Was this truly Hell, looking over the sunrise while I was damned to sit by my own grave and wait for no-one to mourn me? 

‘Blessed Are Those Who Mourn, For They Will Be Comforted’

It was my epitaph, carved into the circle surrounding my name. I hoped it was true. I didn’t know how long I’d been buried, but I didn’t want anyone sitting around crying over me. I hoped I’d done enough, in those last few hours, and that the ones I loved, whoever was left of them, anyway, made it out okay. 

I pushed myself up out of the grave, dusting off the mud that clung to me and standing straight despite the complaints of my aching back. I looked over the hill, over what looked an awful lot like Ambarino. 

“Beautiful, ain’t it? I tell you, that friend of yours picked a good spot. Shame you’ll get no rest here.” 

I froze, my spine straightening on instinct as the voice behind me confirmed that I was in fact in Hell. Even after looking Death in the face and calling him a fool, it still took me a moment to turn and face my father. 

I expected anger to course through my veins, for my fists to ball and fury to burn over my skin the first time I saw him after all these years, but it didn’t. I looked my Daddy straight in his cold, dead eyes, and nodded to him. He did the same.

“Pa?” 

“Fraid so.” 

I was almost too dumbfounded to realise what he was sitting on. Who he was sitting on, I should say. Boadicea stood as tall and as beautiful as that last day we spent together in Blackwater. The sight could have taken my breath away, if I had any. 

I wanted to step closer, to pat my girl on the neck and feel to make sure she was really there, but I wasn’t ready to move just yet. 

“What… What the hells goin’ on?” 

Daddy dearest chuckled, probably at my ironic choice of wording, and Boadicea stomped a foot on the ground. Despite everything, all I wanted to do was to get Lyle Morgan off my horse, but there’d be time for it. 

“You’re dead, son. Nasty shot to the head, though you put up a good fight.” He said it like he was recounting the most mundane story ever told, not breaking the news that his only son had died. I considered his words, finding a strange peace with them all.

“...This Hell?” It had to be, right? There’s no other way he could be here, not with the way he treated me and Ma. I dreaded to think what Boadicea could have done to deserve an afterlife with him, but it made more sense than both of us fools being let into the pearly gates upstairs everyone always goes on about. 

Pa chuckled again, clearly finding my demise much more casual news than I, “To some, but not in the way you’re thinkin’ of it. I’ve got some bad news, boy.” 

“Worse than my death?” It was annoying me, how elusive and blasé he was being about everything, dragging this out for longer than he needed while holding the cards right up close to his chest. He knew what was going on, and yet there he was, sitting on Boadicea like he owned whatever goddamn realm we were in. Surely this was Hell, having this conversation with the man who beat me into who I am today. Who I was, before karma caught up with me and shot me in the face. 

“Depends on how much you were lookin’ forward to it.”

My teeth ground together as the frustration at his evasiveness built. He must’ve sensed it, as he dismounted Boadicea and patted her on the neck.  It threw me more than it should, watching the man I’d left long behind me interacting with my beloved Boa. 

He stood just as tall as the day I watched him hang, the only difference being a nasty scar that wound around his neck and made me dread to think what I might look like. It was like looking at a ghost. Well, I guess I was looking at a ghost. 

“You’re still here, Arthur. On Earth. Seems you did just enough good there in the end that they didn’t know what to do with you. Too bad to make it to the upstairs, too good to burn in Hell… for now.”

“Earth? But… I’m… we’re-“

“Dead? Yeah. But you’re stuck here, doin’ their bidding.” 

He was running his fingers over Boadicea’s mane, and she shook her head in response. She seemed like she wanted his hands off her as much as I did, but I had to find out what was going on first. 

“Bidding? Who’s bidding? Can you just be straight with me for one damn minute-“

“Patience, boy.” He snapped, bringing out one of Boadicea’s signature annoyed huffs, “The White Throne’s bidding. You’re theirs now. You do as they say, or you end up in a far worse position than you’re in now.”

I felt like I needed to sit down, but unless I was going to climb back in that grave, there was nowhere to rest. 

“I… I don’t understand.”

Lyle sighed, turning fully towards me and hooking his thumbs in his belt loops.

