We have this thread already, but I thought that there is no problem with having one just for DF in its own subforum.

Also, a warning - COLD DAYS SPOILERS in this one.

The Empty Night​

I looked at the night sky and it was empty.

No stars or even Moon.

Nothing but a darkness. The only source of light was ahead of my boat, on a small island hidden from the world.

The last bastion of humanity.

The Demonreach.

It was once a prison for the worst monsters of this world. Until we released them all to fight even worse monsters from the outside of it and save the day.

We did save it. A day, that's it. The next one wasn't so lucky for us.

The results of the battle weren't pretty, but ultimately this decision was the only reason why Earth still existed. Not for long though.

With the Outergates destroyed there was no way that we could win this war. Not even with God's help. Only I was pretty sure that Nietzsche would have it right this time.

God was dead.

Oh, and one more thing. When I said the humanity? I meant just myself.

Just so you know.

*

I docked the boat and went to a small cottage on the island.

There wasn't much things inside. A table and few chairs.

Also, the Three Swords. The Blackstaff. Gungnir. Mjolnir. Aegis. The Cornucopia. Gandiva. Ruyi Jingu Bang. Amenonuhoko.

And many other powerful artifacts that I could find around the world. But they weren't as important as was an old skull with a spirit living inside.

“Hello, Harry,” said a woman's voice.

“Hi, Lash,” I answered.

In the past the skull was home of Bob, a spirit of intellect. But Bob was dead now. As was pretty much everyone else.

Actually, that wasn't technically the truth. Saying that someone is dead suggest that their spirit moved on to a different place. But there were no other places anymore. The Outsiders unmade almost all of the Creation and everything and everyone simply ceased to exist.

“I bring a gift,” I said.

“What did you find?”

“The Pandora's Box.”

“Does it still contain the hope?”

“I hope so,” I smiled.

*

My brother once said to me that it ain't over 'til it's over. He probably stole it from someone, but it fitted the situation.

It wasn't over. Not yet.

That's why I had this crazy idea how to save the world.

I couldn't go back in Time, because it didn't exist anymore. The Past was already consumed by the Outsiders, they slew the Future and at the moment they were busy destroying There.

What remained was Here and Now.

It's a lot of capitalized words, but we are talking about absolute ideas.

Anyway, if I wanted to save the world, or you know the World, I needed to recreate it. Easy, right?

Right.

Someone once compared the creation of Demonreach to the creation of internal combustion engine when most of the other wizards could only make wooden axles and stone wheels. In this metaphor I was trying to create a nuclear reactor.

Scratch that. If that was the case, at least I would know it was possible. No, it was more like creating a warp core using episodes of Star Trek as a blueprint.

Not the greatest idea.

Then again, Odin once called me the most talented wizard he met since his old student, Merlin. Maybe even more talented than him.

I really hoped that these weren't empty praises.

*

“OK. Let's rethink it once more time,” I said to Lash. “I will attempt to recreate the world using forty two most powerful artifact I could find and the power that still remains inside Demonreach. Normally it wouldn't be even a fraction of what we need, but in truth we are not creating world, but making the Outsiders do it for us. And then make them forget that something like that ever happened.”

“In very simplified terms it's what we are trying to do.”

“Great. What are our chances?”

“Zero. You are just deluding yourself into thinking that it will work. And so I am, foolishly trying to help you with it. But at least we will go with the boom.”

“Pretty decent chances then.”

“Could be worse,” she said.

*

I was sitting down in the circle created by Merlin a very long time ago. Or technically never since there was no Past anymore.

All around me were forty two artifacts that should help me do what I need to do. At first I planned to use only twelve, because it was a great number for the stability of the ritual, but in this case the power was much more important.

Beside, as far as numbers go forty two was kind of fitting.

In my hands was the skull.

It was probably the hardest thing about the whole ritual for me. Lash wasn't going back. Her job was to protect my soul from being erased when we are “rebooting” the world, as Uncle Butters would call it.

Her sacrifice for my survival. One of countless that happened and I hoped that also the last one.

*

It turns out that recreating the world is kind of boring. You expect some epic fireworks, but in the end one moment you are in the old world and in the next you are in the new one.

Though it was a little disorienting.

I realized that I was still on Demonreach. Which was kind of weird since I didn't visit it till my adulthood and I was hoping to reset time a little earlier than that.

Then I noticed my reflection on a nearby water.

“Oh, boy,” I said looking at the face of Harry Dresden.

