For One-Thousand years Humanity has reigned supreme over the Earth, in all of it's forms. When the great ascendance gifted Earth Prime humanity became so much more. After centuries of war every Alpha Earth, non-scorched Beta Earth, and all other knowns Earth's had been conquered. The Golden Age was never ending.

And thankfully, always expanding. A new Earth is found every day. It's our duty to introduce them to Greatness.

----

That's the beginning of my Worm/Original Universe crossover. The OU is a world that got superhumans back in the time of the Romans, and it's gone swimmingly since. They discovered the multiverse, conquered it, and have proceeded to have a pretty nice liberal society. The caveat being that worlds who aren't subjugated are destroyed, and subprime ones might be little more than slaves colonies. That's besides the point though, and will have no effect on the story. It'll mostly be little dribs given by our OU characters for flavor, and an uncertain fear that they might actually destroy Earth-Worm at the end of this.

Why? Cause it's a shithole. They don't know that though. Officially our intrepid team has been given a Tenner, ten years securing an easy planet. The Earth is Prime like, meaning it has no major destruction events. The population appears to have awakened, even if they haven't grown quite as strong as a true Alpha Earth, but that will come in time. Most importantly, they haven't gone into space yet.

So they slot the team, hop in a portal, and get ready to listen to some long podcasts. They're portal has a shift date of December 1, 1992. Stable portal travel to a distant Earth takes about 5-20 years depending on far too many factors. There's also instability on where exactly you will land, especially when there is no reciever. Thus, you slot your team. The Scout lands first and sets up a quick relay. Bruiser and Tech will land together and set up a full Receiver Relay. Support and Lead will land last, and then begin the mission.

All told this should have been a cake walk with the full team assembling on December 31, 1999.

Unfortunately Zion dislikes interlopers, and the Simurgh even less.
-----------------

I've told you all of this to kind of understand the MC a little more. Unfortunately it's full of holes, as I didn't want to give you any more knowledge of that world than I needed. Especially, because it would take away from some of the later parts of the story I actually care about and don't want to spoil.

From here is where the story would begin.
-----------------

Croesus is not having a good day. LookiLoo's fucked up the Receiver, Palisade isn't answering, and he's lost Blossom. Absolute worst part? There's a crowd of "Super Heroes" who are fighting a fucking Incursion Beast. On an ALPHA.

It's February 24th of 2011, and the Simurgh is attacking Canberra, Australia. It decided to throw what it thought was a pent up Celestial horror at the humans to keep it going a bit longer. Instead it got a very angry man in gold, but who wasn't the Golden Man. The events following this small mistake would see her spend the next hour fighting for her life. Simultaneously discovering she has a life, and that it is in fact worth fighting for. At least that's how Croesus sees it, cause to him it's another Monday.

This show stopping beat down ends with the Simurgh running to lick her wounds, and some very angry people in very silly costumes demanding to know who he is. Of course finding out that it's 2011 and no one has even heard of his teammates has blown a few circuits.

-----------------

So that's where the story begins. The first arc is solely Croesus, not his real name or his real fake name, and the Simurgh having it out. Then Croesus and the Protectorate having it, but with more words. Then finally Croesus and Cauldron have it out, but it's all words.

An agreement is reached. Croesus will help Cauldron kill Zion, and Cauldron will help Croesus find his team. Preferably before the cleaners get there, but they don't need to worry about that for a few decades.

Given a choice of where the Protectorate will be revealing their all-star new hero, Croesus decides to shit kick some Nazis. Racism never really became a thing on his world, they only hate those without abilities, so he's tickled someone will hate him just for being him. Brockton Bay is fucked.

 

So, this is a zelda fanfic idea.
The overarching concept I want to explore is legend of Zelda groundhog day. But instead of Link repeating the same game ie Majora's mask, I want to explore this as having to do the same objective but each incident is in a different time period. So the hero of time consciousness, personality, etc. is aware of what happened and now has to get resituated each time and try figure out how to stop this reincarnation cycle.

I think I'm going to make the timeline route through OoT a lot to deal with the canon timeline and the choices the hero of time makes determines the next event in his cycle. Though I want to make links awakening a bit special and I'm not sure yet how much I want Zelda and Ganon to be aware if at all.

I don't want Ganon to be the main antagonist so much as an obstacle. He's got some good backstory that I want to flesh out more but in the end this is the Hero of time trying to obtain freedom not the Hero of time beats Ganon.

I want to build a more spiritual connection between the master sword and the Hero of time, not full sentience for the sword but some type of instinct that the master sword has.

I don't think the Hero will get time in between plots that might make things too easy but I'll definitely try to make geographic connections.

 

"Heroes of Might and Magic 3: Shadow of Death" meets "Warcraft 3: The Frozen Throne".

Before he would have been defeated, the Necromancer Sandro and his undead army are somehow transported to Azeroth around the time Death Knight Arthas Menethil kills his father King Terenas.

The Lich King detects Sandro's arrival and informs Arthas of this unforseen development.

While Arthas has the Frostmourne, Sandro has the Cloak of the Undead King and the Armor of the Damned.

