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[wyvernquill]

I'm rewatching Anastasia and this convo would really fit in your AU

Hob: look, Murphy, I'm just trying to help Murphy: do you really think I'm an Endless, Hob?

Hob: you know I do.

Murphy: then stop bossing me around

I'm sorry, this ask is already over a year old, but I finally got around to writing a scene based on it! (Plus some Murphy&Gil bits I wanted to put in somewhere, anyway.) Hope you enjoy!

[Mild warning for contemplation of one's potential death, and having once lost the will to life - I wouldn't call it suicidal ideation, it doesn't quite go there, but I figured I'd better be safe than sorry.]

Link to Anastasia AU Masterpost!

(Tag list, let me know if you want to be added or taken off: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-royaume @kcsandmanfan @acedragontype @okilokiwithpurpose @tharkuun @silver-dream89 @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch)

“Hob.” Murphy interrupts, eyes flashing with frustration.

(Today’s how-to-be-a-Dream-Lord lessons are not going well - not that any of them have, but this one is a particular catastrophe. Gil has already given up on their contrary charge for the evening, and with the way Murphy’s shoulders are up and tension bristles between them, Hob is unlikely to make much more headway tonight.)

“Tell me. Do you truly believe I am him? The Prince of Stories? The Dream King?”

“Yes,” Hob lies, easily, unflinchingly, and with a smile on his face. A good lie has to be treated like the truth, and maybe, one day, it’ll actually turn into one. They’ve been trying so very hard to teach Murphy this, he should know it by now. “Of course.”

“Then, perhaps,” Murphy spits, and despite his feral arrogance, despite the way he holds his head high and squares his slender shoulders, it’s not the regal indignation of a King, but the helpless tantrum of an angry child who’s failing in class. “You ought to finally treat me with the fucking deference an Endless is owed, Hob Gadling!”

(There are tears in his pale-blueish eyes, Hob can see them, can hear the crack in Murphy’s hoarse voice.

Nobody has treated this man with respect in all the years he remembers, that much is obvious. Nobody but his birds. And he knows, they all know, that he’s no prince, that his blood runs red, not blue - runs at all, come to think of it. Endless don’t bleed.

But he wants to be. He wishes he was. Murphy is not Dream of the Endless, but he is ravenous for the spoils of such a role. Desperate to be respected, to be worshipped and revered, desperate to be owed the sort of treatment he has never received.

Hob ought to be ashamed of himself for taking advantage of that helpless hunger for kindness and decency… and he will be. For the rest of his immortal life, he’ll live with the shame of what he did to cheat Death, and still not regret it.)

Hob plasters a smile over his impatience and opens his mouth, gentle, calming words already on the tip of his tongue. Murphy is lonely and frightened and frustrated, that much is obvious. Fine. Hob knew it wouldn’t be easy, to teach their false Dream all he needs to know, and this is not an insurmountable roadblock. If Hob can only reassure him, earn his trust, be his friend, even, it will make everything much easier. Poor thing, lashing out like an injured animal. But Hob can surely coax him into-

Murphy recoils. Flinches back from the admittedly-half-faked warmth, his face, his entire bearing collapsing into itself like a heavy portcullis rattling shut.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls, pointing one of his stick-thin fingers at Hob’s face, “don’t you DARE! I have no need for your false pity, and I want no part of it! I want-” the white of his eyes is bloodshot, and in his terror, in his fury, in his desperation, awash in unshed tears “-I want out. This deal is off. Find some other poor sucker to teach how to play Endless, I won’t do it! I’ve had enough!”

And before Hob can say as much as a single word, Murphy has snatched up his coat and slipped out onto the rainy street, Matthew following - but not after awarding Hob with a colder glare than he would’ve thought a mere raven capable of.

Murphy does not manage to flee very far.

He is in an unfamiliar town, with no money, no valuables besides the clothes on his back that are now slightly finer than he used to be; and the winter is cold and deep and stifling. He gets no further than a handful of streets until he slows halfway across a bridge, shaking with cold more than anger, snowflakes dancing around him. It is a quiet, windless night - and it has always calmed him, to stand underneath the dark sky at night, and know that most of the city lies asleep around him.

Matthew settles on the bridge’s parapet, caws. Hops closer, cocks his head to one side. There is a clear question in his bearing, a what now? glinting in his eyes. Birds are open and honest - unlike humans. Liars and hypocrites all.

“...I do not know, Matthew.” Murphy admits quietly. He has taken the coat, but forgotten the scarf in his haste, so he tugs at his collar, to keep the cold air from trickling down his spine. “I truly don’t.”

He does not have the means to return to London on his own - and at the same time, does not have much desire to do so. He had nothing and no-one there, but for the birds. Pockets can be picked anywhere - he could make a new start in this nameless town.

…if only it weren’t winter.

Murphy shivers, feeling his bones rattle with it. The night is calm, but bitterly cold, and it will not end well for him, sitting in the snow until morning. In the dark of winter, he cannot afford a night without shelter, a day without a sure way to come by some food to keep his strengths up. In London, he would have known where to go. Here, he is helpless.

Damn Hob Gadling, and may Destruction take him! Murphy will have no other choice but to crawl back to him, and hope he’ll be kept on as Endless-impersonator. Hope, because Murphy’s made a right pig’s ear of it so far, slow and clumsy to learn, and outright refusing to play at nobility. He will always be a gutter rat, Murphy knows it. They can’t fashion him into a Dream King, and perhaps this flare of temper will prove to Hob once and for all that there is no point in trying.

There is no point in trying.

Murphy gives up on his collar, and rests his hands on the parapet. Matthew caws, and presses his head against his arm, a far better reassurance than Hob’s false smiles. It comforts Murphy, at least a little. He’s not alone, never alone - no matter how lonely he might feel.

Underneath them, a foreign river flows just fast enough to avoid the freeze. The water does not reflect any stars, but the snow dancing over the surface makes it almost look as if. His own reflection wavers and breaks across the waves.

