Have A Little Weird Tale From Revenant Wake About One Of The Enduring Mysteries Of Gideon Nav's Horrible

Have a little weird tale from Revenant Wake about one of the enduring mysteries of Gideon Nav's horrible adolescence.

“GIDEON!” I had delivered the bomb to it’s target, it was the best that I could do. “GIDEON!” That rat bastard chased me down, nearly wrecked the whole scheme. “GIDEON!” And now some crepuscular old nuns called me back to do their bidding? Fuck them. Fuck the whole lot of them. All I had at that point was rage, rage that the gig was finally up, after so much long work, so much sacrifice, that the Emperor’s dog had caught up with me and finally done me in. All I had in me was a scream. Rage was all I had left. But rage with a purpose? It wasn’t the worst thing to be left with. Rage with a purpose kept me tethered. Kept me from being sucked under. Kept me where I could watch and maybe whisper, keep the bomb on track, point it in the right direction. A revenant couldn’t do much, but anything was better than nothing. At first the child came to my bones whenever she could. It was charming in the way of little children that one doesn’t have to take care of. She would babble, first about practically nothing; then as she grew she told me her tiny achievements, her little victories. I had never wanted to be a mother, nor did I want it now as a dead woman. But it was cute. And I held onto the hope that underneath that mop of red hair there was a tick-tick-tick in her soul that would somehow, in some way crack this whole rotten planet wide open. But from my niche in the wall, how much could I do? Stronger hands were guiding her. Living voices in her ear. Sure the fish rotted from the head (how little I knew at first, but as time went on it became clearer), but at least the fish stunk in her world. I was just a whisper from the shadows at best. So when the opportunity came, I took it. When she came to show mama’s bones the big sword that her weapons master had offered her, I jumped. She loved that sword like life itself. Took it everywhere. Trained with it. Slept with it. Maybe whispers from the shadows become more effective the more they’re heard. Then again, it helped that I could sense the Castle Drearburh decaying all around us. I had more information to go on. It was easier to place a small nudge in her mind here or there. It was becoming a certainty that the Ninth House was dwindling day by day, even well before the Reverend Mother and Father departed for the River. And after that, what was left? The whole of the house in the hands of a child. A powerful necromancer no doubt, but ultimately, she would never be able to bring it all back. Soon all that would be left in this planet of rot would be the locked tomb. The lock my precious bomb was there to pick. Except. Twelve, thirteen year olds? They’re terrible. All my bomb was interested in was sword fighting and irritating the peewee necromancer and the rotted old marshal. I didn’t need her to do much. But all the whispers in her sleep couldn’t get her to do a single thing our great plan needed her to do. Was she curious about the tomb? Not one bit. I was desperate, I admit. I had to shake her up somehow, find some way to pull the pin. And in the end, it backfired spectacularly. But how was I to know? They belonged to the real cavalier, the lead-blooded man-boy who wrote epic poetry glorifying some long dead imperial mercernary. I had glimpsed bits of flimsy hiding behind his books. It didn’t take much inference to guess what it was. I thought maybe, just maybe, if anything would nudge the girl out of her stubborn-minded pursuit of fighting, it just might be… Of course it was easier to nudge her to poke around in Ortus’ things than it was to get her near the cursed tomb. And when she found the cache, well, lets just say that boy was a collector, or had been at least. She lifted half a dozen magazines without making a dent, he never noticed. How was I to know that Nine Houses porn was laced throughout with imperial propaganda?

This Is an Abduction

Hob Gadling might have the eyes and personality of a Labrador, but even after five hundred years he’s still a bandit at heart.

Hob’s reminded of that a lot these days, now that he’s in his Stranger’s company more often than not (‘Dream,’ he sighed his name against Hob’s lips. ‘You shall call me Dream.’).

He’s the only man alive, who truly knows Hob, the only one, who remembers that he was not always a cinnamon roll of a history professor, whose trademark fashion piece is a brown leather jacket from Asda. It’s a fact sometimes even Hob himself forgets, he’s grown so used to being harmless, less viscous, less greedy - but some instincts just never change.

“Put that needle away, kid, you’re embarrassing yourself,” Hob tells a mugger, who found Dream’s ruby pendant too shiny to resist during one of their evening promenades. Hob snatches the switchblade out of the boy’s grip with a wicked twist of hand before he can take a breath to protest.

“You need not have come to my defense, love,” Dream says, watching the boy flee to one of the many dark alleys of Soho.

“I’d hardly call that defense,” Hob scoffs. “It was a real amateur, that one.” He closes the switchblade and pockets it. “Wouldn’t have stood a chance against ol’ Dick Turpin.”

“Wouldn’t he?” Dream asks, a teasing smile curling on his lips. He reaches for his ruby, more out of habit than anything — and finds it missing.

Dream’s eyes widen in alarm.

“Sorry, dear,” Hob says sheepishly. He dips his hand into his pocket and then there it is, Dream’s pendant dangling off his finger. “Old habits die hard.”

Dream regards Hob for a moment, the twist of his mouth, the guilty slouch of his shoulder. Eventually he says,

“It can be yours, if you wish.” Seeing Hob’s disbelieving glare he continues. “You’re my lover, it’s your right to have a claim over not merely my corporeal form but also my powers.”

