Once Upon A Midnight Dreary

You stretch out your wings, as inky black and ominous as the night. You are a beautiful, terrible thing. 'Corvus Corax' is your name, but most humans in this place and this time call you simply 'Raven,' or 'Argh!' or 'Christ, look at the size of that thing!' They fear you even though you live peacefully alongside them, with intelligence and awareness, mimicking their own words at times. They weave a web of folklore around you as you perch, watching and listening, absorbing, until it is difficult to say where the raven which is lore ends and the raven which is you begins. Or maybe that's just bullshit. You don't know. You're just a great big bird; how are you supposed to extract yourself from the stories that glimmer around you like so many shiny things? You take flight; a shadow upon shadows, to... [[be a harbinger of myth]] [[do normal bird stuff]]

You fly; part bird, part shadow, part story, part something else. You are something that humans with stories fear. You are something that humans with stories need. You fly towards [[A single candlelight]] [[A line of mysterious glowing lights]] [[an electric light]] [[swirling green and orange lights]]

You pick at the mushy remains of a hedgehog that was flattened into paste by a speeding car a few hours before. Dinner. The humans had not intended to provide you with carrion when they killed this creature, they merely kill in their carelessness. In eating, you do not intend to help the human world by picking the tiny crushed body clean of meat before it offends an eye, or rots and spreads disease. You just eat. Then, you roost and sleep. You are not part of this story, You are not part of any human's story. This is not a good ending or a bad ending. Just a life. Unless you choose that you will become part myth after all, part of a story, [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

The candlelight is flickering in the window of a rather run-down looking house. It may have once been a nice home for a young couple, but now.. there is something sick about it. Something bereft. You land on the window ledge. Heavy curtains hang open to the night. Through the window you an see a room... some sort of study. It's filled with dust; books piled all over the fucking place - crammed into shelves like Hell's Jenga, cluttering tables, making papery cairns on the floor... an academic lives here. Or a bloody poet. You hop a little to the side on the window ledge, and there you see him. Dozing in his chair, a book still open on his knee. A wreck of a man. Even from outside, and even as he sleeps, you know he needs you to be something else - a shadow, a ghost, a demon. Something else. Something so human you can't put your beak on it quite yet. As you watch the sleeping man... [[you adore him]] [[you despise him]] [[you pity him]]

As you fly closer towards the light, you see that this is The Internet. It is terrible, and it is wonderful, and it is where people's minds just live, now. It's where so many stories live, and jokes, and storyjokes that chop up old jokes and stories and mash them up and retell them; and it's huge yet it's intimate and it's an explosion of creativity and socialising and information yet it curtails creativity and sociability and information and it belongs to everyone yet it belongs to a tiny handful of the worst, wealthiest people in the world. You love it and you hate it, and you're everywhere on it. Your shadows are everywhere! Flickering and flitting in the electric light. [[You are a meme]]

The sky is alive here! A rainbow river in the sky, a bridge between humans and their gods, and you, part story, can dance through the air along it, a soaring, glimmering blackness against the multicoloured night. There is a man here who is not a man. He is all story. He is the one-eyed king. He is also, for reasons even the half-story of you doesn't fully understand, Wednesdays. He needs you. Actually, he needs you to be two of you. [[Tough shit, there's only one of you, and that's majestic enough]] [[Fine. You are part story after all. You are two ravens]]

'Which one are you?' asks the One Eyed King. 'Thought or memory?' 'I can be both,' you tell him. 'Which one are *you* - Odin or Wednesdays?' 'I can be both,' replies the One Eyed King. 'Is there one you'd prefer?' It makes sense that a god who is also a day is asking you which you'd rather he be. You are, after all, a majestic raven made of his thought and memory. You treat his question with all the thoughtfulness and responsibility it deserves. [[You're Odin. Let's do some Viking God King Shit!]] [[You're Wednesdays. Let's do some Hump Day Shit!]] 'Actually,' you say, 'you can be whatever I want you to be. Fuck the gods! [[You're a vole now!]]'

There is now a second raven. [[You are Huginn, the other raven is Muninn]] [[You are Muninn, the other raven is Huginn]]

'Raaaargh!' Odin cries, delighted to be in full god-hood. 'RAAARGH!' you bellow in response. Let's... [[Have a God-Feast!]] [[Invade Britain!]] [[Do something goddy and weird!]]

You are hanging out with the embodiment of the day in the middle of the average working week. What even happens on a Wednesday? [[put the bins out]] [[crack on with that big project for work]] [[go to the gym]] [[pub quiz?]] [[keep thinking it's Friday]] [[decide you just can't take this life any more]]

That's right! The gods serve the storyteller! Fuck you, gods! Fuck you!!! The one eyed king is just a vole, small, terrified and delicious. It scrurries away from you in vain, and you are so mighty, your mind so advanced, your wings so fast, your beak so sharp that you swiftly pluck the god-vole up as it tries to run from you. [[Show the godvole mercy]] [[EAT THE GODS! EAT THE GODS!]]

...Sounds a bit monocultural with the chance to be just a smidge fashy? You sure you want to be the one ultimate GOD? [[Yeah! Global monotheism is power!]] ...actually, [[New myths are born - myths free of the gods]] [[Myth is dead]]

Story continues, myth continues, but without the concept of a god. Concepts of the spiritual and the otherworldly remain - even stories of superhumanly long lived, wise and powerful figures continue to bloom, but every time one veers into godhood, you peck it away. You are The Godeater. Not a god, but a gatekeeper of those delicious gods with their yummy halos. Until, inevitably, story creates a being that can destroy you - The Godeatereater. 'Ah,' you think as the Godeatereater slithers up through the mud, wraps its tentacles around your feathery form and drags you, fluttering helplessly, into its snapping maw, 'I should have known something like this would happen.' And, with the Godeater eaten, gods return; a yeast infection in the damp crevices of the human mind. Pesky gods! The end (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: Pesky Gods)] becomes the beginning again, and you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

But if myth is dead, then you cannot be part-story. So, thinks a rapidly dwindling part of you, you were never in the story to eat the gods and kill myth in the first place. Oh rats, now you've gone and done it, you've created a paradox. Only suddenly, you don't know what a paradox is. You are just a raven. A reasonably intelligent bird, but a bird nontheless. (text-colour:cyan)[(non ending: craa? craa???)] You 'CRAAK' into the night, do a big shit and then flap away to [[do normal bird stuff]]

You try. You try to assert yourself around all of humanity as the one GOD. You use force. You eat every god that the humans try to create, you trample cultures, dreams, every story but your own... but every time you do so, another appears, like fungus. Something's alive, deep down, where even you, the great raven GOD, cannot peck it out. You cannot stop the stories, you cannot stop their minds from believing in things other than you. Every empire must fall. Every statue must fall. In the desert, you see a huge plinth, on which stands two broken raven claws. Beyond is the shattered remains of a marble beak, worn smooth and almost unreckognisable by time and wind and sand. Eventually, they will become just another part of the desert as new life and new stories spring up elsewhere. An old man dressed in the royal robes of the Egyptian New Kingdom gives you a sympathetic smile. 'Common problem,' he tells you. 'Fuck off, Ozymandias,' you reply. Well, this was a bust. Hubris is one hell of a drug, even for ravens. (text-colour:magenta)[(Bad ending: Hubris)] You may as well go back to where your story began, [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]] .