(Some nights, he dreams of a darkened shore and a sea stretching far past the horizon, black waters that fold up into the night sky, indistinguishable from each other. Of a wooden pier, and galaxies swirling underneath.

Whenever he leans out too far, the reflected eyes he meets are not his own, and he wakes with a scream lodged in his throat.)

Murphy shivers again, and savours the last remnants of his pride, before it, too, will have to be cast into the dirt and abandoned.

“I believe you forgot this, young friend.”

Murphy’s head snaps up.

Dreams and nightmares approach without a whisper, perfectly silent at night if they choose to be. Gilbert is no exception; and if Murphy were to pay attention to anything but his heart racing like a startled hare, he would perhaps be a little distressed by the fact that there are no fresh footprints in the snow beside his own.

But it’s only Gilbert, kind-eyed and not-human, holding out Murphy’s scarf like a peace offering.

Murphy does not take it.

“Did Gadling send you?” he asks, wary.

“Robert informed me what had transpired between you two.” Gilbert admits. “But rest assured, I am here on nobody’s behalf but my own - and, well, yours. Frightfully nippy tonight, wouldn’t you say?”

Murphy does not say. He trusts Gil as little as Hob, perhaps even less. A dream attempting to betray the memory of his master seems hardly like a paragon of virtue, and is perhaps even more suspicious than a deceitful human.

(He does, however, take the scarf now. It’s too cold to be stubborn, and when he winds it around his neck, it smells of sunshine on a summer meadow, warm and comforting.)

“And if you truly wish to leave… dear boy, I won’t stop you.” Murphy does not like the way Gilbert looks at him, as if trying to see someone else beneath his skin. He does not meet Murphy’s eyes, if he can help it. “In fact I would send you off with well-earned compensation for your time, and travel fare. Unless…”

Gil steps up to the parapet beside him.

“...unless I can convince you to stay…?”

“Why would you?” Murphy mutters, instead of why would I, if you’re offering to pay me off? “It should be perfectly obvious that I’ll never pass muster.”

“Ironically,” Gilbert smiles, but only at the man he pretends to see whenever he looks at Murphy, “it is well known among the former denizens of the Dreaming that His Lordship was often prone to very similar bouts of pessimism. I have faith in you, Murphy - and so does Robert Gadling. Please, do not leave. I rather doubt we will succeed without you.”

"You…" Murphy struggles with the words, the sentiment behind them lodging uncomfortably in his throat. "You have great respect, even love, for Dream of the Endless' memory. So why do you pretend? Why try to fool his siblings that I am him?"

For a moment, Gilbert seems ready to insist, as always, that Murphy is, or at least might be - but, to his credit, he does not play Murphy for a fool, in the end. Not this time. Not like Hob always, always does.

"You are quite correct. I loved His Lordship deeply, in a way that could never be understood by anyone but a dream and their creator." Gilbert sighs, his soft meadow-green eyes gazing far into the distance of better days, lined by old grief. "He made me to be the Heart of the Dreaming, and he was the Dreaming, so I knew his heart and self better than any other. The loss, when he… you cannot imagine it, young friend. I thought I would wither away and die. I thought that would be a mercy. To live as a dream in a universe that does not contain Dream of the Endless seemed entirely unthinkable, and to be quite frank, I did not think I would survive longer than a year at most in the Waking."

"I understand," says Murphy, quietly, and he does. He is no stranger to the feeling of being so untethered, only floating along with the end looming over him, death - not Death, no longer, the Endless have been cast from their domains - only biding its time.

(In the first year he can remember, Murphy did not think he would see another, either.)

"And yet, the year passed. And I lived." Gilbert smiles, faintly, taking off his glasses to polish them. "I suspect it was humanity which saved me, for all that they robbed me of my home and Lord, as well. I found… such joy, in this world. In my human form, wandering among them. Calling a few select individuals friends, even. Young Robert's companionship was a particular blessing, and I owe him more than he can ever know."

He sets the glasses back on his nose.

"Lord Morpheus is dead." Says Gilbert. Says it like fact, like something too absolute for the sort of dream-creature born of hypotheticals he is, like an unshakeable truth he has resigned himself to. His voice only barely breaks over the words. "And I shall grieve him for all the rest of my days… but I must live to mourn him. Life goes on, young friend, and we must all move along with it. And, well. I cannot speak for Robert's motivations, but the true reason why I have agreed to this mad scheme…"

Gilbert takes Murphy's freezing hands in his own. His fingertips are not lined quite right, they would not leave prints that look even remotely like those of a human - but aside from that, his grip is warm, avuncular, firm, reassuring.

"I fear that his siblings will not be able to live on without him." Gilbert confesses, quietly. "They are not made to accept change and move on from a loss as monumental as what humanity has wrought upon them. To have you… not him, not entirely, but perhaps enough… it is my most solemn hope that it might give them some form of closure at long last."

"So that's what it is?" Murphy laughs, bitterly. "Charitable concern for the well-being of personifications of abstract concepts!?"

"No." Gilbert corrects mildly. "Love. For my creator's family."

Murphy scoffs. His chest aches with it.

"What you, hmm. What you must understand, about Lord Morpheus…" Gilbert seems to be choosing his words very carefully. "...is that, for all that he was often harsh and commanding, he was so very loving, always. My Lord loved with all his self, even if he would attempt to turn a cold shoulder to the world - and I think you are much like him in temperament, young Murphy.”

Murphy does not acknowledge that. He doesn't think he can.

“He loved his family, and he loved the Dreaming, and all the beings in it. I was his heart, or near as, you must recall, I knew the truth at the core of him.

Memories or not, love as he did, and you will be a credit to his name, and a comfort to all who knew him."

(Murphy does not have it in himself to love like Dream of the Endless did. He already struggles to love at all.

But perhaps, for the sake of the entity whose memory he will dishonour, he can try.)