 

While driving, I had an idea. The Witcher meets Pride and Prejudice.

I am already working on three things that I really ought to instead, so I thought I should put it here to get it out of my head and have something to look at again in the far distant future.

I couldn't find an OC plot bunny thread either: I'll put it here as a Pride & Prejudice AU, I suppose.

The magic system is inspired by the 'Magical Girl' influenced magic system from Rihaku's 'A Simple Transaction'.

Puissance and Perspicacity:

Pitch: Frequently overlooked Mary has a suitor, or had one, at least. When Mary is jilted in front of the entirety of Merryton and her many snickering sisters, her first original composition becomes far more than the sum of its parts and the Lord's Grace settles upon her. As England's newest Madonna she is whisked into a world even grander and more pernicious than that of her Derbyshire family. She is to travel to meet the many Madonnas of the Vatican where she will receive her holy mission, and then...

It'll be the war for her.

Story-idea:
Mary's change: Underappreciated, unconfident, naive, bookish and provincial Mary transforms into an original thinker and shrewd navigator of a global elite.

First tiny arc- more pride and prejudice, with tangential world-building, hinting at the unusual elements that diverge this from real history.

Mary has a naval love interest, whose ship has been captured as a prize as a Commander and he is on shore-leave. He returns but he is colder to Mary. He has the interest of a Naval Captain's daughter that will secure his fortunes better than her connections can, and he is not a rich man. She senses this change and determines to compose a musical piece for him. He doesn't even stay to listen, his love interest has arrived to stay with a friend and he doesn't pay Mary any mind at all once his quarry is there. Little focus on Lizzie and Jane. More on Kitty, Lydia and Mrs. Bennet and trying to make Mary a more consequential person rather than a foil. Emphasise how little importance she has, for almost anyone. Emphasise how little confidence she has in anything spontaneous and anything original. She values authority in her reading and her playing.

Mary sees people laughing at her, and she plays a piece with her heart and loses herself in it and becomes a Madonna in front of the whole hall.

A brief glimpse of the idea that she's suddenly an important person: and the family playing this up how it might affect their prospects.

Second arc - State vs. Madonna.

Government officials would convey her to the Vatican and an English Madonna, and English officials and there would be some contention between them. They would be met by a Vatican Madonna and there would be tension between them also.

Mary would have to learn the investiture process and vows and gradually begin to realise that power doesn't lie with the Pope in quite the way she thought it did and that not all Madonnas see themselves as or behave as complete servants of the State and People.

Mary would meet the strongest Madonnas and they would dismiss her (kindly and cruelly, depending on the speaker) as a new member of their order but not one that will ever amount to much. However, they will note the peculiarity of her Beatification.

[Mary will be able to remain 16 hours from the start, but she won't have any super spectacular power that others note. She will be an enchanted armour and arms smith, but only one of each, she can't mass-outfit but they're of a high quality thought without unique, extra additions at first. As she improves in skill they become much more fabulous over the story, but this improvement is not unique - Most Madonna have skills that improve significantly with practice, there's no evidence that she's Twice-beatified beyond the time].

Mary will be enlisted with her own troop to protect her when she sleeps, and nuns to serve her in other peculiar MI6 style ways - going a little Van Helsing/Witcher, though monsters will be a product of the War not really a natural phenomenon.

She'll then pursue a small war across the continent, where historical events are pimped up and magick-ified, while undertaking increasingly more impressive roles and missions in the style of Sharpe or Hornblower.

Each Arc would be a self-contained adventure.

Her initial ability would improve steadily allowing her to progress from an underwhelming ingenue (can take down one guy at a time no problem) to can take down a dozen men in a minute. From there she would become Thrice-Beatified and her third ability would be to pull and push Grace into natural objects, and realise that she had had a theme all along. Much more quickly than any before her she would ascend the ranks to become Five times Beatified, and take the fight to the French in whatever Waterloo Equivalent is appropriate.

As well as martial adventures, as a venerable beneficiary of God's mysterious authority she would, like Hornblower, find herself in diplomatic and ecclesiastical shenanigans. There would always be some time in London and Hertfordshire or Derbyshire to explore English Aristocracy during this time and the effect of the Madonna on women in European culture and society.

Magic system:
Women can become Madonna which are the magical girls of this setting. It's a predominantly European thing, mostly French, German and English and they've been around for about ninety years.

Women become Madonna by being very accomplished at various things, and when they're really, really exceptional, just once, the establishment says The Holy Ghost settles its Grace upon them, and grants them an Accomplishment.

An Accomplishment is a unique, dice-roll peculiar super-power.

As well as a unique Accomplishment, each Madonna is improved constitutionally in every way. The ugly are made beautiful, the weak are made strong. Where they are deficient they become great, and where they are great they become super-human. This aspect of God's Grace is a Madonna's beatification.

This can occur multiple times. If a Madonna is Beatified, she has a superpower and a super-human constitution, if she is Twice-Beatified she has two superpowers and an even more super-human constitution.