Even though it goes against every fibre of your being as an omnivorous bird, you remain part story, and few stories are without even a chance of mercy. The vole scurries away beneath the swirling rainbow in the sky to become the One Eyed King once more. Mercy is human and it is raven and it is divine. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]]

The fear of the god tastes so delicious that you turn every one of the pantheon into voles, and you feast. And beyond the rainbow bridge are different versions of those gods, and beyond that, different gods all together, and you turn each and every one of them into voles because you can, and you devour them because you can. You are The God Eater. It is a good ending if you like eating gods. Probably a bit of a bad ending for organised religion and mythology in general. Now that you have eaten all the god myths... [[You become the one GOD of all myth]] [[New myths are born - myths free of the gods]] [[Myth is dead]]

Oh yeah, Wednesday's bins, isn't it? You put the bins out, as you must always do on a Wednesday. This is incredibly difficult, as you are a raven and have neither opposable thumbs nor the human size and strength one usually needs to drag a laden wheelie bin to the front of a house. You struggle and flap, and ask your companion for help. But Wednesday cannot help. It is Wednesday, so it is bins. It will always be Wednesday, and it will always be bins. As you struggle with the bins, a man passes you, sweating and grunting under the weight of a large boulder as he pushes it up the road. He meets eyes with you, and gives you a sympathetic grin. 'Wednesdays, amirite?' he calls. 'Fuck off, Sisyphus,' you reply. It is always bins. It is always bins until the end of the story (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: bins)]. Darkness envelops you, and you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

Well, it's Wednesday, so you neither have the excuse of still getting into the swing of things, nor of being able to coast a little towards the weekend. You *really* need to crack on with that big work project, or the boss won't be happy. You try to crack on, even though this is not easy as you are a raven, and it's difficult to work the computer with a beak. Typing takes forever, and you can't hold down shift and 3 together so it's impossible to do the £ symbol, which is terrible because you need to make lots and lots of £s for your work. Eventually, your boss calls you in. 'RaVENNNN!' he calls. 'You're FIRED! Slacking off on a Wednesday of all days! Pack all your things in a cardboard box with a small potted plant on the top and hold it in the office lift to show that you have been fired!' But you can't even hold a cardboard box with a small potted plant on the top of it in a lift, because you are a raven and don't have any hands. 'I hate Wednesdays,' you tell a large tabby cat, who probably thinks something wry to himself but says nothing. You fly off in shame in the end (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: sacked from your 90s office job)], until you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

Wednesdays is gym, isn't it? Can't get away with boozing and being unhealthy in the middle of the week, but a bit of exercise and you might feel better about this whole 'Wednesday' thing. You go to the gym for a good workout. [[Rowing machine]] [[free weights]] [[Zumba]] [[sauna]]

You and the concept of Wednesday go to the pub, for the quiz. Sadly, you have trouble thinking up a witty team name and end up going with 'Wednesday and the raven'. You cannot get drinks at the bar because you are a raven and the concept of the day in the middle of the week, cannot hold a pen for the same reason and are disqualified and told to leave due to a strict 'no birds except service parrots' rule and a similarly strict 'no vaguely anthropomorphised concepts of time' rule, which had apparently been made at new year when Old Father Time had turned into a baby halfway through a lemon shandy, thus breaching drinking age laws. You fly away, frustrated(text-colour:magenta)[ (bad ending: lost at pub quiz)] until you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

Wednesday SUCCCKKKKSSSS. Fuck this noise, seriously! You try to give Wednesday the middle finger - which is diffictult because you don't have fingers - and then you use every part of you that is a mythic harbinger of doom to destroy! Destroy! Destroy Wednesdays! 'As I die,' shrieks Wednesday as it shrivels and burns, 'think only this of me: At least I'm not Tuesday' And then, Wednesday is gone. Weeks are now only six days long. People are expected to work Saturdays as standard though, because of capitalism, meaning Thursday just becomes Wednesday with a thunder-god's hat on. Arse. (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: Raven it's Thursday)] You decide you're going to deal with this cock-up by simply flying away from it, until it becomes dark and you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

Honestly, it feels like it should be Friday! How is it STILL Wednesday? You have to double check. 'Friday's the Missus,' Wednesday tells you, 'it's definitely still just me. Sorry.' It keeps being Wednesday. For much, much longer than it probably should. Sometimes you think maybe it's at become Thursday at the very least, but no. It's only Wednesday. It's forever only Wednesday. The Wednesday stretches out for all eternity, as Wednesdays can be wont to do, and you exist within it forever, until the end of your story. (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: Raven, it's Wednesday)] And then, something changes. Wednesday is finally gone, and you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

'Argh!' scream people in the gym, 'there's a bird in here! Oh God! It's huge! Get it! Someone get it! Eurgh, maybe it's got bird flu, do we call the RSPB? The council? What do we do? Someone shoo it out of a window!' You are chased by a dozen panicked people in lycra. You don't even get the chance to fully realise that you never had any chance of actually using the rowing machine, because you are a raven, and too small, and don't have any hands. This was a terrible idea! You are driven from the gym by a spin instructor brandishing a mop (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: gym ejection) ]and fly off into the night until you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

'Argh!' scream people in the gym, 'there's a bird in here! Oh God! It's huge! Get it! Someone get it! Eurgh, maybe it's got bird flu, do we call the RSPB? The council? What do we do? Someone shoo it out of a window!' You are chased by a dozen panicked people in lycra. You don't even get the chance to fully realise that you never had any chance of actually using the dumbells, because you are a raven, and too small, and don't have any hands. This was a terrible idea! You are driven from the gym by a pilates instructor brandishing a mop (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: gym ejection)] and fly off into the night until you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

'Argh!' scream people in the dance studio, 'there's a bird in here! Oh God! It's huge! Get it! Someone get it! Eurgh, maybe it's got bird flu, do we call the RSPB? The council? What do we do? Someone shoo it out of a window!' You are chased by a dozen panicked people in lycra. You don't even get the chance to fully realise that you never had any chance of actually doing, because you are a raven, and your legs are too small and birdy. This was a terrible idea! You are driven from the gym by a Zumba instructor brandishing a mop (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: gym ejection)] and fly off into the night until you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

'Argh!' scream people in the sauna, 'there's a bird in here! Oh God! It's huge! Get it! Someone get it! Eurgh, maybe it's got bird flu, do we call the RSPB? The council? What do we do? Someone shoo it out of a window!' You are chased by a dozen panicked people in swimming costumes. You don't even get the chance to fully realise that you never had any chance of actually using the sauna, because you are a raven, and therefore don't sweat. This was a terrible idea! You are driven from the gym by a lifeguard brandishing a mop (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: gym ejection)] and fly off into the night until you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

Odin beams, and you find yourself in a long hall, lit by roaring fires, around a table piled ridiculously high with fruit, bread, cheese, ale, massive roast pigs with all apples in their mouth and that, and so on. The other gods surround you, eating drinking, making merry, treating you as one of their own. So much so that you start to wonder... are you actually a Norse god? [[Yeah! You're Ravengod, god of pretty feathers]] ...oh! Actually no. You're just a raven after all, aren't you. You'd better fly out of an open window to [[do normal bird stuff]] now.

