Trinity Angles (Discussion Thread)

[Xamusel]

...who in their right mind would name their kid "Mary Sue"? I mean, other than the originator of the trope, but still.

On another note? Ilya, quit jinxing yourself, now!

[Kieran]

...who in their right mind would name their kid "Mary Sue"? I mean, other than the originator of the trope, but still.

Well, in some translations, I've seen it written as "Mary Sioux" - but the former tends to be the more commonly-used one. For obvious reasons, I should think.

On another note? Ilya, quit jinxing yourself, now!

*Chuckles*

[Kieran]

Elenium Labs
Unified Year Calendar, June 1923
(Two weeks later)




All right, Ilya allowed, I was wrong. This place is insane . . . !

She knew that war drove advancement—that desperation could induce people to make horrific decisions, take desperate chances and do things no sane human being would contemplate—but she’d never considered this.

How desperate are these people, to put someone in charge who leaves out safety features because he doesn’t think they’re aesthetic?!

. . . If it wasn’t liable to get her shot as a traitor, she’d have killed the idiot a long time ago—because otherwise, he was going to get her killed.

Ilya wasn’t a genius magus, like Rin, though she hated to admit it, and never would to her face. Still, she was an Einzbern, raised as a magus and a Master, and altered to be a Holy Grail; she had been a Holy Grail, for some years. As such, she had all the knowledge those positions would imply. Likewise, she had been a witch, retroactively, for the last two decades; a witch of no small accomplishment and skill, however largely unrecognised or unused—and more power than any other living soul.

Not all of that was any use, here—a world with a third magical system, similar and different to what she’d learned before—but it wasn’t entirely inapplicable.

The problem, she believed, was ultimately a manufacturing one: this world’s Mystic Codes were simply too primitive to accomplish what the designer desired. Theoretically, what he wanted could be done, but not to the scale he was trying for. A quad-synchronous system just couldn’t be built to the scale of a standard computation orb, not without micro-etching and a number of techniques—to say nothing of materials—that just didn’t exist yet.

In short, he was trying to build a fighter jet in a world that had barely figured out biplanes; and Ilya was trying to figure out how to survive him.

Fortunately, she was a magus, and a witch—and while she was no genius, she was very clever.

It took her several attempts, but she did manage to stably use a dual-synchronous core, after subtly damaging the system to only allow two cores to function at once. She thought that she could manage three, if she managed to get some alchemically-treated crystals to function properly, and managed to integrate them into the system. Still, a dual-core Computation Orb was still a generation ahead of any other country on the planet.

Now, if only I could convince the idiot to accept that . . .








There was a certain irony in his current position. He’d always wanted to be a spy, and late in his life, considered trying to be a soldier—and now, despite being back to what ought to be ineligibility on a physical level, he was both.

Of all the things I kept, it was magic . . . Cold comfort, that.

With a deep breath, he forced himself to focus; optical camouflage was easy, but muffling sound, scent and touch on top of that made the spells much easier to disrupt. He had to concentrate if he was going to hold them—and if he didn’t, he was going to be dead in short order. Even if the German-analogues weren’t the ones to pull it off, his own country would.

After all, the Allied Kingdom of Albion wasn’t officially involved in the war—and they couldn’t afford to have any loose ends that implied otherwise.

Still, at least this was an important mission. The rumours of high-end weapon development in this area appeared to be true; and worse, successful, looking at the current test flight. These guys weren’t Nazis—that was hopefully still two decades or more away—but letting them win did not seem like a good idea.

Nevertheless, this would be a tall order: while ideally he’d like to steal the technology, along with destroying all related records and killing off the developers, accomplishing the latter was going to be hard enough. Especially since he’d have to make sure he got the test pilot, since snippets of overheard conversation were clear that they were the only mage to have proven able to get the tech to wor—

Said pilot chose that moment to remove their flight cap, giving him his first real look at them.

“Ilya . . .!” Galen inhaled sharply.

[Xamusel]

LOL!! XD You included Galen again!

[Kieran]

Oh, yeah - they're all there, but this is a world without teleportation, and they're not necessarily anywhere useful (if not outright dangerous . . .).

For example, as noted, Shirou is a cadet in the Empire, but Galen is a Commonwealth citizen working as a spy for the analogue-British. And Takara is living with her parents in the Francois Republic - with which Ilya's country is currently at war . . . (and which they more or less conquer in the canon).

If the Potter citizens are present or not, I haven't decided yet.

[Kieran]

Continuing . . .