A Madonna's beatification is not permanent. Generally speaking, it lasts a third of the day, before she reverts to normal. If held onto for less time, it can be called up again more quickly. If their Accomplishment is of a thunderbolt-spewing type it might last far less time. If their Accomplishment allows them to make magic arms or armour then it may last slightly longer as it demands very little active use of God's Grace from them.

Generally, by Third-Beatification, they can sustain all-day transformation.

World-building:
The Madonna have been around for just under one hundred years in force. Though there were several earlier in time, and the first suspected was Joan of Arc.

The Madonna are occurring in very, very low numbers in America and Asia.

Where Madonna spend large periods of time the world becomes slightly more magical and more Madonna arise.

The Madonna are very religious figures in Europe, and in a large part, believe their own hype. That they are directly chosen for virtue in some form by God himself. There is an order of nuns that serve the Madonna and these are organised from the Vatican where the most powerful Madonna sit in the form of a council.

There are around 1000 Madonna from Europe. Around 600 of them are of the First Beatification. The ten or so who are entitled to sit in council on their religious Order, are all Fifth-Beatified and practically any of them could topple a state by themselves, they dictate the interests of the world. They are not always there in full number, some prefer to be in their homelands.

New Madonna, if they wish to get an immediate reward from Beatification (and they all do), go to the Vatican and meet the council and then the Pope. Get a fancy title, and then their homeland will give them political, spiritual and monetary authority.

The book is set in ~1813. Adapting Napoleonic history, the most powerful French Madonna, which form half of the Fifths, have schismed to create a French global empire.

This is the war into which Mary has now found herself a key player. As she progresses, the Madonna's schism progresses from Cold at the highest orders to hot.

 

In order to give an example of what I’d be going for, this is what that might look like.

Spoiler: Example chapter

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the middle of five children receives all the gifts of family life.

Mary Broadbent was no exception. Neither in need of mothering her young sisters, nor in need of it by her older sisters, nor possessing the particular attentions of her gentleman father, or a candidate of likely prospects for her mother, Mary was a figure well-able to chase the pursuit of all her wildest inclinations, to develop a lively disposition, and a fierce streak of independence.

“...Mother. It is Lady Charity’s reflection that a proper and becoming manner in a woman is borne by the quality of her accomplishments, and the value of a sombre and plain—”

“Oh, Mary do be still. Catherine where is my muslin bonnet? Oh, I do so miss my daughters. Eliza was so attentive, and Jennifer so pretty, and my dear Olivia. They knew just how to manage my nerves.”

Catherine scoffed, while from the kitchen their ageing father called out.

“Mrs. Broadbent, if a Madonna should be able to manage your nerves, which have been my friends these past twenty years, I should account it a greater miracle than all the Grace they possess.”

“Oh, my nerves, Mr. Broadbent. How you do like to provoke me.” Mary’s mother rushed from the kitchen, past the three bonnets held by the maid for her, her censure of Mary’s father continuing as she prowled the house. It was then that Catherine struck.

“Sister,” she said, “have you heard that Lieutenant Morgrave has returned to Hertfordshire? I had it from our Uncle, who said he dropped by to see Uncle’s clerks these two days past. Only he is no longer Lieutenant Morgrave but Commander Morgrave.”

“I am not sure what interest it is to me, Catherine,” said Mary, sure Catherine would have no idea that this news was of particular interest to her. It was only that Catherine missed their youngest sister Livvy, with whom she had often gossiped about the comings and goings of Boniton. “But he is Commander now? He rises quickly.”

Catherine turned to her with a queer look. Almost wry, and Mary cut her off before she could say whatever it was she might.

“It is as Lady Charity says in her sermons for young women, ‘The earnest wishes and charitable prayer of any—”

“Oh you do go on, Mary,” said Catherine, “I’d think you were a Madonna yourself.” She left the room and swept a well crested Bonnet from the hook beyond the door. “Mama, I have your bonnet, now please let’s go.”

Mary smoothed down her dress, while no eyes were on her. She cleaned her glasses, and swept her hair as well as she might so that it framed her face in two locks. Then she pushed them back under her bonnet because that was terribly vain. But still, when they set out for Boniton, she felt terribly peculiar, and she often found her fingers tending to some trivial fixing or another.

---

Boniton, in Hertfordshire, was the small town that sat two miles on from their own Wyrdbourne House. In times gone by, with her elder sisters still resident and unmarried, they had often walked into town and Mary with them, so as to take a form of constitutional — physical improvement in a temperate fashion being a fitting preoccupation for young women, Lady Charity often wrote — but that was all long past now, for their mother refused to walk anywhere. Mr Broadbent had little mind to refuse his wife anything that she might desire, for reasons of convenience rather than sentiment, and they took the hack-chaise over bumpy tracks, to town.

In Boniton, as was usual, they arrived directly at Mr. Grosvenor’s law office where her aunt, Mrs. Grosvenor, was waiting.

“Dear sister,” said Mrs. Grosvenor, “dear nieces, Catherine, Mary.”

Mary smiled, as she could. She was used to being remarked on second to her younger sisters. They murmured polite greetings to their aunt.