Alongside Odin and the Norse humans, you invade large swathes of the British island. Sure, some murdering and pillaging does happen, an Archbishop may or may not be killed, such is the cruel nature of war - the important thing is, we're using a passive voice here so it's not actually that bad. After a while, the exciting invadey bit of the invasion kind of stops, and it's just that Britain is part Norse now. Your culture melds with theirs, shaping cities, language, trade... there are several Viking kings of England in the 10th century CE, jostling for power with the Saxons, the Mercians and your half-Frank kin the Normans. And then, Edward the Confessor dies with the throne contested, and you and Odin have a good chance of taking the whole thing, provided your soldiers don't get taken by surprise by Harold Godwinson's army while they're sunbathing... RAAARGH! You're the VIKINGS! [[Be battle ready and KILL HAROLD]] Oh, why not let history take its course this time, [[the sun has got its hat on]]

'Ha ha!' cries Odin, 'watch this!' He pulls out a severed head. 'All right?' says the head. 'You OK there, pal?' you ask the head. 'Yeah,' says the head. 'I was a bit annoyed at this ruddy guy chopping my head off but we're chill now - all's fair in love and war and all that - I advise him now.' 'He's my uncle,' adds Odin proudly, as Loki staggers past, giving birth to an eight legged horse. 'You should ride that little fucker all day long,' says the head. 'The mischief god or the leggy horse?' Odin asks. 'The horse,' replies the head, then adds thoughtfully 'although...' Oh, you'd forgotten just how weird god pantheons can get. As you watch the mischief god struggle and scream and slowly, painfully give birth to an octopedal equine you feel distinctly uncomfortable. (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: seen Loki's undercarriage looking like a tarantula crawling out of a dropped lasagne)] You make your excuses and fly away, until you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

Yes! You embrace your place in the Norse pantheon, enjoying the power, the immortality, the... weird sex, the constant trysts and betrayals and sudden character changes and... hang on. Before you know it, you're married to Thor, while having affairs with Frigg, Baldur and Loki on the side - you have two kids by Loki in fact, only Loki is the mother of the spiderbird-thing offspring and you're the dad, but Loki's the dad and you the mum of the child who's just a really, really long piece of string. You remember now, far too late, that gods serve humans and their stories, rather than the other way around. To be a god is to be central to a million interweaving, overlapping, contradictory and honestly kind of freaky storylines. Humans like soap opera shit, you suppose. This, you think as you somehow inseminate Loki again, but you're a sexy jotunn and he's a bee, is your life, now. Your immortal, melodramatic, kinky life. (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: immortal bee sex)] Eventually, Norse religion fades away into fairytales and comic books, enough to free you from godhood, and you fly off until you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

RRRRAAAAARRRR! There's no stopping the army of Odin, The Raven and Harald Hadrada & Tostig! You strike down Harold Godwinson and his army at Stamford Bridge so decisively that William the Bastard decides not to risk making his own play for the throne, and stays in Normandy. By the 21st Century, England, Scotland and Wales are independent states of the Scandinavian archipelago, within the European Union. There was no British empire. The North American continent has some people of European descent living there but is run by a multitude of indigenous nations. The Australian subcontinent is much the same. The Anglo-Norse monarchy came to an end in the 17th century and was replaced with a full democracy. Everyone is happy, except for a man named Andy who was sent to jail some years ago but remains adamant that in an alternate reality, the whole system should have rallied together to support him. This is the future liberals want. It is a [[GOOD ENDING]]

Well, your army gets wiped out but they at least got chance to work on their tan beforehand, and anyway Wlliam the Bastard kills Godwinson a few weeks later and invades sucessfully and he's a bit Viking still so maybe it kind of counts? No, it doesn't really, does it. The Viking occupation of the British island comes to an end as history had always decreed, and the English soon crack on with invading the rest of the island, followed by huge chunks of the world. Eurgh. (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: Britannia rules - derogatory)] You leave Odin and fly off in disgust, until you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

(text-colour:orange)[HERE IS A MEDAL] Well. It's not exactly a medal. It's a bit of shiny foil, but you are a raven so that's the best kind of prize you can imagine. Enjoy! Line your nest with it. Sleep in joy, with your shiny thing, and awake [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

You are the thoughts of the Norse godking. To be the will, the senses, of a being of such immense willpower, and who senses so very much... you are immediately flooded with... everything. No wonder he needed to outsource his thoughts, there's so much. You gaze at the one eyed king and you pity him so. You know humans don't intend to be cruel when they make the gods to serve their stories, they just can't help it. Gods are such wretched, suffering things. You fly away from him, leaving him beneath the rainbow of light to find some peace without his thoughts so close at hand. As you fly, you see as a god sees; think as a god thinks. Everything is beautiful and terrible. Every life means so much, and yet is so fleeting that it makes you want to weep. Eventually, you must return to the one-eyed king. You are filled with sorrow as you bring his thoughts back to him, even though he greets you as a friend. The last thought you give him is that humans will not tell the story of Huginn, Muninn and the one-eyed king forever, and that, some day, he will fade and sleep. As the thought hits him, his one eye is flooded with tears of relief. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]] .

You are the mind of the Norse godking. To be the knowledge, the memory, of a being of such omniscience... you are immediately flooded with... everything. No wonder he needed to outsource his mind, there's so much. You gaze at the one eyed king and you pity him so. You know humans don't intend to be cruel when they make the gods to serve their stories, they just can't help it. Gods are such wretched, suffering things. You fly away from him, leaving him beneath the rainbow of light to find some peace without his mind so close at hand. The knowledge of everything is so terrible and beautiful to behold at once, the living world so complex even in the simplest seeming thing, connected to the other worlds by ever-branching Yggdrasil, the fractal tree of everything, and at its end, Ragnarok, where the one-eyed king must die, only for the world to begin again, and again, and again, and again, and round and round and round like a game that keeps taking you back to the beginning, like a... like a... Filled with the knowledge of a godking, you stop, and look directly at me. (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: crashed into the 4th wall)] I panic, and send you back to the beginning, [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

You love his sadness, the way it radiates and haunts the very room he's in. You want to bathe in it, dipping your feathers into the cool dark pool of his disheveled loneliness. You want to be the fluttering inkiness of his soul. [[tap tap upon the window in a loving way]] [[HEATHCLIFF! IT'S ME, A-CATHY, I'VE COME HO HO HOME]]

Look at that sad idiot, luxuriating in his own sadness like a big deep misery-bath. You hate the self indulgence of it all, the way his sadness radiates and infects the very room he's in. He's filthy. The room is filthy. Urgh, sort yourself out, man. No, you are not projecting anything in your hatred actually, you just think he's pathetic. You want to shake him. You want to peck at him. Argh. Why are you so *angry*? It's his fault you're angry. Yes, it's all his fault. Bastard. [[tap tap at the window, motherfucker]]

Oof, bro is in a bad state all right. He's clearly been through a lot, and drinking himself to sleep alone in his study is a really bad coping mechanism. You decide to help him. [[Polite tap tap at the window]]

He stirs from sleep and gazes towards the window, his eyes swollen and darkened by broken sleep and recently shed tears. He looks confused and afraid. Oh - of course. It's completely black outside, and you are also completely black, so how's he supposed to see you? You flutter over to the door, even as he opens the window a little. He whispers a name - but it is not your name. What a lovely silly sausage he is. [[TAP TAP upon the nice man's door]]

You hear his frightened gasp through the window, his stumbling shuffles as he makes his way in the gloom to the door, walking into tables and stacks of books as he goes. Bless. He's such an adorable mess of a man. He opens the door. He reeks of grief and gin. 'Lenore?' asks he. 'Uhhh... yeah, sure!' [[You can be Lenore]] 'OK bub, your clothes do stink, [[I can bring you some Lenor]]' You don't know what the fuck this lovely guy is wanging on about, so you [[just fly into the room]]

You are part story, after all. You become the woman he loves, alive and well and solid and real. You kiss him with warm, living, loving lips. He leans into it for a moment, then stops and pushes you away, troubled. 'But, you're dead,' he says. 'You died, and I'm grieving you. If you're back again just like that, it makes a mockery of the beautiful transcience of life.' ...he's rejecting you? After you gave him exactly what he wanted? What he *asked for*?? '[[Oh, you poets are never bloody satisfied, are you?]]' ...you understand. Death gives life meaning. Maybe he'd be happier if you [[become Ghost Lenore]]

