#- what with it being a local conspiracy theory/legend and all

[inga-don-studio]

Hello old friend 🖤

#🎃 cryptid sighting #Adventures around Portland #Okay I’m (predictably) in love with Ground Kontrol #It wasn’t the vapor wave paradise arcade I kinda hoped it would be -definitely more of a utilitarian vibe #-but that wasn’t a detraction because it was still fabulous #SO MANY PINBALL MACHINES! #Tbh that was the main draw for me- I’m not very good but I love weird/gimmicky pinball and they had more than I’ve seen 1 place in eons #And THIS! This machine! The Bally Addams Family machine holds a special place in my heart as the one that got me into pinball as a kid #I killed many hours and what little allowance I got on the one at our local theater. Never got gud but that never mattered much to me #I spent some time on the video game cabinets too but they were more in demand & I didn’t want to get in anyone’s way #So glad I finally went! #Now I’m going to hide in my nice quiet apartment for the next few days hdhdhdh #Alas no Polybius cabinet- I half expected one of the ‘recreations’ to be tucked in a dark corner in one of the side rooms somewhere #- what with it being a local conspiracy theory/legend and all

[buttsaremyassthetic]

Niche Crytpids #1: The Loveland Frog

The Loveland Frog is an urban legend hailing from Loveland, Ohio, that started in 1955 when a travelling salesman reported seeing three unusual frog like humanoids on the road before they scuttled off into the wilds. In some versions, it's only one frogman, and in others the frogman shoots sparks from his hands like a wizard. Pretty cool.

Throughout the years there were additional small sightings, with one of the most well-known happening in 1972 when a police officer witnessed a strange hunched animal on the bridge that escaped by jumping over the guard rails down to the creek area below. A few weeks later, another officer patrolling the same general area ran into it again. Being an American cop, he of course shot it and threw it in the trunk of his car to take to the station where the first officer confirmed it was what he had seen weeks prior. The organism was reported to be an iguana with its tail missing, likely an escaped or released pet. However, after this incident, the officers were interviewed by a writer working on a book about urban legend who conveniently left out the iguana part, leading to years of misinformation and explaining why there are now entire new articles weaving together conspiracy theories about the cops covering up frogmen. Yep. At least years later the officer was re-interviewed, where he was very rightfully annoyed about this and told the full story.

Loveland frog sightings have persisted to the present. In 2016, some teenagers playing the then popular mobile game Pokemon Go! near a local lake witnessed a frog creature swim and walk onto land, even allegedly snapping few pics. However, after this event, a DIFFERENT teenager admitted to it being them wearing a frog suit and messing around. Weirdly enough, there have been several recent accounts where it has turned out to be a teenager in a frog suit. I wish that were me.

Please note that at the end of the day, all of these events are modern folklore, and despite the short timeline, multiple versions, accounts, and conspiracies' for all of these events appear. This is just a summary of the most widely accepted or known points.

This month's illustration was chosen by my Patrons, who picked "niche cryptid". Thanks guys!

#cryptid #cryptids #cryptid art #loveland frog #my art #illustration #frog

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Alex Bollinger at LGBTQ Nation:

Conservatives shared a video of students staging a walkout protest in Utah this week, with online commentators claiming that the students were protesting “the furries that bite them, bark at them, and pounce on them,” according to Chaya Raichik, who goes by “Libs of TikTok” online. Another conservative said that the students were particularly angry that “when a student retaliates, they are the one who gets suspended.”

But there’s no evidence of any of that happening. The conspiracy theory has its origin, according to the Salt Lake Tribune, with a misinterpretation of a message sent by the administration of Nebo School District. The message was sent after a bullying incident at a district middle school where one group of students said things “that were overheard by others that the administration felt were inappropriate and shouldn’t be said,” according to district spokesperson Seth Sorenson. One of those groups of students wore headbands “that may have ears on them,” but Sorenson said that the students don’t identify as furries. “These are pretty young kids,” he said. “You’ll have students that show up with headbands and giant bows; you’ll have students that show up dressed as their favorite basketball player, or baseball player. That’s just what kids this age do.”

[...] Some parents in the district apparently misinterpreted the message and started a Change.org petition with the title “Students for Humans at School, not animals aka furries,” demanding the school ban furry costumes, even though the message didn’t have anything to do with furries or furry costumes and the district said that students weren’t wearing furry costumes to school. The petition still got 600 signatures, and some parents pulled their children from school. Others encouraged their kids to protest, which led to the walkout.

Local far-right Utah State Board of Education candidate Cari Bartholomew’s husband, Adam Bartholomew – who hosts a conservative radio show – went to the protest and recorded students and parents talking about how other students wore animal and dinosaur masks to school. In the video, even though the students were talking about “masks,” Bartholomew asked questions about furry costumes and “dressing up like a furry.” Bartholomew asked them if their parents knew they had walked out, and they all shouted, “Yes.” “And I heard that they were putting litter boxes in the girls’ bathroom,” one student shouted in the video. The idea that schools are installing litterboxes in restrooms for student-furries has been a part of the rightwing mythos for years. Schools across the U.S. and Canada have had to respond to parents and local residents outraged about the litterboxes, despite there not being any evidence that any school has done this.

[...] Other conservatives added to the narrative, including Raichik, who wrote: “Students walked out of Nebo School District in Utah to protest the school for allowing ‘furries’ to t*rrorize other students. “Students claim that the furries bite them, bark at them, and pounce on them without repercussion. However, if they defend themselves in any way, they get in trouble.” Sorenson said that there is “no evidence” that any students are biting or barking at other students.

[...] Then, other conservatives condemned the school for allowing itself to be overrun by furries. Anti-transgender activist Riley Gaines, who tied for fifth place at a college swim meet with a transgender woman and made it her whole career, applauded the students who walked out.

[...] The urban legend of schools capitulating to furries and letting them defecate in litter boxes is an outgrowth of right-wing antipathy towards transgender students and often gets brought up in that context. The idea is to make respecting a transgender student’s identity appear ridiculous by claiming that it will lead to litterboxes in restrooms for students who identify as cats. The student-furries myth was a theme in the 2022 midterm elections, with several Republican politicians and candidates claiming that schools were allowing kids to use litterboxes. The myth was a favorite among the anti-trans right, who wanted to denigrate the idea that children could know their gender by comparing it to identifying as a non-human animal and defecating in front of others. Republican politicians and right-wing commentators have repeated the urban legend to gin up moral panic around trans and nonbinary kids and also to push efforts to ban students from using school bathrooms that match their gender identity. Schools in the U.S. and Canada were forced to send letters to parents explaining that kids aren’t allowed to use litter boxes in school, while others – including a few in Colorado that were specifically accused by the Republican gubernatorial candidate – had to defend themselves in the media to the accusation.

Right-wing anti-LGBTQ+ extremists such as Chaya Raichik continue to spread the debunked nonsensical litter box hoax, this time aimed at the Nebo School District in Utah.

#Litter Box Hoax #Furries #Anti Trans Extremism #Anti LGBTQ+ Extremism #Schools #Utah #Nebo School District #LGBTQ+ #Libs of TikTok #Chaya Raichik #Adam Bartholomew #Cari Bartholomew #Riley Gaines #Mike Lee #Megyn Kelly

[aeoris4lovers]

i know bazzoxan is supposed to be a place that most people fled because of the demons, but personally, i choose to imagine that it's still way more populated than it should be because its residents are equal parts infuriatingly stubborn and batshit fucking insane. just think about it:

people from elsewhere in xhorhas having the same visceral reaction to headlines about bazzoxan residents that we have to the words "florida man," and dynasty parents threatening to send their kids to bazzoxan when they misbehave.

locals telling visitors dropbear-style stories about the demons they might encounter (which absolutely do not actually exist) just to freak them out, because why deny the rumors that the town is constantly overrun with demons when they could have fun with leaning into it instead?

religious leaders and worshipers who openly give placatory offerings to betrayer gods and demon lords alongside the luxon and other gods/beings without persecution or even judgment, because no one's going to argue over the philosophy of it when the utility is so clear.

on that note, a general tolerance for religious deviations that most members of the dynasty would call heresy and mock or punish, because being so far from the seat of the theocracy and so deeply embroiled in a conflict that no amount of faith will solve makes it difficult to care much about how others choose (or refuse) to worship.

an abundance of abyssal tiefling children and low-level warlocks in pacts with demons, because in a place where demonic presence is so concentrated near where people are living, of course more of those people will be touched by it.

teenagers sneaking past the guards and into betrayer's rise to drink or smoke or make out or stay the night on a dare or leave graffiti or haze a newcomer to their group or just try to fuck with the demons the way kids at a sleepover might play with a ouija board.

wild conspiracy theories circulating about what's really down in betrayer's rise and what caused it, from "the demons aren't real at all" to "they were intentionally unleashed by a spy posing as one of the original miners to sabotage the town" to "the empire planted them to use up military resources".

extreme circumstances leading to more extremist sentiments weaving through the town – survivalists who insist on preparing for a catastrophic incursion exponentially more deadly than even the worst so far and zealots who claim that one such grand incursion will kickstart an apocalypse of calamity-level proportions, secessionists who insist the town should leave the dynasty entirely and insurrectionists who encourage more drastic action against a political hierarchy that they feel has failed to properly address the gravity of the town's situation.

legends and ghost stories about what happens to people who go down into the tunnels – how they might be trapped or transformed by it, or what the demons might use them for – that are used to scare children into not running off alone or told around fires just for the thrill of the fear.

numerous research outposts from knowledge-seeking groups across exandria, most with research groups at least a dozen scholars strong living there year-round to do their work, and at least one relatively high-level wizard there to study the abyssal magic out of personal interest, all of whom are given protection on their trips into the tunnels in return for presenting their findings (and any solutions those findings reveal) to the military.

tons of drow who finally figured out sunscreen and sunglasses and other sun protection, because everyone knows none of the rich wizard fucks in rosohna are going to bother giving them the safety of constant darkness and the town's own mages have far bigger things to spend their arcane reserves on than the sun.

a general sense of casual disinterest and disregard for the brewing war and the politics of dynasty vs empire in general because they live on the defensive side of a very different fight, which is far more real and urgent than a bunch of powerful people's bickering as far as they're concerned.

streets decorated and full of music and laughter on festival days, with all the games and food and other pleasures you would expect anywhere else, including on festival days that only they celebrate, like the anniversaries of famous victories against the demons or improvised events thrown together with the sole purpose of lifting the townspeople’s spirits in harder times.

cuisine specific to the town, known for unique features like its much heavier incorporation of sun-grown crops than most kryn food and its utilization of enough spices to make even demon flesh taste good (a feat that many people living elsewhere would think is impossible, but when you have more access to abyssal corpses than livestock, you learn to make it work).

despite its lack of a true inn (because frankly, very few people ever think to visit), the town having a variety of places to eat and drink and shop and relax and be entertained, because no one needs leisure more than people who live their entire lives on the brink of very immediate mortal peril.

logically, of course it would make sense for people to flee when they realized how dangerous bazzoxan truly is, but are people ever really logical when it comes to their home? how many would truly be willing to leave after devoting themselves to building something there, and how many would insist on staying and adapting and eventually outlasting the demonic presence there?

canon bazzoxan may be a village populated largely by a skeleton crew of military personnel and the people who keep them alive, but the bazzoxan in my heart is a fully populated and improbably lively town full of people with the balls of steel required to live in an abyssal hot spot for the rest of their lives.

#i love the idea that the demons showed up and a few normal people left but everyone else just fuckin. sat there #like 'what do you mean you want us to move AGAIN? so what if there's demons? they can suck my dick!' #also the idea of verin having to keep This Mess in control is very funny to me. they definitely love him but they show it by torturing him #he is so so exhausted all the time but god only knows the life waiting for him in rosohna would be excruciatingly boring by comparison #cr headcanons #bazzoxan #kryn dynasty #xhorhas #wildemount #critical role headcanons #critical role

[illeaadante]

Concept: the Alien Legendarium

We (the people in the Humans are Weird fandom) have touched on humans love of story and storytelling despite medium, but what I don't think we've really gone into is just how much.

And especially stories from other cultures. Every kid I knew growing up went through a(t least) a phase of obsession over different mythologies. I myself have a deep love of all fairytales.

So, maybe Aliens would be surprised at how much we love stories and how many stories we tell and retell, especially to them. What if other alien cultures didn't share their stories? Their histories, sure, that's necessary for politics and stuff, but what if they never thought to be interested in each other's myths or religions.

We all know that would never fly with humans. The first time someone caught a whiff of a culture's founding myth or creation story there would be at least a small, dedicated group of humans ready to ferret out every version they could get their little raccoon hands on.

Even more interesting if an alien culture doesn't seem to have any myths, legends, or urban legends. I honestly can't imagine a society without things like local ghost stories or religious conspiracy theories, so seeing one, or at least one that appears to not have any of those things, would be fascinating.