“I am very pleased to see you in Boniton again, after such a quick removal by Mr. and Mrs. Knightley from Netherborne Hall. Dear Jennifer was always so even tempered, it must be a dreadful shock,” she said.

Mrs. Broadbent gasped. She flicked a handkerchief and looked at Mary and Catherine with great, large eyes before turning back to her sister.

“A quick removal? A quick removal? Why, I encouraged her to support Eliza in Derbyshire these past twelve months, but she was reluctant to leave the good company of this country and her dear mother. And, I would have you know it, to anyone who suggests it was a quick removal from our company. Why, I should be shocked to hear anyone call it a quick removal from such pleasant surroundings.”

Mrs. Grosvenor did not put up a fight, and they quickly turned to other more familiar bickers and made ready to leave to the dressmakers.

Mary looked around the offices. There was no Commander Morgrave, of course. In the far corner however, his cousin sat at a desk, diligently at work. Mary had no recourse to ask after the Commander, or even his own health, but he nodded at her when he looked up, with a brief smile and a tug of the hat.

“Come along, Mary,” said Mrs. Broadbent, and they left.

On the road outside, Catherine linked arms with her in an unusually familiar gesture. Mary supposed it showed her figure to the greatest effect and let her petticoat catch the most attention with every step.

“Do you have something you would like to tell me, sister?” asked Catherine.

“I have a great many things I should like to discuss with you. A woman’s mind is best refined by reading, temperance and instruction. Perhaps we might discuss the most recent Sunday Lecture, or I might read to you from Psalms and we might grow in Grace.”

Catherine looked at her for a moment. “No, not that,” she said, “You shared a look with that scribe in our Uncle’s office. Don’t deny it, I saw you.”

“I did not,” said Mary, promptly. The lie struck at her like a knife. A mortal blow right into the centre of her heart. “Oh sister, I did, but I know what you must think and it is not that.”

Catherine smiled up at her, a great, wide smile, eyes alight. A beautiful, honest smile. All the Broadbent daughters were beautiful, with fetching visages, fine figures and fine eyes, excepting Mary.

“It was only that I remembered what you said,” said Mary, “about Commander Morgrave, and I thought that I might convey our congratulations to himself or his cousin.”

“His cousin?” asked Catherine, “I did not know he had a cousin in Mr. Grosvenor’s office.”

“Did you not think him frequently there, when in the country?”

Catherine pushed out her lower lip. “Perhaps, I might make his acquaintance,” she said, “now that his star is rising. A Commander is not so far from a Captain, is that right, Mary?”

“That is right,” said Mary, quietly.

She said nothing else, and Catherine was quickly taken by a dress in a shop-front, all thought of Morgrave, and Mary, driven from her mind.
---------------------------------------------------

They took luncheon at the Hart and Hind, the public house most suited to them, in the centre of Boniton. From their room at the front they could look out on the crossing ways of Boniton. They took cold meats, several types of bread. Interestingly, there were olives in oils and strawberries out of season, as well as the usual jellies.

“These are very good,” said Mrs. Broadbent.

“There are cold boxes that will last forever coming from Rome now, Mr. Grosvenor says. He says it will alter our habits a great deal, here and abroad.”

“Well, be that as it may,” said Mrs. Broadbent, “but I should like nothing so much as some good blueberries.”

Outside the window, there were the comings and goings of a great number of gentlemen on tan horses. A cart full of pails and crates was being unloaded by a tall boy in simple clothes, and although the roads were cobbled, and the weather wet, there seemed to be more dust on him than mud.

A strange, odd fellow popped up at the window, with blonde hair under a great top hat, rapping at the glass with a stick. They all jumped.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Broadbent.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Grosvenor. “Mr Smith, you are a sort!”

This Mr. Smith tipped his hat at them through the glass with a great smile, then vanished just as suddenly.

“Who is that, Aunt?” asked Catherine, “what peculiar manners he has.”

Mrs. Grosvenor had no time to answer before came that same rap at the door, and it was flung open. They struggled to rise.

“No, no, please don’t stand on our account. Not such a luminary as Mrs. Grosvenor,” said the young man.

“Mr. Smith, have you met my sister and her daughters? Mrs. Broadbent, Miss Broadbent and Miss Catherine Broadbent.”

“How do you do,” said Mr. Smith.

“How do you do,” murmured Mary, with Catherine.

“Mrs. Grosvenor, I was wandering by and thought I spied you sitting here. I shall never miss the opportunity to thank your dear husband, whose office saved myself a fortune of some several thousand pounds.”

Catherine sat up a little more straightly.

“Oh but where am I,” he continued, “assembled muses, have you had the pleasure of my good friend, Commander Morgrave?”

There was another man in the door, hidden behind Mr. Smith in part, and he stepped in. Perhaps not so handsome as Mr. Smith, but taller, with deeper eyes and dark hair. He was wearing a blue coat that looked very fine.

“Mrs. Grosvenor.” He nodded his head. “Mrs. Broadbent.” His eyes stopped on Mary. “Miss Broadbent,” he said.

“Yes, we were introduced some years ago at the Assembly, Commander Morgrave, I recall you very distinctly dancing twice with Mary. If you are in the country in a week, perhaps you might make a third. Is she not grown into a… virtuous woman?”