“The White Throne have chosen you to be a Black Badge, Arthur. You’re not alive, nor are you fully dead. You work for them until they decide they’re done with you, and then…” 

“And then?”

“Well… I ain’t sure, truth be told, boy. I never got as far as you, I’m just here to pass the message on.”

None of it made any sense, and I had no idea who this White Throne was. Dad didn’t seem to have the answers, nor did he seem inclined to give them to me even if he did. It was then I noticed that my heart should be pounding out of my chest. Instead, it felt hollow, the anxiety of my situation bouncing around an empty can of nothing. 

So this was really happening…

“They’ll call on you when they need you with this,” he turned, rummaging through Boadicea’s saddle bag and handing me a journal. It looked exactly like the one I gave to Marston just before I died, the one I collected my thoughts and sketches in, only when I flicked through the pages, they were all blank. 

“Keep an eye on it, it’ll tell you what you need to do, who to look for, or where to go.”

“What am I, a goddamn undead bounty hunter?” 

He laughed, a proper hearty laugh that would’ve made my skin crawl had I not been so occupied with the confusion of it all. 

“You could say that. But you’re not just after anyone, they’ll send you off to the supernatural stuff. Vampires, werewolves, demons, that sort. You’ll get the hang of it.”

I was so stuck on the whole supernatural thing that I hardly noticed him step towards me, slapping a hand onto my shoulder. I froze, but not because my father had touched me for the first time in decades, but because I couldn’t feel a damn thing.

He must’ve seen the shock on my face, cause his brows pulled together in a pitiful look, “Ah, yeah… there’s some side effects to death, son. But I’m sure you’ll figure that one out.” 

‘Side effects’ was a light way of putting it. I’d later find out that we unlucky few in the Black Badge have a fair few impediments. I can’t feel. Not the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, the touch of another, not even the burn of a good whiskey. I don’t feel pain, which can be helpful at times I guess. I can’t taste anything, either. It’s a unique punishment, to be stuck walking the earth but not really living, having no access to those simple pleasures in life like a stiff drink or the touch of a pretty lady. If I’d have known what was waiting for me at the end of all this, well… maybe I’d have made some different choices. 

“It’s a lot to take in, I know.” 

I glanced to my shoulder, finding Dad’s hand still there. He must’ve sensed my discomfort, removing his touch- or lack thereof- from me. 

“You’ll get the hang of it, son.” 

If I weren’t so preoccupied with my new lot in life (or death, I should say), now would have been the perfect time to confront the man who stood beside me. Ask him why he did what he did, get some answers for every question my teenage self tortured himself with while he wandered the streets for somewhere to stay for the night. But when I turned, he was gone, without a single trace to suggest he was ever there in the first place. Seems I’d gotten all the information out of him I was entitled to. 

That left me and Boadicea, standing beside an empty grave I wasn’t sure anyone would have visited anyway. 

I sighed, finally stepping towards her and patting her neck in that spot she always loved. 

“Well girl, guess this is it for a while…” 

I looked down to the journal in my hand, just in time to see inky black writing appear on the page as if bleeding through the realms.

‘Welcome to the Black Badge, Arthur Morgan.’

[miketheawesomenesss]

❛❛Clinging on❞ / Oc Lore & Angst / PART 2

(The mysteries of The Stars)

TRIGGER WARNING // SELF-HARM IMPLIED/MENTIONED.

I closed his door, leaving quickly.. I hurried to my bedroom.

Most of my stuff in there was decorated by Gemil.. to my liking.

It felt worse even being in this room—my room.

I sat against my door, hands over my face.

“God… what is wrong with me…??” I spoke softly.. it still hurt, everything fucking hurt.

I began to cry.. I tried to cover my mouth. Trying not to be loud.. it worked. Kind of.

I felt like I was sinking in.. some sort of sadness.. guilt even.

I began to claw at my skin, it always helped me calm down.

My furry arms beginning to bleed a bit.. it hurt.. maybe I deserved it.

My eyes getting blurry from the water in them, the lump in my throat feeling worse.

“I’m such a bad person.. what the fuck is wrong with me. I ruin everything.. I..”

I couldn’t speak anymore. Everything hurt.

I clawed at my face, covering my eyes. I felt embarrassed. Like I was being watched, even though I wasn’t.