“So. Will you come back and resume your lessons?” Gil asks, very gently. “You may leave, now or any other time, of course you may. But it would be to your benefit, as well as to that of many others, if you did not.”

“I’ll stay,” Murphy forces out. He could blame the way his hands shake on the cold. “For now.”

“Thank you, dear child. Thank you.” This time, when Gilbert smiles, it very nearly feels like it is directed at him, after all. “Now, let’s get you out of this cold, hm? And Matthew as well.”

Murphy lets Gilbert herd him back to their inn, sits through Hob Gadling’s apology and wonders if it was sincere - he can never tell, with this infuriating man - and continues to learn as much as possible about the life of Dream of the Endless.

But he’s slowly realising, if anything will convince the Endless siblings, then it certainly won’t be the trivia. He’ll have to learn to love like the Lord of Stories, for their deception to have a snowflake’s chance in hell.

(Oh, wonderful. As if this wasn’t difficult enough already…)

[wyvernquill]

One more snippet of the Dreamling Anastasia AU

...in which we witness Hob and Murphy's very first conversation (spoiler: it doesn't go well). Please enjoy!

Link to the Masterpost!

(Tag list, let me know if you want to be added or taken off: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-royaume @kcsandmanfan @acedragontype @okilokiwithpurpose @tharkuun @silver-dream89 @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch)

---

For a moment, the scene unfolding before Hob makes him think he’s stepped into a fairytale - or perhaps a sweet and strange dream, haunting you ever so gently even after waking.

Once upon a time, thinks Hob, there was a Dream King draped in a cloak of midnight, and he held court over the ravens in a silver-winter forest under heavy, snow-laden boughs…

But then he blinks, and the silly, fanciful vision fades. The cloak is but a dark coat three sizes too large and marked by at least ten years’ worth of dirt and wear, the forest only a small and pitiful park fenced in by roads, and the snow a dirty grey, barely more than half-melted sludge where countless feet have trodden it down.

And the Dream King is only some beggar called Murphy, of course, uncanny resemblance be damned.

But there are ravens. Birds of all kinds, really, the sounds of their wings and their various songs nearly managing to drown out the noise of the city around them. Yet Hob is a practical man, and knows that they gather around their ‘king’ only because they’re clever little buggers waiting to be fed, and not thanks to any strange magics.

(Magic died when humanity rose up and brought the Endless low; and what little survived has fled, concealed itself, and would know better than to enchant a hundred or so birds in broad-if-cloud-dimmed daylight.

Magic died with Dream of the Endless, and all that is left are shadows and cheap facsimiles.

Magic died, and nothing will bring it back.)

And yet… there’s potential there, Hob thinks, as he watches Murphy draw his giant coat more tightly around himself, shivering but still holding his head high and proud, surveying the assorted fowl around him as if they were his subjects. There’s a sharp, delicate arrogance in his bearing that will serve their deception well.

And. Christ alive. He does look like him, doesn’t he. Like the Sandman himself, made flesh and bone and sweat and dirt. Made human. If Hob didn’t know, with absolute certainty… he could swear...

Ridiculous thought. Dream of the Endless would never sink so low as to get himself thrown out of a pub swearing and spitting, human or not.

Murphy’s eyes suddenly snap up, and Hob flinches instinctively, contemplates ducking behind the next tree or the column advertising the latest local plays - but the man’s gaze passes over him carelessly, long neck craning out from the ratty scarf wound around his throat as he scans the sky.

It’s the raven. The large, coal-feathered beast Murphy had with him at the pub, with the clever glint in its eye - and in its claws, it holds a whole loaf of bread, clearly pilfered from some bakery or street stall.

The raven drops the bread into Murphy’s lap, and then lands on his shoulder, cawing and nudging its beak against a sharp cheekbone in a strange avian gesture of affection.

Murphy rasps some sort of acknowledgement in his dark, hoarse voice that Hob is too far away to parse, stroking a finger along the bird’s side, before turning his attention to the bread.

His spindly, dirty fingers tear into it with the hungry desperation of a man who remembers with precise clarity when his last meal was, and also that it’s been far too long since then, and Hob’s stomach gives a sympathetic pang. He’s been there. Not so much recently - but he knows the slow gnaw of starvation, and will never forget it.

(He hasn’t gone hungry since meeting Gilbert, who’d rather skip on his own technically unnecessary meals if it meant his young human companion could eat his fill. Sometimes, Gil even hands Hob fruits he’s seemingly conjured up out of thin air, which are never as filling as the real thing, but taste heavenly enough to stave off hunger for a few more hours at least.

There must be some dream-magic there, something to do with Gil being, in all technicality, a meadow - but Hob doesn’t think about it too much. It’s sweet, the actions of a friend who truly cares, and that’s enough for him.)

Murphy raises the first morsel of bread up to his mouth…

…and feeds it to the raven.

Hob blinks.

Watches, as the man takes his own bite, chewing ravenously, and then tears another bit off the loaf, throwing it to the ground, birds immediately flocking around it, picking for their share.

The process repeats. Murphy goes through the entire loaf that way. One bite for the raven who stole the bread, one bite for Murphy himself, and one for the flocks of birds around him. Halfway through, the raven refuses its bites, presumably full, and from then on it’s one bite for Murphy, two for the birds. It’s already not the largest loaf, and a third of it is hardly enough to sate a grown man’s hunger - strangely selfless, this Murphy character. No wonder he’s thin as a rake.

(Then again, Hob supposes there’s strategy in it, teaching the birds that they’ll be well-rewarded for any bounty they bring him.

Altruism, or shrewdness? Hob wonders.)

Soon, there’s nothing left of the bread. Murphy still looks hungry, but it’s an exhausted, resigned hunger that’s there to stay. Hob doubts the man can remember a time he wasn’t hungry. This city is not kind to the starving, to the poor - Murphy might get a place in a workhouse, if he tried, but Hob doubts that quiet pride still shining through the veil of hunger would let him. And besides, they’re dying institutions, these days, workhouses - the modern world is turning up their noses at anything that might help the destitute, even as it churns out more and more of them. It’s a dark and miserable time they’re living in, and none of the glamorous parties the rich so love to throw these days will convince Hob otherwise.