If there was faint red on his face it could not be the equal of the scarlet that surely covered her own. Her mother had never been the most tactful of women, but this was the first time her particular fascinations had been turned toward Mary. It was a surprise that she had noted Mary’s dance card several years previously when Jennifer and Eliza were still unmarried.

“It would be a privilege to dance with any Miss Broadbent with such fine manners,” he said, and he bowed to her, and then Catherine in turn, also. Even this faint praise was enough. Mary’s heart might be replaced with a hummingbird’s and maintain the same pace.

“Do you see how well he does, Mrs. Grosvenor?” asked Mr. Smith, “isn’t he a fine sort?”

They had the lively banter of men who had taken many confidences of each other, the sort that surpassed a passing acquaintance.

“Do forgive us,” said the Commander, “he is always very pleased to make your company. Please do give our salutations to Mr. Grosvenor, and we shall leave you to your luncheon.”

Mrs. Grosvenor assured them that she would.

“Look at him rush,” laughed Mr. Smith. He took a pause to make his bows, as they left he took a look back at them all. “I fancy there is an Admiral’s daughter he is very keen to meet. The sea makes his manners very fine, indeed.”

He laughed again, but Commander Morgrave met Mary with wide eyes. He bowed deeply then fled from the room.

Something deep and sick settled in her.

“An Admiral’s daughter,” said Mrs. Broadbent, “I am not sure what charms she should have over our Mary, if not for that wretched entail.”
------------------------------------------------

Boniton gave way to Wyrdbourne once more, but for Mary there was no peace to be found at home.

She was not a woman given over much to gossip or the pursuit of a good match, nor was she the sort that might frequently have expectations of an attachment, and this news of Mr. Morgrave’s possible interest was affecting her most severely. She was not Olivia, whose gifts seemed to lie entirely in that realm, who might have two dances with four men or more on any night. Nor Jane, who, proper in every way, had the distinguished way about her of drawing out a man’s better nature in pursuit of her, by her amiable manners and even more amiable countenance.

Mary’s particular example had always been Eliza. Eliza was her elder sister by two years, the second of the Broadbent daughters. Of all of them, by considerable margin, Eliza had the disposition and manners of their father, and for this her father favoured her above all his other daughters.

His interest was not expressed as another father might show it: Eliza did not receive a great deal more fine clothes than her sisters, nor a greater allowance. Instead, her father gave Eliza his time and his company and did not profess it a great burden on himself.

This gave Eliza, to Mary’s mind, her security in rejecting who she pleased and pursuing who she wished. Eliza had only sought that most particular attachment, without regard for other considerations. She had found her match, her confidence in a man all the Broadbents had thought aloof and proud, and now she was the model of success, for he had been most pleasing in all other matters. Eliza had found a disposition to match her own, and her earnestness had secured her worldly fortune, too.

Was it so wrong to want what she had seen was possible? Mary had met only one man in her life who perhaps excited her thoughts of attachment in this fashion. Mr. Morgrave had been an interruption in her life for these past five years, since his first escape from the Admiralty. He appeared and disappeared from their assemblage, like the phases of the moon, and to Mary he seemed as mysterious.

Mary did not frequently attract the conversation of gentleman. Commander Morgrave was the sole man who had ever seemed particularly interested in what she thought. He had a love of music and, of all her sisters, her catalogue was the most expansive.

“Oh, too rough, Mary. Your mind is elsewhere.” Catherine turned and took the brush from her hands, pulling a bunch forward so that she could see it clearly in the mirror. “You have been far too glum since Boniton. Why are you being so tiresome?”

“It was Lady Temperance who wrote–“

“Oh, not a Madonna’s sermon, Mary. If that were the occupation of your mind, I should not have spoken these last twenty minutes.” Catherine turned to her. “Now you are miserable, and I would have you come out with it.”

Mary would not.

“We are to have the first ball, in a week, I am so worried that we should not have time to choose a dress that will be worthy of the fashion. You know how much importance a woman should place on her dress. If she has no concerns about her shoes, or her parasol,” said Catherine.

Mary gave her views on the importance of fashion for five minutes, and Catherine smiled at her conclusion before she spoke.

“Well, there you are. I see you are not so preoccupied as all that, though I would not be as fastidious as you are for all the money in England.”

Mary sighed. She took the brush from Catherine and finished helping her with her hair. Before long, she was ready to wish her good night. With a saucer and candle, she made her way to the door.

“Sister,” said Catherine, from her dresser, “I do hope you shall consider your dress at least as much as you consider your recital.”

“I do not play for my own benefit. I should consider my pieces a great deal more than my dresses.”

“As you say, sister,” said Catherine, “only, your figure may appear to best effect to the Assembly, sat at the piano, and I should think that will heighten your charms over an Admiral’s daughter. That will be the key to your success more than any of your complicated pieces. Please mind the door.”