Aozaki Home, Fuyuki
July 7, 2018








“Who the hell are you?” the crying girl demanded, as the newly-dubbed—if only in his own head—“Foreigner” tried to rapidly assimilate just what the hell was going on, and come up with a response the girl might believe . . .

This doesn’t look like a magus’ workshop, and she’s surprised by my appearance. That means this was a Shirou-type summoning: totally unexpected and driven by plot. Luckily for me, she doesn’t appear to be caught in the middle of her own murder . . .

At least, I hope it’s lucky—given the way Nasu logic works, things might be worse.

And on second thought, if I’m dealing with a female protagonist, that definitely means worse. They’re just an option in the video game versions—either killed off or ignored outright in the adaptations. The only canon female protagonist is Ryougi Shiki, and what she gets put through . . .

He shuddered.

“I asked you your name!” the girl said sharply, having apparently transitioned from startled to angry during his woolgathering—and God, a part of him noted, she even sounded like Ryougi . . . Or at least, like Maaya Sakamoto in her less dark and dramatic roles.

“Names have power,” he said at last, shifting into Kieran Holt’s rumbling growl of a voice automatically. “You can call me ‘Caster.’” It seemed reasonable, since he was apparently filling the role . . . And unable to resist smirking at the idea that occurred to him, he quickly added, “And I ask of you—are you my Master?”

Was it predictable of him? Yes. Cheesy? Not only “yes” but “Hell, yes.” But, he was a TYPE-MOON fan, apparently summoned as a Servant in a Holy Grail War—how could he not?

“. . . What?” the girl said blankly. “What are you doing here? Where did you come from?”

A facet of reality where your entire realm of existence is one of several works of fiction of variable format, he answered mentally, while saying aloud, “You summoned me here.”

“I did?” she sputtered. “But—”

“I can smell the magic on you from here, girl,” the pseudo-Caster said, overriding her protest.

It wasn’t strictly true, but Kieran Holt’s enhanced perceptive ability—which he was presently mimicking—was capable of discerning things to a ridiculous degree. By rights, the sensory inputs he was receiving ought to have left him blind and deaf due to overload, but the druid had been literally magically capable of processing all that input, and so was he in this persona. His intuitive capabilities were nothing to sneeze at, either, so spotting the knick-knack in her hand, recognising it, and understanding what had happened within fractions of a second was disturbingly easy . . . Though the question of where that knick-knack had come from, on the other hand, continued to bother him.

“You managed to summon me using a mere keepsake as a focus,” he continued without pausing. “Nothing at all which was even remotely important to my legend; that suggests considerable power on your part. What, I wonder, would such a magus want with me?”

The girl gaped a couple of times, clearly not understanding several things—including the term “magus,” which implied that not only was he in a Shirou situation, he was dealing with someone worse off than Shirou—before latching onto his actual question.

“I want my father to be well again,” she said firmly.

The self-proclaimed Caster raised an eyebrow, and was inwardly thrilled to find that he could actually do that. “He’s ill?”

It sounded like a stupid question, but considering that injuries, poison and curses were distinct possibilities—and his healing spells did have limitations—it felt prudent to ask it anyway.

“He’s dying,” she corrected him, “slowly, and frequently painfully.”

. . . Well, how about that? Someone with an actually noble reason for wanting the Holy Grail (since Kariya had mostly been doing it to impress his unrequited crush and get one over on Sakura’s father, he didn’t count), and that was if it was even necessary for accomplishing the goal in the first place. Kieran Holt did have some ludicrously powerful healing spells, even if he didn’t have the full scope of a cleric.

Nor, Caster realised, would he use them just because. Time for some role-playing . . .

“Tell me of your father, child,” he said, as gently as he could given the growling tone. “Is he a wizard? A warlord . . .?”

“He’s an artist,” the girl proclaimed, clearly outraged at the absurdity of his suggestions. “He paints landscapes, and portraits, and studies oceanography in his spare time. He does the cleaning and the laundry, and takes out to the beach in the summertime to swim and hunt for seashells. He likes hamburgers, and sleeping late, and—” Her breath hitched, and tears started anew. “And he doesn’t deserve to die!”

“No more than most, and less than many,” Caster said, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt. A theoretical Wisdom score of 42—well above natural human potential—and he still didn’t know what to do with crying teenage girls . . . Still, a deep breath brought scents with it that gave him a means of changing the subject.

“The sleeping man below us,” Caster asked, “that would be him?”

The girl blinked, dumbfounded, but managing to answer with a simple, “Yes.”

“Then lead the way, child,” he indicated, “and I shall do what I can.”