But, well. If their scheme goes off without a hitch, then at the very least the new ‘Dream of the Endless’ will never go hungry again. Hob’s doing a public service here, if you look at it from the right angle - though he’ll be the first to admit that his main motivation is anything but selfless. Immortality is too rich a prize to pretend he doesn’t want it with every fibre of his being.

And he’ll not get it standing idly by and watching, that’s for sure.

Hob straightens his coat lapels, takes off his hat to comb his fingers through his overlong hair, places it back at a jaunty angle - and walks over to finally officially make this Murphy character’s acquaintance.

“Afternoon,” Hob says, still a few steps away, smile widening into a grin when Murphy’s gaze immediately fixes itself onto him, cold and filled with the sharp suspicion of a man most people go out of their way to ignore, and who does not trust direct address.

(The eyes give him away. Dream of the Endless had eyes like midnight stars, the depths of space and the glitter of distant galaxies eternally reflected in them. Strange eyes, inhuman eyes, endless eyes.

Murphy’s eyes are a pale, washed-out blue-grey, slightly sunken in their sockets, and perfectly ordinary.

No matter - they will already have to sell some cock-and-bull story about Dream having been forced into human form, the eyes will be the least of it.)

“What do you want?” Murphy growls, and that is perfect. The voice. Easily his best asset, besides the overall look. It’s right, scratchy and roughened by disuse, but just as deep and sonorous as Dream of the Endless's was. The harsh tone and tendency to curse like a sailor Hob witnessed at the inn will need to go, to be sure, this man speaks too much like a London gutter rat and not enough like the Lord of Stories - but, well, nothing a few lessons can't fix. Nobody else ever got the voice even remotely right, and this’ll already give them a lot more to work with.

“A moment of your time, m’lord. Nothing more.” Hob affects a cheeky bow, and does not waver under the cold disdain he receives in return. Mr. Murphy’s not a fan of teasing and gentle mockery, evidently - unfortunately, that is about 50% of Hob’s personality. They’ll get on just splendidly, won’t they. “Hob, at your service. Are you aware your lady sister is looking for you?”

A quick blink, even as Murphy’s entire scrawny body and haggard face goes very, very still.

“...I do not have a sister.” He says, only the slightest edge of uncertainty and confusion wavering in his voice. And then, “piss off, Robert Gadling” he adds, uncouth and vulgar, a scowl scrunching up his face. Oh, they’ll need to train that out of him, most certainly.

(Hob has not introduced himself as Robert, and certainly not as Gadling. That Murphy has named him thus nonetheless goes over both their heads.)

“No?” Hob smiles. “You’re not Dream of the Endless, then?”

Another blink - and then Murphy laughs, a horrible dissonant sound that seems like it ought to hurt his throat, the raven on his shoulder letting out a single caw alongside him.

“Are you drunk?” He snorts. “Dream of the Endless is dead. Every child knows it.”

“Every child believes it to be so. There’s a distinction.” Hob tries to take a step closer, but the sea of birds at their feet steadfastly refuses to part for him, so he thinks better of it. “You look exactly like him, you know. You might well be.”

“And you would know that, would you?” Murphy raises an arch eyebrow. “I think I’d remember having once been the personification of dreams.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Memory can be a funny thing.” Hob shoots back. “We don’t remember being born, do we? And some lose track of even more than that. How’s your recollection of your childhood, hm?”

Ah. Jackpot. The moment he speaks of remembering and childhoods, Murphy looks away, uncomfortable. Hit a sore spot there, has he? Memory issues. How interesting. How perfectly convenient.

“...you’ve had your fun now,” Murphy rasps, shifting uneasily, no longer so willing to defiantly meet Hob’s eyes. “I want no part in whatever game you’re intending to play with the London Poor, Gadling. Fuck off, before I make you.”

“Now, now, I really do think we’re on to something, here.” Giving up, Hob knows, is for fools who don’t really want to become immortal. “I’m quite certain-”

“Fuck. Off.” Murphy repeats, and turns his pale, unfortunately-human eyes on Hob again.

So do nearly a hundred birds, feathers ruffling and beaks clacking. The raven on Murphy’s shoulder caws, low and threatening.

Hob swallows, and takes stock of his options. Wonders if tactical retreats might not be just the thing for intelligent men who don’t want to die by bird before ever getting to take their stab at immortality.

“I’m only saying-” Hob tries instead, because he’s a reckless idiot.

Murphy’s eyes narrow, and he spits out a throaty sound like a command, the flock of birds rising as one, led by his personal raven jumping into flight with a sharp battle cry.

Shit.

Gilbert glances up when Hob returns covered in feathers and bird droppings, skin smarting where sharp beaks have pecked at him until he fled.

“I take it young Mr. Murphy was not particularly amenable to your proposal…?” He asks, delicately, lip twitching around a politely-repressed smile.

“Can’t say he was.” Hob shrugs easily, only wincing slightly at the way the movement pulls on his skin. “But I think I can convince him, Gil. Given enough time.”

“If you say so, young friend.” Gil, for his part, does not look particularly convinced either. He rarely is, when Hob first pitches his ideas, but he always comes around.

And so will Murphy.

Hob knows it’s only a matter of time… and, perhaps, some clever bribery.

[wyvernquill]

Another Dreamling Anastasia AU Snippet

So, this AU somehow gained some new traction over the past few days, and I remembered I still had this in my drafts! It's a direct continuation from the last post - the first time their paths cross, though I think I'll save their actual first conversation (already written!) for the next part. Mostly a lot of background and exposition, but I hope it'll be enjoyable nonetheless! Thanks everyone for your enthusiasm for this AU!!!

(Masterpost here!)