 

Nice initiative and nice writing. Feels like it could use more detail, even if that's not the point. How did the famous people die? Where did Mab fall? etc etc.

"The last bastion of the humanity."

It's just "humanity". No "the", right?

And wouldn't it be that the outsiders "slew" the future?

 

It seems so.

As for the lack of details, that's the reason why I post it as a drabble and not as a normal story.

What do you think about the twist? Is the narrator's identity clear by the end of the story?

 

Harry Carpenter was what I assumed.

And it seems pretty interesting from what I've read. Nice setup, though in a full fic I'd probably take a little more issue with just how... uninvolving the whole recreating the world thing turned out to be. I guess I was assuming something more along the lines of

Spoiler

Sazed from the end of Mistborn 3

but this didn't seem to have anything to functionally differentiate it from any time travel to a past which still exists, which sort of takes away from the nicely done bit about the Past being gone.

 

You assumed correctly.

I was thinking about few consequence of rebooting the world. For one thing, Harry tried to make the Outsiders forget that they already won the war, but it doesn't mean it worked on every one of them. Two, he could put some backdoors in the newly recreated Universe to help himself in his quest to save the world. Three, some of the most powerful beings would feel surprising young though they wouldn't know why.

 

I'm kinda wondering what beings could beat the angels. Hell, I'm assuming even Lucifer would have objections against the world being destroyed entirely.

I did not get the part where it was Harry Carpenter, mind. 0.o Sometimes I skim too much.

 

Yupp, Cheddar. Otherwise we're all going to be glaring at you.

 

I figured I might as well post this someplace besides my Tumblr. This is a crossover between the Dresden Files and Brandon Sanderson's Stormlight Archive series. Takes place sometime between Changes and Ghost Story



Molly had felt as though she was being watched for weeks now. That was why she’d kept moving around. That, and all the other shit that was happening in Chicago. The Fomor were just the start. All sorts of things had been crawling out of the woodwork, ever since…

No, she told herself, don’t think about that. Not now.

The last few times she’d used her sight, she’d seen…things. They’d worn robes so stiff they looked as though they were made of smoky glass. And where their heads should have been, there were only twisted symbols. The first time she’d seen them, Molly had run. Well, she’d hobbled, anyway. And the second time. And the third. The fourth time, she’d tried to ward them off, to call up a shield or to confuse them with an illusion. But they’d just glided right through everything as though it wasn’t even there. Hell, to them it probably wasn’t.

But she was getting tired of running. She might not have Harry’s raw power, but she wasn’t gonna just let these things push her around anymore.

Molly took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she exhaled, she opened them again, and her Sight came with them.

Through her Sight, Chicago was a riot of color and energy. It was more subdued than it had been the first time she’d Seen the city, a lot of the colors muted by a pall of fear and worry and unease. But that didn’t matter. Because they were here. A pair of the creatures stood at the end of the alley, arms folded across their chests. If they had any hands, they were hidden in the stiff sleeves of their robes. There were others, scattered through the alley. And a final one, standing only a few feet in front of her, leaning down so that its symbol-head-thing was only a foot from her face.

“Why are you following me? Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Molly asked, her voice getting louder. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Truth.” The one closest to her said. Its voice had a strange, buzzing quality to it, reminding her of someone talking through a fan.

“What?”

“Truth!” It repeated, the word sharper this time.

“What truth? What do you mean?” She asked, already drawing in her will. If this thing came any closer…

“A truth about you,” it said, the buzzing voice softer now.

“I…I used psychomancy on my friends, because I thought it was right.” Molly said bitterly. It had been years, but the shame and the disgust of learning what she’d done to them was still as fresh as the day Harry had told her how badly she’d hurt them.

“It will do.” Said the being.

Something in Molly’s mind seemed to shift, like a gear turning. And then she was gone from the alley, falling into a sea of small beads made of some sort of dark glass. Acting on instinct, Molly used the power she’d already been drawing in, grabbing one of the beads and shoving the energy into it with an effort of will.

The sea of beads vanished. Molly was back in the alley. The hand that had been clutching the bead was pressed flat against the dumpster. No. No not just pressed against it. Her hand had sunk into the metal side of the dumpster like it was water.

And then, with a flash of light, the dumpster turned to crystal.

Molly jumped away with a stifled shriek, staring at the mass of crystal with wide eyes.

“What the hell just happened?”

“Something new, child. Something new,” Said the Leanansidhe, stepping out of a shadowed doorway at the end of the alleyway.