You leave, fly to the shop, pick up a bottle of Lenor fabric conditioner, fly back to the chamber door, put the - frankly very heavy - bottle of laundry liquid down and tap at the door again. He opens the door and looks at the bottle. 'What?' he asks. 'It's what you asked for,' you say. 'No,' he says, 'what's this?' 'I thought you were asking for it because you stink,' you say. 'I don't stink,' he replies. 'You really do,' you tell him. 'Pop it in your washing machine, feel the freshness.' 'I don't have a washing machine,' he replies. 'It's 1845.' 'Ah,' you say, 'that'll explain why you stink.' 'I am *grieving*', he snaps, 'and you are being *very rude*.' And, he slams the door in your birdy face. (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: misunderstanding based accidental poet offence)] 'I love you,' you shout, but he doesn't reply. You fly away, rejected, until you find yourself again [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

You're a raven, not this 'Lenore' person. If he's to love you as you love him, then it must be as you are. You land upon a particularly nice bust of Pallas and gaze down at him. He starts asking you a load of nonsense questions about messages from a Plutonian shore. You need to shut that beautiful mouth of his. [[tell him you love him]]

You push him angrily, miscalculating both your own strength and the importance of tragic irony in this particular tale of woe. He falls backwards with all the flimsy helplessness of a ginned-up sad gothic poet, walloping his head on a particularly nice bust of Pallas on the way down, killing him instantly. 'Oh, my love,' you wail. 'Oh poet whose name I never caught, I shall grieve you forever!' And so you do, in the study amongst many tomes of ancient lore, until one night when you are napping you hear a gentle tapping on the chamber door. 'Oh no,' you realise, 'this is a (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: tragically ironic loop)]. Can I have a reset please?' And so, you find yourself a raven once more, [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

You switch your settings from 'alive woman' to 'ghost' - it's quite easy, as you're pretty sure you're in a gothic horror romance right now. 'That's better,' sighs the poet. 'Now I can grieve you but also you're here. Best of both worlds, for a tragic poet.' You nod in ghostly agreement. 'So...' you say. '[[Shall I haunt you now?]]' '[[...ghost sex?]]'

Heathcliff - for indeed it's him - looks up and lets you in at the window, so co ho ho hold. You are both ghosts, and surrounded by 20 people who all share the same 3 names, it's very confusing and you're pretty sure you slipped into the wrong story somewhere down the line by mistake, there. You hold hands with him, and both wearing floaty red dresses, you expressively dance away with him across the moors. You are finally with your love, you are both dickheads and deserve one another. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]] .

'Yes,' says the poet. You pause, unsure what to do next. 'Er... boo?' you say. 'Argh,' cries the poet, gladly, 'a ghost!' And so, you settle into a relationship together - almost a marriage - haunted and ghost, trapped together in the same study. He loves you, and you love him, but something nags at you. This feels... unhealthy. Co-dependent in a way that benefits neither of you and instead eats away at both of your souls, slowly, with a peck peck... peck peck... Somewhere in the depths of your ghost mind, you remember being something else. You remember strong wings, the freedom of soaring through the night on ink-black feathers. A strong beak. You remember being the one who pecks, rather than she who is pecked at. You look at him. He's older, now. Older and with a smaller soul, a shrunken world from being stuck in the study with you. You... [[stay with him - he needs you]] [[become a raven again without telling him, leaving him in the night]] [[ask him if he would like to be a raven with you]]

The poet does finger guns at you. 'Ghost sex', he agrees. You have ghost sex with the sad gothic poet who you adore. It's cold and weird but in a good way. You just fucked Edgar Allan Poe, and as we established earlier that you love him, this is a [[GOOD ENDING]]

You know he will grieve you all over again, but maybe it's better this way. Healthier. Maybe now he can find some closure and move on. You hope so at least, but it's not on you to make sure he's definitely OK. You're not his mum. You are a fabulous raven, a shadow on the night, and you soar and it feels *so good* that this can't be anything but a good ending. Yes. You waft those faint wisps of guilt away from the corners of your mind. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]] .

'Can ravens write poetry?' he asks. 'No,' you tell him. 'No hands.' He thinks. 'What about gothic crime stories that are precursors to Sherlock Holmes, where it turns out an Orangutan dunnit?' he asks. 'Still no,' you tell him. 'Again, it's the "no hands" thing.' 'Then,' he says, 'I don't think I can become a raven with you. I'm sorry.' Oh well, you can't say you didn't try. [[become a raven again without telling him, leaving him in the night]] [[stay with him - he needs you]]

You stay, and you both continue to have your souls pecked away. Peck peck. Peck peck. Until you are both so small that you can't see each other any more. This is a (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: love pecked away)]. You close your eyes in the dark, small and withered, and wish you had wings to spread. And then, you find that you do, [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

'Nevermore', you croak. Wait, that's not what you wanted to say! The nice man falls to his knees and starts imploring you for messages or just for some peace. [[Tell. Him. You. Love. Him.]]

'Nevermore,' you repeat. Fucksake! This is not going at all how you planned! The man is on all fours now, sobbing, begging. [[place your beak into his heart forevermore]]

He collapses to the floor entirely, lying foetally in your shadow, which is strewn elongated and flickering in the candlelight along the room. He will never leave your shadow. You know now that even though you decided not to become this dead woman he grieves, you are something else and no longer just a raven. He needs your ominous, flickering shadow. He needs your beak in his heart. He belongs to you and you to him. You are a part of one another now. This is a (text-colour:blue)[GOOD ENDING]. ...this is a (text-colour:blue)[GOOD ENDING], you say. ...This is not a good ending, but you are a part of him now, so you can't even tell what kind of bad ending it is. You stay with him until he dies, and you find yourself a raven again, [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

He stirs from sleep and gazes towards the window, his eyes swollen and darkened by broken sleep and recently shed tears. He looks confused and afraid. Oh, can he not see you? Is the sad idiot too wrapped up in crying like a little baby to understand that tapping at the window means there's someone at the fucking window?? Ooooh, he makes you SO MAD. You flap over to the door, even as he opens the window a little. He whispers a name - but it is not your name. Twat. [[TAP TAP at this awful sad clown's door]]

You hear his frightened gasp through the window, his stumbling shuffles as he makes his way in the gloom to the door, walking into tables and stacks of books as he goes. You're glad you scared him and made him hit his shins. He deserves it. He opens the door. He reeks of grief and gin. 'Lenore?' asks he. [[No. You're not Lenore.]] Ignore him and [[flap through into his horrible study]]

You're not Lenore at all, are you? Lenore's dead. She has no voice in this story. There's only him, spiralling and spiralling in on himself. There's only him. [[You hate him and you are him]]

You perch atop a horrid dusty bust of Pallas and glare down at him. He starts yammering on about a message from a Plutonian shore. Speak plainly, you silly poet! [[Tell him you hate him]]

You are him, because there is only him, and his self hatred. Even his grief can't keep him company, because it's all. Just. Him. You are him, and you are entirely alone. The shadow you are trapped within is your own. You don't get help, because you tell yourself you don't deserve help. You don't deserve to get better. It's still a story. It's a story that you tell yourself, and it hurts you. ...Break out of it. [[Reach out from your own shadow]] [[believe the story and stay in the shadow]]

It's not a magic button that makes you better. It's a long and difficult hike up a hill that seems at times impossibly huge and impossibly steep, but there are days when you can feel the sun on your face, and smell the sweetness of the air. The path is a struggle, but you are upon it, and that's what counts. I'm so fucking proud of you. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]]

This is, obviously, a (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: stayed in the shadow)] But in this case, it is only a story. You free yourself from the story and flap away from it, until you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

'Nevermore', you croak. Wait, that's not what you meant to say at all! But... BUT! The shambling poet's expression crumples at you saying that word. Oh, this is so much tastier than a simple 'I hate you'. [[Say 'Nevermore' again, to rhyme with 'I hate you']]

'Nevermore!' The man falls to his hands and knees before you, begging, caught in your elongated shadow as it flickers in the candlelight. You understand now what your part is in his story. He needs this. He needs you to hate him, to share the hate out. [[jab your beak into his heart forevermore]]