(Tag list, let me know if you want to be added or taken off: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-royaume @kcsandmanfan @acedragontype @okilokiwithpurpose @tharkuun @silver-dream89 @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch)

(I don't know why it just won't let me do the proper tag sometimes... I hope the people Tumblr refuses to let me tag will see the post anyway, I'm very sorry...)

---

There is a fight just about to break loose at the White Horse Inn.

It will happen because of a man; a pale, stick-thin skinny thing of a man, barely more than an ashen, grimy face under a mop of coal hair balanced on top of a ragged black coat, loitering close to the fireplace and trying not to be too obvious about soaking up its warmth. At his feet, half hidden beneath the torn hem-line of his coat, there is a bird, some sort of corvid, following the other guests - and their purses in particular - with its beady little eyes.

The bird’s master is watching, too, watching the inn’s staff collect coins and shove them into their pockets, watching the plates and bowls of food being carried about, hungry, starving-

And then he’s noticed watching, a barmaid muttering a word or two to the innkeep over by the beer caskets - and the moment the man’s eyes find the stranger, they narrow.

And in turn, the moment the stranger notices the hostile eyes on him, he seems to brace himself, something feral in the way his lips draw back from his teeth as the innkeep makes a beeline for him through the crowded pub.

Words are exchanged.

Words are exchanged, loudly.

An arm is grabbed - and the bird jumps up with an angry caw, beating its wings at the innkeep’s face, and the scullery boy runs over to help, as does the burliest of the barmaids.

(There’s that fight now.)

The stranger shouts and scratches and twists as he is dragged through the common room, towards the door, growling profanities in a hoarse, dark voice, while his bird squawks, wrapped in the scullery boy’s apron.

It’s a right mess, but perhaps not an unusual one - the White Horse makes quick work of unruly drunkards (and those who are here to pilfer money rather than spend it), and even as some guests are following the fight in fascination and with half a mind to join in just for the pleasure of throwing a punch, most of their clientele barely spares them a look. Soon, the stranger will be cast out into the cold and the night again, far away from the warmth of a fireplace, or the smell of food, or opportunities for thievery. Nothing special. Soon, it will be just a quiet evening, like any other…

If it weren’t for the fact that, over in the far corner, a familiar man, and a familiar something-altogether-else still managing a rather sound impression of one, have been nursing their drinks for a good hour already, trying to drown their failures in ale.

(The humans have robbed Destiny of his powers, torn his realm from him, burned his book - but destiny still shapes the lives of mortals and immortals alike; and it is that power, which makes Robert Gadling look up from the sad remains of his beer, and, for just a fraction of a second, lock eyes with the vagabond currently in the process of being removed from the premises.

That is enough.

With just one look, the wheels of fate are already set in motion, and our story can begin in earnest.)

"Hey, Gil." Hob nudges Gilbert's arm, not taking his eyes off the struggling, furious stranger. "Over there. Look."

"Hm?" Gilbert blinks owlishly, following Hob's nod to the commotion behind him. "Oh, yes, yes. Ghastly, isn't it? Disgraceful, that some hoodlums cannot conduct themselves in public houses with the appropriate decorum - in my days, I tell you, when the Endless were still-"

"No, look!" Hob cuts him off. "The hoodlum. Look at him, really look."

"Hrmmm," Gilbert makes a sound of polite displeasure, and fiddles with his circular little glasses, peering through them and across the room, where the haggard stranger is spitting abuse at the innkeep even as he is in the process of being shoved out of the door.

And then, "oh, good lord!" Gilbert gasps, and drops his glasses.

"You see it too, then?"

"I… yes. Gracious, yes. Like a ghostly apparition." Gilbert gropes for his glasses with one hand, eyes never leaving the stranger. "The physical resemblance - most uncanny. A good deal more malnourished and, ah… rather grimy, it seems… and yet, overall…"

"A dead ringer for Dream of the Endless, isn't he?" Hob finishes, nodding. “Better than any of the men that auditioned for us, certainly.”

“Heaven help,” Gilbert’s voice is weak with emotion, “even knowing it isn’t him, I feel like… ah, Robert, if he were only given a bath, some better garb… it would be as if His Lordship walked again!”

“Would be?” Hob’s grin is bright and hungry, like a hunting dog smelling his prey, as he pushes himself up from his seat. “Will be!”

“-and if I see either you or yer blasted bird thievin’ in here again," the innkeep snarls, tossing first the haggard stranger, and then a squawking bundle of black feathers, out into the snow. “I’m callin’ the coppers! Y’hear?”

The word the stranger spits back, gathering all his limbs and his dark coat around himself as he staggers to his feet and off into the night, is so filthy even Hob would blush upon saying it. A bit rough around the edges, this man, not exactly the model of a fairytale king - but such things can be taught, can’t they. Hob’s seen a production of Shaw’s Pygmalion, years ago, and if Higgins can make a fine lady out of a flower girl, then Hob and Gil can make a Dream Lord out of some vagabond.

“Begging your pardon, good man.” Hob leans against the doorframe, watching the stranger’s dark shape angrily stomp off through the snow, bird hopping along at his side. “Howsabout this, a shilling for anything you can tell me about the man you just tossed out of your establishment.”

“Whot, Murphy!?” The innkeep blinks. 

Holds out his hand.

Hob dutifully deposits one of his last few shillings in it.

“Thank you kindly, sir, much obliged.” A tip of the hat, and the coin disappearing in the innkeep’s pocket. “Murphy’s one of the local beggars. A filthy thief, too, and no mistake. He’s trained that raven of his into it - heard the city even pays him some little pittance to control the birds in the area! They wouldn’t do it if they knew what he was doing with ‘em. I don’t like seein’ him around the Horse, not with the trouble he’s causing. Stealing leftover scraps from tables I can forgive, might even give him a full meal now and then in the name of charity - but if he goes for the pockets of my regulars, the regulars don’t come back, understand? Can’t have that.”