Mary left in a hurry, not daring to look back at Catherine’s expression. Her sister had surprised her. She was too sharp, entirely too sharp.
-------------------------------------------

It was just over a week, in fact, before the first assembly of the season. They attended Boniton once more, and dined once with a party of twenty at Sir Lucan’s, with the pleasure of their Uncle and Aunt’s company. However, of Commander Morgrave they saw no sign.

Mary kept her own counsel, and her time was filled with recital. Commander Morgrave was given to humour but Mary found, try as she might, that she could not master comedy, it was entirely too mortifying and too much beyond her own proper and composed character. Accordingly, she turned to those other elegant and dignified composers that might most arouse his admiration.

She practiced the ballads of Moore, that most exemplary figure, and the songs of Storace and Diblin, which would not overcome her voice. Her capstone, her feather, was to be Handel for whom she knew Commander Morgrave held a very avid fondness.

If she did not do it so well as perhaps as she might on a pianoforte then she was confident that her ability would prove the equal of her ambition on the grand piano of the Hall.

Mary did not precisely heed Catherine’s advice, but as they took the carriage to the assembly Hall, if she looked more fine and elegant than she had the season past it was a fortunate thing.

The assembly was a grand building, not privately held, that was contracted for seasonal gatherings by the principal people around the town. It was the site where Mary had met Mr. Morgrave at her debut some years early, where her sisters had met their husbands, and the place which Mr. Broadbent detested, to his own great enjoyment.

“Hurry, hurry, Mrs. Broadbent. The sooner we should be introduced, the sooner we might prepare to receive those who arrive at a less punctual moment.”

“Mr. Broadbent, you are a funny sort,” said Mrs. Broadbent. This was a common remark for Mrs. Broadbent, for whom the advantage of twenty-five years marriage was not sufficient to a deep understanding of her husband and his character.

They were not so early as Mr. Broadbent feared. They were introduced and quickly established themselves as a leading sort of family, speaking with the mayoralty, Sir Lucan, Mr. Short of Longhouse Hall, and anyone else with whom they had been long acquainted.

As the first assembly of the season, there were younger daughters stepping out for the first time, before those attending the ball might be seated to dine. However, by the time they were seated, of Commander Morgrave there remained no sign.

By pudding, long past the gathering of the entire assembly, Mary was still and quiet.

“... any in a red coat, or blue, should be fine for myself to dance with. I would consider that enough success for me tonight, Miss Lucan. Though my sister may find herself more particular.”

It became apparent to Mary that she was expected to respond, by her sister’s expectant pause, but to what was not quite so certain. Mary smiled and took a decided bite of pudding.

Miss Lucan tittered, and her sister stared at her.

“Are you well?” asked Catherine.

“I am quite well,” said Mary, “excuse me.” She rose from the table, but this was not quite so much as it might be, as she was long known to the company, and this was an uncommon event.

She left toward that private space that she might compose herself. She had worked for a week in service to her unbecoming, coquettish plot. She had neglected sermons and practice of any accomplishment, other than the piano that might further her pursuit. It was all for nothing.

Mary was not yet twenty-one, and despite all the solemnity of her virtues, the disappointment wrote itself across her in sharp pangs, so that the was barely looking elsewhere than the floor when she collided with a party, at the entryway to the hall.

“Miss Broadbent,” said he, and of course, it was Commander Morgrave. He could know nothing of her paroxysms and her passions, he only saw that she was leaving, and he stepped back to let her by. He had easy and quick manners.

Mr. Smith was with him, as might be expected, but though there were two gentlemen in their party, that was not the extent of their number. With them came three ladies, one golden haired, one red, and one with hair darker than her own.

The pause lingered; lingered longer still.

“Commander Morgrave,” she said, after a moment more.

“Miss Broadbent, you have met Mr. Smith.” The blonde man bowed. “May I introduce his sisters, Miss Smith and Miss Hannah Smith?” The woman with blonde hair and the woman with redder hair curtsied in turn as Mary responded similarly. “Here with our mutual acquaintance, Miss Parkstock, of Portsmouth.”

Miss Parkstock made her kind greetings, and Mary responded in turn, but could not come to look at her in full, and at the earliest opportunity fled from the connection.

It was as she had frequently read, and this past week forgotten, that plans dishonestly made came to dishonest resolutions. She gave up her designs. She gave up her life, her heart, and all her prospects, and made an earnest entreaty that she should live to be old, alone and never forsake all the more sober joys of life again.

Before too long, a shortage of partners encouraged her to dance, and she undertook the two third, and the two fourth. At the far end of the line Commander Morgrave danced them all. He danced equally with the sisters of Mr. Smith and their acquaintance from Portsmouth, until the final of the half, where he took a second dance with Miss Parkstock, and again a great wrench cut through her.

During the pause he approached her, by means of their mutual acquaintance. Miss Lucan, who had been sat with her, turned to her opposite corner.

“I was pleased to see you dancing,” said Commander Morgrave, after a moment’s pause.

“And I you,” said Mary, “Miss Parkstock is an uncommonly fine partner.”

He hesitated. “She is. She is,” he said, “I think you should like her, on a further meeting. She possesses proper sensibilities, also. Yes.”