In case anyone was wondering, Molly has somehow attracted the attention of the Cryptics, making her a Lightweaver. For those who aren't familiar with the Stormlight Archive...The Cryptics are a type of spirit (called "spren" in the books). Spren are attracted to certain things. Painspren show up when someone is in pain, taking the form of small orange hands crawling up out of the ground. Windspren take the form of ribbons of light and tend to play in gusts of wind and storms and such.

Cryptics are Liespren. And they are able to bestow certain powers on a person by bonding with them. These powers are Transformation (able to transform objects into one of 10 basic types, such as Crystal, Fire, Smoke, and Stone.) and Illumination, which is creating illusions. I picked this for Molly because she's already proficient with illusions, and because the Cryptics require a truth from a person to advance their abilities. The truth has to be personal in nature, and the more powerful the truth is, the stronger the bond between the Cryptic and human becomes. And after Changes, Molly's carrying around a pretty big, personal truth.

I swear I didn't mean to ramble so much, but I just really like the worldbuilding and magic system of the Stormlight Archive, so I tend to be wordy.

 

I've never seen Molly swear in the books, but that aside, nice. I haven't read the Stormlight Archive, either, so it left me a bit adrift. Wouldn't mind seeing more.

 

Honestly, I'd recommend all of sanderson's stuff. Most of his fantasy work is set in a shared universe called the Cosmere, just on different planets. Mistborn was my starting point, but I'd suggest grabbing Warbreaker, since he's got the PDF on his website for free.

And it's been a while since I did some serious rereading, but I'm pretty sure you're right about the swearing. Then again, molly's been living on the street, more or less slowly going crazy trying to protect chicago for a couple months by this point. *shrugs*

I'm not really sure if I'm going to continue that idea right away. It was just something that popped into my head and I wanted to get it written down while the idea was still fresh. I've got a bunch of other fics that I'm trying to write because I've had them outlined for ages, but haven't really felt confident about my writing until recently.

Turns out that a great way to boost my confidence in my writing is just to use my massive list of DF smut fic ideas, since those'll get at least a few compliments.

 

If you need any assistance, either in terms of bouncing ideas back and forth, or beta'ing, get in touch on IRC or PM.

 

Eh. Might as well. Haven't posted on the site in a couple million years, so why the hell not?

Basically, this is a Dresden Files/Supernatural (I'm surprised I don't see more of these around) story that's been in my head for a little under two years. The SNverse is more or less super-imposed onto DF, with some elements remaining the same, others changed to fit the more organized, cohesive structure Butcher composed. Also, more than likely I've got some dates wrong, but at this point I'm a little apathetic.

***

Chicago, Illinois
1983


One month after his wife is murdered John Winchester drives to Chicago

The Impala tears through traffic like a bat out of hell, and John has been drinking a little before getting behind the wheel, but he’s coherent enough and determined to get where he needs to be.

He has the radio tuned to a Southern Baptist evangelist station that plays doom-and-gloom sermons on repeat 24/7. Normally he avoids those
sermons, but normally Mary is riding shotgun, one hand on his thigh and the other braced against the wind, happiness writ all over her gorgeous face.

John has said goodbye to normal.

The preacher speaks of judgment and a coming darkness. Not long ago he would have scoffed and turned to some Hank Williams, Sr., but now, he listens. He listens closely. The words begin to have meaning, hold portent. They are ominous and grave and make so much sense.

“For the good book says: ‘And in those days shall men seek death, and shall not find it; and shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.’”

John wonders if the apocalypse the man speaks of has already come. Perhaps the horsemen are waiting just beyond the horizon, swords thirsty for the blood of all mankind. He certainly feels this is so. He has sought death once before, tried to coax it out from the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun in a motel room in Dallas, and another time in their old home, under the very same spot his Mary was murdered, but death escaped him, fled like a teasing mistress, its dark skirts all aflutter and fading from sight. Yes, he has desired this.

But John is a soldier. 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines, Echo Company. Stamped
into him by the words of drill sergeants and the jungles of Vietnam is a code he lives by, more powerful than any word of Scripture: Semper fidelis. Always faithful. Always loyal.

As John enters the Chicago city limits he glances at the rearview mirror and pictures his two sons there, Dean staring passively out the window and little Sam in his Looney Tunes-themed car seat on the other end. His boys. The only real thing Mary left behind to ease the pain of her absence. They are where his loyalties lie. Where his faith finds meaning. He cannot die. They cannot die.

I have to protect them.