“Course not.” Hob agrees readily. “Bad for business, a pickpocket.”

“Just so, sir. He’s been in the London area for… oh, eight, nine, maybe ten years? Hasn’t got a trade, not very willing to do an honest day’s work in any case, can’t hold down a job for the life of him as a result. Still thinks himself better than the rest o’ us, anyway. I’d leave him alone, if I were you - he’s vicious as all Hell, bit the kitchen boy once and the lad needed to get his arm stitched up afterwards. And that raven - the thing’s a demon, swear to God. A familiar, like witches have. If we were livin’ in a less civilised age, they’d’ve strung old Murphy up for witchcraft and devilry years ago!”

Hob hums thoughtfully. “Do you know if he has fallen in with that crowd? Not idle hearsay, mind, but facts. There’s still some men in London who practise the Old Arts, does he meet with them?”

(Hob has heard that the old Magus of Wych Cross died perhaps a year or two after his greatest accomplishment; for all his powers that tore Endless spectres from their lofty thrones, in the end he couldn’t defend himself against his own son finally snapping, smothering him in his sleep, and running off with the gardener. Good riddance to the old goat, in Hob’s opinion - but he had a good handful of supporters in every major city, and they can’t all have died with him.)

The innkeep takes his time answering, staring out into the softly-falling snow.

“...not that I know of, sir.” He finally says, cautiously. “He doesn’t meet with anyone, really, ‘xcept the birds. Solitary type, is our Murphy, with no family, and no-one to miss him if he freezes himself to death some night. But.”

A pause.

“There’s something wrong about that man, if you ask me. He has a look in his eyes… whatever it is, it’s not natural. Might be magic. Might be madness. I really couldn’t say.”

“I see.” Gears are turning in Hob’s head, puzzle pieces slotting into place, plans unfolding.

A man sleeping rough, with nobody to miss him or know much of him, fierce and angry and constantly on the brink of starvation, looking just like Dream. A diamond in the rough, and quite possibly desperate enough to actually agree to their mad plan just for a few weeks of guaranteed food and a roof over his head.

Dear God. He’s perfect.

“One more question, about Murphy.” Hob beams, half-giddy. “Where do you think I could find him, say… tomorrow?”

The innkeep’s eyebrows rise up into his hair.

“Can’t see why you’d ever want to,” he mutters into his beard. “But very well. On your head be it.”

He names a nearby small park, where Murphy often goes to feed his birds, and is rewarded for it with another tuppence; and then Hob saunters back to his and Gil’s table, already feeling like he can almost taste the promise of eternal life on the tip of his tongue.

(“We cannot know for certain that he will agree, Robert. He sounds like a most prideful young man - he is much like His Lordship in that regard as well, I suppose.”

“Oh, he’ll agree. I’ve been where he is, Gil, and there were times I would’ve sold my own mother to the devil for a warm meal and a bed to sleep in. Not that the devil would’ve taken the old bat even if I’d paid him, of course, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

“That hardly makes it much better. We’d be taking advantage of the poor man’s unfortunate situation!”

“Everyone’s situation is unfortunate these days. And we’d be improving his, on the whole, along with ours.”

“Let it be noted, dear fellow, that I am voicing my ethical and moral quandaries.”

“I really don’t think our plan to scam the Endless is very ethical in the first place, Gil.”

“...now that I cannot possibly argue with.”

“There we are then.”

“However! You will have to be the one to suggest it. I will help you instruct him and present him to the Endless if you do convince him - but for now, I wash my hands of the matter.”

“Fair enough.”)

[wyvernquill]

Thank you so much all over again for this beautiful artwork!!! It's everything I could have wished for and more - and the banner saying "Mind Your Own Shit ❤" captures this particular monastery's philosophy so well, and is my eternal favourite. ;3

My drawings for @wyvernquill 's amazing story "Hark The Herald Angels" for the Good Omens Minisode Minibang!

She asked for atmospheric lighting and backgrounds and this is my attempt :'D I quite liked to challenge myself and having my bestie and art beta yell "MORE SHADOWS!!" at me.

Please go read her beautiful and funny story, i enjoyed it tremendously and it made me happy to create some art for it. <3

Check out the other creator's amazing stories and artworks on the official tumblr @go-minisode-minibang!

[wyvernquill]

My illustrations for @go-minisode-minibang - I had the pleasure of illustrating @anoctobercountry's wonderful fic Among the Lions Lives the Lamb, in which a young ex-priest in the 80s receives some guidance from a certain angel-and-demon pair!

[wyvernquill]

He paused, the tobacco tin out on his bed, waiting for him. The painting of the South Downs still on the lid. He touched the painting lightly, before slowly pulling the postcard out of his pocket. Blackadder stared back at him, from where he was standing by his side. Accusatory, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. That sharp expression on his face, confirmation that he never missed a single thing. He opened the tin, shoved the postcard on top, took one last look at it before closing the lid. The two of them together. Over the old photograph of Doris.

Art for (and quote from) twoam's wonderful fic Kairos, which has not left my mind for even a second since I first read it a year ago.

[wyvernquill]

Finally some more Dreamling Anastasia AU!

(Obligatory link to the masterpost with all the other posts in this AU - it's also pinned at the top of my blog!)

So, it's been... a while... but I've recently finally got some motivation to write a bit more of this. Apologies to everyone really looking forward to the finale/resolution - I've decided to go all the way back to the start of the story, instead. I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless!

(Tag list: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-kingdom - since it's been a, uh, really long time, please let me know if you're no longer interested in this AU/fandom and don't want to be tagged anymore, I won't mind! On the other hand, if someone else would like to be tagged in future updates, please let me know!)

---

“Sister… it’s me.”

The man on the dilapidated theatre’s stage shrugs a heavy, moth-eaten velvet coat off his narrow shoulders. It crumples into a dark semi-circle around him, releasing a dramatic cloud of dust.

“Dream… of the Endless~”

.