I felt weak.. I hated crying, I hated showing emotions, especially these ones.

I heard a knock.

“Nova?… look I.. I’m sorry if I hurt you, if you don’t wanna talk that’s fine.” He’d spoke.

Why now at of all the times… why would Gemil come to my room…?

“…”

“Can I at least come in?…” Gemil spoke, it’s as if he heard or knew I was crying. That I was doing it again.

“……” I couldn’t speak. I was scared…

I got up and sat on my bed, rolling down my sleeves.

The door opened, she’d noticed my eyes were a bit red, my fur around my face was wet..

He’d sat by me, on my soft bed.

“Nova, im not mad at you.. if you need to move things slow then I-“ before he could finish I cut him off

“It’s not that, okay?!” I snapped, I didn’t want to lash out but I did.. I always did. Even when I was vulnerable.

Gemil tried to console me, but I didn’t allow it.

I swiped his hand away

“Why can’t you ever just leave me alone?” Why did I say that? Why did I have to yell at him..

“Nova.. please just-“

“GOD JUST FUCK OFF!” I yelled again, his eyes watering, my eyes tearing up again.

“…” We were both silent, I covered my mouth, reaching for him.

“I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry.. I-“ I started crying, my words wobbling.

He quickly hugged me tightly.

“It’s okay, it’ll be okay..” their words making me feel comfortable.

I kept crying and crying.. like a baby.

“Nova.. it’s okay.. I- I know you get like this, it’ll all be okay…”

I hugged him tightly, covering my face on his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

[realityhelixcreates]

The Morel of the Story chapter 7: Flammulina Filiformis

The Riddlers missions often contain many branches.

?~?~?~?~?

“So, you're doing fairly well with that one.” Shimmer teased later on.

“So you say. But you already know I always do what I set out to.” he said arrogantly.

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?”

He stared down out of the side of his eye.

“I'm older than you. And it's not like that. I'm curious about her.”

“That's one way of putting it!”

“Selinda.”

“Oh, lighten up!” Shimmer nudged him hard in the ribs. “I've seen you have fun before; you don't need to pretend to be serious all the time.”

Edward rubbed his ribs, wondering if he should confide in her the work he was doing right now, the research into the mysterious Task Force X. The real reason he was here, what he'd been sent to retrieve.

His orders had not been to secrecy, and Shimmer had been his partner in the past. He hadn't worked with her in some time though. She might not be the best fit for this particular job.

“I hear you picked up some meta powers since I last saw you.” he remarked.

She glanced down at her hands.

“Yeah. It was a pretty bad time actually, and I can't do anything with them right now, but I can change things into other things.”

“Oh, transmutation?”

“Sure. If there's a big word for something, trust you to know it.”

“Trust me indeed.”

“Well, you know, if I ever get this collar off, maybe I can turn you into a stud, and you'll have better luck with the girls. Or the guys. Not judging.”

Edward frowned.

“Okay first of all,” he complained. “Any desire another person has for me comes from qualities I already possess, so write that down. Second of all...I don't think that's what she really wants from a partner anyway.”

Shimmer grinned.

“So you do like her!”

“I never said that!” he protested. “What does it matter to you, anyway?”

She shrugged.

“It's fun to tease you. You always react like a snarky teenager. I thought it was part of some bit you were committed to.”

Edward always found it a bit of a shock when someone saw through him like that. Selinda had never seemed stupid, but she hadn't seemed all that smart either. When they had worked together, she had been efficient, but quiet, guarded. Willing to do whatever it was she was told to do, and no more.

But Selinda and her brother had been part of a high control, criminal cult for almost a decade. And when she got out, she began working for a literal dictator. While both the cult leader and the dictator were important figures in the Light, she had only been doing their bidding. She hadn't come to it of her own choice, like he had.

Maybe, in these brief moments where she was under the control of neither, she felt she could be more playful with her peers. Still, if she were ever freed, she would likely just go straight back to Bialya and her queen. No, he couldn't talk to her about his mission. Her loyalty was to a person, not to the Light. Best to just let her think whatever she wanted.

“Well, I won't confirm or deny that. Perhaps I am fond of her. And why not? She's new, and I wonder about her story.”