He lies foetally, broken. He will never leave your shadow. He needs you. And, even though you hate him, you will not abandon him while he needs you. You will keep him company in his self hate - both his torment and his balm. You both know that this is a (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: Nevermore)] but it's his ending really, not yours. At least you're here for him. Until the end becomes the beginning, and you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

He stirs from sleep and gazes towards the window, his eyes swollen and darkened by broken sleep and recently shed tears. He looks confused and afraid. Oh - of course. It's completely black outside, and you are also completely black, so how's he supposed to see you? You flutter over to the door, even as he opens the window a little. He whispers a name - but it is not your name. This poor guy's all messed up. [[polite tap tap at his door]]

You hear his frightened gasp through the window, his stumbling shuffles as he makes his way in the gloom to the door, walking into tables and stacks of books as he goes. Oh dear. You hope you're not making this worse. [[leave a helpline number for him and mind your own business]] [[stay at the door]]

Honestly, whatever this guy is going through, it feels beyond your skillset as a being that is part corvid, part myth. You leave a card on his doormat on which is written the UK Samaritans Helpline number - 116123 - and the US Mental Health Hotline - 866 903 3787 - as you're pretty sure this guy is American. And you fly away. He knows someone is thinking of him and you've nudged him towards people who are trained to be better help than you. You judged that this was the right call, so it's a [[GOOD ENDING]] .

You're here now, you're going to help this guy somehow. The man opens the door. 'Lenore?' he asks. '[[Oh, I get it - left you, did she?]]' '[[I'm a friend, I'm here to help]]'

The man's face crumples. 'She has left indeed... for evermore.' 'Oh well! plenty more fish in the sea! [[Let me take you out for a drink, mate]]' ...ohhhh shit, that means she's dead, doesn't it? Poor fucker's grieving. Tits. 'I'm so sorry for your loss. [[I'm a friend, I'm here to help]] .'

He frowns, confused. Clearly, companionship, sympathy and an offer to help weren't what he expected in this story. This was supposed to be a tale of woe, and of spiralling in on oneself, trapped claustrophobically in this one room. So! First off, offer companionship and help - tick. Second - get him out of that stuffy study for a bit. [[let's go for a walk, mate]] [[let's have a cuppa and a chat somewhere]] [[I know a good grief counsellor]] [[Have you ever been to Alton Towers? It's fucking brilliant]]

The poet's expression lights up... possibly a little too quickly? Now that you think about it, he already smells quite badly of gin, and is it just tears and tiredness reddening those eyes, or a bit too much of the old self medication? ...Ah, it's fine, he's a grown man, he can make his own choices. [[To the pub!]] ...actually, [[let's go for a walk, mate]] [[let's have a cuppa and a chat somewhere]] [[I know a good grief counsellor]] [[Have you ever been to Alton Towers? It's fucking brilliant]]

'Yes,' he cries, 'to the pub!' And so, you go to the pub. You have trouble getting served, being a raven and all, but the poet gets you a little saucer and shares his really very strong drink with you. You're sure that after a few jars he'll loosen up a bit, talk to you about getting dumped or whatever. If all else fails, at least you'll be able to say you both had a fucking good night down the boozer. Woah. This drink really is strong. You're large, for a bird, but still a bird, nontheless, and it's starting to affect you really quite a lot. 'thingabout like, heartbreak an shit, mate,' you tell him, 'thing is, right, issall part of the fuckin... process mate. coz you got yer whole... whole whassit... life aheadayer.' 'M fuckin FORTY,' mumbles the poet into his drink 'life BEGINS at forty,' you ramble. 'Yer free now. Free asa... haha! A BIRD! Hahahahaha! Gotta fly free! See the WORLD!' 'AssaBUUUUURD,' replies the poet. 'ASSABUUUUURRRRRDDDDD!!!' You flap your wings, but do so too quickly. The pub spins, the floor soars up to meet you, and everything goes black. When you come to, the poet is gone. 'If you're looking for your friend,' says the barmaid, handing you a newspaper. On it is the headline 'OH NO! POE BALTIMO' WOE' '"Baltimo'"?' you mutter to yourself, despairing both of the awful tabloidese language wrangling and at the fact that your friend is in trouble in a strange city - and you're pretty sure this is no longer fiction. You're going to have to go through the headline to follow him. [[OH NO! POE BALTIMO' WOE]]

'But it's a midnight dreary,' protests the poet. 'Only 'coz you say it is,' you reply. The poet thinks about this. 'OK. Um. [[Once upon a morning morbid, while I wandered with a corvid]]'

'But it's a midnight dreary,' protests the poet. 'Only 'coz you say it is,' you reply. 'OK,' says the poet, 'um... [[Once upon a day most craven, as I sat down with a raven]]

'But it's a midnight dreary,' protests the poet. 'They'll hardly be seeing people in the middle of the night.' 'It's only midnight 'coz you say it is,' you reply. The poet thinks about this. 'OK. Um. [[Once upon a twilight pink, as I sought counsel from a shrink]]'

'I haven't,' the poet tells you. 'Would it even be open right now? It is, after all, a midnight dreary.' 'You're the poet,' you tell him. 'If you want to come with me to what is essentially Goth Disneyland, you just have to put it in the poem. 'Oh,' says the poet, 'like [[On a day with scattered showers, as I went to Alton Towers]]?'

Edgar Allan Poe was found wandering the streets of Baltimore in October 1849, semi conscious, in great distress and wearing a stranger's clothes. He was taken to hospital where he died a few days later, possibly of complications from alcohol overconsumption. This was how he had to die, according to history, but you still feel like you fucked up. (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: Don't get Edgar Allan Poe drunk)] You fly, and think about life and death, and how even a troubled soul can reach through time to show beauty, humanity and love to others after they're gone - until darkness surrounds you and you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

And, you are flying alongside the poet as he takes a walk through the streets of a mid 19th century American city, on a particularly grey and morbid morning. 'Couldn't make it sunny, at least?' you ask him. 'Nope,' he replies. There is a long silence between you as you walk and fly together. You wait until it feels as if he wants to speak. [[Wanna talk about it, mate?]] [[Just be with him, and an ear if he does decide to speak. If he doesn't, that's fine]]

He talks about it. Stilted at first, then speaking more freely, although he does keep breaking into a rhyme and scansion structure which is pleasing to the ear, but not what he needs to concentrate on, right now. You listen sympathetically, prompting him as best you can, although you don't really have any professional training in dealing with this stuff - you're just a raven. '[[Do you think you should see a professional about this, mate?]]' '[[Do you feel better for talking it out?]]'

After a long silence, he talks about it. Stilted at first, then speaking more freely, although he does keep breaking into a rhyme and scansion structure which is pleasing to the ear, but not what he needs to concentrate on, right now. You listen sympathetically, prompting him as best you can, although you don't really have any professional training in dealing with this stuff - you're just a raven. '[[Do you think you should see a professional about this, mate?]]' '[[Do you feel better for talking it out?]]'