“Ah. Hm.” A somewhat fussy older gentleman in the empty space usually reserved for the audience adjusts the small circular glasses on his nose, grimacing in a polite and distinctly English way - which he has, once, after first coming to this realm and taking this form, spent hours practising in the mirror - while checking a long list in front of him. “Mr… Carter, was it…?”

“Oh, please.” The man on stage flicks back his white-streaked bangs. “Call me Hal.”

“Yes. Of course, Mr. Hal.” The gentleman purses his lips. “That was… not, er. Not terrible, I suppose. And we’re pleased to note that you appear to have… brought your own cloak.”

“Don’t get used to it. Zelda and Chantal only let me borrow it for the audition.”

“Well, it is a lovely cloak. Only, ah, while Dream of the Endless was known to have quite striking eyes, I do think that, perhaps a little less eyeliner…”

“I could tone it down, I suppose, but I really think the performance would lose something without the makeup.” Hal sighs melodramatically. “I can sing and dance too, if you need it for your… what is this audition for, actually? Play? Music hall show? Ooo, one of those moving pictures?”

“Er.” The gentleman fidgets with his cane, grass-green eyes flickering around the empty theatre. “Well-”

“Thank you, Hal.” The younger man beside him interrupts with a winning smile that only barely covers the boredom and frustration lining a rather ruggedly handsome face. “We’ll let you know.”

“Hm.” Hal, clearly enough of an old hand in the acting business to know a polite “you’re not getting the role, piss off” when he hears one, frowns, and bends down to gather up the borrowed cloak, stalking off towards stage exit right with his head held high, not deigning either of the two men with even one more look.

“...I really do not think this will work, young Robert.” The older man mutters, decisively striking through Hal Carter’s name on his list. It is the last. “None of them look even remotely like him. And the voice-”

“I know, Gil. I know.” The younger man, Hob - only Gilbert is proper and precise enough to call him Robert - rubs at his temples, as if to stave off a headache. “They never manage to get the voice right, do they.”

“Ah, if it were only that…” Gilbert sighs, setting the list down. His eyes are soft and unfocused, seeing far into a past that has long since been razed to the ground. “His Lordship, he… he had a certain air about him, you understand. An otherworldly strangeness. He was the dream-maker, and dream-made, and to look at him was to gaze upon infinity.”

A soft scoff.

“Even if we claim that he has been greatly reduced by being turned into a meagre human - no offence, dear friend - as long as he does not have some spark of endlessness about him, nobody who has ever met him would fall for the ruse. And we are attempting to con his family. I simply cannot see any viable path to success.”

Hob does not respond, for a moment, picking up one of the flyers on their table.

It reads:

.

SEEKING Actor, slender, pale, tall, dark-haired, in the 20-40 age range to play the role of Dream of the Endless (method actors preferred). Generous pay and further benefits await. Auditions each weekday at 6pm at the Old Whickber Street Theatre, Soho. Ask for Hob and Gil.

.

“We’ll find him.” Hob insists. “The perfect pretender. He’s out there, I just know it.”

“We are not the first fools who have attempted a, a caper of this sort.” Gil points out, almost gently. “None of the others ever succeeded.”

“Yes. Well. None of the others managed to find and correctly identify the late Dream’s own pouch of genuine dream-sand on sale at the black market.” Hob shoots back, gesturing at the cord just barely peeking out from under Gil’s collar. (They’ve decided it would be safer if Hob comes into contact with the sand as little as possible, and Gilbert has taken to carrying it as closely to his heart as he can manage.) “It’s hard evidence, Gil, it’s a sign, it’s our chance - and it might just be enough. The trick with a good con is really making it look like you’re giving the mark exactly what they desperately want… and there’s nothing in the world Death of the Endless wants more than to have her brother back.”

.

(She wants it so desperately, in fact, that she’s offering immortality to any sentient being who manages to procure Dream for her.

And, well.

There’s nothing in the world Hob wants more than to live forever…)

.

“Your word in- or, well, kept out of Destiny’s ears, young friend.” Gil sighs, collecting his lists and notes and the remaining flyers, tucking them into his coat and reaching for his cane. “In the meantime, how about we go down to the public house and have a bit of a snifter to wash away the memories of all those atrocious performances, eh, my lad?”

“Best idea you had all day, Gil.” Hob grins, clapping a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder. “Are you buying?”

Gilbert raises one grey brow. “At the risk of provoking a joke regarding my non-human status: in your dreams, Robert.”

Hob laughs; and, together, they step out into the winter night, old snow crunching under their shoes and new flakes beginning to drift, gradually, down from the sky.

.

.

.

It has been a decade since the end of the Endless’ reign.

Ten years since humanity tore Destiny’s book from his hands and burned it.

Ten years since Destruction abandoned his siblings, hiding away in his own, separate exile. 

Ten years since Despair’s first aspect was killed, and another took her place.

Ten years since Delight went mad with grief and became Delirium…

.

And ten years since Dream of the Endless was captured, bound, turned human, and killed.

.

People still whisper about it. Still speculate, trade gossip and hearsay back and forth. Some insist that the Dream King yet lives, hidden away, turned human, just biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to return to his siblings.

It’s a lovely legend, Hob supposes. A fitting end and non-end, for the Lord of Stories, to live on in one… but that’s all it is. A pretty tale, which will breathe new life into a myth only for as long as it’s being told. It isn’t true…

…but now, ten years later, Hob and Gil will damn well make it so.

.

.

.

Ten years is also, coincidentally, all that a man a few streets down from the old theatre can remember of his life.

Ten years since he was found, naked and emaciated and bleeding, in a ditch next to some countryside road in East Sussex.

Ten years of fighting his way through a life in poverty, with no family, no friends, no-one to care for him, except perhaps the birds.

Ten years of strange and haunting dreams, blurred faces calling out to him with names he can never remember later but knows are his; ten years of waking every morning with tears on his face and a longing for someplace - and someones - he wishes he could remember; ten years of a woman’s voice begging him night after night to come home to her, to them.