“Also, she hasn't made fun of you for being a colossal nerd yet.”

“Also that.”

“Welp, it's time to fold towels. See you around, nerd.”

Shimmer stepped into the ladies laundry, and he stepped into the mens, ready to rack up a few more hours of 'good behavior'.

Digger Harkness passed him a small component, which he hid by twisting it up into a hair tie under his mullet. People really didn't understand the utility of hair, or how curating a carefully maintained hairstyle that others found silly could be a distraction. After all, if it was just vanity, it couldn't possibly be used for anything else, could it?

People who thought they knew the reasons for something rarely looked into alternative reasons.

Just a few more pieces, and he'd have what he needed.

Digger and Hartley stayed with him at dinner, quietly discussing what little of Task Force X they had managed to learn. The slivers of information did nothing to whet Edward's curiosity, but Digger did manage to confirm that it had something to do with the prison doctors.

“Got heaps of 'em fightin' for a squiz at me!” Digger exclaimed. “Now, I know I'm top shelf boys, but I never had this many people proddin' the bod.”

“Do you know what they want?” Edward asked. “You're not injured. You don't seem sick.”

“Nah nah, dag, it ain't that.” Digger said, much more quietly than before. “It's physicals. Sussin' out me strength, me reflexes, me overall heartiness. They tested me for the meta gene, even.”

Hartley pursed his lips. “That seems suspect. Why would they do that? What does it matter to them if you have the gene or not? The recent obsession with that gene smacks of eugenics to me.”

“Eh, a little eugenics could be beneficial, if you think on a more galactic scale.” Edward said offhandedly. Both of his tablemates stared in disbelieving consternation.

“What?” he demanded, defensive. “I'm not proposing that we mass murder or sterilize anybody! I just think that anyone who has the gene in a state that it can be awakened, should. On that galactic scale, our species is woefully underdeveloped and helpless. You saw what happened with the Reach! What happens when the next aliens attempt invasion? Do we rely on extraterrestrial refugees and flying space cops forever? Humanity has to step up, and defend ourselves.”

“Yes, but...” Hartly said carefully. “Even if you personally aren't proposing genetic cleansing, can you be so sure the leaders won't? I say this only because the first time one of them does, all three of us are on the chopping block. I'm physically disabled. You have obsessive tendencies that make you a liability the very instant you stop being controllable. And he's Australian.”

“Too right.” Digger grumbled. “ 'Sides, I tested neggie anyway. Looks like I'm a freak on purpose. Anyway, one of the docs mentioned Task Force X, but the others shushed him up right quick. Them docs has somethin' to do with it, and it ain't about health care. Mebbie I'll push 'em on it next time they comes around.”

The three of them continued speculating through dinner, Digger raising his voice in obnoxious 'Australian charm' every time a guard strolled by. Too many of the guards took Digger at face value as well, and the man knew how to leverage the stereotype. Edward was reasonably certain he might be able to worm some further information out of the doctors, if he were casual enough about it.

Less than a week later, Digger Harkness was gone, as if he'd never been there.

[petoskeystones]

everyone has to pick a franklin expedition crew member to write a self insert novel about (your call on romance or not) and i call torrington and jartnell (theyre a set). my self insert is taking them shopping at the mall and then we are going to a frat party where jorrington will learn about vaping and jartnell will learn about standing awkwardly in a kitchen.

[charlesdesvoeux]

[caligarish]

her ass is NOT bridging!!

[perllet]

A slight girl sat at the back of the cafe, a smudge against the white linoleum. She was examining a guide book intently, hair falling over her face as she bent over the table, a black apostrophe on a white page. Commander Graham Gore had been sat across the street, on the fading bench, for over ten minutes, watching her. Muscles tensing to stand, (to - what? Enter the cafe, or go home?), before they relaxed, and he continued to watch, letting the roach burn out between his scarred fingers before he tucked another cigarette between his teeth. She was poring over the old travel-book, with a photograph tucked between her fingers, her attention sliding between the two. The waitress had approached twice with the jug of filter coffee, before withdrawing, scowling at the lack of response.