Of course, my definition of legend is very broad, so, for instance, it would be incredibly funny for an alien to come up against some of the common social myths. (The first alien to take an exam with a bunch of humans and hear "Y'know that if someone dies during an exam, everyone else gets an A. So, who's takin' one for the team?" definitely almost has a heart attack.) And, and! the aliens know that plenty of humans are alien/monster fuckers, but they're absolutely flabbergasted at the idea that the humans want to fuck their monsters??? Like, the ones from their mythologies??? How did you even know what a Xin'krakx is much less what it looks like?

I'm digressing a bit. Think of how strange humans would seem though, if aliens suddenly had to figure out how to deal with converts to their religions? They go out to see a movie and it's a human retelling of their creation myth that most of them barely know, so how did the human know about it?

And then! The aliens start hearing their own stories, songs written about their folk heroes and legendary kings, seeing artwork and religious writings hundreds of light years away from their home. How did it get there? The humans liked it. Your culture's creation myth is now written down in this beautifully illuminated and hand bound leather tome in both a human language and your native language.

Imagine the confusion.

Imagine the culture clash.

Imagine the space sjws who are convinced that making a short film based on a myth from an alien culture is appropriative, despite the people from the culture in question having no problem with it other than being perplexed at why the humans care about heroes that aren't human or otherwise from earth and from their own stories.

And of course, humans being humans, we would do what we do and collect all of these myths in one place. I can imagine that each alien culture would have at least one volume of legends translated into a human language each that are constantly getting new additions when the researchers resurface. The Aarne-Thompson-Uther multilingual folktale database expands rapidly as well as any cryptid compendiums. Children start going through Andromeda-6 and Corscal-14 mythology phases as well as greek or egyptian or japanese or aztec.

And we do what we also do, and we mix up those stories. We retell them and mash them together regardless of cultural origin. We tell them and retell them and many of us dedicate our lives to studying and learning about them and what they can tell us about the perceptions of the early culture and their values and experiences.

Idk, I just think it'd be interesting.

#humans are weird #humans being humans #I'm talking about those (primarily) white people who think that only people from a culture should be able to tell those stories #which is incredibly funny to me #especially if it's something like a morality fable #sorry. you can't write about the Jersey Devil because you aren't from New Jersey #I just imagine what it would feel like if some alien came down from space and started gushing about. like. Arthurian legends

[caintooth]

you give off grad student vibes; are you?

yeah i’m a grad student, like, spiritually ;) no LMAO i’m kidding it would be fucked if someone actually claimed that

real answer tho, no i’m not currently! i’m taking some time off to work a job, have hobbies, and be a “student of life” or whatever, which is what i was trying to convey with that bad intro joke.

so, this is way more than you asked for, but… idk i’ve been meaning to say a lot of this for a while and writing it all out felt good, so unfortunately your ask is now the base for it lmao!

i think it’s important to talk about academic stress and how it can ruin not just your love of learning, but your sense of self.

for background info, i have a general Associate of Arts degree, and a Bachelor of Arts degree for which i completed a comparative literature major, with an ‘official’ focus in creative writing (though ‘personal’ focus in poetry, video games, film, and the fluidity between those mediums), and a minor in religious studies. i graduated in may of this year.

now, as a child, my mom was very harsh about school, to the point that my cousins would not want to come over during summer breaks because they knew we would be doing some sort of worksheets that my mother had designed. my “free” time was filled with non-stop educational camps, day classes, documentary watching, museum trips with worksheets, etc. until i was about age 14. and i do know that on one hand i am extraordinarily privileged to have had those experiences, and i am very thankful for them! but the reason those stopped is because i also grew up with several undiagnosed, thus untreated and increasingly severe mental illnesses. so i’m sure you can make the connections necessary to see how… damaging… my mother’s academic pressure became. i didn’t continue with further extracurricular programs because i ceased to be able to go even to regular school. my anxiety, both academic and social, became so severe that i was placed on a local program called “home hospital school”, which is normally reserved for terminally ill patients. i eventually transferred to an “early college” program because i could not go back to “regular” high school and at that point, wanted to be done with school as quickly as possible.

i took a gap year after graduating with both my high school and 2-year college degree on the same day. i was terrified and exhausted and having regular breakdowns about having to apply for more undergraduate classes. eventually i applied to 2 programs just to appease my mother that i would have at least one school and a “back-up,” and my first choice was the program at UNC-CH i just graduated from. i attended therapy just to push myself to do those applications.

and the first half of my time at UNC was… terrifying and confusing. i didn’t know what i actually “wanted” to do with my life let alone my day-to-day time, what i enjoyed, or why i was there. my dissociative disorder grew worse during that time than it had in my entire life. but eventually, being away from my mother gave me the chance to explore topics i never thought were even possible in an academic space! i took classes where we played video games for an hour straight, talked about the social origins of different urban legends, dissected how people fall for conspiracy theories, excitedly discussed queer and disabled life as a form of radical resistance… i even got so lucky that in my senior year, i was able to take only the classes i wanted and had chosen for personal enrichment.

what i’m trying to say is that i’d forgotten that learning could be fun. the reason my mom pushed me so hard in the first place, that little spark she saw in my eye: i fucking love learning, i love to discover, to fuel my curiosity, to ask dangerous questions. i love digging into the meat of life and finding out why and how. because it helps me understand more about myself, my friends, my passions. i spent so long doing what my mother wanted that i no longer knew what i wanted, or who i even was outside of her expectations.

which is exactly the reason i can’t go back to school right now. what i hope anyone still reading takes away from my words is this: if the subject doesn’t make you hungry for more, it’s not the subject for you. if you’ve spent so long being force-fed that you can’t remember what’s actually good to eat anymore? you must re-learn not only how to chew, but how to truly taste your food.

‘cause personally i feel like i need to stock my kitchen with so many more ingredients before i’ll be ready to cook the meal i truly want, y’know? and i know some of those ingredients i probably don’t even know the name of yet. to go back to school right now would be limiting for me. i’m pirating anthropology essays, experimenting with new photography methods, taking metalworking classes, writing a fake thesis about my favorite band, reading and reading and reading whatever the hell i want about any weird subject that strikes me. i’m expanding my goddamn palate.

#diary #graduate school #grad school #undergraduate #undergrad student #chaotic academia #academia #college #university #dark academia #< hoping some of y’all in these tags will see this and know you’re not alone. know there are other options. #studyblr #anon #graduate student #grad studies #bachelors degree #associates degree #school #uni #light academia #classic academia #academia aesthetic #education

[iwonderwh0]

You know, even if completely without this iconic duo I'd still want a second part of Detroit just because of how much I like this world setting and how little it got explored. I'd love it if each chapter was completely different little story with different characters.

Some child model android who got so good at videogames that her occasional teammates think of her as some local legend, not aware of her true identity.

Some human-android couple who got famous online as this role models for "perfect relationships" that are absolutely unhealthy to eachother offline to the point of one murdering another.

Some android modder and his fucked up experiments which instead of being some physical modifications are rather about exploring their psychology and the way it can get fucked up – Ralph as an example of such experiments.

More RA9 and the occult around it as well as shifts within human beliefs around some eternal topics of life and death.

More about how some people are actually scared and deeply unnerved, even paranoid when it comes to androids - something that wasn't shown at all during the original game, but what I wish we had a chance to see. Conspiracy theories about CyberLife where some are completely ridiculous and others are surprisingly accurate, but they are all mixed so tightly together that as a result all of them seem to be bonkers.

Work-ethics conflicts within some factory and human workers against their android replacement. Then mass android deviation the moment they are about to get replaced with newer models just the way humans before them were replaced with them.

Mass cybersecurity panic around all existing systems being vulnerable to new threats in face of androids.

More about what the fuck does it actually mean to be human and what it means NOT to be human instead

Dang, there's so much that can exist within this world

#dbh #detroit become human

[in-the-clouds-blog]

The Cube

This is an old school project I kind of enjoyed lol lmk what you think !!! ^v^

Honking, all that could be heard for what seemed to be a mile. On a normally small town dirt highway road- a traffic jam like this was unheard of, bringing the town's citizens out of their homes. No one knew on the stuck conveyor belt of cars what was happening, except for the leaders of the line. This was an ultimate test of patience for the 20 some cars backed up, traffic may take 30 minutes to an hour but this felt never ending.

  Two hours passed, the sun having set, all the cars now empty. A crowd had formed around the cause of the jam. A black cube appeared to have fallen in the middle of the street. It was made of a material resembling the sheen of metal but slightly transparent and seemed almost alive as it appeared to slightly breathe. People were wary not wanting to get too close to the box. The sound of murmuring of the confused people quickly being interrupted as they’re scattered by a loud ring. The group backed up from the unknown object, crouched with hands on their ears.

An aura slowly emerged from the center of the box forming a colorful halo. The color confused the people as their eyes could only see the blue hues, the rest of its colors seemed to be out of their visible light spectrum but still recognized as light. A young boy seemed  drawn to it, its worried mom yelled  to get back but too scared to grab it. The boy entered its mysterious aura, and instantly a scream of agony, too deep to belong to the child, left its mouth. His bones made a visceral cracking sound as the child sprouted to a teenager's height before quickly stopping. The crowd was speechless, anxiously frozen, staring at the now teenager. Shortly after his body continued to contort. Wrinkles were seen starting to form, the man just stuck in place as he saw his hands grow hair, turn gray, then shrivel up like a rotten apple. His skin contracted to his bones as they saw a shadow come out of him dissolving into the mysterious aura. The now shriveled skeleton fell to the ground, his mom staring with wide open pearly eyes was unable to make a single noise.

The group didn't dare approach the square, many of them having left, leaving the skeptics and the interested. The people left talked and questioned the object, attempting to rationalize it. They spoke of aliens, scientific relations such as dehydration, and things like how space can make you age faster. Ultimately, coming to the conclusion that they were probably threatened by another life force.

The night passed, the square sat alone in the center of the road, having been closed off by local officials. The sun rose reflecting that unknown color into the air around it. The sunrise brings a new group of observers, not able to get close after the report of what had happened. The people continued to talk, new theories about galactic federations, “scientific explanations” and people speaking of its origins. Again being interrupted by its loud ring. The group was spread with their attention brought swiftly back to the object. The cubes breathing intensifies as it slowly moves, seeming to start to float. The arid dirt and debris starts to return to its original location. 10 minutes pass, the cube is 10 feet in the air and the ground appears untouched. Its aura seems to expand from the sun's warm energy, the large bright, bluish shadow of the cube reaching what seems to be 20 feet wide. This backed the group up as it ascended, and that was the last that was seen of the cube.

Months have passed since its arrival, now it’s just another legend. Conspiracy theory and scientific talk shows still continue to try to explain it. Its arrival, just as mysterious as its departure, shook the world, with people still trying to make sense of the event and what it means for them.

#sci fi horror #science fiction #short story

[mmikmmik2]

some headcanons

so about those Sonozakis

Ryubee is declared officially dead after the mansion is destroyed, and it's even possible his body is recovered and identified. There are a lot of conspiracy theories about him being still alive for a really long time, especially among criminal underworld types who had any kind of awareness of Museum, but I think anyone who really understood him would know that he would have made his presence known at some point if he were still alive, especially when the Utopia stuff was going down

I'm not sure about Fumine. I'm split on whether Ryubee would have had her quietly declared dead at some point to clean up that loose end, or if he would have let her stay legally alive out of apathy to her revenge plans / subconsciously leaving the door open for them to resume living as husband and wife again, with some bogus cover story about her withdrawing from public life after the death of her son. I'm also not sure if she would have been declared legally dead after her real death. Either way, I think she knew she was dying and was in a good enough headspace to set things up to be easy for Wakana, so Wakana (and then ultimately Philip) was able to execute her unofficial will and take possession of her property (workshops and research and bank accounts and sentimental keepsakes and photographs and journals) and had some route for laying her to rest that didn't involve being alone with a body in the woods and no idea what to do with it.

Saeko's body was quickly officially discovered and she is legally dead. I don't think Foundation X would have cared enough to cover up what happened.

Hmmm... I'm leaning towards Philip enlisting help to get Wakana declared legally dead, though I could also see him being satisfied with just a private unconventional remembrance of some kind with his loved ones. It makes me sad to think of her as this like, "last living Sonozaki escapes from an institution, who knows what evil schemes she's cooking up" urban legend. (Even though with the squad being unable to provide a body or any evidence or explanation of how she died, that would probably happen anyway.) I think there were a lot of people who truly appreciated her show and her love of Fuuto and her affectionate promotions of local businesses, and some of them would have still cared and mourned her even after all the wild shit that went down with the Sonozakis. As with Shroud, I think Wakana was in a good enough headspace to put her affairs in order, and what little personal property she could still access was readily available for Philip.

Raito has been legally dead since the well incident. I think Philip could manage to reclaim his original identity if he wanted to, but I picture he never bothers. The Narumi Detective Agency repurposes some of Shroud's hideouts into safehouses for vulnerable clients and claims some other useful assets from her, between Shroud and Wakana's preparations he has some photos and keepsakes of them and one or two for Saeko and maybe even Ryubee (plus any archives of Wakana's broadcasts), and I forget if we got an official in-story discussion of this but I assume he's able to read about his family in the Gaia Archives now. And most importantly, he has Mick. So there's no need for him to fight for their wealth or their property that's now a smoking ruin or anything like that.