Her face went through many expressions—disbelief, desperation and hope among them—before finally settling on obvious annoyance, whose origin was explained with her next sentence.

“I’m not a child,” she fired back, even as she turned to carry out his request. “I’m seventeen. Almost.” The last was added under her breath, though he heard it clearly.

Caster chose not to respond to it, nor to point out that he had over twenty years’ experience on her even before adding Kieran Holt’s thirty-one to the mix, making her a child by comparison, if nothing else—mainly because he felt like a fossil often enough as it was.

Instead, he pointed out, “As you neglected to give me your name, I can call you little else and remain polite. Would you prefer ‘maiden,’ perhaps . . .?”

She stopped at that, hesitated for a second, then spun with the grace of a ballerina and bowed from the waist before him.

“I am Aozaki Takara—I’ll be in your care from this point on.”

It was a testament to Caster’s just-as-inhuman (if far from equal) Dexterity score that kept him from bumping into her with the suddenness of her halt and other movements. And it was sheer luck that he schooled his expression before she raised her head again to regard him—because inwardly, the Servant was very close to a panic attack, if not a full-blown heart attack upon hearing her name.

AOZAKI? What the HELL . . .?








Even as she headed for her parents’ room, Takara snuck peripheral glances at the—person trailing behind her. If caught, she’d proclaim it was because she wanted to make sure he was following her. It even had the benefit of being true, to a point . . .

Mostly, though, she was just desperately trying to make sense of all this. How did a souvenir her aunt had claimed was connected to a fairy tale resulted in an actual person just appearing in the attic? Especially since he did actually resemble the person from the fairy tale as described?

The part of Takara that trained in martial arts noted his movements. A long, but unhurried stride, like an ocean wave, that would take only a little more force to build into a tsunami. He had a sword on his hip; odd for someone who called himself “Caster,” assuming that it was short for “Magic Caster”—and telling. In the video games Arisa and Momoko liked to play, if a wizard of any kind carried a sword, it meant that the weapon was heavily enchanted; either that or they were very good at using it, or both.

He certainly looked the part of a medieval warrior . . . And he still went by Caster . . .

“A skilled warrior and healer,” her aunt had described the owner of the fake (?) wooden sword. “Skilled enough to bring the woodcutter back from the edge of death.”

Was he who he seemed to be? And if he was, was he skilled enough . . .?

. . . Of course, there was also the question of how it was possible in the first place—but if it brought Father back, Takara was perfectly happy to never question that for the rest of her life. Genuine miracles were for wondering at, yes, but not to be poked at.

They paused outside the door, as if to reassure themselves that the room’s occupant was still asleep, before Caster slid it open and stepped inside, with Takara on his heels.

The room was remarkably clean, given the conditions of its occupant. It was not large, or perhaps it only seemed that way, as it was dominated by the king-sized Western-style bed that occupied its centre. It was one of the few non-Japanese items in the house; as a little girl, Takara had always wondered at the fact that despite her foreign origins, her mother was often more traditional than her father. As for the rest of the room, the individual closets were closed, and there was little else in the room save for the side tables and lamps at either side of the bed, and the east-facing window—presently covered in thick velvet curtains at the moment, to block all but the worst of the daylight.

Her father was curled on his side, breathing slowly, but evenly. His glasses rested on the nightstand, along with the hard plastic carrying case he put them in when travelling. Seeing him like this, Takara stared for a moment. He looked so peaceful in his sleep, so far from the pain of his condition . . .

How often, she wondered, did he watch me sleep like this, when I was growing up? Will he ever do it again?

His reassurance from their earlier conversation came back to her: “The only thing you could ever do to disappoint me is despair.”

Remembering that, she steeled herself. There was a cure for whatever was killing him; there had to be. If it wasn’t through Caster’s efforts, then there was some other method. And if her mother couldn’t be bothered to try and find it, then she’d do it herself—

“Step away from him, please,” Caster said softly—or as soft as a rumbling voice like that could probably get, at least. “I’m ready to begin.”

She did as he asked, and silently, began to pray . . .

[fsnfan]

Huh? Isn't this supposed to be a sequel instead of a prequel? Why can't Galen recognise Takara?

[Kieran]

Much like J.J. Abrams' Star Trek, this is meant to be both sequel and reboot. I've often considered rewriting "Legacies of Fate" to be more in line with TYPE-MOON canon, since it was originally written back when all I had access to was the Tsukihime anime adaptation and what I could understand from this place and EvoDev's associated website (which, as it turned out, was less than I thought) . . . And ye gods, I've just dated myself.

And with Grand Order and its associated storyline, I actually can go back to the beginning (and argue that any changes in storyline are due to the Observer Effect).