And, you are sitting at a cafe with the poet, on a day where the weather outside really is most moody and craven indeed. 'Couldn't have made it sunny then?' you ask. '"Sunny" doesn't rhyme with "raven",' he replies. Your drinks arrive - coffee for him, a saucer of water for you, and you both drink in companiable silence, until your drinks are half finished. [Wanna talk about it, mate?]] [[Just be with him, and an ear if he does decide to speak. If he doesn't, that's fine]]

And, you are with him at the grief counsellor's waiting room, as pink evening light floods in through the window. 'That's a pretty sunset,' you say, 'though a grief counsellor is not a "shrink".' 'What sort of weather was I supposed to rhyme with "grief counsellor" though?' grumbles the poet. 'This isn't a magic bullet, by the way,' you warn him. 'Generally, we need much better mental healthcare provision as a whole, but even with counselling, you mustn't just expect to immediately feel better. This might not even be the right solution for you at all.' 'I know,' sighs the poet. 'But it's a start, I suppose? Thank you for getting me out of that room, and away from the booze, at least for now.' You nod a friendly acknowledgement, and the counsellor calls him through. It is not the end for him, rather a beginning. But for you, and your part in the story, this is a [[GOOD ENDING]]

'Um,' says the poet, 'do you think I should? I'm not *that* bad, I'm sure other people are more deserving...' 'Don't talk like that,' you say. 'You deserve to at least see if it can help you.' 'I don't even know how I'd go about getting that kind of help,' he admits. 'Oof, join the club, mate,' you reply, 'services are stripped to the bone these days. But, you're the poet. You can just pop it into your own story.' 'Hmm,' says the poet. 'You mean... [[Once upon a twilight pink, as I sought counsel from a shrink]] ?'

'I don't know,' he admits. 'Maybe? I think it's preferable to bottling it up, but I wouldn't say I was "better". After this, I'm probably still going to go back to that study, alone. I'll probably hit the bottle again. Maybe this was just a distraction - doesn't mean it wasn't a pleasant distraction. Doesn't mean it wasn't worth doing.' 'I know,' you sigh, 'it's a bit of a sticking plaster over a stab wound, right? But, services are stripped to the bone and this is all I can do for you, right now. I'm sorry.' 'Don't apologise,' he says. 'You showed you cared. I appreciate that.' 'But, is it enough?' you ask. 'You're asking a simplistic question of a complex problem,' he replies. 'You know that I die young, and that the circumstances of it are upsetting. They would be upsetting circumstances for any man, but for some reason the fact that they happened to someone whose poems and stories go on to touch your heart long after I die... it distresses you more than usual. You're the same with Shakespeare, which - hey, it's always flattering to be compared to Shakespeare. You wish you could do something about it. You can't. You wish you could do more to help your own loved ones who struggle, but honestly, all you can do is your best.' 'I thought *I* was supposed to be giving the pep talk to *you*,' you say. The poet shrugs. 'I do what I want. One time I wrote a murder mystery where an Orangutan dunnit. Fuck the rules.' 'This is an ending, isn't it?' you ask. 'I think so,' he replies. 'Is it a [[GOOD ENDING]] or a (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: Edgar dies anyway)], where everything fades to black and I find myself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]] ?' 'I'll let you decide,' he says, and on the 7th of October 1849 he dies aged 40, just like he was always supposed to do.

And, you are at Alton Towers with the poet, near the front of the queue for Thirteen, which you are going on first as it's the best ride. 'I wish you hadn't written in showers,' you say as he jumps at the electric ball thingie, 'they might have to shut Smiler for a bit if it gets too rainy.' 'It just rhymed with "towers",' the poet explains. You get on the ride. You worry at first that as a raven you won't be able to ride, but the poet rewrites you as a human who is over 130cm tall. You sit together towards the middle of the train, your lapbars are checked and the teenager in charge of your wellbeing for the next couple of minutes gives the thumbs up to the guy in the booth. 'If you go down to the woods today,' whispers a disembodied child's voice, 'you'd better not go alone.' And you clatter together along the track of a mid-intensity rollercoaster through Staffordshire woodland. 'This feels... wheeee! ...like my life,' shouts the poet after a while. 'Exciting, pictureque and a... wheeeee! ...little bit spooky?' you ask. 'Like I'm stuck on a track and I have no... woaaaahhhhhhh! ...control over where it's going,' replies the poet. 'Only, I guess, at least this rollercoaster only *feels* out of control. It's a safe scare. I know I'll be... wheeee-eeee! ...OK here. Not like my life.' 'I know,' you say. 'Is it, at least, a pleasant catharsis to have a safe scare?' 'This one's a little tame,' the poet tells you as the train pulls in to an indoor station decorated like a crypt and stops. 'You've not been on Thirteen before, have you?' you ask, as you and everyone on the train except the poet raise your hands high over your heads. '...no. Why?' [[WOAH, no spoilers for Thirteen, please!]] [[Haha, you know what happens at this bit, let's gooooo]]

The next thing you know, you're pulling back in to the main embarking/disembarking platform. You get out, help the shaking poet out of his seat and then go and laugh at your photos in the bit where you don't actually buy the photos because you're not made of money. 'OK,' admits the poet, 'that was fun. Especially the bit we're not going to talk about because it's a spoiler. Thanks for getting me out of that room today, and away from the booze.' 'Yeah,' you say. 'Look - about what you were saying on the ride...' '[[Do you think you should see a professional about this, mate?]]' '[[Do you feel better for talking it out?]]'

The lights flicker. The whole floor seems to drop by an inch or so. A girl at the back shrieks. The lights go back on. The room has changed - choked with roots. The lights go out completely and you drop vertically in the dark by one storey as if the whole floor has given way. The poet screams - a full throated, cathartic scream; a scream he's needed to get out of him for who knows how long. You scream too, more out of the joy of joining in. The train lurches backwards at full speed in pitch blackness. You scream, your arms stretched high into the whipping darkness, and the poet joins you, screaming, hands high, barrelling into your side as the track hurls you both left and right, until you all race backwards into the woods and jolt to another stop. The poet's screams turn into laughter - the exhilarated laughter of release, of one who has just had a safe scare. You pull back in to the main embarking/disembarking platform. You get out, help the shaking poet out of his seat and then go and laugh at your photos in the bit where you don't actually buy the photos because you're not made of money. 'OK,' admits the poet, 'that was fun. Thanks for getting me out of that room today, and away from the booze.' 'Yeah,' you say. 'Look - about what you were saying on the ride...' '[[Do you think you should see a professional about this, mate?]]' '[[Do you feel better for talking it out?]]'

These lights have so many names. They whisper their names to you as they dance, leading you across swampy marshland: Ignis fatuus. Irrlicht. Bung fai phaya nak. Abu Fanous. Spooklight. [[Will o'the Wisp]].

Hmm. What's going to happen here? You have your purpose, but the purpose of the Will o'the Wisp is to misdirect - to lead you away from your purpose. What we've got here might be a case of the ole 'unstoppable force vs immovable object' problem. ...You turn around, refusing to be drawn away by the lights, back to [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]] ...You spot something, down in the swampland. You are [[drawn to a cauldron fire]] next to a hut. ...You [[follow the Will o'the Wisp away]] ...You just hope that this isn't a [[paradox that causes a loop]]

At the cauldron is a witch. ...Yes! She's a [[proper cartoonish green witch with a pointy hat and whatnot]] ...wait, no, [[that's Branwen ferch Llyr]]. she's not a 'witch' as such, she's just all spooky and Welsh

This'll be fine, right? It'll be fine! How lost can one story-raven get?? [[Follow the lights left]] [[Follow the lights right]] [[Follow the lights straight on]] [[Follow the lights up]] [[follow the lights back]]

...nope, nope this isn't going to work. Go back to [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]] Gosh, you hope this doesn't create a [[paradox that causes a loop]]

She's twelve different cartoonish witch cliches on each other's shoulders in a big black ragged coat. She's the green skinned, cackling, broomstick wielding, warty Platonic ideal of a witch, she's a storytelling shortcut. She. Is. Magnificent. 'Nyee hee hee hee!' she cries. 'Nyee hee hee hee,' you respond. 'NYEEEE HEE HEE HEE,' you both cackle shrilly into the night. 'Welcome back, my familiar,' she coos in a cracked voice. 'Let's do some WITCHY SHIT!' [[Yeah! Witchy Shit! Witchy Shit!]] [[Actually, maybe we should talk about why you're like this]]

Branwen - Welsh princess, mistreated bride and magical, mythic being, has been waiting for you. Next to her, what you thought was a hillock rising above the swamp moves - it was not a hillock at all, but the severed head of a huge, bearded giant. 'That's my brother,' she tells you, 'Bran the Blessed.' '[[Pleased to meet you, Bran the Blessed!]]' ...'[[Brian Blessed??]]'