.

Ten years of being much too busy starving and freezing and barely surviving to spare even a single thought to the dying legends of the Endless.

.

This man turns his face up to the sky, snowflakes catching in his dark hair and on his coat like stars glinting in the night; and he shivers, his breath clouding mist-white in the air, curling thin arms around a narrow torso.

(For a moment, just a moment, his eyes glow dark and infinite, a mirror to the night sky and the endless universe beyond.)

And then, he ducks his head down into his scarf, shivers again, and continues on through the snow.

Ten hard years have taught this man better than to waste his time standing about and daydreaming.

[wyvernquill]

"Serpent of the Opera, at your service."* *The Serpent actually preferred to go by Crowley, but felt like that was more second-date information. "Charmed," Aziraphale said, dipping his head. "It's a very... interesting choice of occupation, I must say." The Serpent - Crowley, we should say - shrugged in a well-what-can-you-do way.

An illustration for my Phantom of the Opera AU!

[wyvernquill]

"Serpent of the Opera, at your service."* *The Serpent actually preferred to go by Crowley, but felt like that was more second-date information. "Charmed," Aziraphale said, dipping his head. "It's a very... interesting choice of occupation, I must say." The Serpent - Crowley, we should say - shrugged in a well-what-can-you-do way.

An illustration for my Phantom of the Opera AU!

[wyvernquill]

Hi there!

I just recently finished "The Whole Damn World Seemed Upside Down" and absolutely loved it! Your writing style enchanted me,*

*You wouldn't know this, but this means a lot in my mouth, since I usually don't enjoy fanfic at all

the plot was compelling, and the characterization was just... on point. It was definitely the best fanfic I'd read.

I wanted to ask if you have considered going back to "Yes And Please And Thank You"? I started it and read the first chapter before realizing it hadn't been updated since 2020. But the concept seemed to have so much potential, I was already sucked in!

Best wishes,

Average Good Omens enjoyer

Oh, thank you so much!!! That my fic is the exception to the rule, so to speak, is the highest compliment I could possibly receive - I'm very glad you enjoyed it.

As for the fic... Written In The Stars admittedly wasn't on my shortlist of WIPs to work on and finish next. But, funnily enough, the fic you mixed it up with also lay unfinished since 2020, until I spontaneously decided to finish it over the past few weeks - so, you never know!

The interest in the fic is definitely noted, and perhaps I'll return to it sooner rather than later, after all. I've had my love for Good Omens reignited somewhat by s2 coming out, and if there's still some GO fic in me after I've wrapped up my current projects (new end-of-s2 canon divergence fic, and an old Phantom of the Opera AU), Written In The Stars will be next!

Thank you again! ^-^ <3

[wyvernquill]

doodle inspired by the fanfic The Whole Damned World Seemed Upside Down ! This fic is so great

[wyvernquill]

A short comic I drew as an illustration for the second chapter of my fic Love and Fraud on Planet Gunsmoke, featuring insurance contracts, fraudulent marriage, and more such shenanigans!

(Image description in the alt text)

[wyvernquill]

Collaboration with @aroshi-wish (I did the line art, Aroshi those amazing colours!) for @greentrickster ‘s wonderful fic That Which Was Lost - in which a vampire lord and an ex-exorcist (also now a vampire) walk into a church, and don’t quite manage to keep their feet on holy ground for very different reasons than you’d think.

Image ID under the cut:

Image ID: Digital fan art for the manga The Vampire Dies In No Time, showing the interior of a church. In the aisle between the pews, Northdin, a vampire lord with pale blue skin and dark blue hair parted in the middle, as well as an equally blue moustache, is standing. He is wearing an elegant, slightly old-fashioned suit with waistcoat, as well as a long coat with a high collar that swirls around his legs. He has one hand behind his back, the other extended above him to the person he is also looking adoringly up at. The other man, the vampire Clergy (also known as Bob in some parts of the fandom) is floating a good metre or so above the ground, his only anchor his hand in Northdin’s. He too has pale skin and light vampiric features, as well as dark curly hair. He is wearing a light-coloured turtleneck, and a long blue scarf, which winds multiple times around his neck, one trailing end floating around his legs, the other seeming to curl around Northdin and Bob’s joined hands, framing them. He seems a little uncertain, but is gazing down at Northdin fondly. There are high church windows in the wall behind them, and melted candles at the foot of the wall, which throw a warm light over the entire scene. Outside the windows, it is night, the dark outline of buildings visible. A large pink-purple-glowing moon illuminates the night, positioned just so behind Bob’s head to give the impression of a halo. The colours suggest a very intimate, warm atmosphere, supported by the tender expressions on the two vampires’ faces.

[wyvernquill]

AH, said Death, at length. Rincewind nodded glumly, and sat down, burying his head in his hands. OH DEAR, Death said, and sat down next to him. YOU REALISE THIS IS TERRIBLY UNWISE OF YOU. “Hemm,” Rincewind nodded, curled up into a heap of unhappy wizard.

Fanart of WyvernQuill’s incredible fic: memento (a)mori !!

(by the way the wizard is fine! He’s okay! They’re just having a chat! Please read the amazing fic for more context!)

[wyvernquill]

SECOND SEASON STARTS TODAY!!! 💜🧡❤️

Art Source (By Itaru Bonnoki)

[wyvernquill]

Damn, the finale of my Dreamling Soulmate AU sure is making me fight for it... 

It’s also getting quite long, so I’m wondering if I should maybe split it in two - except that would drag out the time before the long-awaited reunion and all even further, and I can tell that my readers are already chomping at the bit for that sweet sweet resolution. Hmm...

[wyvernquill]

Happy New Year, everyone! Have a summary of some of my favourite art pieces of 2022 - brief descriptions/characters and fandoms/links to where the individual pieces are posted (if I have posted them publicly at all) can be found under the cut!

Keep reading