[Kieran]

October 30, 1998








Tomorrow would mark two years since Hermione had been cursed. The next year would mark three, one of the prime—and most powerful—magical numbers, and still the taint of vampirism clung to her.

It was far weaker than it could have been, true; meeting the Prince had proven that much. His reactions to the usual vampire weaknesses had been far more severe than hers, if less than any other vampire’s. Not even the weight of centuries could bestow that much immunity; it was proof that the curse of the unicorn’s blood did take willfulness into account, at least marginally; as with all magic, intent mattered. Hermione had not knowingly become as she was, so she didn’t suffer the full malice of the ancient magic’s wrath.

No, she was, without question, the most human vampire in existence . . . But she was still a vampire—the living damned if not the living dead—and there was no way of knowing at what point her transformation would truly become irreversible. Would it come in her third year, seventh year, or thirteenth year? Or after she’d outlived her mortal lifetime? Perhaps even after her first century?

Or was it already too late . . .?

Galen refused to think like that. Not because he was especially hopeful, necessarily; he was a great deal more positive in outlook than he had been, but Shirou Emiya, he was not.

No, he refused to give up on finding a cure for Hermione because there was the small part of him that found her condition attractive, and liked his present relationship arrangements—and he refused to indulge in his own selfish pleasures such that she, and to an extent Takara, would pay the price for it. If Hermione gave up on finding a cure, or there truly was none to be found, that was one thing. But to give up simply because he liked things as they were too much for them to change . . . ?

No.

And so, Galen researched—at least, as best he could. The unicorn’s blood curse was old magic, much as was the protection that Lily Potter had, in one universe, bestowed upon her only child. As such, there wasn’t a great deal written about it; at least, not a great deal that had survived the passage of millennia. The Department of Mysteries had possession of most of it, but he couldn’t do much looking in there; he lacked the authority, for one, and it would risk revealing Hermione’s nature for another. It was classified, after all, but not under a Fidelius Charm.

Still, Galen hadn’t been entirely deprived of access to their archives: he had spent two consecutive summers interning in the Department of Mysteries (of two different countries, no less!), and the Lovegoods were a treasure trove of obscure knowledge. The Quibbler might be too fanciful to call it a true newspaper, by mundane standards, but the scraps of lore they’d collected on a variety of subjects was truly astonishing . . . And it didn’t hurt that Luna was no less motivated than he was to help Hermione.

All of which had led them here, to Laconia, in the southwest of Greece.

It was Galen’s reasoning that to learn about old magic, you had to seek ancient sources, and while vampires existed in one form or another going as far back as ancient Babylon, unicorns, as people generally recognised them, were accredited to the ancient Greeks. And while it was certain that no living person understood the origin of either creature, ancient lore—as interpreted by modern scholars—had an entrance to the Underworld not far off the coast.

. . . OK, even ignoring Rowling’s statement that “gods” were generally witches and wizards pretending (which, given her track record, needed to be taken with a grain of salt, regardless), it was a desperate idea that anyone who wasn’t would dismiss as ridiculous . . . But he’d seen enough odd things in the last decade to actually be prepared to try and take it on faith (a truly terrifying concept for anyone who knew him). And at least Luna was prepared to humour him, at least.

Assuming, of course, that she didn’t just believe, outright; the petite blonde was good about things like that.

Still, to call it “a long shot” was criminally understating things, of course, and there were absolutely at least half-a-dozen ways in which things could go horribly wrong—but on the other hand, his prior record with this sort of thing spoke for itself.

Donning the diving suit and scuba gear, suitably augmented by enchantments, he dove into the water, with Luna not far behind . . .








Writer's Notes: . . . And there my muse abandoned me - perhaps appropriate, in this case, but certainly annoying. But there are just so many potential Greek mythology-based crossovers, I just couldn't decide. I mean, I could go God of War, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Stargate, Saint Seiya . . . heck, even Assassin's Creed is possible, with the recent release!

And if I really wanted to be obscure, I could even aim for Fred Saberhagen's Books of the Gods series - though the Swords series might actually be more appropriate: Woundhealer seems an obvious choice for a potential cure . . .

[Kieran]

Epilogue—140 years later . . .
Half an hour before the end of the world








The green-cloaked man, nearly invisible within the mists of the swamp, leaned against a dead, blackened tree with arms crossed. After some time, he glanced up at the sky and sighed.

“. . . I guess we’re it, then,” he muttered in a rasping voice, like the growl of some great beast.

