Welcome to the Gambling Den
I know the outside looks like a mausoleum, but the inside is quite lively.
We've got roulette, mahjong, even a little Minority Rules for the team players. Enjoy yourselves, and don't forget to bet big.

I know the outside looks like a mausoleum, but the inside is quite lively.
We've got roulette, mahjong, even a little Minority Rules for the team players. Enjoy yourselves, and don't forget to bet big.
rb and put in the tags what the prev person is to you
HAPPY SIXTH ANNIVERSARY OF JURGEN LEITNER'S DEATH! 🎉🎉🎉
The Magnus Archives fanart, the Rituals.
The Watcher’s Crown, Everchase, The Scoured Earth, The Unknowing, The Last Feast, The Risen War, Extinguished Sun, The Great Twisting, The Silence, Sunken Sky, The Awful Deep.
Who needs a ritual when all you have to do is wait?
Just woke up from a nap and realized several months have passed. Still need that rotting Queen Mother to sign her name in the book, but realized I'm much too lazy to go after her myself. Also the book is still in the archives.
What's your take on tragedy? Not necessarily the genre itself, but its permutations through literary history. Obviously the progression from Greek tragedy to Shakespearean tragedy is pretty clear, and it's the one a lot of people point to. But there's also a version of it in, say, Chinese television, particularly period fantasies. I find that Chinese tragedies, while preserving the structure and character construction of tragedy, tend to end on a more hopeful, bittersweet, or even ambiguous note (for example, Chinese Paladin 3). What do you think?
I guess this is a big question, and I don't think I have much to say.
I read a bunch of these Chinese dramas when I was a kid, and while I loved them, I'd be hard-pressed to describe any of them in the way you've outlined. I don't recall any "tragedies with hopeful or bittersweet ends." All of them had grim endings, as sad and awful and terrible as they were. The fact that I can recognize these endings as "tragedies" might say something about them, but I don't know if I can say anything with any confidence about the contents of those tragedies. For example, I definitely remember reading a long and gloomy Chinese-style tragedy with a sad ending and a lot of talk about how the characters were tormented by a terrible, horrible evil, but I'm having trouble remembering what happened.
I have some vague thoughts about why the Chinese take the "grim" route to tragedy. I am less familiar with Chinese literature than I am with Asian literature in general, so this is less of a definite answer than a kind of general observation. I can imagine several reasons why people might like to tell stories about grim endings, and I don't know which one or ones would be most interesting in this case.
One reason might be just that they have a strong sense of dramatic closure. If a story closes in a way that is satisfactory, then it's satisfying on a very deep, intuitive level, even if it does so in a way that seems "wrong." A story in which every episode leads to a happy ending, which then leads to a happy ending, which then leads to a happy ending, seems less like a story that satisfies an intuition of "what this story should be," or of "what this story'should do.' "
A second reason might be that endings in which there is a kind of catharsis to "cleaning up the mess" are satisfying in themselves. I don't have a sense of what this would mean for the genre, if it did exist, but I suspect it would look something like "having a character get his comeuppance for all his (or her) sins" or "having one of the characters' wishes be granted." Some genres are just really into that, and one way to go is to do it in a very graphic fashion (e.g., the ending of the movie The Ring), which is just too far for me in the case of "tragic" stuff.
A third reason to write in the "tragic" style is that some people just seem to like to make sad art in ways other than "telling a happy story." I feel like many of the people who write (or consume) such art don't mind how the tragedy was resolved. They don't seem bothered by whether or not the suffering was eventually relieved. And that's fine, but there's a subset of people (often the same subset) who love sad art without any interest in its satisfying resolution. They find the story satisfying just because it's about someone suffering, without caring whether the person goes on to suffer other things and be a "better person" in a meaningful way. I wonder why some people do this?
I have no idea what to say about any of this. I do think you're onto something there about how "tragedy" is a genre that's just "a thing people do," and we should perhaps be less bothered by people doing it, or at least less bothered by doing it while trying to justify it by "realizing" that sad stories need to have "realistic" endings.