'GLAD YOU MADE IT!' the severed head of the giant booms. 'WE'RE HERE FOR SOME MYSTIC SHIT, MY FEATHERED FRIEND! MY POOR SISTER HAS DIED FROM WOE!!!' You look in confusion at Branwen, who is alive and well. She shrugs. 'I mean, my brother, as you will notice, is also dead - decapitated, in fact - and *he* still has agency. I'm just a bit sick of men always taking out violent revenge on each other - and on other women - on behalf of a wronged woman who's too passive to do anything or dead.' 'DEAD AS A DOORNAIL I'M AFRAID,' continues Bran. 'ONE OF THOSE WOMAN PROBLEMS WHERE SHE GETS ALL SAD AND DIES IN A SWOON!!' 'My brother and his army just genocided Ireland because my Irish husband was a bit shit to me,' Branwen explains, '*and* he got pretty much the whole Welsh army killed in the process, all of which is a bit upsetting, I'll admit.' 'SHE BLAMED HERSELF, POOR CHILD,' continues Bran. 'No, it's your fault, Bran,' says Branwen, 'and my other brother, who pissed my husband off in the first place.' She turns to you and adds, conspiratorially, 'he did horrible things to horses.' 'Eurgh,' you say. 'WE BURIED HER IN ANGLESEY,' adds Bran, blithely. 'Anglesey's boring,' says Branwen. 'I want to do a revenge instead! *I* was the one treated as a servant! Me! A posh lady!' [[I think if you're buried in Anglesey, you should probably stay in Anglesey]] [[Yeah! Let's do mystic shit!]]

'GORDON'S ALIVE,' bellows the giant, bearded severed head of Brian Blessed, 'GLAD YOU MADE IT! WE'RE HERE FOR SOME MYSTICAL SHIT, MY FEATHERED FRIEND! MY POOR SISTER HAS DIED FROM WOE!!!' You look in confusion at Branwen, who is alive and well. She shrugs. 'I mean, my brother, as you will notice, is also dead - decapitated, in fact - and *he* still has agency. I'm just a bit sick of men always taking out violent revenge on each other - and on other women - on behalf of a wronged woman who's too passive to do anything or dead.' 'DEAD AS A DOORNAIL I'M AFRAID,' continues Brian Blessed. 'ONE OF THOSE WOMAN PROBLEMS WHERE SHE GETS ALL SAD AND DIES IN A SWOON!!' 'My brother and his army just genocided Ireland because my Irish husband was a bit shit to me,' Branwen explains, '*and* he got pretty much the whole Welsh army killed in the process, all of which is a bit upsetting, I'll admit.' 'SHE BLAMED HERSELF, POOR CHILD,' continues Brian Blessed. 'No, it's your fault, Brian Blessed,' says Branwen, 'And my other brother, who pissed my husband off in the first place.' She turns to you and adds, conspiratorially, 'he did horrible things to horses.' 'Eurgh,' you say. 'WE BURIED HER IN ANGLESEY,' adds Brian Blessed, blithely. 'Anglesey's boring,' says Branwen. 'I want to do a revenge instead! *I* was the one treated as a servant! Me! A posh lady!' [[I think if you're buried in Anglesey, you should probably stay in Anglesey]] [[Yeah! Let's do mystic shit!]]

'URGH, fine,' complains Branwen. 'But if I have to stay on Anglesey instead of doing a cool mystic quest, so must you.' 'But I'm a raven of myth,' you complain. 'And, I'm one of the main characters of the Mabinogi,' she replies. 'So.' And so, Branwen stays dead, and buried on the banks of the Afon Alaw. And, you stay with her, flapping listlessly about the North Welsh island. It's terribly pretty and all, but there really is fuck all to do. Sometimes you sit at the edge of the Menai straight and look at the majesty of Caernarfon castle, seeming to float on the water at the very edge of the British mainland. 'Can I go to Caernarfon at least?' you ask. 'I think they have a Wetherspoons there.' 'You made our bed,' Branwen replies from her grave, 'you lie in it.' You sigh. 'Fine.' (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: Can't even go to Caernarfon)] You stay on Anglesey until even the memory of the Mabinogi is lost, and you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

You travel east with Branwen and the giant's head. The journey is very long, and very boring, and after a while, you realise you recognise the route. '...Is this the M4?' you ask. 'I mean, kind of?' Branwen replies. 'It's the same journey, Wales to London, but we were written at some point between the 11th and 13th centuries, and come from oral tales much older than that, so whichever way you look at it, we massively predate the actual M4. Would you like it to be the actual M4?' '[[Yes please, it's faster and I need to stop at Reading services for a wee]]' '[[No, I'm good, let's do this Middle Ages Style!]]'

So, you're on the M4 - Branwen driving, you in the passenger seat, with the massive disembodied head of her brother strapped to the roofrack. You do indeed stop at Reading services for a wee, and a disappointing Costa cappucino. There's a jam soon after the services so you cut through Bracknell and end up coming up to London via the M3. You drive through London, to the bank of the Thames. The Tower of London sits at the side of the river, almost glowing gold in the sunlight. 'This is the place,' says Branwen, and gets a spade out of the boot. 'This is what he wanted. We bury him facing towards France, to keep the whole island safe.' 'Even after the English invaded and subjugated your people for centuries?' you ask. 'You're still going to protect their capital city?' Branwen shrugs. 'I quite like London, as nice as Cardiff is. Frankly, I wouldn't like to see either city fall. Anyway, this was my brother's bright idea. I'm not going to be the one stuck at this spot forever protecting this land - he is. And you, of course.' [[wait - what?]]

Oof, it takes fucking ages, plodding hundreds of miles east, dragging a great big severed head with you. 'This is like one of those endurance challenges they make Radio 1 DJs do for Comic Relief', you note. 'I don't know what that is,' Branwen tells you. [[You explain Comic Relief to her]] You can't really explain Radio 1 DJs or Comic Relief to a mythological Welsh princess, so you drop the subject and [[keep plodding to London]]

'The Mabinogi fades and its stories change over time,' Branwen tells you. 'There's always a mythic protector trapped in this spot protecting the British island, but it stops being my brother's head, and becomes you. Ravens in the tower.' 'Bugger,' you say. 'You're kept very well,' Branwen consoles you. 'No headless burial for you - you get *staff*. But, the story demands you stay here lest Britain fall.' [[Urgh, fine. It sounds comfortable, at least]] [[Sod Britain, I'm off!]]