“You can’t really blame them, can you?” noted a white-haired, dark-skinned man that would’ve looked familiar to any number of fans of a certain visual novel and its related products, a century or so ago and several realities away—save for the delicate, elfin points of his ears. “Not everybody can age as well as you can, you cheating alchemist.”

In a more normal voice, the green-cloaked man retorted with offense. “Firstly, I just married the alchemist—and you didn’t mention your wife.”

“He didn’t, did he?” chimed in a sadistically cheerful voice, as its owner descended from above. “I suppose I’ll have to punish him—”

“Don’t we have a dungeon to clear?” the dark elf said suddenly. “We’d better hurry, after all—it is the last day, after all, and there’s only so much time left . . .”

A low chuckle emanated from the shadow of the tree. “Married over a hundred and forty years, and nothing’s changed, has it, Shirou-kun?”

The dark elf sighed. “No, Rin, it really hasn’t—you still take unreasonable joy in my suffering . . . Well, anyone’s, really, but mine in particular.”

“A lady needs her hobbies,” was her airy reply, causing chuckles and grins to erupt among the company.

“In any case,” Takara, resplendent in her icy armour, noted, “he’s not wrong: we are low on time.” After a beat, she added gently, “. . . And also that Neville, Ginny, Luna haven’t aged as well as the rest of us.”

A silent beat passed between them all in the contemplation of that, before Hermione spoke. “In any case, if they’re not coming, we’d best get on with it. Our odds aren’t getting any better than this, and the cats are impatient.”

Now it was Shirou’s turn to smirk, as he glanced between Hermione and Galen—or “Kieran,” as his identity was known here. “And you claim I’m whipped . . .?”

“It’s not a claim,” the druid growled, resuming his “normal” voice, “it’s a fact. But the point’s a good one, regardless. We’re short on time, and all we have here is all we’re going to get, so we might as well get on with it.

“Today,” he pronounced, “the Great Tomb of Nazarick will fall, and Ainz Ooal Gown with it.”

“. . . You get far too into this role-playing stuff,” Rin sighed. “But all right, whatever—let’s go.”








Thirty minutes later








Years ago, at the height of Ainz Ooal Gown’s power, an alliance of fifteen hundred—players and characters both—had assaulted the Great Tomb of Nazarick, and the guild of forty-two that inhabited it. That force, comprising some truly legendary beings within the world of YGGDRASIL, had been wiped out before getting more than two-thirds through it.

This invading force was a mere fraction of that one, though no less legendary in its composition, and focussed on stealth rather than open assault. And Ainz Ooal Gown was a mere shadow of its former self, now reduced to a single player. That didn’t mean it was easy, but they had been working together for decades at this point, and had more than a little influence in the design of the game itself—how else had the system expanded to allow pets (like, say, two Kneazle-blooded cats) to drive the “pets” of the game?

As such, they managed, almost down to the second, to destroy the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown, its holder and the Guild they represented with it, gaining “authority” over the Great Tomb of Nazarick in the process, before the system shutdown was scheduled to be enacted—

And completely failed to occur . . .








Writer's Notes: Because I've seen a lot of "isekai" stuff lately, and I'd like to see one with actual heroes in it . . .

[Xamusel]

Well... your intent was noble, at least. Personally, I wouldn't be surprised if this actually took off in spite of the lack of discussion beforehand.

[Kieran]

We'll see, I suppose . . . I do think it has potential.

[Kieran]

Picked up a splitting headache and can't really concentrate; I'll try to finish up something for tomorrow. Sorry.

[Xamusel]

I understand... well, it'll be a nice birthday present, even if unintended.

[Kieran]

I understand... well, it'll be a nice birthday present, even if unintended.

And on that note, happy birthday . . .








Continuing . . .








“It was over a century and a half ago—how was I supposed to remember?” Galen protested, ducking another fireball. “You know that even Occlumency doesn’t let me recall everything all at once!”

Ilya did not seem convinced, as evidenced by the growing spheres of lethal luminescence surrounding her.

“I taught Shirou to take his punishments,” Rin growled in response, her own hands crackling with spellfire. “I can certainly teach you—”

The spiel of threats was interrupted by the sudden placement of hands on their shoulders—and weapons at their throats.

“He’s got a fair point,” Shirou pointed out reasonably. “You did the studies yourself, Rin—even with magic, sorting through and retaining as much memory as Galen’s got takes time, and it’s a miracle he’s got as much immediate retention as he does . . . Besides, Ilya, you have the relevant memories too, don’t you? Shouldn’t you have remembered this?”

The former Veela, now turned archangel, slumped, her posture indicating a scowl even if her face wasn’t precisely expressive any longer in human terms.