All of this is a bit more interesting than the question you asked, but I don't know enough to say much interesting about it.
What a wonderful exploration of the values of tragedy, Frank. Tell me, have you ever considered serving as an Avatar of the End?
You know, If you get pretty existential, The Vast is a surprisingly good foil/partner to the End, like if you get really big picture, The End that comes to us all and will be stopped,becomes so visible that you either can get over it or get very anxious about it.
Interesting point! The sight of the true scale of Infinity tends to either make one terrified of how tiny they are or comforted by it, just as realizing how little time we truly have on this earth can breed paralyzing terror or a freeing drive to enjoy it to the fullest.
An interesting proposition.
15th march on other sites is just like 'its mid march I guess??' but on Tumblr it's all 'hey remember when we all teamed up to murder a politician? We should do that again' as if we were all personally there to kill Caesar
"Right. Your place. Okay." Liam nods, though he still looks.. apprehensive. -liam0fterminus
Take a seat. I'm sure I have some chrysanthemum tea somewhere...
[M settles herself into a couch and grabs a handful of sunflower seeds. She pours them both a cup of tea and cracks a sunflower seed between her teeth.]
You have two choices.
We can interview some of the Archivist's Corruption friends, see how they felt about that Sloan fellow dying. That should make for a light snack.
[M watches Liam through cloudy gray eyes.]
Or, if you're Hungry for something more... We can go straight for the head.
"Wh...what do you think I should do? I-I'm really new to this..."
Have some tea.
Do you know how humans hunt? They don't pounce at a thing, jaws open. They walk after it. Hours, days, weeks. Because they know, eventually they'll catch up.
Its prey runs in leaps and bounds. It knows it is much faster, much stronger than this thing following behind. And still its heart beats in its fragile ribcage and its eyes dart wildly, never daring to look behind it. Because it knows, too.
"Right. Your place. Okay." Liam nods, though he still looks.. apprehensive. -liam0fterminus
Take a seat. I'm sure I have some chrysanthemum tea somewhere...
[M settles herself into a couch and grabs a handful of sunflower seeds. She pours them both a cup of tea and cracks a sunflower seed between her teeth.]
You have two choices.
We can interview some of the Archivist's Corruption friends, see how they felt about that Sloan fellow dying. That should make for a light snack.
[M watches Liam through cloudy gray eyes.]
Or, if you're Hungry for something more... We can go straight for the head.
A boy who looks about 19 stumbles into the Archives. He's wounded, including some injuries that probably should've killed him, but he's still very much alive. "Hello?" -@liam0fterminus
Well, that’s two wounded children in one day, wonderful.
Hello, I’m the Archivist, do you need some help to stop bleeding on my carpet? I have a first aid kit, and it is getting a lot of use lately.
What happened?
Liam glares at the Archivist. "I'm not a child! And... I guess? I'm not sure it's really a problem, actually... I'm having a bit of trouble, uh, dying."
Well, you certainly aren’t very old!
But, I think I See what your situation is :) I’ll just confirm it, shall I?
How did you find out you were unable to die?
"Well, I was trying to, of course. I jumped off the roof of my building and I hit the ground... and it was like I left my body for a moment. I was looking at myself there on the ground. My head was all smashed up in the back, I was most certainly dead, and then I just... wasn't. I was back in my body and I got right back up."
He turns around and removes the beanie he's wearing to show the Archivist the back of his head. It's still... healing, and seems to be doing a surprisingly good job of that.
"Although these current injuries are from a mugging. The fucker stabbed me, incredibly rude of them."
Very rude indeed.
You know, as a general rule, people don’t come back from the dead without Choosing to. Whether you knew it or not, you wanted to live.
He looks down. "I- I guess..." He wraps his arms around himself, almost protectively. "What's happening to me?"
Well, this will most likely sound insane and alarming, but bear with me here.