(This is written in complete ignorance of Japanese law.)

#kamen rider w

[ontheroadrp]

[FC, GENDER, PRONOUNS] ever heard about [CHARACTER NAME]? Out here on the road, they have a reputation of being [TWO POSITIVE TRAITS] but also [TWO NEGATIVE TRAITS], no wonder they’re called [SKELETON YOU’RE APPLYING FOR]. According to local legend, they’re [AGE] and when they pull up to camp not a soul can mistake the sound of [ERA ACCURATE SONG] following them. Some say they carry  [3-5 ITEMS FROM HOME] and have been traveling with [DESIGNATED POD].   [alias, age, pronouns, timezone]

FC SUGGESTIONS: Natalia Dyer, Beanie Feldstein, Jodie Comer

— THE ONLY PEOPLE FOR ME ARE THE MAD ONES, THE ONES WHO ARE MAD TO LIVE, MAD TO TALK, MAD TO BE SAVED, DESIROUS OF EVERYTHING AT THE SAME TIME, THE ONES WHO NEVER YAWN OR SAY A COMMONPLACE THING, BUT BURN, BURN, BURN.

It was never a secret that you were brilliant. You paved the way through the Gifted and Talented pipeline at your small school in your po-dunk town. Your I.Q. was off the charts, and you were ten when people started whispering about how you were a genius. You liked the attention, but more than that, you liked the reassurance that you were special.

High expectations never bothered you, because you never failed to meet– to surpass– them. You graduated high school at sixteen and were admitted into a handful of prestigious schools. College was the obvious next step, and who was better prepared than you? For the first time, you were a small fish in a big pond… and it was hard. You still don’t really know what happened, but you knew you couldn’t go home. 

So, a few years back, you hit the road with no plan. For the first time in your life, you were truly directionless… and you loved it. Some days you think about going back to school, picking up the threads of your old life, but then you see a truly spectacular sunset or run into someone you never would’ve met within the confines of a classroom. Are you happy, or are you running? Is there a difference?

INSPIRED BY: Spencer Reid, Robin Buckley

KNOWN AFFILIATES

+THE OVER THE HILL: You’re always on the lookout for a kindred spirit, and then you met them! The two of you have lived wildly different lives, but you like regaling them with only slightly embellished stories of the road each time you get together, and every time you’re thinking of re-entering society, they’re a helpful reminder that it isn’t all it’s chalked up to be.

-THE PSYCHEDELIC: Their effortless, go-with-the-flow lifestyle is fine and all, but they’re ultimately really dumb. When THE PSYCHEDELIC gets talking about one of their government conspiracy theories, you can’t help but think of that semester you volunteered in a psych ward… Safe to say, you keep to yourself around them.

THE  RUBBER EINSTEIN is currently a TAKEN character.

#the rubber einstein #taken

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

(This was sent to my sideblog ages ago, hence the screenshot.)

The only way for the larger populace to know would be if the government released that information. Which given that their entire system seems to be “baldly lie to people while maintaining a straight up feudal system behind the scenes” seems unlikely to me. And especially when the official story for that entire mess was a “terrorist attack.” They definitely did not decide to come clean at any point during that time skip. But simultaneously, that’s *such* an obvious lie that I’m sure people would at least have their own theories.

I think the official lore is that London’s entire population was wiped out. Which yikes, but I don’t think there would’ve been any firsthand witnesses who survived. And even in a situation where there could be a random civilian who was not brutally murdered who also happened to get a front row seat, I don’t think they could even glean a lot from what went down without having prior context! To the random red shirt vampires and zombies and weirdo neo nazis are attacking. What’s one more vampire who goes full Lovecraft on everyone? I don’t think there’d be a clear way to differentiate.

Still, surveillance footage and satellite imaging still exist. This is 1999 so pre camera phones being everywhere, but I’m sure *someone* would’ve tried to capture what was going down on like a shaky camcorder before wiping out or having to flee.

I doubt there would be any footage close or clear enough surviving to give a good impression of what actually happened, but I think there would be rumors at least. Blurry images going around on conspiracy theory sites and like dubious VHS tapes of “what REALLY happened” etc. I don’t think there would be a lot known about Alucard specifically (at least not separate from all the other monsters involved), but the imagery of level zero would probs enter the cultural consciousness. The swarm of familiars, the mass of eyes, maybe even some image of Baskerville etc.

I HC that over the timeskip Integra probs kept a close eye on local urban legends, waiting for Alucard to turn up. And it probably resulted in a lot of false positives for that reason.

TL;DR I think he’d become a local cryptid more than anything else

#hellsing #hellsing ultimate #alucard #integra hellsing #all the bendy punctuations #a mysterious stranger has appeared #I ramble sometimes #long post #*writer's cap* #headcanons #meta

[rosesisupposes]

Mist Connection (Sleepxiety)

read on ao3

Virgil's always been told to be careful in the fog. “Never stray from the path, no matter what you think you see or hear!” He's sure his Aunties are just superstitious. And yet...

pairing: Virgil/Remy (Sleep)

content tags: brief mention of parent death/disappearance; fae-like setting; Remy Is A Flirt; kissing, background best friends analogical 

word count: 4,072

⁂

Virgil has always hated the fog.

He stomps down the country road to his house, trying to make his footfalls louder.

He knows it's superstitious, but the thick, cloying clouds make him feel claustrophobic, like anyone or anything could leap out at any time.

And then, of course, there are the stories.

All his village Aunties talk of disappearances, a last sighting of a poor soul walking into a thick bank of fog and never being seen again.

“Be careful, lad,” they warn him. “Never stray from the path, no matter what you think you see or hear!”

Virgil rolls his eyes at them, smiles indulgently are their old tales. His friend Logan is always quick to point out that all these stories happened just before he was born, so it can only be passed down in rumor.

But a part of him believes, and so he dons his heaviest combat boots, zips his bomber jacket over his hoodie, and he keeps his eyes glued to the ground in front of him, watching each step to stay on the path.

He’s sure the legends are really about caution- the woods here are dense, and difficult to navigate even when it’s clear. It’s all too likely those sad disappearances were just folks who got disoriented and blundered in all the wrong directions.

But then again, one can never be too cautious.

It’s probably because he’s dwelling on those tales that he hears it.

“Virgil...”

Distinctly, a voice. Saying his name. It sounds... familiar, somehow. But who?

He pauses, listening hard. He hears nothing, though, and keeps on. He’s close to home.

He looks up, peering for the porch light. But then he sees- eyes? No, not quite eyes. They’re far too big, for one, but they also look too... blank.

“Virgil!” The voice says again, and now there’s a mouth along with the maybe-eyes. He’s not imagining- there’s certainly a face, of some kind, and it’s speaking to him. By name.

Virgil hesitates. He’s had several nights in a row of not great sleep- maybe he’s just tired and seeing things? But all the voices of his Aunties are yelling in his ear to look away, to keep moving.

The only problem is, the face is directly in the path where he needs to walk. He can only avoid it by going off the road. And that, he knows, is a far worse option.

So he takes a deep breath, looks down, and keeps walking forward. He keeps his eyes fixed at where the cloud meets the ground, at the edge of the little circle of visibility he has in each direction. It moves with him, as fog always does.

But when he chances a glance up, the face is still there. And now it’s more defined, a head shaped in the mist. And now he sees that the large eyes are in fact glasses. That makes sense.

Why am I trying to apply logic to a trick of my eyes in the fog? he asks himself angrily, and he firmly roots his gaze to the ground once more, stomping on.

“Virgil... wait, please!” the voice says again. More words now? Can he still call that just a trick of a tired mind?

Through the mist, he can make out the slightest nimbus of light from his porch lantern. He knows where home is, and it’s close.

So it can’t be too risky, right?

“Who do you speak to?” he asks cautiously, not wanting to confirm that this hallucination knows his name.

“I speak to you, Virgil!” the hallucination says, and its mouth is defined enough now for him to see a smile. The mist is rippling, more and more forming into defined shapes, giving it a neck, and shoulders, and a steadily-growing torso.

“Who are you? What are you?” Virgil asks. He tugs at his hoodie until the hood is free from under his jacket, draping it over his ears and head.

“You don’t remember?” the form asks, pouting. “Am I that unmemorable?”

“And what am I supposed to remember?” Virgil asks guardedly.

“How we met, babes! It seems so recent, but you’re so much bigger now...”

Virgil frowns. Something deep in the recesses of his memory stirs, like a whisper of a dream from many years ago.

The form has grown enough to have arms and the beginnings of legs. “Take my hand, you’ll remember,” it says, extending its newly-formed limb.

“Oh yeah? I’ll remember, and what else? Do I look dumb enough to go around shaking hands with every fog-creature I see?” Virgil crosses his arms resolutely, and the form droops slightly.

“I mean you no harm, hon. I just want to talk.”

Virgil says nothing, just taps his steel-tipped toe.

“Fine, no, sweetie, you don’t look dumb. Just familiar. Hm, do you have an older brother or father who looks like you? Did I skip a generation again?”

The more defined the form becomes, the more human its voice sounds, no longer an ethereal echo but a drawl. Virgil’s not quite sure if he should be reassured or more freaked out by that.

“Can’t help you there,” he replies. “If I have any siblings, I’ve never met them. And ditto on the dad.”

Finally, the form is complete, head to toe. It appears to stand on the ground, but it clearly cannot detach from its cloud completely. “Then clearly, introductions are in order.” It looks at Virgil for a moment, then grows a very similar jacket around its torso. “You may call me Remy.”

“Okay, fog-boy,” Virgil replies, arms still crossed. “You’ve been calling me Virgil, feel free to continue.”

“Virgil. I’m glad to have found you. I’ve been looking for you, you see. Or at least, I think it was you. You haven’t always been this big, right? Humans are weird.”

Virgil raises an eyebrow. “Strong words for a - man? Entity? - who just grew a body out of a cloud. But yeah, I grew the human way. I was a kid. Now I’m not. Are we done?”

“No, please!” Remy says, arms raising as Virgil starts to walk forward. “I can’t- if you go too close to the lantern I won’t be able to speak to you. I- if we did meet, touching my hand would bring the memory back, nothing more. I swear I mean you no harm. Please?”

Virgil hesitates. It’s a risk, for sure. But haven’t the aunties always said the fair folk cannot lie?

“Does it have to be your hand?” he asks.

“No, any part of this form will do.”

“Then turn around,” Virgil orders.

Remy obeys.

Virgil steels himself, still considering the possibility that he could just run to his house now. But curiosity takes hold, and he reaches out to lightly brush Remy’s shoulder. It feels odd, still a cloud, but gives more slowly, like memory foam. And then- he remembers.

He’s a child again, no more than five or so, and he’s lost on the way home. Auntie hurt her leg and couldn’t walk with him. He’d insisted he was able to walk the quarter mile himself. But then the fog had rolled in. He’s cautiously proceeding, staying on the path, but he’s terrified.

He hears a voice, calling his name, and follows it. A smile dances in the mist around him, and the voice tells him it will guide him home, only take its hand.

Virgil wraps chubby fingers around the cloud hand dangling from the mist, and true to its word, the porch light is soon visible. Another Auntie is on the porch, looking frantic, but calms when she sees him.

Virgil lets go of the hand, and he’s back in the present, hand dangling in mid air behind Remy’s back. He frowns in confusion.

“So I met you. And you helped. Why? Everyone not a child knows the mist isn’t friendly.”

Remy turns back around, looking hurt. “And did Everyone ever try buying me a drink first?”

In spite of himself, Virgil snorts in laughter.

“You’re a cloud, can you even drink?”

“No,” Remy replies, pouting, “but they could have made an effort!”

“Fine, so you’re not that bad. Can I go home now?”

“No- please, you’re the first one to hear me in... Goddess, even I’ve lost count.“

“So what,” Virgil asks with a shrug. “Did you just want to chat? Cause small talk ain’t my jam. I have a date with a conspiracy theory marathon.”

Remy droops. “I can’t keep you. Go, then. I’ll return to being alone and formless, reviled by the locals, my reputation cruelly smeared!”

“Holy shit, drama queen much?”

“Why yes, I am a queen! Thank you for noticing!” Remy replies, perking up.

Virgil rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but be a bit charmed by this odd creature. He dusts off a stump at the edge of the road and sits. “Fine. I’ll give you five minutes. Why can’t everyone hear you? Why does everyone think the mist will make us humans disappear?”

Remy’s feet leave the ground as they wriggle in happiness. A flick, and a chaise starts to melt into being out of the fog next to Virgil, giving them a place to elegantly flop down.

“I don’t know why they can’t all hear me,” they admit. “It only seems to be people who are... special, in some way. I think there’s been one a generation, but time’s a bitch and I don’t like her.”

Virgil smirks but doesn’t reply, nodding for them to continue.

“The disappearances... I think time might be an issue again? Time or space. One of those. Maybe both. I thought all humans were returned to the same moment and spot they left, but apparently I’m not the only one who gets messed up?”