He couldn’t tell what he felt exactly regarding the ferocity at which she was clearly trying to identify his whereabouts - that blasted photo, sent at a moment of weakness, or a moment of courage. She was a picture of everything that he adored and hated in her, a ferocious, calculating, clever little alley cat, who would find a way to track their exact footprints through the wilderness once she decided she would. She was also a woman who was, ultimately, ruled by her devotion, which meant that if she had followed him all the way to the small town they had chosen for its links to Anchorage and the fact that its people all seemed to be living in the past, then he was included within that small bubble of devotion. All her love and devotion, he still hadn’t decided what to make of it.

On Erebus, and before, at Navarino, even on the Beagle, he believed the decisions he made were a product of pure logic, boiled and skimmed of any foolish fear or apprehension. These last few months, however…He had begun to see the traces of feeling, of his heart, in every decision he made now. If he didn’t stop to listen to what that peculiar, disembodied voice advised him, he would never have left the safe house in London. It used to be that logic saved his life. Now, he wasn’t sure if it was working for or against him. Like now. The muscles of his legs pulled taut, again, as he considered his options. He could be back at the cabin, bags packed, Maggie roused from her appalling nap schedule, and into the wild of this sparse state before she had even taken the first sip of her cold coffee.

It was this image that made him stand. And all questions of logic and devotion drained away as he stepped into the cafe, moving towards the table at the far end of the window. Unlike the waitress, his presence made her shoulders come up to her ears, and she raised her head slowly, already knowing.

Their gazes caught on a live wire. His arms were crossed, his face void of emotion - it was his last defence. Her expression was the opposite, so many thoughts passing over the ghostly little face that he had equally no clue what she was imagining. She swallowed, and tucked the photograph into the Alaska: Lost Steps guide, folding her hands primly over them both. For a second, the roles were switched - she was the mouse pinned under his feline claw.

“Hello, little cat.”

[a/n: I am devastated at finishing ministry of time and I need something anything to fill this void. it was just perfect]

[signofthefloss]

Huh, thought I already uploaded this here. Drawn for an October prompt 3 years ago (damn, 3 years? Thought it was last year!!)

This is from a scene that I imagined in "Saviour In The Clockwork", where he gets so sleep deprived he starts having some sort of astral projection through time and space. This is my fave piece of TMOT fanart so far.

[killyourrdarlingss]

Okay you got my attention. !!

Also shoutout to the girl working who literally looked for like 10 mins for it and finally found in it the back and I was like !!!

[unfamiliaris]

okay fine you guys have sold me

[moldygreenblue]

*The Man Over There, watching the Jellicle cats dancing and singing 'Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats from where ever he's hiding*

The Man Over There: As someone who has a long history of not understanding anything, I feel confident in my ability to continue not knowing what is going on.

[margowritesthings]

Here’s a question… my new series The Meaning Of The Scar is a dual POV, where half is from Arthur’s POV and the other is his love interest. I’m struggling to keep a flow going… what would you think about it being Arthur x an Original Character instead?

[kiwinatorwaffles]

I JUST FOUND THE SKETCH I HAD FOR A COVER OF TWO KNIGHTS DEFENSE!!! (the canvas is flipped here though wels is supposed to be on the front cover) i remember hating this so much because i was painting it. i lost it but im happy i found the sketch again bc im still super proud of it.. ill dolphinitely use it if i ever bind this one but iwanted 2 show u. sorry 4 wall of text

BRO THEY LOOK SO GOOD IN YOUR STYLE WHAT THE HELL?!!?? I LOVE EM SO MUCH ESPECIALLY HELS’S MISCHIEVOUS FACE THANK YOU FOR SHOWING ME 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

[realityhelixcreates]

The Morel of the Story pt 6: Phytophthora Infestans

Chapter 6/?

Trying to get to the hyphae of the matter.

Edward chopped potatoes happily as Erosion perched on her chair next to him, peeling potatoes and piling them in a bowl between them.

'Perched' was an apt term; her legs were wrapped around the chair legs, and she leaned forward, precariously balanced, but seemingly comfortable. She peeled the potatoes efficiently, a tiny smile curling her mouth. Edward understood. After the utterly boring trauma that was prison, even potatoes could be fun.

It was nice watching her enjoy herself, focusing so fully on her task that she barely seemed to notice anyone else was there. A few moments of companionable silence was great, but Edward had questions, and their meetings were simply too rare.