There exist powerful Entities that feed off fear - that are Fear. Really, they all take root in the same primordial Dread, but they manifest through fifteen mostly distinct aspects - or perhaps sixteen, but that’s another conversation. Fifteen faces of human and animal Terror; Scrutiny, Darkness, Loss, Manipulation, Brutality, Masquerade, Madness, Carnality, Decay, Isolation, Suffocation, Infinity, Annihilation, Predation - and Death.
That last one, I believe, is the one that has taken interest in you. For details on the others, you can read the introductory pamphlet; but let’s focus on the matter at hand. Death, the End, Terminus. The oldest Fear; it need little more explanation. I can See it clinging to you.
See, Fear needs conduits to act upon our world, to Feed it. Sometimes, it manifests Monsters. Sometimes, it chooses servants to help propagate it - people like you and I, upon which a particular facet of Dread bestow a fraction of its power in exchange for spreading Terror in its image. We call those people avatars.
When I say “people like you and I”, by the way, I do not mean it in a generic, “anybody off the street” way.
*the Archivist, when the boy entered, had only two visible eyes - mismatched, but in their rightful place.*
*a lot more than that are Staring him down, now.*
Tell me, dear, if you had to guess, what do you think I serve?
"I- um- y-you called one of them Scrutiny. That one." He's clearly having trouble processing all this; the poor kid looks like he's about to pass out.
That one, yes! Well done.
*the Archivist smiles, soothingly, despite the unnerving number of Eyes*
I am an avatar of the Fear of being watched, known, of having your secrets revealed; the Eye, the Beholding, the Ceaseless Watcher, patron of cursed knowledge and devouring curiosity.
But I won’t bite :) breathe, dear, I know it’s a lot to take in. It’s alright, you’re safe here.
Would you like some tea?
"Tea. Um. Y-yes please. C-can I sit down?"
Of course, go ahead, and I’ll get you that tea. Once you feel a little better, if you have questions, I’ll be happy to answer :)
*the Archivist leaves for a moment and comes back with the promised cup of tea*
Liam sits down, accepting the tea when it's given to him.
"...am I still human?"
Well… you are a little more than that, now. It’s up to you to decide if that means you no longer are human at all. Humanity is a fickle concept.
But, I am sorry to say, to keep existing, you will need to Feed your patron. That means causing fear in other people - the fear of Endings, in your case. You don’t have to kill them, necessarily, but a little bit of psychological torture is now as crucial to you as food and water.
Aren’t you feeling Hungry?
"But- but I don't want to hurt anyone..."
As much as that's true, he does feel a strange... craving. A hunger, he decides, is exactly the right word for it.
I understand, it isn’t easy to get used to it. But you will, you’ll see. Like eating meat, or driving a car, or buying items made with cheap labor; few are those who live with hands clean.
You don’t necessarily need to hurt them bad, but if you go easy on your preys, you’ll have to hunt much more often. Like snacking all day instead of eating three full meals. You can always try and pick your targets, too. Feed on those who deserve it a little more. Though that is a road that easily leads to… clouded judgment. And it is hard to eat your fill without ever snacking on an innocent.
I’m sorry, I know this isn’t exactly encouraging. This is a difficult road you’ve embarked on, and without knowing the price. But there are many avatars here, many people like you and I. We can help you find your way.
And I won’t stand for you letting yourself go hungry. As I said, there are people here with more experience in this whole thing. If you’d like, someone could accompany you for your first Meal.
He nods weakly. Having someone come along sounds... better. He isn't sure he'd know what to do on his own.
Wait just a moment, I’ll see if a Reaper friend of mine is around.
@m-or-end, we have a little one of your kind!
[M looks the boy up and down, her lips pressed into an appraising line.]
My, look at you. Skin and bones. The Rot has just lost one of theirs—something that doesn't happen much among Avatars these days. What say you we go snack on their lingering fear? And then, if you're up for it, we can hunt for bigger game.