“So... wait, what are you, exactly? Are you of the gentle folk?”

Remy sniffs. “How dare. My manners are so much better than theirs. Did I ask for you name? Have I whisked you off to my court? No ma’am!”

“Jeez, touchy! If not fae, what are you?”

Remy ruffles their hair, and it wisps around as if in a breeze. “I think you humans would call me, hmm, a spirit? Elemental? I’d tell you my actual name, but you wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.”

“Try me.”

Remy smirks, then makes a sound like the wind over a heath, the dampened noise of waves lapping at a shore, and the tiny sound of goosebumps forming in the clammy air.

“Okay, you’re right, I can’t pronounce that.”

Remy smirks deeper. “So anyway, I keep waiting to find one of you who can hear me properly, but most people just hear echoes I think? And that freaks out the poor lil human brains.”

“Wow, can’t imagine why,” Virgil replies drily.

“Hey, it’s not easy being ignored and invisible to everyone who passes you! Not that I’d expect you to understand-“

“Of course I understand,” Virgil says with a shrug. “That’s most of my life since the Aunties decided I was raised enough.”

Remy pauses. “What are ‘Aunties’. Are those... food?”

“...they’re people. Why would you think food?”

“Humans do weird things, okay?”

“Sure, whatever. Aunties are all the ladies in town who collectively took care of me when I was a kid. Because no parents.”

“And parents are- the ones who made you?”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Well, how can you not have them then?”

Virgil shrugs. “They didn’t stick around, I guess. I was dropped off at the wardlings house when I was a baby. I’ve only ever had the Aunties, and my best friend Lo.”

“Low?”

“Logan.”

Remy scratches their cloudy head. “Have I seen this Logan?”

“Nah, he was a pen pal, now an internet pal.”

Remy smiles, bemused. “I will pretend I know what any of those words mean!”

“I’ve never met him face to face,” Virgil explains.

Remy’s own face falls. “So you are also lonely.”

Virgil, about to shrug philosophically, pauses. “I- yeah. I am. It’s mostly fine, I’m an introvert. It’s fine.”

Remy sits up from their lounging position and stares at Virgil, or appears to. The glasses over their eyes are opaque, and the gray clouds of their face are hard to read.

“Do you think, maybe- I was so excited to be able to talk to you, Virgil. I would like to do so again, if you would allow it.”

Virgil looks down. The Aunties would absolutely screech in dismay at this entire situation, let along agreeing to repeat it. But- it hasn’t been unpleasant. It’s been intriguing. And Remy saved him, all those years ago.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he replies, looking up with a smile. He’s rewarded by a smile on Remy’s face that’s so bright, it almost seems like a second lantern.

“Until next time, Virgil- wait, humans have family names, correct? What is yours?”

Virgil is standing to walk home, but smiles wryly. “You need a family to have a family name. I was found in the doorstep in the middle of thunder and rain, so they’ve always called me Virgil Storm.”

“Until next time, Virgil Storm!” Remy says. They hesitate, then move through the mist closer to Virgil. “This is how humans say goodbye, I believe,” they say, and then Virgil feels that odd sensation of dense clouds touching his cheeks, one that distracts him so much that he’s barely aware of Remy leaning in until lips of clouds are pressed against his.

When Remy finally withdraws, Virgil’s mind has come to a complete stop, and it’s not until his body has fully faded back into the swirling mists that Virgil is able to make himself move.

He walks into his house, shucks his layers and boots robotically, and collapses on the couch. He stares at the TV as it plays his conspiracy marathon, but his eyes don’t take in a single minute of it.

A fog person just kissed me. The thought, with no useful additions, circles endlessly through his brain, even as he falls into a restless sleep.

⁂

Virgil pays an unusual amount of attention to the weather after that... well, unusual night.

He checks the humidity every day, looks for fronts coming in that might bring in a bank of fog, asks the local farmers their predictions. He never mentions why he’s so interested. Certainly not to the Aunties, but also not to Logan. His friend can tell he’s a little distracted, but not enough to be a real concern.

Virgil’s not quite sure why he won’t even hint at it, but he knows it’s at least partly because, well. He’s not convinced it was real.

He had been very tired, so there’s a non-zero chance he did imagine it all. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

But when he’s lost in thought, he keeps realizing that his hand drifts to his lips and the sensory memory they still hold.

A week later, the forest eases under a coverlet of soft clouds curling close to the ground. From the minute the mist gathers, Virgil is sitting on his porch, peering into the growing fog with anticipation and nervousness.

When he can barely see the first tree, he double checks the porch lantern and walks out, checking over his shoulder until he’s fully surrounded by dense, swirling clouds.

He waits, looking around him, but sees nothing, and hears nothing.

“Uh, Remy?” he says aloud, feeling self-conscious. “Fog-spirit? It’s, um. Me. I mean, it’s Virgil.”

A weight in his stomach is insisting that it was all a sleep-deprived hallucination, and that he’s speaking like a fool into empty air. The rest of his stomach not currently sinking through his knees twists into elaborate pretzels.

Just as he’s giving up hope, turning to go, he sees smooth orbs sticking out of the amorphous clouds. The smile follows, already smirking.

“Oh babes, don’t tell me you mist me!” Remy drawls.

Virgil wants to run to them, to reach out and confirm that they’re really real, but he restrains himself. “I wasn’t sure you’d show,” he says with a deceptively noncommittal shrug.

Their body forms faster this time, and they lower their glasses to stare at Virgil for a moment. “Oh hun, don’t even try, I know what it’s like to be waiting breathlessly for someone to return.”

Virgil finds himself breathless anew, caught by the sight of Remy’s revealed eyes. They glow softly, like the hazy haloes of twin lanterns somewhere in the distance behind them.

He coughs, finding his thoughts again. “Do you  even need to breathe? As an- elemental, was it?”

Remy sniffs. “No, but I can if I want to. I’ve made myself lungs before! It was weird. I don’t know how humans do it.”

“We don’t exactly get a choice,” Virgil replies drily.

“And yet, Virgil Storm,” Remy says, drifting closer, “I think it’s really you who’s taken my breath away.” They cup Virgil’s cheek again, and this time Virgil’s sure his brain has absolutely ceased functioning.

“...erm. Uh. Yes?” he stammers, his cheeks flaming in stark contrast to the cool, humid touch of Remy’s fingers.

“What is this color, Virgil?” they ask softly. “It reminds me of- lady slippers. Early spring peonies. But with the warmth of a midsummer rain.”

“It’s called a blush,” Virgil mutters, still demonstrating the affliction.

“You didn’t do this last time,” they comment, still holding Virgil’s cheek in one cool hand.

“Last time, you hadn’t already kissed me,” Virgil says to the ground, the heat in his cheeks bursting out even more.

“Did I upset you?” Remy asks, a dark line of clouds showing a crease in their forehead.

“Not- upset, no,” Virgil manages. “You surprised me, though. Kind of a lot.”

“Surprises can be good or bad, yes? Was it a good or bad one?”

“It was, uh. A good one.”

“Would it be better if it were not a surprise?” they ask, and there’s mischief in their misty smile.

“Absolutely,” Virgil breathes, veins thrumming.

Remy leans in, and they’re kissing him again, and he’s... god, this is objectively the weirdest thing he’s ever done, and yet he can’t bring himself to care even a bit.

He kisses back, this time, feeling the odd, pleasant sensation of cool lips giving under his without dissipating. He reaches up and finds he can cup Remy’s soft, cloudy cheeks too.

A tiny, insuppressible voice in the back of his head wonders if an elemental has a tongue, or if that’s something they’d have to grow for the occasion.

The question definitely interests him, but there’s a second, louder voice.

Breaking off, it’s the second voice that tumbles out of his mouth. “Do you kiss everyone who can see you?”

Remy pauses.  “I- well. Technically, yes?”

Virgil steps back, arms coming up to guard himself off. The heat in his cheeks feels like ice now. “So, what. I’m just another human conquest?”

“No!” Remy says, and there’s clear distress in their voice. “No, not at all, it’s just- I admit, I have not been... entirely honest?”

Virgil narrows his eyes. “Start talking truth now, then. Or I’m walking away right now.”

Remy holds up their hands in defeat and surrender. “I was mostly truthful, I swear. I don’t know why some people can hear me, but I know why you can. And only two people ever have.”

“And why can I hear and see you?”

“Because of the last person who could.”

“And who was that?”

Remy takes off their glasses, meeting Virgil’s eyes with theirs. “I believe it was your parent.”

Virgil’s ears roar as his brain struggles to process this announcement. His parents? The ones he never even looked for, since no one had any leads? There’d been no note, no memento, no witness of who’d dropped him off. And he has his Aunties. But he’s never stopped wondering, fantasizing about dramatic backstories that he’d never confess to in a million years.

“Who are they?” Virgil asks, in a small voice.

“They were- unique. They heard us, after generations in this village who couldn’t or refused to. They lingered and talked, and didn’t run away in fear.”

“You talked to them?” Virgil asks, hope bursting out of his throat. “What was their name? What were they like?”

“I didn’t, no,” Remy replies with a small shake of their head. “Not until much later. No, they talked to a different elemental, a mentor of mine.”

Virgil stares. "There are... more of you?"

Remy smirks. "Not of me, hun, I'm one of a kind. But yes, there are other elementals. Fog's not the only thing in the world, sadly."

"What was your mentor's element, then?"

Remy sobers, and reaches out to clasp Virgil's shoulder. "Thunderstorms. They were the Thunder Spirit."

Virgil stiffens. "Wait, does that mean- the rain, when I was dropped off?"

"It was them, yeah," Remy says softly.

"What-" Virgil's voice is rough. "What happened to the other one? The human?"

Remy sighs deeply. They drop their arm to their side, and their body follows, falling to sit suspended in their soft clouds. "They disappeared, having you. None of us knew it would happen. They just... melted into the storm. Your parent, the elemental, they were able to save you, but they couldn't save their lover. And my mentor, Thunder- they couldn't care for you, not the way you needed. So they dropped you off and saw that you were picked up safely."

Virgil feels his legs giving out. His parents- not in any of his daydreams had they been, well, magic. He'd thought- maybe if they were, they wouldn't have left him. Or they would have come back.

Distantly his brain wonders why he's not on the hard ground, and he realizes Remy has sent solid clouds to hold him up despite the jelly his limbs have become,

"...why didn't they come for me?" he asks his knees, tears leaking down his cheeks. "Thunder- why didn't they find me, all these years?"

The clouds of Remy's cheeks have grown darker, and small raindrops drip from them. "They were devastated, Virgil. They loved your parent, truly and utterly, and they blame themself for their death. And we experience time differently - it hasn't been that long, for them. They haven't recovered. But they asked me to watch over you, to make sure you were safe."

Virgil swipes at his cheeks. "Doesn't that make you a creep, then?" He glares at the foggy entity in accusation. "Watching me since I was a kid, then kissing me?"

"I was barely a 'kid' myself when they asked me to, I swear," Remy protests. "They were like my- what was your word - Aunties? They looked after me, showed me the ropes of my powers as a new being. I promise to you, I wasn't leering then, I was new and young and, perhaps, interfering more directly than the elders wanted by taking your hand all those years ago.

"There'd been too many oddities of humans and the mist," they continue. "Disappearances. Our cousins the fae causing mischief when we weren't watching. So the elders created me, to survey all that the mist touches."

"So. What. Your love is pure or some shit," Virgil drawls, acid dripping off his words.

"Yes," Remy answers simply.

If they'd qualified, or justified, Virgil could be more defensive, could refuse to believe it. But they just stare at him, glasses off, glowing eyes sincere.

"Oh," is all he can manage in response. Maintaining eye contact has a strange side effect of making his cheeks heat up, so he has a staring contest with his boots, instead.

"Babes, please look at me?" they ask gently.

Virgil can't ignore such a polite request, can he?

But it's a dirty trick. How can he maintain a tough, self-righteously angry exterior when Remy is smiling at him with so much liking in their eyes that the orbs might as well be glowing hearts?

"Can you forgive me, Virgil? For not telling you everything sooner?"

Virgil resists for all of a second before breaking into a broad grin. "You could convince me, somehow."

Remy grins, and lifts Virgil off his feet, fully suspended in the low-hanging clouds. "I'll do my best to be very convincing."

Virgil, the son of a Thunder Spirit and their human paramour, laughs, and pulls Remy in to kiss him again, and again, and again.

#sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fic #ts remy #ts virgil #omg look y'all i finished something #and it's sfw #fog spirit remy #half-human virgil #urban legends #country legends #roses writes fanfic

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

For the Flame Always So Loved the Stars - fic

Characters: Damian Wayne, Jon Kent, Tim Drake, Conner Kent, Kara Kent, Clark Kent, Lois Lane Pairing: jondami Summary: Nothing stays the same forever. But fairytales always end the same way. A/N: This is just a whole fucking lot of self-indulgent garbage. Takes place over 5 years, Damian is 18-23, and Jon is 15-20. The last section is just their superhero way of saying ‘I love you and always will.’ but like. Subtly. I wrote this for myself, but I’m pleased with how it came out, so I hope you like it too. Sorry not sorry for literally the first line of this fic haha. The legend was googled so I took the most similar parts in all the wikis I read. I ignored the part where they all said ‘their story always ends in tragedy and betrayal’ but I’m going for happy endings dammit.

