It was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon, Fanny decided. A very pleasant way indeed, to sit here and watch her favourite television show play across the screen. Not, she amended, that there weren’t many other pleasant ways to spend an afternoon, but there was just something so very freeing about watching something on the television. Perhaps it was because unlike say an activity like reading, she only needed Alison for a very brief moment.

And finally we reach the final story of our trilogy and I mean that both in the sense of my fanfiction and Ailish Sinclair’s Dancers series. This story was originally released on my AO3 and fanfiction.net account to celebrate the publication of Fouetté, the final book of her series. Check out the book here. And Look down below to see the prepare yourself for the fanfic that celebrates it…

And here I am again dear readers with the sequel! Behold how Allison once again fails to find a place in her own damn house to sit and read her new book in peace. I mean I would say spoilers but I think we all knew that was gonna happen. The Captain and the Happy Ending: or why Alison can’t have anything nice to herself part 2…

Well, here we are at the end again dear readers - much quicker than before but then that’s the way with one shots. If you’ve enjoyed this wee little tale of mine why not click down below to check out the playlist. Robin vs. The Diabolical Writer: or why Alison can never have anything nice to herself anymore Also check out Ailish Sinclair on her website…

There was a trick being played here. Of that fact at least the ghost now known to all as Robin was certain of. A trick. It had to be. It was a pretty good trick. It had certainly fooled the other ghosts. They were all much too focused on smelling the deep aromatic smells of the combined forces of a takeaway Chinese, Indian, and Italian.

And so we begin again dear reader. This story shall be much shorter than the last as it was my very first one shot. Written to celebrate the then release of Ailish Sinclair’s Dancer Series this short story tells the tale of one woman’s struggles to find a single place to read her new book in peace … and the caveman who won’t let her.

Wow, that went by quickly. And so we come to another end of another story dear reader. I hope you enjoyed my little tale of the tired caveman ghost and his strange magic stone. If you did than here’s an extra treat for you -behold two playlists this time The Small Ones - The Creative Process The first is the Playlist I listened to while I was writing the story itself.

Christmas is a fad. The others don’t believe it when he says this, they make excuses and allowances for their strange little cobbled together holiday. How its been here for two thousand years already. He almost laughs at the person who says that, it is only through the fact that it is Fanny that he manages retrains himself. Instead he states a simple fact.

The memory, he loses himself in now is older still, older than Camelot, or the house of Pendragon, older even than the Saxons. He thinks anyway, when they are not on this shore, he does not know their history. Maybe he shall ask someone more recently dead, when he has clawed his way back to the waking world again. But for now, all he can do is give himself to the memory.

Robin knows that sometimes the others find him strange, he is neither particularly stupid nor blind to the odd looks his behaviour provokes in them. He is strange, he was so in life even to the people of his own time, and he has only become more of himself in death. He knows that the other ghosts, or at least many of them, if they had died as adults do not share his joy at following the lives of the birds or the field mice.

She did not see him. Not as the person he truly was, not as her brother. She did not know him, he knew this for a fact when after the man, the person that had broken the stone had been seen too and fussed over she had looked up. Up into the faces of the three strangers standing on the hill.

Many of the day-to-day memories of his life, of the days, the years, the decades leading up to that fateful lightning strike, are now faded and grey from lack of use. When he had first died, on the day of the bear and the lightning storm he had been in too much shock to think much of anything. But after the first year, the first time someone had walked through him, Robin began to accept what had happened to him.

The forest had not been a scary thing to Robin now for many a year. Why would it be? The forest was life. It gave them the food they hunted and gathered; the streams they drank from ran through it; and most importantly, it sheltered them from their enemies. Whether those enemies be the great storms that Mahal unleashed upon the land in his fury at being trapped beneath the earth; the great predators, that would carry off the unwary infant; or even rival clans of dwarves, really didn’t matter.

It turned out, life as a trader was not the same as a life of an adventurer. Sure, you did get to travel, and to see many different places you wouldn’t have otherwise. But it wasn’t in anyway a heroic or exciting road. You set out from your cave, with your travelling pack weighed down with all sorts of carved, and knapped things.

The people who Robin is born to will be given many different names in the years, the decades, the ages to come. Drúedain, Ogre, Savage, Caveman, Neanderthal – all of these are names he will hear and answer to over the years, the centuries of his death, but none of them applied in life. None of them, were what his people called themselves – of course he no longer recalls the exact word they used, but he remembers with a clarity that can only really come when one is dead, the meaning of the word.

I told you I’d be back, didn’t I? Funny story, a while back when most of these fanfics were nothing but pictures in my head - I had several ideas on the story that would follow the War of the Dead. I knew I wanted to introduce the kind of world that the end of that story had created as something quite different than our own, but the question remained how to go about doing that.

Finally my dear readers we have reached the end of our tale - and as always, let us celebrate this monumental accomplishment with a bit of music. Click Below to listen to the Playlist of The War of the Dead on Spotify. The War of the Dead. And check out my Spotify Profile in general where I often make playlists even for fanfics that have yet to be published even on my…

This is where I was when the sky disappeared. Standing in my castle, staring out over the land that mortals had once called Gondor. Behind me, in a chair made of white marble, sat my son. Though draped in a garb of a king, he would always be to me that sulky adolescent that cried when he was left behind by his brothers.

The ground exploded. This is the truth you have read, and we shall keep to it as fact here as well. For the hobbit dead, the hobbit Mewlips that surrounded the lady Valar and her young guide – the ground did indeed explode. The Earth rose up, and covered them as it had done so in their first death – for a moment they were blinded by it, for a moment they were stopped, and a moment was all the Lady of the Earth needed.

Interview 273 Date: December 4th, 1985 Interviewers: Dr. Took & Profs Lasso. Transcript Dr. T: Could you speak your name into the Microphone please? E.K: Well, that is a tricky question, and a dangerous one at that to ask in a place like this, girl. My name? I have many, but none your people have called me by. You cannot ask for my true name, for you know I shall not give it, but you must call me something.

This world was aflame. Sitting in a tree, atop that mighty hill the Fool saw it all…saw as the Smith’s face twitched from blank confusion, to clarity…to rage. An unstoppable, unsurmountable rage. Rage for everything he had not seen, for everything he had let happen to his people, for everything that had ever gone wrong. It was a strange sight, to see a creature so lordly squirm and writhe in the dead dust that now littered Middle Earth.

Middle-Earth, Dwimoberg Mountain, Paths of the Dead Around his ankles the wisps of steam circled like slowly creeping spirits, or so he guessed for Námo refused to look down. He knew what he’d see there, he saw it every time he closed his eyes, every time he breathed too deeply, every time he took a step forward. They had been men, these bones that cracked underneath his boot, maybe good men, maybe bad, but it hardly made a difference any more.

North This land was abominable, Yavvanna concluded after three days of walking and walking and walking, with hardly any pause for rest and not one sight of anything that wasn’t this terrible shade of bruising purple. This was worse than what Rohan or Fangorn had become, she couldn’t even feel the draw from the roots under the earth here, she couldn’t even hear the whispers of their soon birthed voices.