For her own part, Rin muttered, “Damn your logic, Shirou . . .”

Hermione and Takara exchanged glances, and then lowered their blades. They didn’t like having to threaten their friends, but given that everything seemed to be real, it was possible that they would’ve killed Galen—and neither woman was their sort to listen to anything but genuine threats.

“. . . So,” Shirou said, after a moment of silence, “where do we stand?”

“Externally, the Tomb is in a non-threatening location,” Hermione responded. “There’s only a small village nearby—though I seem to recall something about an impending invasion shortly . . .?”

“Presumably,” Galen said with a shrug. “Since we’re not out to conquer the world, I expect a lot’s going to be different, but the external events ought to remain unchanged up to this point.”

“And what about internally?” Rin pressed. “This is a tomb full of monsters—a lot of which we just slaughtered. Do you really buy this ‘loyalty’ thing they’re trying to sell us?”

“ . . . Most of the really dangerous ones have been dealt with,” Galen mused aloud. “Admittedly, cutting down our potential firepower in the process—”

“Anata,” Takara said, quietly but firmly.

The man in question blinked. “Sorry . . .” He shook his head. “The NPCs in Overlord might be living beings, now, but their attitudes are still reflected by their programming; they exist to serve. Now, exactly what they see us as is a good question: inheritors of the Supreme Beings that were their creators? Are we a generation of usurpers, the Olympians to their Titans? Something else entirely? We’d have to ask them to be sure . . . But we were awarded governance of Nazarick by the system prior to shutdown, and that means the authority is ours.”

“. . . And there are at least two or three you really don’t want to kill,” Hermione mused, with narrowed eyes. “Let me guess . . . Aura, Mare, Sebas Tian and Coctyus. “

“Good memory,” Galen allowed. “Impressive, considering that we don’t have Occlumency anymore.”

The ex-vampire scoffed. “I always had a good memory, and a lot of the mental tricks we learned for Occlumency carry over even without witchcraft . . .” She frowned. “Isn’t that one maid a werewolf?”

“Yes,” Galen said. “It’s how I was able to turn her in mid-fight—I used Alpha Presence.”

“And she’s a redhead . . .” Takara said leadingly.

“. . . Damn it, I am not looking to add to the ‘harem,’” Galen groaned, cupping his temples. “That’s Shirou’s thing.”

“Hey!”

“. . . You do realise that the sniper maid has been watching you the entire time?” Ilya pointed out, one wing twitching unobtrusively to a form perched unobtrusively on one of the flags in the room.

“Shizu Delta,” Galen explained. “Well, actually it’s ‘C’ and a string of numbers, but she answers to ‘Shizu’—she’s one of the few honestly good characters, alignment-wise, in the entire tomb.”

“Good alignment, a sniper and a homunculus, by the look of it . . . ?” Rin mused aloud. “Well, that does push a lot of your buttons, doesn’t it, Shirou-kun? But honestly, I had no idea you were into maids . . .”

Shirou glared at Galen. “. . . My vengeance will be swift and terrible.”

“Compared to theirs?” Galen retorted, pointing to his spouses.

“. . . Damn it.”

[Xamusel]

Thanks for the birthday gift, Kieran. I'm grateful you updated it, to be sure.

[Kieran]

July 1, 2017








In some ways, it was inevitable.

For all their awareness of tracking methods and the craft of disguise, Hermione’s vampirism meant that sooner or later, the fact that she wasn’t aging was going to be noticed by someone; when that happened, plans to move on would need to be in place. The fact that they collaborated with both the mundane and magical governments in high-security arenas—where paranoia was a law of nature—only made the need for secrecy more critical, and the risk of discovery more dangerous.

Fortunately, in some respects, that wasn’t limited to just herself. It was an empirical fact that witches and wizards aged more gracefully than mundane humans, when they didn’t outright age slower; their particular method of becoming Animagi only enhanced the effect. And that was before taking the alchemical solutions produced by the lesser and true Philosopher’s Stones into account, with their ability to bestow longevity and functional immortality, respectively.

No, eventually they would have to leave Britain, if not their outright identities, altogether. Fortunately, they had the skills, both magical and mundane, to do so—and the foresight to use them—which brought them all here . . .








The house was about as far from Grimmauld Place as it was possible to get: a two-storey, slant-roofed building with a raised porch and covered walk bordering all four sides. Locally, its history was nearly as dark as their London residence, however, having been the site of a gruesome massacre some four decades ago. As a result, the renovation cost of the derelict building had been as expensive as buying the actual property had been cheap.