~~

Dick Grayson died when Damian was eighteen.

He wasn’t there. No one from the family was. It was a simple carjacking gone wrong. A single bullet, straight to the chest, from a scared kid who thought completing the initiation to the local gang was his only option to survive in this life.

It was almost funny. A single bullet. No poison, no torture. No evil mastermind, or world-ending apocalypse. No battles against armies, or lives and loves at stake. Not anything they dealt with daily.

Just an old car with a purse left on the passenger seat that someone saw. Just a weak spot in aged armour that was going to be replaced in the next year or so.

Just a single bullet.

Damian doesn’t remember much from after he was told, after he came home from class and found his siblings and Stephanie waiting for him in the parlor. He remembered knowing it must have been bad; Tim’s face was blotchy, his eyes red-rimmed and he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

Stephanie was the one who told him. Cassandra held his hand. But that was about it. That was all his mind supplied.

That, and the fact that his first thought after being told was: ‘But that’s not fair.’

Not fair because Dick was the best of them, in every way. Because he was funny, smart, kind, and every single thing a hero should be. A good person.

Not fair because Damian only got eight years with him, his closest confidante, one of his only friends. Because Damian decided at age ten that a world without Dick Grayson was not one he wanted to live in, and yet here he was, in the worst reality he could think of.

He doesn’t remember much from after he was told. He remembers Stephanie saying: “Dick died, Damian.” He remembers thinking: ‘But that’s not fair.’

Then...he remembers a pain in his knees. Remembers blinking and finding himself staring at the floor, which was much closer than it should have been. He remembers his sister kneeling in front of him, allowing him to press his  forehead into her shoulder. Remembers Jason next to him, rubbing his back, asking if they should get him water, or take him upstairs.

He remembers hearing Tim sob, and that might be the most memorable thing of the moment, because his body registered that that’s what he wanted to do too, he wanted to cry.

But he couldn’t, because you don’t cry over things that weren’t real. And that’s obviously why he collapsed, why he couldn’t form words to come out of his mouth, why his mind was refusing to remember this moment.

Because it wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.

~~

Jon was antsy. Nervous.

Alfred had called days ago to inform him and his parents what had happened. And Jon had already been halfway out the door when the butler interjected to request that none of them visit, not right now. The Waynes and their closest companions were grieving, and needed to be alone.

And he hated that – he hated being away from Damian on a good day, but now, when Damian was going to need him? It was pure agony.

So two weeks later, when Clark gave him the okay, he took off to Gotham faster than he ever had before, and bypassed every bit of security measures that Bruce asked him to complete upon arriving.

He found Damian in the cemetery, and he had a feeling it was a place Damian didn’t often leave anymore.

Jon said nothing as he approached. Just plopped next to Damian and silently wrapped his arms around the other’s neck. Damian didn’t say anything either, but he leaned gratefully into the embrace, reaching up to cling to Jon’s forearm.

“I’m so sorry.” Jon whispered, leaning back. He didn’t leave Damian’s personal space, though. Kept their shoulders touching, knees keeping each other warm. “I…I don’t know what else to say. To think.”

“Me neither.” Damian murmured. His voice sounded dry, and Jon wondered when he last drank anything, or ate. “But…I’m glad you’re here.”

Jon let himself smile a little bit, and reached out to hold Damian’s hand. Damian didn’t refute the gesture, and even squeezed Jon’s fingers between his. “I wish I’d had been allowed to come sooner.”

Damian shrugged. “It was better you didn’t see any of us as we…were.”

“Were, huh?” Jon asked dubiously. He glanced forward towards Dick’s grave. Flowers and statues covered it as a makeshift memorial, and the flowers were starting to wilt. “…How are you doing with all this?”

Damian absently shook his head. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

Jon waited, sensing there was more. Had a feeling that in their grief-induced isolation, not many feelings were shared amongst the Wayne family. That they probably all suffered in silence, despite being together.

“I…I didn’t get enough time with him.” Damian continued, just like Jon knew he would. Because Damian didn’t trust easily, but when he did, he trusted you with everything. And Jon knew he was one of the few Damian trusted. Maybe the only one, now. “Eight years. That’s it.”

He squeezed Jon’s hand again.

“If I’d had known that’s all we would have gotten, I…I wouldn’t have wasted it. There was so much I wanted to do with him. Learn from him.” Damian sniffed, and Jon looked up at his eyes. But he didn’t see a hint of tears. In fact, he saw nothing. Damian’s eyes were empty. “But now I’ll never get the chance. I’ll never get to ask how he escaped Father and Gotham. How he survived on his own, and found himself, or how can I do that too. How I can leave Robin, and start over somewhere else like he did. How he rebuilt his life, how he became and remained kind. Did he think it was possible I can remain kind too? Did he…did he believe in me? Or what about how…”

Damian trailed off, and Jon was almost glad he did. Because in his ramblings, Jon heard something, and he wasn’t so sure Damian meant to let it slip.

“You want to leave Robin?” Jon asked softly. Damian’s mouth clamped shut. “Since when?”

Damian stared at the stone in front of him for a moment, before sighing and looking at the ground.

“A few months.” Damian admitted. “I…just don’t fit in it anymore, I don’t think. Or it doesn’t fit me. And I can’t stay in Batman’s shadow forever, no matter who is wearing the mantle. Besides, Grayson left it when he was around my age. As did Drake, even if it wasn’t by his choice. I might as well follow the tradition as well.”

“…Does your dad know?”

“…No. No one does.” Damian frowned. “I was going to speak with Grayson about it next time I saw him, but now…now you’re the only one who knows by default, I suppose.”

“Well, thanks for telling me.” Jon smiled. He waited a moment, then looked up at the sky. “So…what do you want to do after you leave Robin? Find a new name? Quit and go on the straight and narrow?”

“I don’t know. That’s…what I was going to speak to Grayson about.” Damian admitted softly. “I want to still help, of course. But…is behind a mask the best way? Is Gotham where I’m best utilized?” He sighed, and curled his knees to his chest. Though he never let go of Jon’s hand. “But now…now I am even more confused.”

“Why?”

“Because Batman needs a Robin, and I can’t leave my father now, Jon.” Damian almost snapped, like it was obvious. “He’s grieving, and he’s lost. He shouldn’t be alone. He shouldn’t be left alone.”

“Absolutely not. I agree.” Jon nodded. “But…it can’t all fall on you, D. Just like it can’t fall on Alfred or Tim. He has his family, no matter where in the world they – you – are, and he has his friends. He has my dad, and Diana.”

“This is different. This is the loss of Richard. And not even Superman can heal that wound.” Damian shook his head. “Not to mention…if I left now, would my father see it as a betrayal? Abandonment? Would the family?”

“They wouldn’t. They couldn’t.” Jon argued. “You’re growing up, and they all know how it is. You can’t be stuck as the Boy Wonder forever, that’s not fair to you. Does the timing kind of suck? Maybe. But also…maybe this is the best time.” He hesitated, but squeezed Damian’s hand and said his thoughts anyway. “Maybe this is exactly what Dick would want you to do. Spread your wings and fly, so to speak.”

Damian stared at the ground. “…I don’t know what I’m going to do without him, Jon. I truly don’t. What if, without his guidance, I’m tempted by my mother again, and actually consider any offer she makes? What if I stray, and Batman cuts me loose, like I was burden in the first place? What if-”

“Hey, hey – stop. Don’t talk like that.” Jon shook their clasped hands. “None of that is going to happen, okay? Despite the fact that it won’t ever happen at all in the first place, I won’t let it. I promise. Alright?”

Damian didn’t look at him. But after a moment, he let himself tilt to the side, and lean his head on Jon’s shoulder.

“…Thanks for being here, Kent.” Damian whispered. “It means a lot.”

Jon let go of Damian’s hand, only to wrap his arm around his shoulders instead. He looked at the tombstone at their feet, sent a silent prayer up to Dick himself. “Don’t even mention it, D.”

~~

A few months later, Robin had all but disappeared off the streets. It prompted news articles and primetime specials. Conspiracy theory websites and Twitter hashtags.

Jon liked to print them out and bring them to Damian every time he visited.

He was still in Gotham, and even still going out on patrol with Batman and the rest. But now his uniform was all black, and he stayed in the background as much as he could. This new shadow of Batman’s was never mentioned in the papers, never caught in a photo. A ghost, almost.

That wasn’t Damian’s new moniker, though. He still hadn’t chosen one.

“Not even a general idea?” Jon asked one day, as he and Conner visited. Tim had taken the newly printed article and was reading it over with an amused smirk, Conner cackling behind him. “Or like, a motif?”

“Not a priority.” Damian had shrugged. “Maybe I’ll never pick one.”

“Now you’re just being stubborn.” Jon pouted. “…How’s Bruce doing?”

Damian shrugged again. “Same as always. Attempts to lock himself in the cave, or in his office with work from Wayne Enterprises. I drag him out of the house at least every other day.”

Jon pursed his lips.

“But he’s been smiling lately. Like real smiles. So, it’s a start.” Damian promised. He knew Jon didn’t like this, Damian caring for Bruce. Because he knew that same care was not being reciprocated in the way it should.

“How long are you going to stay?” Jon asked, as he did every visit. “In Gotham, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Also not a priority.” Damian sighed. “I’m needed here, both in uniform and at home. When I feel I’m not necessarily needed, then I’ll start considering my options elsewhere.”

~~

Something felt different when Jon was nineteen.

Clark and Conner found him sitting in the kitchen, staring fiercely into a soda can when they arrived home one afternoon.

“Hey, champ.” Clark hummed, leaning down to kiss Jon’s temple.

“Hey, Dad. Hey Kon” Jon sighed. “How was Gotham?”

“Gloomy, like always.” Conner chuckled, plopping down across from him. “Damian said hello, by the way.”

Jon felt himself blush a little bit. And he shouldn’t have, he’s known Damian forever. But lately, it felt like the two of them were growing closer, in a way he never expected when they were just teenagers trying to live up to their fathers’ legacies.

In a way that included flirting, holding hands in a park, in front of paparazzi. A way that included what may have been a date, since it ended in a quick, barely there kiss.

“He said he was going to give an answer to a question he knows you’d ask.” Clark continued, drawing Jon out of his reverie. “No, he has not decided on a new codename yet.”

Jon groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “He knows this isn’t like a blood contract or something, right? It doesn’t have to be permanent! It’s not that big of a choice!”

Clark held his hands up. “Don’t shoot the messenger, son.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Jon sighed. He sat back up and watched his father grab a glass and start to fill it in the sink. “Speaking of codenames and all that…”

Clark tilted his head as Conner sat up.

“I don’t…when do you think…” Jon huffed. “Conner, when did you realize you didn’t want to…be called Superboy anymore?”

Conner pursed his lips, looked at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Guess I never really thought about it. Just…stopped using it. And eventually everyone else did too.”

“I don’t think I knew that.” Clark mumbled sheepishly. “What do you go by now, may I ask?”

“Nothing, really. And not like Damian where I’m still deciding something. But just…Kon, usually. Different enough from Conner, honestly.” Conner grinned. “A lot of people also seem to think it’s Con – as in Pros and Cons? Works real well for the taunting wordplay and all that too.”

Clark snorted. “I’m sure your friends love the puns.”

“Bart does. Cassie, depends on the day. Tim is like a disappointed dad all the time anyway, so he doesn’t count.” Conner waved off. He returned his attention to Jon, whose attention seemed to be drifting off again. “Why do you ask, squirt?”

Jon frowned at the name, and that was new. Normally he didn’t mind the random nicknames his older brother gave him. “Because…I don’t…I don’t know. I don’t think…I want to be called Superboy anymore.”

Clark joined them at the table, sitting down carefully. “Why not?”

“Because, I’m not a boy anymore. I’m a teenager. I mean, I’m…I’m practically an adult!” Jon sounded exasperated already, like he’d had this conversation a million times. “It’s…it’s demeaning, and childish, and…and…”

He trailed off into a huff, slumping in his chair.

“I don’t even know if I want to keep the Super part, honestly.” Jon glanced at Clark. “Sorry, Dad.”

Clark shook his head, raising his hand. “None taken, Jonno.”

“Especially since I don’t feel all that super most of the time anyway.” He sighed.

“…If you want out of the life, Jon, I wouldn’t blame you.” Clark offered. “I’d love it, honestly. It’d just mean you’d be safer.”

“No, no. I want to be a hero. I want to help. I just.” Jon leaned back forward, hiding his face in his hands. “This is stupid. I feel stupid.”

Conner smiled and leaned forward, slapping his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Not stupid. Pretty sure every hero has gone through it at least once in their tenure. Even Batman.”

“And he settled on Bat. Man.” Clark winked. “So obviously not all names are winners.”