A little while later he is in the apartment of a washed up police officer with
dark shadows under his eyes and a growing beer gut. Outside, Chicago is dark and muted, the only light coming from a flickering lamppost on the street corner. The man stares at him with both undisguised suspicion and pity. He is an aging man and a paranoid wreck. He has had a Beretta trained on John since the moment he opened the door.

“Who sent you here?” he asks. His voice is tired and scratchy and fond of the drink. In fear of ending up like him one day, John vows to limit his alcohol use. “How did you find me?”

“The man in Tulsa sends his regards.”

His eyes narrow. “Fenton. That bastard. He tell you that I don’t like entertaining strangers?”

John puts his hands in his pocket, remaining calm. “I only want to ask you a few questions.”

The man gestures with the gun. “How can I trust someone I’ve never met?”

“My wife was murdered by something. I saw it as blood and fire.” The memory makes John clench his fists. “Others call it a demon.”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t help you with that.”

“Fenton said otherwise.”

“Fenton is a jackass.”

“He told me you were with the Chicago Police Department. Worked the Black Cat cases, saw some things. Killed some things. Said that if I wanted to know more about this, you were the first place to start.”

The old police officer begins to shake his head even before John gets the chance to finish speaking. “No. He’s wrong. Please, leave me alone.”

John’s fists clench harder. His nails dig into the flesh of his palm. He too shakes his head. “You don’t understand. My wife is dead. My two boys have lost their mother. My life is ruined. I have nowhere else to go, and I will not leave until I get some answers.”

The gun drops a fraction, and the man stares at John despairingly. “You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into. I am telling you to leave because it’s for your own goddamned good.”

John looks him in the eyes.

“No.”

The gun clatters to the floor. The man sinks into a stained sofa and stares at the old carpet, his mind far off to a place where horrors reigned and dark things stalked the shadows. They lock gazes after a moment, and John almost wants to look away from what he sees in those eyes, but he does not, for if there is one thing that could get this man to change his mind, it is a show of weakness. John is many things, but he is not weak.

“Thirty minutes,” the older man says. “Thirty minutes to tell you everything I know. Thirty minutes and then you’re out and I never get to see your sorry face again. Seeing as that you’ll be dead sometime in the near future, that won’t be an issue.”

John thanks him, sits in a chair a couple sizes too small, and listens

Thirty minutes later he is gone. Forty minutes later he goes to the local convenience store and buys several packs of rock salt. An hour later he is driving out of Chicago, a little more knowledgeable about the other world hidden beneath our own. A little more confident. A little more terrified.

But he’s ready.

Not long after this event John Winchester unloads two rounds filled with the very same rock salt into a restless spirit in New Orleans. He later digs for hours in the St. Louis Cemetery to burn its corpse, therefore ending its lethal haunts. It is also the moment John Winchester becomes a hunter.

His life will never be the same.

John Winchester also learns soon after tucking in his bewildered sons to bed in a bug-infested motel room that the man in Chicago has committed suicide in his apartment, leaving behind young sons and daughters and a dark, unappreciated legacy. John never once believes this is true, that a man like Detective Collin Murphy would take his own life, but he does not go back to Chicago until much later, until the memory of the broken man with sad eyes is faded enough for him to tolerate its recollection.

As the years go by John Winchester finds himself thinking less and less about the man in Chicago, about the words that were spoken, for soon they become second nature to him, an instinct ingrained into his heart and drilled into the minds of his sons. Blood and combat rule his world and survival is tantamount to mercy, and above all the preservation of his family is the top priority. That, and the killing of the Yellow-Eyed Demon who started it all. He visits the city only once after that, to question a suspect hiding out in a strange bar deep in the bowels of the streets, and even then he does not linger on the passing of that man, on his face, on his words, on the grave, implacable warning.

But John Winchester never forgets.

***

 

^ I appreciate the writing style and the effort you've put into capturing John as a character, and I would readily read more of the same. Introducing the hunting world(passively?) through Murphy pre-death is different than I'd have expected.

 

Never watched anything Supernatural. This felt like a good link to the Dresden Files universe though. We're you going to times kip to Dresden or keep focused on John?

 

I would recommend it, although the later seasons get a bit contrived. 1-5 are spectacular, IMO.

Yeah, after this would be a time-skip to Dresden, Sam, and Dean, with some flashbacks for connectivity. That's the plan in my head, at least.

 

Could we put Dresden Files in the name of this thread, please? I keep clicking on it.

 

It's in the Dresden Files subforum, why does it need it in the title?