“I’m not taking it,” Hob says, quiet, but determined, his hand unwavering with his offering.

“It could make you richer than any man alive or dead.”

Hob smiles, wistful.

“I care little for that these days. I have all I need to live on.”

Dream’s eyes narrow at Hob.

“You could be the most powerful creature on this plane,” he says, stars bright in his iris. “All living things, reality itself would bend to your will. Maybe I too, would.”

For one disgusting, utterly repulsive moment of selfishness Hob considers it, feeling the ruby thrum like a heartbeat pulsing through the chains. Hob thrusts the pendant at Dream then, horrified.

“Take it back now,” he grits out, as if even saying it would take him considerable effort. “Don’t make me say it twice, Dream, I’m not that good a man.”

Dream’s expression softens. He takes his ruby from Hob’s hand and puts the chain back around his neck.

“You truly have changed, Robert Gadling,” he says in a tone unmistakeably fond.

“Nah.” Hob waves dismissively. “The only reason I’m no longer a highwayman is the 70 mile per hour speed limit. No more loaded carriages these days,” he chuckles, trying to pass the whole thing as a jest, but it’s difficult with Dream looking at him so soft it cuts Hob to the quick.

Sometimes when he looked like that Dream reminded Hob of Eleanor - or he loved Eleanor because she reminded him of his Stranger? He’s not sure.

“A highwayman, who returns the values of his victim,” Dream says dryly, interrupting his musings. “Most unusual.”

“Oh see, that’s because this is no simple robbery, dear,” Hob explains. He sneaks an arm around Dream’s lithe waist and yanks him close. His smile sharp and nothing short of roguish as he says, “This is an abduction.”

For the first time in centuries Dream of the Endless laughs, the most brilliant and lovely sight — and that’s when Hob realises he might be a bandit, a history professor, a printer, a knight, a soldier but first and foremost, he is His.

Holy hell, now I want to know more about Mr Quackers and Sparky the Dragon Plushie. Please?

Zuko isn’t sure who gave him Mr. Quackers, but the turtleduck plushie has been with him as long as he could remember (it was totally Ursa or Iroh). Technically speaking, Mr. Quackers should be called Captain Quackers, esteemed hero of the Turtleduck Naval Forces of the Fire Pond, but he retired to go write for the theater, so Mr. Quackers it is.

Zuko is certain that one day when he’s big, Mr. Quackers will come out of retirement and join Zuko in fighting for the glory of the Fire Nation. Then they’ll both be heroes. Until that day, the two are mostly inseperable, as it should be.

Well, at least until Azula comes along.

Mom says it’s not her fault, but Zuko has eyes. He can see. And if it’s not Azula’s fault, then that means Mr. Quackers is a traitor and not his friend and that’s just not possible.

Because somehow, Mr. Quackers ended up in Azula’s crib, and now he’s a prisoner, and she’ll scream real loud if Zuko tries to go rescue him. And that makes Mom upset, and the nurses and servants upset, and then Dad gets mad. And then Mr. Quackers has to go back to Azua just so she’s quiet.

(What happened is that one of the staff was in the nursery when the little princess was supposedly down for her nap. Except she woke up and this was often very bad because Azula was a bit of a colicky baby. In desperation to make the infant quiet down, the servant grabbed the nearest soft toy and offered it to the baby. This happened to be Mr. Quackers, who in a rare event, was not with Zuko, who was out with his mother.

As soon as her little hands gripped the plush of the turtleduck, the baby quieted down as if she’d never started crying in the first place. It was the only thing that was guaranteed to work then.)

(The turtleduck smells like Zuko, who is one of the few people baby Azula has a lot of contact with.)

Needless to say, Zuko is deeply unhappy. This baby is ruining everything.

(Lu Ten saves the day when he offers baby Azula a stuffed dragon plushie that’s seen better days, but looks well-loved. The little princess grabs onto the stuffed toy that’s as big as she is, and Mr. Quackers briefly experiences flight as he is thrown out of the crib.)

Zuko is very pleased that at least Mr. Quacker’s escape from Azula’s clutches is suitably daring.

(”I’m just glad she likes Sparky,” Lu Ten says with a laugh.

“Sparky?” Zuko asks.

Lu Ten nods. “Yeah, Sparky. The dragon.” He smiles. “He was mine when I was little. I don’t think he minds being pressed into service again, especially not if he can keep you two happy.”

Zuko considers this, then nods. He doesn’t need a stupid dragon, not as long as he has Mr. Quackers.)

Princess Azula. She’s here a little bit Rapunzel )

Something I've been asked a couple of times is "What is your first memory?" And personally I don't have an answer to that question. I have no idea what my first memory is, or even what that really means. So I'm curious

If you vote yes, I'm very curious to hear what your memory is, if you're comfortable with sharing it of course. And if you vote at all please reblog for a bigger sample size! Thank you! :)

Sokka: I hate Jet. I think about how much I hate him all the time.

Katara: You think about Jet all the time?

Sokka: Hold on--