He nods slowly, looking at her curiously, and a bit nervously. "Who are you? Are you... like me?"
No one is quite like you, just as no one is quite like me. But yes, I have been touched by the same Death as you.
Why don't I show you around my place? We can talk there.
A boy who looks about 19 stumbles into the Archives. He's wounded, including some injuries that probably should've killed him, but he's still very much alive. "Hello?" -@liam0fterminus
Well, that’s two wounded children in one day, wonderful.
Hello, I’m the Archivist, do you need some help to stop bleeding on my carpet? I have a first aid kit, and it is getting a lot of use lately.
What happened?
Liam glares at the Archivist. "I'm not a child! And... I guess? I'm not sure it's really a problem, actually... I'm having a bit of trouble, uh, dying."
Well, you certainly aren’t very old!
But, I think I See what your situation is :) I’ll just confirm it, shall I?
How did you find out you were unable to die?
"Well, I was trying to, of course. I jumped off the roof of my building and I hit the ground... and it was like I left my body for a moment. I was looking at myself there on the ground. My head was all smashed up in the back, I was most certainly dead, and then I just... wasn't. I was back in my body and I got right back up."
He turns around and removes the beanie he's wearing to show the Archivist the back of his head. It's still... healing, and seems to be doing a surprisingly good job of that.
"Although these current injuries are from a mugging. The fucker stabbed me, incredibly rude of them."
Very rude indeed.
You know, as a general rule, people don’t come back from the dead without Choosing to. Whether you knew it or not, you wanted to live.
He looks down. "I- I guess..." He wraps his arms around himself, almost protectively. "What's happening to me?"
Well, this will most likely sound insane and alarming, but bear with me here.
There exist powerful Entities that feed off fear - that are Fear. Really, they all take root in the same primordial Dread, but they manifest through fifteen mostly distinct aspects - or perhaps sixteen, but that’s another conversation. Fifteen faces of human and animal Terror; Scrutiny, Darkness, Loss, Manipulation, Brutality, Masquerade, Madness, Carnality, Decay, Isolation, Suffocation, Infinity, Annihilation, Predation - and Death.
That last one, I believe, is the one that has taken interest in you. For details on the others, you can read the introductory pamphlet; but let’s focus on the matter at hand. Death, the End, Terminus. The oldest Fear; it need little more explanation. I can See it clinging to you.
See, Fear needs conduits to act upon our world, to Feed it. Sometimes, it manifests Monsters. Sometimes, it chooses servants to help propagate it - people like you and I, upon which a particular facet of Dread bestow a fraction of its power in exchange for spreading Terror in its image. We call those people avatars.
When I say “people like you and I”, by the way, I do not mean it in a generic, “anybody off the street” way.
*the Archivist, when the boy entered, had only two visible eyes - mismatched, but in their rightful place.*
*a lot more than that are Staring him down, now.*
Tell me, dear, if you had to guess, what do you think I serve?
"I- um- y-you called one of them Scrutiny. That one." He's clearly having trouble processing all this; the poor kid looks like he's about to pass out.
That one, yes! Well done.
*the Archivist smiles, soothingly, despite the unnerving number of Eyes*
I am an avatar of the Fear of being watched, known, of having your secrets revealed; the Eye, the Beholding, the Ceaseless Watcher, patron of cursed knowledge and devouring curiosity.
But I won’t bite :) breathe, dear, I know it’s a lot to take in. It’s alright, you’re safe here.
Would you like some tea?
"Tea. Um. Y-yes please. C-can I sit down?"
Of course, go ahead, and I’ll get you that tea. Once you feel a little better, if you have questions, I’ll be happy to answer :)
*the Archivist leaves for a moment and comes back with the promised cup of tea*
Liam sits down, accepting the tea when it's given to him.
"...am I still human?"
Well… you are a little more than that, now. It’s up to you to decide if that means you no longer are human at all. Humanity is a fickle concept.