Even so, however . . .

“This is too much money,” the owner of the construction company remarked, handing the cheque back. “It looks like you accidentally wrote a ‘9’ instead of a ‘1’ here.”

“It wasn’t an accident of handwriting, Mister Andrews,” the young woman in the charcoal-grey pantsuit assured him, the pleasant tone of her voice flavoured exotically by just enough of an Asian accent. “The amount was entirely intended.”

The bearded man—who, while not young, was hardly immune to the beauty of his client—raised an eyebrow in surprise, a note of caution in his voice as he responded, “That’s remarkably generous . . .”

“Mister Andrews, my family believes wholeheartedly in giving appropriate value for the quality of services rendered,” she said, politely but firmly. “You were given this job on very short notice, with a firm deadline and not-inconsiderable expectations—and insofar as we can tell, you’ve managed to match or exceed all of them, and without resorting to corner-cutting or hasty work. That kind of dedication should earn rewarding, and we can certainly afford to do so.” She smiled pleasantly. “It is an American holiday soon, is it not? Call it a company bonus for your employees, for a job done well.”

The older man couldn’t quite contain a laugh. “Pardon my language, miss, but that’s one hell of a bonus.”

“And I am certain your people thought much the same about this job, at one time or another,” she pointed out with a tiny shrug, her smile never leaving her lips.

“True enough,” he admitted. “Well, thank you for your consideration, Miss. I can genuinely say it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“And you, Mister Andrews,” she agreed, offering a slight bow.

Once he’d driven off, Takara Aozaki (No, she reminded herself sternly, it’s Misora Jefferson, now) let out a sigh. She hated the formal, not-quite-sure-of-the-English way of speaking, but she’d agreed that it was a good way to distance herself from her actual self. Of all of them, really, she was the hardest to hide; Galen was a big man, but knew how to seem like less than he was, along with a knack for playing older than he looked, or outright looking older. Hermione, on the other hand, could achieve a lot with a simple haircut and taking on the flatter cadence of American English in her speech – but a tall, blue-eyed Japanese girl was memorable.

And so, she applied a treatment to her hair, skin and eyes, to darken the former to more pure Japanese hues, and the latter to near-black. She made an effort to deepen her voice, and change her way of speaking to sound more like her classmates back in Misaki: as though English was not only a second language to her, but little-used or practiced, as well.

It was very annoying (not, she admitted to herself, that she was the only one dealing with changes), but necessary to start setting up new identities. Honestly, they probably should’ve started sooner; they all looked to be in their early-to-mid twenties, at most, after almost twenty years, after all, and that was really pushing it. But that would’ve almost certainly entailed leaving Elise behind, which was not acceptable.

Now that she was due to start school, however—and a boarding school that covered most of the year, at that—they could start quietly slipping away into new lives. In this case, a semi-isolated house bordering a forest and a river, which gave them plenty of space, and as much privacy as they were liable to get in a small town, as well as new identities. In her case she was Misora Jefferson, soon to be the new school nurse at one Riverdale High.

Now, if only her husband would stop making jokes about “running into Archie, Betty, Jughead and Veronica.” She understood that he’d picked this town because of its name, out of a sentimental fondness for the comics, but it was getting old . . .








The bar called itself the “Whyte Wyrm.” Hermione appreciated the literary reference (particularly in regards to her), though she wondered if the proprietors did.

Regardless, this was essentially the last place anyone would expect to find her, while granting her an obvious profession that worked around her proclivities – a bartender who worked the night shift was always welcome. And while she might not be as natural a Legilimens as Galen was without drawing blood first, her “charm gaze” would make getting people to open up fairly simple.

And if “bartender” was unavailable, perhaps she could get herself hired as a bouncer; it was hardly as though she couldn’t defend herself against a rowdy patron . . . Or ten, if she really had to . . .








July 4, 2017








The dire wolf moved through the forest at full tilt – which, given its shorter legs, should’ve been far slower than its descendants; it wasn’t as though its traditional prey had been all that quick, after all, weighing something on the order of a rhinoceros.

However, magic made physics scream for its mother on a casual and constant basis, so in fact, he was closer to outrunning a cheetah in terms of speed. And invisible, too – just in case the idea of a 245-pound wolf capable of running down anything that wasn’t in a car, and most things that obeyed speed limits, wasn’t terrifying enough . . .

But then, he’d taken care to be invisible for just that reason: no point in panicking the locals, after all. And the less he was seen around town, the better for the image of “shut-in writer” he wanted to project.