Jon looked over to Clark. “…You’re not disappointed?”

“That you want a new codename? Not at all.” Clark grinned. “My only request is…don’t take over four years to decide something like Damian is.”

Jon smiled. “I’ll try.”

~~

“Maybe I’ll just go by Krypto.” Jon lamented from the bed. “He’s a dog, so I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“If you started going by Krypto.” Damian countered from the bathroom doorway. “I’m disowning you as my friend.”

Jon rolled to his side, deeper into the blankets. “What about as your potential bedmate?”

Damian’s face twisted, even as he came forward. “Christ, Jon. We haven’t even done anything, how do you still make that sound so dirty?”

“Because I know what annoys you. And if you’d just let me say boyfriend-”

“Which we are not officially.” Damian countered. “…Yet.”

“-Then I wouldn’t have to say things like bedmate, or friend with benefits.”

“We haven’t done anything, there is no benefit for either of us at this point.” Damian reiterated, even as Jon tugged at his arm when he got close enough. Damian sat on the edge of the bed, and almost smiled when Jon shimmied over to place his head in his lap. “Though I am finding your company less beneficial by the minute…”

Jon cackled, even as he felt Damian’s fingers twist into his hair. “Hey, if nothing else, I’m a good cuddle buddy, right?”

“My cat is better.” Damian shrugged. “Probably.”

“I’ll take the probably as a win.” Jon grinned. “…But hey, think about it this way.”

“Hm?”

“Even if I went by something dumb like Krypto, at least I picked a new codename.”

Damian frowned, and pulled his hand back. “For as charming as your parents are, neither of them taught you how to flirt properly, did they?”

Jon immediately pulled his arms out of the blanket, latching on to Damian’s waist. “You hate when I sidetrack a conversation. I was getting back on point.”

“…Fair.” Damian sighed. “I’ll allow it.”

“…Are you any closer to picking anything?” Jon asked. “According to Barry, you’re throwing off everyone’s betting pools.”

“I...have an idea.” Damian murmured, keeping his gaze away from Jon’s. “But I still need to think of a backup.”

“What? Why?” Jon asked.

“…Personal reasons.” Damian murmured. “And I don’t wish to get my hopes up.”

Jon watched him silently.

“But we aren’t talking about me.” Damian countered. “Have you thought of any other suggestions for yourself?”

“I don’t know. Something related to my dad, like Krypton? Or even like your dad – he named himself after what he was scared of, right? Or weakness. So, Kryptonite.” Jon listed. “Or maybe I should just be lazy and follow everyone else’s lead. Starman, or Sunguy or something stupid like that.”

“Hm. Well. Those are certainly…options.” Damian tilted his head apologetically. “I’d offer assistance, but…well…”

Jon laughed.

“Be my distraction instead, how about that?” Jon suggested instead. Without warning, he used his momentum to throw Damian back onto the bed, cocoon him in the blankets as he loomed overhead. “Because there’s totally a lot of other things I’d like to be doing than thinking of new codenames.”

Damian smiled as Jon leaned in for a kiss.

~~

He didn’t know how Damian had lasted four years without a name. It’d only been a few months for himself, a few months of not using any name, and he felt like he was going crazy.

He also felt like he was a total letdown.

He was a Kent, for crying out loud. Son of Superman and one of the world’s greatest journalists. And here, he couldn’t choose a name, couldn’t pick a damn word.

Not to mention, it was detrimental in the field. When he didn’t notice an enemy coming behind him, or someone needed his help – he had no name to be called. And they couldn’t just shout Jon.

How did Damian make it look so easy? Because Damian and his family were freaks. They all moved too in-sync, too well trained. They were like animals themselves – they didn’t need to speak, movement was like instinct. Communication could be silent, because all of them were always three steps ahead of each other.

He let out a guttural groan as he entered the apartment, slammed the door behind him a little too hard. Heard the squeak of the chair in his mother’s office as she stood to greet him.

“Hi honey.” She called, walking into the room. She took in the annoyance on his face and gave him a sympathetic, knowing grin. “It’s not the end of the world, Jon. Names aren’t that big of a deal. So long as you’re helping, who cares what your name is?”

“I know, I know.” Jon mumbled, kicking off his shoes. “I’m just frustrated. It shouldn’t be this hard! Why doesn’t anything feel right?”

“Because it’s not.” Lois shrugged simply, leading the way into the kitchen. She motioned for Jon to sit, and got out a mug for him. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. It might take a while, but – when you know, you know.”

Jon groaned again. “Mom, I love you – but that was literally no help whatsoever.”

“Sometimes, the truth isn’t helpful.” She laughed, pouring him a glass of ice tea. She set it in front of him, and kissed his head. “But if you’re really struggling with this…talk to your father. He’s helped a young hero or two discover a new path before. You’re no different just because you’re his son.” She paused. “In fact, I’m a little surprised Damian hadn’t told you.”

“Told me what?” Jon stomach nearly dropped. “Dad finally helped him decide on a name too?!”

“Of course not. Damian is as stubborn and tight-lipped as his own idiot of a father.” Lois rolled her eyes, but it was fond. “No, his brother – Dick.”

Jon blinked.

“Nightwing was a Kryptonian name. From the Kryptonian legend of Nightwing and Flamebird.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Even if you don’t want you father’s help on a name, ask him about the story. It’s very good.”

~~

Tim found Damian in the cave alone, and his gut immediately told him that something was off. Not wrong, but…not necessarily good.

“Hey.” He offered. “What’s up?”

Damian didn’t move from the computer chair. He looked too much like Bruce in that moment – slouched, hands steepled in front of his face, looking too thoughtful for someone so young.

“I’d like to talk to you.” Damian returned, just as vaguely.

“I’m all ears.”

Damian hesitated a moment. Dragged it to two. Tim was about to speak, to push the conversation along, when Damian sighed. “I…we didn’t do it right last time. And I don’t want to make the same mistake twice. Not here. Not with you.”

“…Damian?” Tim asked, moving towards him. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“No, no. I just.” He sighed. “I wanted to ask your…opinion.”

“On?”

“I think I’ve chosen a new moniker to go by.” Damian murmured. “But I want to make sure I had permission first.”

“Permission?” Tim repeated, bewildered. “I mean…as long it’s not like Red Robin or Red Hood or something, I think you can go by whatever you wa-”

“Nightwing.”

Damian’s voice was so quiet when he said it, Tim almost thought he’d misheard, or that maybe Damian didn’t actually speak at all. That it was maybe a breeze, or a ghost.

But when Damian said nothing else, eyes still not on him, Tim realized he said exactly as he’d heard. “…Really?”

Damian nodded, but seemed to swallow a lump in his throat.

“I mean, those are quite some shoes to fill, especially after all these years, but…” Then Tim paused, replayed what Damian already said. “…Wait, why would you need my permission to use Dick’s old name?”

Damian still didn’t look at him. “Because last time I changed names, I took yours.” He frowned. “I stole yours.”

Tim shrugged. “It was over a decade ago. I know you and I have held a lot of grudges in our lives, but trust me. I’m over that one.”

“And I know Todd would never want Nightwing.” Damian continued as if Tim never spoke. “But…you were next in line. You loved Grayson like I did.” Finally, he looked up, eyes boring into Tim’s. “And you’d deserve it.”

Tim stepped back like someone had punched him in the chest. “Damian…”

“You do, and you know it.” Damian continued. “You’ve fought tooth and nail for respect in this family, for every title you’ve ever carried. You fought for your independence, and have thrived as Red Robin. In a way, you are everything Nightwing embodies, and you deserve the title most.” Damian’s gaze dropped once more. “And I don’t want to take that opportunity from you. Not like I’ve taken everything else from you too.”

Tim just stared.

“He would have chosen you himself. I know it. If he were…” Damian trailed off. Seemed to have to take a moment to compose himself. “…If he were still here.”

Tim lowered his own eyes at the thought. It’d been five years since their beloved older brother died. Despite what the world tried to say, time didn’t heal all wounds, and the loss of Dick Grayson was a wound that seemed almost infected now, especially for Damian.

The world was less without him. Less bright, less kind, less happy – less everything.

Just…less.

After a moment Tim smiled. Picked his head up and moved forward so he could crouch next to the chair, leaning his arms on it. Despite being twenty-three years old, Damian turned his head away so he didn’t have to look at Tim, just like a child.

“I don’t want Nightwing.” Tim said honestly. “I’m happy with where I am and what I’m doing. But I appreciate you asking. I’m…honored, in fact.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome. I guess.” Damian mumbled.

“But I have to say I disagree with you.” Tim leaned his chin on his arms. “Dick wouldn’t have picked me to succeed him. He wouldn’t have picked anyone. But he would have been so proud to see you take it on after him.”

Damian closed his eyes, sucked his lips between his teeth.

“Because, for once, I’ll toot my own horn a little bit. I won’t disagree with you on this one. Maybe I do deserve the Nightwing name.” Tim admitted. “But I’m not the only one.”

Damian didn’t answer, but shook his head.

“You do too, Damian.” Tim reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. “You’ve overcome so much. You’ve done so much. And Dick was proud of you for it until the day he died. I know he was.”

Damian opened his eyes and looked at Tim. The tears immediately fell down his cheeks.

“And he’d be honored, knowing you wanted to follow in his footsteps, and carry on his legacy, for a second time.” Tim chuckled. “Especially after your first words to us when you were a kid was how badly you wanted to be Batman.”

“One day I still will be.” Damian blubbered with a laugh. Tim laughed too.

“I know.” He hummed warmly. “But that was all a long, surprisingly emotionally-charged way to say: while it’s not mine to give, yes you have my permission to become Nightwing.”

Even as his tears continued to fall, Damian stared at Tim for a few more seconds, before leaning forward and, once again to Tim’s surprise, enveloped his older brother in a hug.

“Thank you, Drake.” He whispered. Tim just let his smile widen as he held Damian just as tightly back. “Thank you so much.”

~~

“Tim told me Damian finally picked a new name.” Conner said one morning, as the two of them sat on a rooftop overlooking Metropolis. “…He also mentioned you two might be dating?”

Jon’s eyes widened slightly as he tried to keep his heart rate in check. Damian had told Tim?

“He hasn’t told me about choosing a name.” Jon said instead. “When did this supposedly happen?”

“The other day. Maybe he hasn’t made it official yet.” Conner shrugged. Then he grinned. “Though you’d think he’d tell his boyfriend about it anyway.”

Jon frowned. “We’re not dating.” A hesitation. “Officially.”

“Ooooh.” Conner mocked, scooting closer. “Tell me everything.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but laughed as he pushed Conner’s shoulder. “First off, not your business. And second, there’s nothing to tell? We hang out. We hold hands. We…do things.”

Conner wiggled his eyebrows.

“Stop.” Jon chuckled. “I just…like being with him. Being close to him makes me feel happy. Safe. All that cliché stuff.”

“Has he reciprocated?” Jon nodded. “Then why not official?”

“His choice. I think he feels like he’d be judged for having actual emotions or something.” Jon shrugged. “I also think he feels like he’s…not good enough? Or a bad person, or something, and is hoping I might find someone else before we’re legit.”

“Ouch.”

“It sucks, but…I get it.” Jon sighed. “And he just…has stuff going on. Mentally, I think.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we started flirting a little bit right before Dick died. So our whole relationship so far, romantically, he’s trying to deal with the loss, with the vacuum that loss created in his family, and growing in his role as a hero.” Jon listed. “He’s stuck in his own head so much that honestly I’m just happy when I can get him to smile some days.”

“That’s sweet.” Conner grinned. “And proof you’re head over heels.”

“I mean…did I ever deny that?” Jon grinned back, but it was sad. Conner’s own smile fell slightly.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Jon exhaled a bitter laugh. “That obvious?”

“Does he know?”

“I think so?” Jon thought out loud. “And I think that’s why he thinks himself such a terrible person.”

“Because he doesn’t love you back?”

“No, no. I think he absolutely does.” Jon said confidently. “It’s just like I said – he thinks himself as a bad person, and that I deserve better.”

“That’s…” Conner pursed his lips. “…quite the conundrum.”

“Yeah.” Jon smiled wistfully. “But anyway, the name. Did Tim say what name he chose?”

“Nope.” Conner kicked his feet against the building. “Tim said it was incredibly personal, and he wasn’t the one to share it.”

“Interesting.” Jon muttered. “Wonder what it could be?”

~~

He was twenty, very much an adult, but oh boy, did he feel like a rebellious teenager right now.

After all, how else were you supposed to feel when you and your not-quite-boyfriend were lying almost naked, cuddled up in your parents’ bed?

Somewhere in his mind he was panicking. If – when – they found out, he was doomed. He’d never live it down.

(But at the same time, it was also totally not his fault. Their apartment was closer to downtown than his was, and the room he still had here only had a single bed. There was no way they’d fit. And since his father was in space and his mother in the Philippines, the bed would have just gone to waste being empty, so…)

Though, simultaneously, any fear of repercussions was drowned out by the utter bliss he felt at being cocooned in Damian’s arms, and using his collarbone as a pillow while they watched the nightly news.