“And should I expect further meetings?” asked Mary, “I should like that very much.” She took a drink at that moment, and supposed that it would help the question resemble an entirely proper enquiry.

He dipped his head to her. “Yes. You may expect to meet her again, I suspect.”

“Is she staying long with the Miss Smiths?”

“Miss Broadbent…” he said.

Mr. Smith strode over, calling for Commander Morgrave, before he could answer. The blonde slapped one hand on his shoulder. “Miss Broadbent,” he said, with a bow.

“I shall play, presently, gentlemen, if it might please you,” she said.

“Excellent,” said Mr. Smith, and Commander Morgrave smiled at her.

They made their excuses – Mr. Smith explaining the purpose for his interruption – and strode over to talk with a gentleman by the fire, Mary watching Mr. Smith making introductions. Was Commander Morgrave more animated as she watched him, for having talked to her, or was that only her hopes?

Still, it had soothed something within her.

She thought it likely that her playing his favourite composer, and some other pieces that he ought to like very much, should impress on his heart the deep understanding that she carried. That she might communicate with him through the recital in a way that she never could in their hurried conversations at balls, and those busy dinners which they sometimes attended on the same day.

Before the second half, Mary took her turn at the piano. She took her first song, and her second, simpler than she often performed, and more jolly. Far more of a circle than she might usually expect gathered around her and covered her view of the hall. Amongst those faces at the front she could not find Commander Morgrave, and supposed he must be hidden, perhaps to the best view of her, somewhere behind.

She gathered momentum. She played two more songs, and sung until the words gave way to his most favoured author.

It was devilishly tricky. She exerted such talent as she possessed and such skill as her many years of practice allowed her, and still it was not the rendition that she had hoped for. Much as on the pianoforte.

The piano did not lift her higher, it did not hide those bars where the reach was too far, or offer more quickness on those passages which demanded a staccato celerity. Instead, the piano only magnified those flaws that she had found at home, so that all might hear them.

Some in her audience turned to conversation, and through the gap she saw Commander Morgrave.

If she might only see appreciation on hisface. If she could see that he heard the music that she heard when she thought to play, rather than the music that she was trapped playing, it would be ok. It would be enough. It would impress her love upon his heart.

Commander Morgrave was turned away. He looked down at Miss Parkstock, and she looked up at him. Mr. Smith came to stand beside him, and the three of them left toward the entry hall. All of them were smiling. They cut a fine figure, and Commander Morgrave did not look back for Mary. He did not seem to hear her at all.

A moment more and they were gone. Late to arrive, early to leave.

The song dragged, her fingers slowed then stilled through the bar.

Those closest to her turned. Her father stepped up to the far end of the piano, she had not seen him, there at the far end of the piano, straight ahead of her.

“Mary…?” he asked.

“It is … it is only that I…” He was looking at her with great concern. “I am doing it no credit, Mr. Broadbent.”

Mary turned to look at the puzzled faces of that front row. “Forgive me the stumble, I will play something simpler until the second half.”

She had nothing simple. She could not play those two short pieces again, but the silence was building and already her fingers were moving.

What it was she didn’t know. At first she was slow. She put down what she had expected, and what she had seen, and let it through, but this was not who she was or who she had wanted to be. She had seen many examples of greater women than herself, in famous Madonna, in beautiful sisters and in younger women from Portsmouth, and this she played too. Most of all, she saw herself as she ought to be, beyond this moment, beyond this pain, and her fingers sped over ivory and the music rolled out.

It built, and built, and soon she did not know what she was putting down only that it was flowing. Only that it was living in the piano and sounding out. It built up against her, and ran around, and if there were others in that hall she didn’t know them.

The song filled her up, and there was only the music, welling up until every corner of her soul, every fibre of muscle, and every drop of blood was full of it, like a flower bending under the weight of morning dew. She felt that she might burst, that she might explode, but never that she might stop, she could not stop.

It compressed, it condensed. Distilled star-stuff and hundred-proof song, it combusted, came a-fire, and stayed kindling. Burning grace, in every part of her being. The song stopped, the piano quieted, and the assembly was completely still.

All the gentlemen were bowing, all the women were in a deep curtsey.

Only her father dared to look up at her, over the piano that had transformed her.

“My daughter,” he said, in wonderment. “Madonna

I think it might be difficult and unengaging language to be quite honest, so to attract a readership, I am considering making it a quest. The episodic nature of Hornblower/Sharpe/Witcher campaigns and the levels of a Madonna’s power might lend itself well enough to this, but, conversely, the actual story and characters may not. What do you think?

 

I want to somehow combine the worlds of Terminator and Alien/Predator.

Though, I'd only take into consideration these movies:

Terminator 1 and 2.
Predator 1 and 2.
Alien 1 and 2.

I'd ignore all later installments.

The idea would be that once Judgment Day happens the Predators are kind of irritated because humans are their favorite prey and Skynet is ruining their favorite hunting place.

 

Not sure about Predators, but Aliens vs Terminators could be a cool take on theme of a biological adaptability versus a technological design. Chaotic evolution versus ordered progress.

Aliens would be sort of "good guys" because they can't allow all their potential host to be killed.