. . . Granted, it wasn’t a particularly difficult image for him to conjure up, given his first life, but he’d been the most “flashy” of the three of them, the most in-your-face; if this was going to work, he had to fade into the background for a while, and let people have time to forget. Which meant no guns, no duster (visibly, at least), or any association to the sorts of things he’d become known for in the last few decades—and an antisocial shut-in, devoted to his creative side, was a mask that he knew how to wear.

That was part of why they’d picked this place, after all: a small American town, relatively quiet but not so isolated that new people (and more importantly, their secrets) were impossible to conceal. The fact that the name put him in mind of Archie Comics was just a bonus, really.

But he couldn’t fully discard the habits of a lifetime overnight; especially not when they’d be expected to resume them come the fall, at least for a while. And so, he’d donned the Deathcloak to go out for a run, and familiarise himself with the area. So far, he liked the woods, even if there was the faintest hint of something truly nasty coming from across the river. Not close, but strong enough that he could still catch it, and it set his hackles rising—

A familiar boom split the sky, from somewhere much closer, causing the dire wolf to stop, ears pricking up. Limited though the animal’s intelligence was—even magic could only compensate so much for the fact that a dire wolf’s brain was smaller and more primitive than even a normal wolf one—it still recognised that sound.

Gunshot. Trouble.

He took off in the direction of the shot without pause, going from a standing start to full speed in a heartbeat. He was nearly on top of it when he spotted, at some distance, a prone human being with hair tones he’d learned to identify as “red” (even being colour-blind, some shadings stood out) being loaded into a car—and the trunk, at that.

His ears flattened reflexively, even if he couldn’t really growl and run at the same time. He might not be able to catch the car, depending on conditions, but trailing it, on the other hand . . . It would probably run out of gas before he did.

Catch car, save kid. It was a simple plan, one that the dire wolf could understand, and get behind. All the messy detail stuff was Human-Him’s problem.

Quiet place, large forest, and now, something to hunt – he liked this town more and more all the time . . .








Writer's Notes: Since the Arrowverse stuff didn't really pan out, and I have mentioned Sabrina "in-universe," I thought I'd try an entirely different CW crossover . . . And yeah, I know I should really have gone for "The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina," but I don't have Netflix.

[Xamusel]

Whatever happened to the Overlord crossover? I was hoping you had another helping of it for us.

[hatori]

Riverdale eh?

[Kieran]

Whatever happened to the Overlord crossover? I was hoping you had another helping of it for us.

As I tried to point out in the last snippet, that crossover would require a lot of thought, going forward. Since they're not looking to conquer the world, that mainly leaves them with the native, mid-to-late series antagonists - not all of which I know about, since I've only read up to Volume 5 of the light novels, and I was just midway through Season 3 when Crunchyroll screwed me over by switching players.

In terms of Nazarick characters, I also have to decide just who survived, and what problems that's going to cause - not all of which is liable to please my readership, or my own writing instincts. For example, Shalltear, Demiurge and Albedo would've needed to die during the invasion; they're three of Nazarick's heaviest hitters, and targets that, for example, a druid (Galen) would've prioritised. At the same time, though, that's three potential villains I give up before the story even starts. Kind of disappointing, when you think about it.

. . . Maybe next time?

Riverdale eh?

I think it could be interesting, from a number of perspectives. First, it's something that Galen has no familiarity with, outside of the original source material - so while certain things are predictable, others are wildly out of left field (the idea of gangs in Riverdale at all, for example). The fact that "Riverdale" as a whole would run so contrary to expectations would throw them off - and the fact that they've potentially derailed the first season's plot without even knowing or trying regarding it would certainly cause ripples.

Second, the whole point of being here is in trying to establish a new, low profile; they don't want to attract MACUSA's or anyone else's attention, and have to avoid using a lot of their normal, go-to resources. Could they magic or physically force their way through just about every potential problem? Absolutely. Is it a good idea? Absolutely not. And that says nothing of the fact that Greendale is essentially right next door to their house - and those witches are of a distinctly different calibre . . .

Third? Riverdale is aired on the CW Network - owned by Warner Bros., who also does the Wizarding World movies - so there's a sort-of natural connection between the two, alternate styles of witchcraft notwithstanding. I could even do one of the "arch blows up, alternate world" scenarios to that degree, and make them all Chilling Adventures of Sabrina-type characters (though of what sort is up for debate) . . .

And amusingly, if I wanted to do a Disney-style crossover, it'd be Sabrina the Teenage Witch, which aired on ABC (owned by the Mouse). That is closer to what I had in mind when I put Sabrina at Hogwarts in the first place.