“Erosion.” he murmured, but she didn't answer, nor when he called again. He leaned over closer, and blew into her ear. She made a startled sound and shivered. Good. He had her attention.

“Why are you in solitary?” he asked. “And are you ill?”

“I'm not ill. Pam told you about the doctors. They're just trying to figure me out. It's easier if I don't have any cellmates, and I like it better.”

“You like solitary?” to Edwards recollection, it was a terrible experience.

“Is that weird? I like being left alone. It's quiet, and the light isn't so bright. No one bothers me.”

“Do I bother you?”

“No. But I just like it better than being in a big cell block full of loud angry people. And it does make it a lot easier for the doctors to study me.”

“Study?”

“My...powers, or whatever they're calling them. Changed my body a bit. So the doctors are trying to figure it out.”

“Yeah, your powers...well I don't have any, but you...”

“I don't like them. They got me tossed in here.”

“Will you tell me what happened?” Edward asked.

“I don't want to talk about it very much.” She said tonelessly. “I barely remember. I was drowning in black oil, and then I wasn't. Someone was dragging me between them, and then they screamed, and were gone. I don't know where I was. I don't know what happened. Somebody hit me, and I don't remember anything else. When I woke up, I was here, and I've been here ever since.”

“Ah, I see.” something pinged in his mind. “Wait, ever since? You didn't go to court? You weren't convicted of anything?”

“Not that I recall.”

She was being held without trial? “That is...wildly illegal. You're American, aren't you? You've got rights.”

She shook her head. “I belong here. Those people died, and it's my fault. I'm dangerous. They had to knock me out to be safe. I shouldn't be outside.”

“That doesn't mean you should be in here.”

“But I am. You said you didn't kill people. You said you had standards. Well, now you know. I don't fit those standards.” She stared hard at the potatoes she hadn't stopped peeling.

“Oh! I think there has been a misunderstanding. My standards apply to myself only. My colleagues kill people fairly often.”

The scent of mushrooms caught his attention again, and lost it just as quickly when he noticed Erosion's horrified expression.

“Ah, I mean, it's just not something I'm going to hold against you!” he added hastily.

“Smooth.” Shimmer mocked from behind him.

“Besides,” he continued, ignoring her. “What you described isn't murder. Involuntary manslaughter at the very worst. Self defense by the sound of it. Weren't they trying to drown you?”

“I don't know. They might have been trying to save me. I didn't repay them well. Murder or manslaughter, they're still just as dead.”

“Well...that's true, but...” he contemplated his reply for a moment. This was obviously something that actually troubled her, for all that her reactions to things seemed to be very measured and stoic. “ I think that intent really does matter. Perhaps not to the dead, but to the rest of the world. Our intentions drive us, and they also haunt us. I think that you don't actually belong here. Not without a trial.”

“But I've done something worse than you've ever done.”

“Oh, no you haven't.” he assured. “And everything I've done has been on purpose. I think that's the actual difference.”

“So you're just this annoying on purpose?” Icicle Jr. sneered, slamming a box of frozen fish fillets down on his table.

“I am having a simple conversation that you are not a part of-” Riddler began. Erosion turned to fix the young man with an unwavering black gaze.

“Did you want to talk to me?” she asked, her voice even, almost mechanical.

Junior frowned, but looked away.

“Not really...” he said.

“Okay then.” she turned away and ignored him.

Riddler smiled slyly as the pouting Icicle quietly dumped fish into a container of water to slowly thaw. Shimmer snickered. Erosion simply went back to peeling her potatoes as if nothing else had happened. Edward chopped them next to her.

[petoskeystones]

do you guys think they're going to make graham gore canonically bisexual in the ministry of time yes or no

[charlesdesvoeux]

I finished reading The Ministry of Time yesterday. Might do a full review later (or I might not) but in short: I liked it. It's not trashy at all; it engages with themes of immigration, assimilation, the nature of history, people's complicity with unjust systems, etc. I found the more "spy thriller-y" portions quite enjoyable, but the romance is fun as well. I'd give this something between 3 and 3.5 stars out of 5; it's solid fun. Certainly worth checking out for fans of The Terror and people interested in the Franklin Expedition more generally.