 

Predators vs. Aliens vs. Terminators but it's all in the matrix.

 

Darth Revan's mind-conversion by Jedi Masters Vrook, Zhar, Dorak and Vandar was complete. The broken corpse dragged to Dantooine by Bastila Shan lived again. The soldier known as NAME knew nothing that they did not want. The Dantooine Jedi Council knew that the dead dark lord's affinity to the force would return. How could it not? He was born from and was a Vergence in the Force. What they didn't know, couldn't know, was that he-who-was-once-Revan would come into possession of the lightsaber He once wielded. The lightsaber whose kyber (kaiburr?) crystal was bled, tortured and turned - whose kyber crystal felt the hate and pain of the Mandalorian Wars. Wrested from the hand of the slain? Jedi Master (Darth, the force whispered, but that's not true. That's impossible, she was just mistaken but had to die. Mandalore the Ultimate had to die and she WILL NOT BAR HIS WAY) Kriea, the kyber crystal knew? remembered? relearned? retaught? EDUCATED pain. Educated Betrayal. Taught the Dark Side. Bled itself. Willingly

But then, inexplicably, He Who Was Once Revan healed the kyber crystal, much like Ahsoka Tano would, millennia upon millennia later. And the Jedi Council didn't know why Darth Malak fled, why the fear he had long since felt, embraced and mastered caused him to fly from the engineering compartment of the Leviathan when the lightsaber that he knew belonged to Darth Revan, the lightsaber that he recovered from the splintered remains of his former master's flagship soared from his cloak into Once Revan's hand and ignited a brilliant, cleansing, searing white. From nothing but a gesture. Once Revan Remembered and Gestured.

I'm not sure where we go from there. I'm trying to marry new Disney canon, which I adore in this case, concerning corrupted/tortured/bled kyber/lightsaber crystals outwardly showing their red nature with KOTOR

 

Game of Thrones.

Summary:
You know you are in deep trouble when you need genocidal frozen ice zombies to save your ass.

Premise:
It had been nearly a decade of summer. Times were prosperous, but trouble was brewing in Westeros. King Robert was drinking, eating and whoring himself to an early grave. Queen Cersei, bitter against her husband and doting on her children born of incest. Jon Arryn was suspicious of these gold-haired Baratheons. Petyr Baelish grabbed as much power and gold as he could.

And then - sudden and sharp decline of traders from Essos across the sea.

And then - fleets of ships arrived at King's Landing and along the entire eastern/southern coast of Westeros, begging sanctuary.

A mighty host from the east, they said, had gathered under the sigil of a crimson, flaming crown. Khal Drogo was reborned and revealed himself to R'hllorans as the Azor Ahai, and was leading his a crusade toward Westeros.

Plot:
The Seven Kingdoms mobilized to face another wave of invasion from Essos. Some plots were set aside while others moved on, caring nothing of the danger facing everyone in Westeros.

Oh the more mythical side of things, the power of the reborn Azor Ahai couldn't be countered by mere mortals. Jon Snow, guided by his brother (cousin) Bran, must gather up a group and travel beyond the Wall to seek help. From the Three-Eyed Raven to the Children of the Forest, he finally found a weapon that might defeat this mighty enemy: the genocidal entities known as White Walkers.

Notes:
-White Walkers are still genocidal and don't feel like talking.
-Drogo is not quite himself anymore, but something more...eldritch. He wants to clean the world in R'hllor's light. Or so he says.
-Stannis and Davos leading naval battles, while ground battles are fought in the Stepstones and on the eastern shores of the North.
-Daenerys is alive, kept by the R'hlloran fanatics in Essos. -More dragon eggs were retrieved from Old Valyria so she could hatch them.
-Some Essosi Free Cities still stood, but they were under siege by R'hlloran forces.

 

Homura Akemi saves Madoka from Walpurgisnacht. A few days later the Black Mesa Incident causes strange portals to erupt across the globe followed by the Seven Hour War. Madoka is killed by the Combine and Homura starts from the beginning again. Discovering the secrets of Black Mesa she finds herself in direct conflict with the G-Man and in a strange alliance with the Incubators who see the G-Man's actions at Black Mesa as interfering in their energy collection efforts.
--- Post automerged ---
And another:

A Nova Corps member is secretly working for Frieza. Realising that the Infinity Stone the Nova Corps has captured is real, she steals it and blows her cover. Frieza is initially disappointed that she blew her cover and dismisses the Infinity Stones as a myth until she presents it to him. Frieza then decides that he needs to be more proactive in fighting Thanos.

Essentially he had previously ignored Thanos and built up his forces because Thanos would gain half as many people and much less strong fighters each time he conquered a planet. When facing death or servitude, most planets will submit, but when half a planet is going to die, a planet’s heroes – their strongest fighters – are much more likely to fight to the death, depriving Thanos of them.

The Infinity Stone upset this balance, putting Frieza in the position of needing to put Thanos down fast, as each stone he acquires tips the balance towards him.

Cue Frieza encountering MCU Earth.

 

...There are 7 infinity stones in your story, right? RIGHT?