Under his ear, he felt Damian’s heartbeat slowing, a clear sign he was falling asleep. So it was the perfect time to ask:

“I hear you picked a new codename.”

Damian stirred a little and hummed, “Yeah.”

“What name did you pick, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Damian hesitated a moment, then whispered, “Promise you won’t laugh.”

“Never.”

“…Nightwing.” Damian answered sheepishly. Quietly, like he wasn’t allowed to say it. “I…decided to carry on Grayson’s legacy.”

Jon turned and looked up at him. Without thinking he cupped Damian’s cheek in his hand. “Oh, Damian, that’s wonderful.” Damian kept his gaze over Jon’s shoulder, face heating up in an embarrassed flush. “He’d love it, he’d be so happy.” He stroked his thumb across Damian’s skin. “I’m so proud of you.”

Damian snorted. “Nothing to be proud of. It took me five years to pick a name someone had already used.”

“For good reason.” Jon countered. “And an homage to a great man.”

Damian allowed himself to look at Jon now. He stared at him for a moment, taking in his face, then carefully took hold of Jon’s wrist, and leaned in for a kiss, which Jon ate up greedily.

After a moment, they separated, and Jon twisted back to stare at the TV, Damian’s arms still tight around him.

“…What about you?” Damian asked softly. “Any ideas?”

“I don’t know. Superdude is sounding better and better every day.” Jon said dryly. “But I guess I haven’t really been thinking about it either. Been focused on some other more important things lately.”

“Oh? Like what? School?”

Jon grinned, kept his eyes on the weather report now lighting up the room.

“You.”

Damian didn’t answer, but Jon felt him gently kiss his temple, and lean their heads together.

~~

“Mom said I should ask my dad.” Jon hummed as he paid for their coffee. “But we haven’t seen each other in a while, and you know more about Krypton and all that stuff than he does, you know?”

“Sure.” Kara smiled, taking her cup from his hand. “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re so interested in some old Kryptonian legend?”

“Just curiosity, mostly.” Jon shrugged. “Dad helped Dick Grayson become Nightwing back in the day, and now that Damian is taking the title on, I figured I should learn a little bit about it myself.”

“To support your future husband?” Kara smirked.

“Stop.” Jon groaned. “I should have never told Conner the truth.”

“I’m just glad to know you’re happy.” Kara squeezed his hand as they walked outside. “And also that I now have a viable reason to beat Damian up.”

“And that reason would be?”

“For the honor of my littlest cousin.” She winked. Jon found himself laughing. “Thanks for walking me back to the office, by the way. I’m sorry we couldn’t have lunch today.”

“I totally understand. I have to get back to campus for class soon anyway.” Jon waved off. “Rain check for a movie night, though?”

“Absolutely. Go buy a lot of tissues, wine and chocolate, because I am in the mood for some tearjerkers.” Kara demanded. “And…Damian is more than welcome to join us, if he’d like.”

“He’d never.” Jon promised as they jogged across a crosswalk. “But he’ll appreciate the invite.”

“Are you just saying that, or would he really?”

“Honestly, he really would.” Jon swore. “He’s trying not to take little things like that for granted anymore. Not since…well. You know.”

Kara frowned. “…I miss him too.”

“Everyone does.” Jon murmured as they stopped outside a building. Some people waved to Kara as they exited and jumped into a taxi nearby. “He was the best of all of us.”

“Give Damian my regards, and a hug for me. Tell him I’m sorry about Dick, if you think it’s appropriate.” Kara murmured as she turned to her purse, and began digging in it. After a moment, she held out a book. It looked old, and pages were misshaped, almost like they’d been gnawed on, or burned. “First, last and only edition.”

Jon took the tome, marveling at the etched green cover, and symbols seemingly floating around the image. But then he frowned. “Kara.” He sighed. “You know my Kryptonian isn’t that good.”

“Well then this will be a great tool to learn.” She smiled, squeezing his bicep. Someone suddenly called Kara from the door. She smiled and waved back before glancing to Jon. “Gotta go, kiddo. It was great seeing you! Tell your pops hi for me!”

She turned, and began to jog away, when Jon called after her. “Kara, wait!”

She did, glancing over her shoulder.

“Give me a quick summary?” He tried with a lopsided grin. “You know, to keep me interested?”

Kara twisted her lips in thought, then smiled. “Nightwing and Flamebird always find each other in the end.”

She took a sip of her coffee and disappeared into her office.

~~

By two o’clock in the morning that very night, Jon sat at the desk in his apartment, tears pouring down his face.

The legend was magical, breathtaking, awe-inspiring…but heartbreaking. The most heartbreaking thing he’d ever read.

But it also made him realize exactly what he needed to do. Exactly what his future was.

Exactly who his future was.

Without thinking, he wiped the tears from his eyes, and laughed as he stood, turning towards his window.

It would be a quick flight to Gotham, and surely Alfred was still awake at this hour.

~~

Damian stood on the top of Wayne Tower, staring at the city below him. The city he’d come to think of as home. The city that was…his.

He felt weird without the cape, without the hood. Was still getting used to the tight, plain bodysuit. The lighter armour. The dip of red across his chest.

He could take Grayson’s name, but he could never take his colors. That blue was too pure. Damian refused to taint it.

He inhaled and held his breath, then exhaled slowly. It was his first night in his new gear – would the villains know who he was? Would they mock him? Could he live up to his brother’s standards? Would he honor his memory?

“Damn.” He heard off to his side. “You look good.”

Damian glanced over, and found himself at a loss for words. The other man was in a similarly simple bodysuit, though instead of black, it was a deep blue. Opposite of the downward red arrow on Damian’s chest, the bright, near-blinding golden arrow on the other pointed upwards, almost looking like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

Damian stared for a moment, taking it in, before meeting Jon’s eyes. “This is new.”

“You like?” Jon asked, practically shy. “Alfred helped me make it.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.” Jon stepped forwards. His boots, which matched the shimmering yellow on his chest, seemed to flicker as he walked, like fire. “I mean, he helped make yours, and it’s only natural our designs match a little bit.”

“Why would they need to match?” Damian asked. Then he squinted. “Jonathan Kent, have you chosen a new moniker?”

“I did indeed.” Jon grinned. “Surely Dick told you how he got his name.”

“He did.”

“Did he tell you the story behind it?”

“He did not. But I’ve heard of it.” Damian found his voice going quieter, his throat drying up. “Your father told me, I believe.”

“Mhm.” Jon reached out, gently taking Damian’s hand in his, raising it between them. “And do you remember how it goes?”

Damian blinked, then smiled. “Refresh my memory.”

“Nightwing can’t exist without Flamebird.” Jon smirked. He pressed his lips to Damian’s knuckles. “And no matter the universe, no matter the situation, they always find each other in the end.”

“…Well, Flamebird.” Damian whispered softly. “I’m glad you found me.”

“I’m glad you found me too.” Jon stood back up. “Ready for our first official patrol in the new digs? Say goodbye to Robin and Superboy forever?”

“Do you want to call it our first official patrol?” Damian let his grin widen. “Or perhaps our first official date?”

Jon gaped at him, eyes wide and hopeful. “For real?”

“For real.” Damian promised. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting-”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Jon surged forward, wrapping him in his arms and lifting him off the tower’s ledge as he smashed their mouths together. Damian let his surprise linger for only a second, before grabbing both sides of Jon’s head and returning the gesture.

The moment felt like it lasted both an eternity and no longer than a blink. When they parted, they were both out of breath, and trembling from the emotional adrenaline.

“Flamebird.” Damian breathed as Jon lowered him, his hands still on Jon’s face. “I think I like it.”

“Good. Because I didn’t have any backups.” Jon chuckled.

“It suits you, I think.” Damian smiled.

“Nightwing suits you just as well.” Jon countered. “…Dick would be so proud.”

Damian just lowered his gaze, but allowed himself to keep smiling.

“…Well.” Damian exhaled, looking out into the city. “Shall we?”

Jon bowed, holding his arm out. “After you, ‘Wing.”

Damian laughed and turned, stepping off the building and allowing himself to freefall. “Follow me, ‘Bird.”

Jon smiled, and jumped right after him.

#jon kent #Damian Wayne #jondami #Tim Drake #conner kent #kara zor-el #clark kent #Lois Lane

[bigskydreaming]

Headcanon that in a world where superhero sightings probably get talked about in the same way people talk about seeing a famous celebrity out on the street somewhere, people also post and share stories about being saved by a superhero to social media.

And Gotham has plenty of those stories being posted by its citizens, seeing as how there’s more than a few vigilantes operating all across the city and has been for years. You’ve got the Batman saves, and the Batwoman saves, the Batgirls, the Huntress, the occasional Catwoman save and Batwing and more....and then of course, you’ve got everyone who has a story about being saved by a Robin.

Because of course in a city as associated with darkness as Gotham, the bold brightness of the Robins have always stood out in contrast...that’s part of the point of them after all. Its not necessarily that they’re thought of more than any of their less colorful counterparts, so much as that they’ve always had a tendency to...capture the imagination. Especially with their age, and yet still undeniably skilled....the mere oddity of their presence alongside the grim and dour Batman in the first place....the fact that over time, it became evident to anyone that there was more than one, that a succession of some sort was taking place...

All of those are the kinds of things that make people wonder. Speculate. Talk.

And at some point in the past, that talking led to communities. Online groups at first, largely conspiracy theory type servers that liked to toss out theories about where Robin came from, how does a kid end up a crime fighter on par with someone like Batman, who stands side by side with the mightiest of the Justice League....where Robin was and if he was alright, when the first one disappeared without a word and after years of Gotham growing used to his presence, being suddenly aware all over again of just how young he was and that his presence might not be as permanent as they’d all grown to expect (hope)...wondering (hoping) if this new Nightwing character who was seen in New York with the rest of the Titans, where Robin used to stand, if maybe that might be him and just what that might mean and why.....

And of course, it wouldn’t be surprising if the people most focused on Robin in particular, most invested in wondering about who he might be and where he was now, if he was alright, if he was still out there saving people even if under another name, well....it only makes sense that a lot of the people in those specific online groups, little communities....were ones who had at some point had their own stories to share. About a time a mischievous kid older than his years had saved them from some terrible fate, reassuring them with a confidence that defied his young age and making them feel safe with a demonstration of skill that was all the more impressive considering that very same fact.

Because here’s the thing about being saved by a hero: that only tends to happen when you’re in some great danger in the first place. The kind of thing that will always stick with you, even if you ended up making it home alright that night, even if it didn’t end as badly for you as it could’ve...because you’re unable to avoid the realization of what that ‘could’ve’ really entails. That’s the kind of experience that for many people can be life-changing, the first time violence transitioned from just being a thing you watched happen safely from the other side of a screen, to a thing that you were face to face with, surrounded by, immersed in....

Even when you walk away from something like that, you don’t walk away quite the same. And that’s something only someone with similar experience, similar knowledge, will ever quite get, in that way that makes you feel secure that you’re not just being humored, you’re not just being fed the right words by someone who secretly is listening to you share your story while thinking “well how bad, how dangerous could it really have been, if a kid could be the one to save you from it?”

So its only natural that Gothamites with similar experiences, similar stories, would find each other online. Gravitate towards each other over time. And because they’re all largely local still, eventually small gatherings start to happen in real time, offline. Just a few people at first, grabbing a drink together and swapping stories. But then one meet-up becomes two, adds a few more people and next thing you know there’s a regular thing happening in some hole in the wall place only born and bred Gothamites ever frequent. Maybe just once a month. Maybe not even that often. Once every couple of months, a bunch of people just talking, sharing, bonding over the times they survived a brush with Gotham’s darkness, all thanks to the help of just a little patch of bright.

Because here’s the thing nobody else, no matter how sympathetic, ever quite one hundred percent gets: and that’s just how scared they were on the night their save happened. Just how close it really was, just how thin the faint line between what happened and what could’ve happened actually looked, every time they look back on it. 

See, because compared to that - and what else do most of them have to compare it to - the calm, steady, cheerful reassurances of the Boy Wonder stood out all the more. Then and now. Both in his presence and in their hindsight. 

To have been so shaken by their own close calls, and only finding comfort through his confidence that it was okay, it was over, they were safe now...only able to believe him because he said it all with such conviction that it must be true, just as all the rumors of a boy who could fly like the Bat and take down criminals just as capably had turned out (thankfully) to be more than just urban legend and exaggerated rumors....

Well, its usually only days later that most of them untangled enough of what they were thinking and feeling after their near-miss, to see that surety of his for what it was: experience. The very same experience they’d had, with violence, with near-death....just multiplied by however many dangers he’d confronted that same night he’d saved them, and that multiplied by however many nights he’d spent out there saving anyone at all.

That was a lot of danger, when they really thought about it, tallied it all up. A lot of violence, a lot of blood and screaming as well as all the things they’d been spared from experiencing but that not everyone could be similarly spared from, not in a city like Gotham, not in a place where there was so much darkness and only so many tiny little patches of bright breaking through.