But, I am sorry to say, to keep existing, you will need to Feed your patron. That means causing fear in other people - the fear of Endings, in your case. You don’t have to kill them, necessarily, but a little bit of psychological torture is now as crucial to you as food and water.
Aren’t you feeling Hungry?
"But- but I don't want to hurt anyone..."
As much as that's true, he does feel a strange... craving. A hunger, he decides, is exactly the right word for it.
I understand, it isn’t easy to get used to it. But you will, you’ll see. Like eating meat, or driving a car, or buying items made with cheap labor; few are those who live with hands clean.
You don’t necessarily need to hurt them bad, but if you go easy on your preys, you’ll have to hunt much more often. Like snacking all day instead of eating three full meals. You can always try and pick your targets, too. Feed on those who deserve it a little more. Though that is a road that easily leads to… clouded judgment. And it is hard to eat your fill without ever snacking on an innocent.
I’m sorry, I know this isn’t exactly encouraging. This is a difficult road you’ve embarked on, and without knowing the price. But there are many avatars here, many people like you and I. We can help you find your way.
And I won’t stand for you letting yourself go hungry. As I said, there are people here with more experience in this whole thing. If you’d like, someone could accompany you for your first Meal.
He nods weakly. Having someone come along sounds... better. He isn't sure he'd know what to do on his own.
Wait just a moment, I’ll see if a Reaper friend of mine is around.
@m-or-end, we have a little one of your kind!
[M looks the boy up and down, her lips pressed into an appraising line.]
My, look at you. Skin and bones. The Rot has just lost one of theirs—something that doesn't happen much among Avatars these days. What say you we go snack on their lingering fear? And then, if you're up for it, we can hunt for bigger game.
I will have to say trying to kill an immortal queen is a little pointless but if you End her. It might work. Just keep your head open for new ideas! -Smiley
I should have been more precise. The Queen Mother of the West has absconded with her death's name and evaded Terminus for far too long, especially now that she is feeding more people her Peaches.
I intend to put her name back in the Book of the Dead. Whether she dies is something I am not entirely concerned with.
I love me a good goth aesthetic but sadly I am more grunge so whatever happens will happen ig. Am a bit busy with the whole Eye Schenanegarie. -Smiley
"Whatever happens will happen" is very End of you, I will say. But no rush to decide. We are never in a rush. In the meantime, would you like to help me kill an immortal queen?
Hello M. I was uh. told to talk to you? -Smiley
Hello. What's your story, then?
Hey uh. Is 'passing out' and apparently having no detectable pulse while apparently waxing poetic about death and it's inevitablility something that normally happens after identity crises?
Of course, it’s perfectly normal!
For a new End avatar :)
[M walks in with a mug in one hand. The other hand loosens her tie.]
May I have this one?
I- I don’t know why this is so awkward. I don’t know if I’m even supposed to be talking to you, or if you’ll kill me where I stand for - I told Madison I’d do them a favor. Does that mean that I’ve made an enemy here? I feel like I’m standing at a precipice of something enormously dangerous, but all I ever wanted was to be someone normal. Is it too late? sibyl
*the Archivist’s Eyes grow icy. There is danger rolling off it in waves. It is not smiling.*
Sybil. We all warned you. You were offered a place to stay by a third, neutral party - you were told not to get involved with the Spider. And still it is to them you went for shelter. And now you are a danger to me and mine. You cretin. I should kill you where you stand.
Give me one good reason not to.
Tell me anything you know about Madison Glover and their plans.
Sibyl opens his mouth to answer to the first part of the Archivist’s response, but all of the reasoning and rationalization for its actions is rendered dust under the wash of Compulsion.
He blinks, once, and begins to speak
“I met Madison just yesterday, after hours, in their parlor? It was colder than I thought it should be, but maybe those were just nerves. The thing about promising a favor, or help, is that there’s no real time limit on it. I think they’re waiting to cash it in, but I couldn’t get a straight answer out of them. I can’t describe what it feels like to speak to them. I don’t think you know, since you’re…”
He stops himself, reorients, and pushes onwards.
“I don’t know what they’re planning. Every time I try and get answers, try to ask a single question, they dance around me and all of a sudden we’ve changed topics. I’m not allowed to go into one room, in the parlor, though. The rest of it is mostly open to me, provided that I don’t disturb anything. There are spiders that stand at the door whenever I’m there, and it smells like- it smells like the end of the world.
“I think I’m trapped. I think I’ve been played and I don’t even know the game”
Sibyl blinks, and goes quiet. There is something delicious about the sense of a lifetime of fear. The fear of death in this moment is sharp and piquant, but underneath that is a deeper, sweeter, richer fear that has had the decades it needs to mature into something truly splendid.
Hm. That is a scrap of something useful, I suppose.
*his fear is delicious, but that doesn’t placate the Archivist. It didn’t want a Meal, it wanted information. And it wants to make sure this imbecile of a half-realized little Reaper won’t be used against its Archives.*
You were very stupid. But I know of something that can help.
*its face has settled to a composure without crack, the anger in its Eyes replaced by coolheaded intent. It takes out a candle and a pack of matches from a drawer in its desk and calmly set them atop it to light the wick. The Flame flickers to life, blue and eager. The Candle almost seems to attempt to roll away, but the Archivist grips it firmly, still as imperturbable.*
*and without warning, thrusts it at Sybil’s sleeve.*
*it Watches impassively as the freezing hot Flame hungrily engulfs its interlocutor.*
He screams. And he screams, and screams, and screams, until his flesh is burnt into fragmented patterns of angry red, until his mind is so overwhelmed by the ice and fire that it can no longer make sense of itself as a person. It is beautiful, in the moment. In flames of every hue, that feed on his skin and muscle and bone, he catches one of the Archivist’s eyes. There is an unspoken question that curls his cracked lips.
Why
That, too, dies unspoken in fire as the pile of flesh that Was Sibyl Lloyd Baxter collapses to the floor of the Archives.
*the Archivist takes a spidersilk handkerchief from its pocket and snuffs out the Candle, putting it back in the drawer* *it looks over the charred corpse lying on the carpet of its office appraisingly, watching for signs of movement*
Because, Sybil Lloyd Baxter, you will either stay dead or wake up free. You get to Choose which; I’ve done my part.
You’re welcome.
*it sits back at its desk and goes back to work.*
The corpse lies on the floor for a long time, with no movement, though for its occupant it is much, much longer.
When Sibyl wakes, the signal is not breath returning to its lungs. Nor is it his flesh knitting back together or an explosion of power. Instead, one pale, colorless eye, clouded from its time beyond the grave, opens slowly to stare up at the Archivist. His expression is inscrutable. He does not make an attempt to heal, and he does not move from the floor. Instead, he just looks. And waits, unbreathing.
*the Archivist is reading something, taking notes in the margin with a purple-inked fountain pen. It finishes its work, puts the document in a folder, puts the folder atop a pile threatening to topple. Then it grabs another sheaf of stapled-together paper to start again.*
Are you going to get up? If not, my cat would love to eat you.
Sibyl braces its hand against the floor and pushes, slowly, upwards. He gets up as if his flesh is too heavy and too light all at once, off balance and deliberately. Surface level, flesh will knit together eventually and he will perhaps maintain a form that makes sense to survive around others, but to the discerning it will always be as it is at this exact time- raw and bleeding and leaving pieces behind as it peels itself away. Both pale eyes stare towards the Archivist now, as what was once Sibyl stands in a scorch mark outlining where he fell. It would be uncanny to anyone else how he holds himself so silent, how his chest doesn’t rise and eyes do not blink.
This is just a normal Wednesday in the Archives.
There you go. You are free from Strings, and you’ve made your Choice.
You can stare at me all you want, I don’t feel particularly bad. And I’m certainly used to feeling a Gaze on me.
Was that all?