And when they thought about it like that, and thought back to how young he’d been, yet still so capable, so unphased, unbothered...the rock they’d needed to desperately cling to, something stable and unmoving to grab hold of while they found their footing, sought out solid ground firm enough under their feet again that they could steadily walk the rest of the way on their own...

...that’s when the doubts start to actually creep in, you see. That’s when they start to question their own recollection of the night in question, doubt what they’d seen. Wonder if maybe they hadn’t just bought into the myth, the legend, and imagined him as smaller, younger than he really was. That’s when they start to think: did it really even happen? Could I have just dreamed it all?

Because how could someone like that even be real, is what they almost all had at some point wondered. Asked themselves. In a world of aliens and gods, it still at times seems impossible to them that someone like that could truly exist. That he wasn’t just a figment of their imagination, a fairy tale they’d conjured to make the world seem a little less drab, a little less dark. Yes Virginia. Even grown-ups need a Santa Claus to believe in, every now and again.

It was how young he had been, and still so practiced and self-assured, when they were often so much older and yet next to him felt as though they had lived so much less - it just didn’t seem plausible. 

It was how bright he had been, even while draped in shadows - it just didn’t seem possible. 

It was how carefree he had been, as though the blood on his suit and the bruises on his face meant nothing to him at all, how nimbly he’d danced around punches thrown by bigger and badder as though they barely even mattered, how he stood like an island surrounded by a sea of violence and murder and chaos and just laughed while all of that tried to break upon his shores, like it barely even existed - it just didn’t seem real.

And whenever the doubts started to double and the truth of those nights felt hazy and far away and open to interpretation, that’s when they’d grab their coat and meet up with a few friends at that little hole in the wall. Share their stories again, swap their truths, and tell their tales that in the company of others didn’t feel quite so tall as they had just a few hours ago alone in their room. They’d each survived something, after all. They hadn’t made that up. And someone had saved them, they hadn’t made him up either. And with each re-telling, each newcomer’s new story newly shared....the fog clears a little more, the memory gets a little sharper, and the Robin revealed in it is standing exactly where their recollection says he’s supposed to be....exactly where he’d been all along.

And for some of them, weighed down by drudgery and depression and the death by a thousand papercuts that’s living in Gotham, working a dead-end job and not even sure which direction is up....its like being saved all over again. Because it hadn’t been a nightmare and it hadn’t been a dream. The danger had been real but so had the hero. A dozen other voices chime in over the course of a night and confirm: none of them had needed to play make-believe, to wish upon a star, to conjure a fairy tale to make the world feel a little more bearable...because that implausibly young, impossibly bright, unbothered island amidst a sea of Gotham’s madness.....was real. 

And when someone like that could exist, did exist, well....the world can’t be just dark and dismal and dreary after all.

Robin was the proof that’s a lie.

And when one Robin seemed to become two, and two became three, and by four and five it was accepted fact that Gotham’s Robin was a plural, and his pluralization was a legacy of Robins...

...it was just more proof to them all that Gotham’s reputation of being nothing but a city of loss and hopelessness? Was a dirty, rotten liar.

Because one Robin can be a fluke. Two Robins a coincidence. Three is a pattern, but by the time you get to five that’s a clear fuck you to anyone who looked at their city and saw nothing but the dark. 

After all, Gotham’s still the only city on Earth that can lay claim to being the natural nesting ground of Robins. Not just once, but five times and counting. 

So suck on that, Metropolis.

They don’t have a name, this little Thursday night meet-up group of theirs, but they’ve never needed one. The people that need to find them always do. Which is how Dick comes across them eventually, largely by chance.

He left early that first time, ears burning, not in the right frame of mind to hear what sounded like praise he’d never sought, especially not when no one in the room could have any idea he was in there with them. But the second time he winds up there is no accident, nor is the third. Its not every week, hell, its not like he’s even in Gotham all that much....but its there when he needs it. 

When he needs to be reminded that once upon a time, times ten, times ten more....someone needed him. And he’d been there. 

And they hadn’t forgotten.

Its why, at some point years later, after Jason came back from the dead and tentatively trod his way back across bridges not irreparably burned after all, on a night when in a rare show of vulnerability he just happened to open up to his brother about wondering if when all was said and done, it ever really mattered that he’d been Robin at all....

Maybe it was fate that just so happened to fall on a Thursday. All Dick knew was it was perfectly obvious where they had to go.

So Dick dragged his brother across town, bitching and moaning but still intrigued enough to make it just a show rather than an actual protest....

And they grabbed a booth in the back, ordered drinks they never touched, and just sat there and listened. It was a good-sized crowd that night. Plenty of regulars, a lot of ‘old-timers’ from Dick’s earliest Robin days. But this group had a lot of time and practice sharing stories by now, swapping little details, timelines, the like. The rest of the world might still be largely ignorant of the differences between Gotham’s birds, but the regulars here, they’d long since hammered out a pretty good idea of who was who. Even without Jason being surprised to realize he vaguely recognized a few faces here and there, never having imagined ever seeing them again - let alone in such a different setting - the room didn’t lack for shares from people who were quite clear that their Robin was definitely the second one.

They all knew by now which was ‘their Robin’ and were happy and proud to pay proper credit where it was due. The rescues of the first Robin often mentioned keeping tabs on whenever Nightwing showed up in the news....it was just nice to hear he was doing well. The rescues of the second knew he was the Red Hood...’their Robin’ had always been a bit rougher around the edges, they claimed, which was how they’d been sure they owed their gratitude to a different one than the first, back when they were all still unsure who was who and what was what. And the Robin-conspiracy-servers their little Thursday night group had once started out as had been among the first to theorize that the Red Hood might be a former Robin, back when he’d first appeared on the scene. 

So when he started wearing a red Bat symbol himself, and hearsay had made the rounds from a friend of a friend of a friend who swears they heard the Joker himself ranting about the Hood being a little birdie who didn’t even have the decency to stay dead as he was dragged away to a cop car....there’d been a lot of crowing from ‘the second Robin’s section’ of the bar that night. “Hear that? Can’t even kill our Robin! Takes a lickin’, keeps on tickin’. Now that’s Gotham, baby!” Sports teams couldn’t boast to having a better crowd.

Not that any of the others there that night begrudged them their celebratory cheers. A Robin was still a Robin, after all.

And so on and so on. The rescues of the third were no less firm about knowing where to give their due, and those of the fourth might have been relatively few in number, but they made up for it in spirit. Those of the fifth were proud to lay claim to the current ‘sitting Robin’ for however long he may roost (or so the jokes went), and when a few playful shouts would sound out here and there about how the fifth seems “awfully angry for a Robin, isn’t he?” they were met with cheerful hollers back: “Hey, he’s just focused, alright?”

And if Jason left that first night without a word, but just happened to already have claimed a table at the back when Dick wandered in another Thursday a few weeks later, well, that was hardly worth mentioning. So instead Dick just ordered another of what his brother was having and settled in alongside him.

They needed a fake ID to sneak Tim in as he was still a few years shy by the time it became a regular thing for Dick and Jason whenever they were both in town and free on a Thursday. Tim could’ve done without all the short jokes Jason lobbed his way when joking that a fake could only do so much, but it didn’t seem worth complaining about once he figured out where his brothers had dragged him and why. Stephanie had taken very little prodding to get there - most of the work had been in convincing her to just trust them about not insisting on bringing Cass along too. Once she got there, she understood. This was a Robin thing, Cass would understand. 

Which she did of course. Its not like it was a secret, where Steph would go whenever she’d be gone for a Thursday night and not on patrol....and the boys are fairly certain the Batgirls have since found their own version. (Steph does seem to alternate weeks, between hanging with them and going somewhere).

There was some debate about when to bring Damian along - a few jokes about fake IDs not being magic booster seats - before ultimately they decided just to wait on that for now. After all, Damian still was Robin, and this....well, it was never about the praise, any kind of ego boost. It was just exactly what it was for anyone there for those Thursday night meets:

It was about the reminder. That wherever they were now, whomever they were now....these Robins had been real. They’d been there. They’d mattered. And that would never be forgotten.

And if any of the regulars ever thought anything in particular about the table of three black-haired boys and a blond girl, quietly hanging out and listening in the back, never drawing attention to themselves, never sharing stories themselves, well. They kept it to themselves.

[theofficersacademy]

The Caledonian Plateau, due west of Garreg Mach, has long resisted development despite being firmly in Empire territory. The muddy terrain and dense swamps are a nightmare to traverse, but those same qualities have been embraced by those that value privacy beyond the watchful eyes of government bodies. Privacy that the Church has respected until now, that is.

TEAM MEMBERS

Pelleas, Sharena, Larcei, Farina Matthew, Fernand, Charlotte, Clair Inigo, Flayn, Pent, Byleth, Gatekeeper

TEAM TAG: #LabyrinthPlateau2021

Locations:

Pennywell: A waterlogged village in the dense, forested swamps of the Caledonian Plateau. Reed-woven huts sit on floating islands, and it takes knowledge and a trained eye to tell where the bog will support your weight and where it will not. At the heart of the village sits an ancient alder tree with coins nailed to the bark, surrounding a simple carving of a pregnant woman with wyvern horns. Simple fishermen are said to make their home here, but their muscular bodies and their deft handling of their tridents and nets perhaps hint at just why both the Empire and the Church have allowed them some form of autonomy with no lords to answer to.

The Mosquitos' Perch: A seedy tavern at the outskirts of Pennywell. Because of how out of the way it is from well-travelled roads, it often serves as a rest stop for travelers looking for discretion and staff willing to forget names and faces by morning. The denizens of Pennywell are normally not involved in any shady business that might pass through their little village, but they are just as willing to look the other way if it means enjoying their local alcoholic specialties.

Gambling is a popular pastime across the Plateau, since there isn't much in the way of entertainment otherwise. The staff keeps a wealth of dice and cards handy in case someone is in the mood for a game. Proving your skill in these games is a surefire way to earn their respect.

People of Interest:

Tara: A plain-looking widow in her late 40’s, she is the seventh generation owner of The Mosquitos' Perch. She's an unassuming woman, firm but fair, and amicable to the students. Being a personable and neutral lady (and good at de-escalation) helps her keep the village safe when there's always trouble walking through the door. Respected by patrons, and disrespecting her in any way means that you're in the belly of the nearest swamp monster by sundown. Because of her position in the town, she is considered the unofficial liaison between the church and Pennywell by both parties, and it's clear that it's stressing her out.

Nessie: A young woman in her early 30’s, dressed in a colorful motley of fabrics that toes the line between a wealthy mercenary and a down-on-her-luck court jester. A self-described "wanderer", she hails from Bergliez territory, though that piece of information had to be dragged out of her by the local patrons. She's been under the tavernowner's care since she arrived floating in the rivers "like chewed-up driftwood". Has a gnarly wound on her face wrapped in bandages. She's happy enough to weave a tale on how she had fought a Crest Beast before coming here, but that is the only consistent detail across the many extravagant tales she tells. Now that she's regaining her strength, her personality as a gambler and brawler is finally shining. Pretty gullible and not one to turn down a challenge, especially an exciting one, and loves to show off.

Vetch: A cynical barfly in his early 50’s. He's clearly distrustful of the Church and quick to pull out one of his many conspiracy theories: that the Saints still walk among us, that there is a secret society called the Evil Eye that is behind every bad thing that happened in the past decade or so, and that elixirs are just upcharged vulneraries with a different label so that they can line the pockets of Big Pharma. Frequently grouses about "the youth" and prone to wagging his finger at any bothersome teenager, or anyone younger than him for that matter.

Things to Do:

If you’re going to be searching the swamps, you better start learning how to traverse it. Get some sturdy shoes and build up your sealegs by learning how to steer a boat through the river!

Legends of aquatic crest-beasts ruling the swamps are common stories back in school, but your journey here gives you your first glimpse at the real thing: a massive long-necked reptilian creatures breaches the water’s surface, a crocodile’s carcass clenched in its jaws. But such terrifying monsters can easily keep the village fed for days, and you can’t help but wonder what crestigator stew tastes like. It’s dangerous quarry, that’s for sure, but that’s all part of the thrill of the hunt!

With shiny knights and aristocratic brats being the talk of the town, Nessie brings the attention to herself again with a mud-wrestling tournament to welcome you all with. No prizes, of course, but what’s a broke girl to do about that? Sidebets are already abound, and muscle-bound, charismatic Nessie is the favorite to beat. Make your own bets if you have the cash, or get down and dirty with the rest of them.

Though Tara is wary of anyone other than her manning the bar, she can’t deny that she needs the help now that there are a dozen more people here. However, she seats Vetch right across from you, ever quick to criticize your mistakes and lament the decline of Fódlan youth. Playing some games with him with the dice under the counter ought to temper his anger, though part of you wonders if extra booze would get that done quicker...

Your justice senses are tingling, and for good reason: you haven’t gotten a good look at them, but their dark cloaks and strange masks are shady enough for you to go out and investigate. Pennywell may be no stranger to the seediest people of Fódlan, but that doesn’t mean you have to stand for it!

#toalabyrinth2021 #LabyrinthPlateau2021