He approaches the desk and steadies to stack of papers. He’s close enough now that the chill from his body is noticeable. For a languid moment he is quiet and statuesque, like the angels that weep at a graveyard. Then, Sibyl places a finger on the dry ink, above where the Archivist is writing, hoping to draw its attention.
“Then look, Archivist. I’d like to show you what happens to you at the end.”
It’s delivered without malice, without gratitude. It’s hard to tell the intention behind its words, but if one looks into his hazy eyes deeper, there is the sensation of going to sleep, of experiencing a waking dream, and the promise of a secret.
*the Archivist looks up, hold his cloudy eyes for a moment, considering the offer*
… very well, then. I’ve never been wise enough to refuse a demonstration.
Show me.
Impassively, Sibyl looks towards the Archivist, ignoring the prickling feeling of being Watched. The cold fills the room, dropping lower, and lower, and anyone inside would find themselves needing to sleep. Perhaps needing to sleep for a long time.
But for the Archivist, the drowsy cold explodes into a searing pain. First in one part of its body, then in another, it’s impossible to identify what or where or how or why the pain appears, but it is undeniable. The Archivist would not go quietly, of course it wouldn’t. The single second stretches towards an eternity. The minutes then weeks then years pass in a millisecond.
But this was all safe, so far. You cannot be an avatar for years without experiencing the full spectrum of pain.
It’s only when the cold takes the rest, that fear sets in. It stops being able to See, to Look, to Watch, to Know. The cold seeps into its bones and closes its Eyes, one by one. It’s slow and deliberate. Not mocking, or cruel, but absolutely inevitable. Blindness. For the first time in decades. Blindness. Helplessness. Panic.
Everyone dies alone in the end, and the Archivist would not be the exception.
In a rush, warmth returns to the room as Sibyl breaks eye contact. He steps backwards.
His lips do not move. “One day, you’ll know.”
*blindness - that was the one thing that the Archivist did dread about death. The sheer amount of things it would die before it could learn, before it could See. Despite itself, fear wells up in its chest for the brief, eternal moment of Sybil’s demonstration*
*then the deathly cold seeps out of the room, out of its bones, and so does the terror, leaving behind only a trace of apprehension. Far more than that, it’s the fulfillment of a new piece of knowledge, a new experience that fills it now. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction is, as always, bringing it back.*
… Thank you, this was harrowing and fascinating. I’m looking forward to comparing notes when it does truly happen :)
Have a pleasant rest of your day.
Running, running, always running off the cliff. You could not help yourself, could you?
This is why I don't make promises, especially not to Spiders. Particularly foolish for someone who ought to understand inevitability.
[M flicks through the scroll lazily.]
Have you ever heard of the Queen Mother of the West? The self-proclaimed mother of immortality.
[M frowns. She can't find the name she's looking for.]
I intend to kill her.
Now you certainly have my attention.
The Queen Mother… a legend. But one someone quite interesting indeed has decided to take the mantle of, isn’t it?
Tell me more.
Nothing much to tell. I don't have your Eyes, Archivist. I don't know where she is. I'd hoped I'd find her by the scroll, but it seems she's struck her name from the list.
Hmmm… I must admit I don’t know much myself. But I can tell you one thing, if you didn’t know already: her peaches smell of Rot.
That is helpful. I'll need to look into it. Do you mind if I stay here awhile? And speak to some of your, ah, pupils?
This is why I don't make promises, especially not to Spiders. Particularly foolish for someone who ought to understand inevitability.
[M flicks through the scroll lazily.]
Have you ever heard of the Queen Mother of the West? The self-proclaimed mother of immortality.
[M frowns. She can't find the name she's looking for.]
I intend to kill her.
Now you certainly have my attention.
The Queen Mother… a legend. But one someone quite interesting indeed has decided to take the mantle of, isn’t it?
Tell me more.
Nothing much to tell. I don't have your Eyes, Archivist. I don't know where she is. I'd hoped I'd find her by the scroll, but it seems she's struck her name from the list.