The ravens leave the tower. And obviously it's bullshit that Britain falls if the ravens leave the tower, but this is the story Branwen has given you, so Britain falls. And not in a 'wayyy, no more empire' way. In an 'a surprisingly diverse population of nearly 69 million people live here, and now what are they going to do' way. And, you miss it, when it's gone. It wasn't perfect, but it was your home. And, the takeaway food was really good actually, Americans. This is a (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: can't get a decent biriyani now)] You hope something rises from the ashes, as you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

And you are indeed kept well. You have staff, which most birds don't get. You are not caged, you are not 'captive' in the sense captive birds understand, but the story keeps you here. In many ways in that respect, you're like the British Royal Family, only without all the sex crimes. Is it a good ending or a bad ending? You're not sure. You're fulfilling your roles as both story and bird, but something about it feels a bit safe, a bit stagnant. You're the smoothed-out, safe remains of an older, sharper story - one belonging to a people who had their own identities smoothed away by centuries of occupation. You can feel the severed head of the Mabinogi beneath the stones of the tower, sometimes; the ghosts of its sharp edges, and they jangle at you; whisper at you to become something that wears its violence and dark magic on its feathers - to peck sharp gouges into the tourist-friendly livery. (text-colour:cyan)[(neutral ending: bland tourist trap)] In time, everything about the Mabinogi fades - even the smoothed out bones of its stories - and you find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

'So,' says Branwen after you've tried to explain it, 'it's a night of poorly written comedy sketches starring very famous people... but it's NOT Love Actually.' 'No, technically Love Actually is a whole different thing, but I can understand the confusion,' you tell her. 'And yeah, it raises funds for things that should already be funded by public money, as an alternative to properly taxing the wealthy.' 'So in your culture, sketch comedy is revered as very important by industries and governments alike?' asks Branwen. You laugh. 'Goodness, no. Bless your Ye Olde socks.' And with that, you [[keep plodding to London]]

You end up in London, on the bank of the Thames. The Tower of London sits at the side of the river, almost glowing gold in the sunlight. 'This is the place,' says Branwen, grabbing a spade. 'This is what he wanted. We bury him facing towards France, to keep the whole island safe.' 'Even after the English invaded and subjugated your people for centuries?' you ask. 'You're still going to protect their capital city?' Branwen shrugs. 'I quite like London, as nice as Cardiff is. Frankly, I wouldn't like to see either city fall. Anyway, this was my brother's bright idea. I'm not going to be the one stuck at this spot forever protecting this land - he is. And you, of course.' [[wait - what?]]

'Yee hee hee hee, what shall we do?' cackles the witch. 'It's gotta be really witchy, mind!' [[Let's turn a prince into a frog!]] [[Let's turn a house into all bikkies and that!]] [[Let's ride around like mad things on your broomstick!]] [[Let's make a love potion!]]

'Folk tales,' she says, 'followed by centuries of exaggeration, especially around viewing older women's bodies as monstrous.' She leans on her broomstick thoughtfully for a moment. 'Not that it's pure and simple misogyny alone - the Witch Craze came from lots of pretty terrible places - a societal urge to blame handy scapegoats on poor harvests caused by climate problems; bad actors cashing in on hysteria; obsessive elites, such as Popes and Monarchs - James the first of England and sixth of Scotland was particularly horrific in his persecution of supposed witches. And it wasn't just women! Men and boys were murdered for supposed witchcraft too, it's just that it was mostly older unmarried and widowed women. Picking on the vulnerable. Disgusting, isn't it. And don't you go telling me it's stopped - I mean, literally it hasn't stopped, people are still tortured as 'witches' these days, but also, well. I'm sure you can think of some vulnerable out-groups who are cheerfully scapegoated for things that have nothing to do with them these days, and who the elites are obsessive about monstering.' She sighs, unhappily, as do you. You both nod down at the floor, crestfallen at the absolute state of it all. 'Fuck it,' she crows suddenly, 'let's turn a prince into a frog!' 'Yeah! [[Let's turn a prince into a frog!]]' No! [[Let's turn a house into all bikkies and that!]] No! [[Let's ride around like mad things on your broomstick!]] No! [[Let's make a love potion!]]

'YEEE HEE HEE HEE,' you both cackle together. The witch pulls a lever next to a sign that says 'Princes'. There is a heavy clattering sound, and an adult prince falls out of a chute, landing limply on the floor in front of you both. 'Ow,' he complains. You gaze up at the top of the chute. 'How many of those do you have up there?' you ask. 'Best not to ask,' she replies. Oh, but now you need to know. [[PULL THE LEVER, RAVEN]] [[Don't ask]]

'Yeah,' cackles the witch. 'Because a house made of all bikkies will act as bait to attract children! And then we can use the children as bait to attract more princes!' She taps a chute running up into her ceiling with her broomstick. Next to it is a lever and a sign saying 'Princes'. When she taps the chute, there is a strange moaning from within, like that of many trapped princes. 'What's that?' you ask. 'Never mind,' she replies. [[PULL THE LEVER, RAVEN]] [[carry on with the whole 'biscuit house' idea]]

'YEE HEE HEE yes,' cackles the witch. She hops onto her broomstick, clicks her heels and shoots up into the sky through the roof of her hut, leaving a witch-shaped hole in the roofing thatch and sending thatching hay everywhere. You... [[have already hopped onto her shoulder for the ride]] [[Follow her closely since you can already fly perfectly well by yourself]]

'YEE HEE HEE! A love potion,' crows the witch, 'but who should we use it on?' [[What about one of those princes?]] [[A hot raven mate for yours truly?]] [[Uhhh... are there any romancables in this game?]]

'He likes it,' you note, as he kicks his new little powerful legs happily. 'Of course he does,' replies the witch. 'He's free of a system that turns babies into psychopaths to preserve undeserved wealth and power. Free of the public gaze, free of responsibility. Free of the chute.' The frog rises in delight onto his strong hind legs, and kicks and kicks, one leg after the other. 'Hello my baby,' he sings, 'hello my honey, hello my ragtime gal!' And you both join in with him, bathing in the warmth of his relieved joy, all kicking and kicking your legs together in gleeful dance, in a small but enthusiastic chorus line. 'Send me a kiss by wire, baby my heart's on fire!' Turning a prince into a frog is one of the kindest things you can do to a prince, so this is a [[GOOD ENDING]].

You flutter over and devour him. 'What did you do that for?' the witch complains. 'he looked like he'd just come to a realisation about how it's better to be a frog who is free than an indecently wealthy human trapped inside the inherently grotesque system of aristocracy.' 'Don't lecture me,' you tell her, 'nature is red in beak and claw, and anyway, you were the one keeping him in a chute.' You do feel some regret, though. He tastes disgusting. This is a ((text-colour:magenta)[bad ending: ate the slimy prince]). You and the witch exchange a few more heated words before you fly away in a huff, and find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

You pull the lever. There is an odd, heavy rattling from the chute, and then an adult prince falls out and lands limply on the floor. 'Ow,' he complains. You pull the lever again. Again, the strange sound and again, an adult man very clearly dressed as a prince tumbles out, landing on top of the first prince. You pull it again. Another prince. And again. Another prince. And again. And it keeps on going until there are around twenty groaning princes all lying in a poshly complaining pile in front of you. 'Well, what did you do *that* for?' Grumbles the witch. 'I just wanted to see what would happen,' you admit. 'Well, look at the mess now,' the witch continues. 'I hope you know that now you've let them out of their chute, they're your responsibility.' As one, all twenty princes turn their heads to look at you. 'You freed us,' they all say in one terrible chorus. 'Marry us, immediately!' Uh oh. Well, now, you've done it, you've got yourself a multiple prince harem, and you're going to have to feed, exercise and look after them all. This is a ((text-colour:magenta)[bad ending: Princes, princes who adore you, that's what I said now]) You must look after all of them til they die, which doesn't happen for ages because rich people have longer life expectancy, but eventually you are able to bury the last one in a cardboard box in the back garden, and you find yourself again [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

The witch waves a gnarled old stick of a magic wand around the house, chanting 'chateau to gateaux, funk to funky, goodness I'm a cheeky monkey.' All magic sparkles come out of the end of the stick, which is how you know the spell is working. The sparkles settle momentarily on the walls of the hut before fading, leaving behind a house that is entirely made out of all biscuits and that. 'And now,' says the witch, 'we wait.' [[You wait]] [[Waiting's boring. You're in a house made of biscuits and you're hungry]]

So, you wait for hungry children to come by and fall into your delicious trap. And, you wait, And you wait. 'Do many children pass by this way usually?' you ask, after some time. 'None at all,' admits the witch, 'we're in the middle of nowhere out here. I've never so much as seen one, I'm not sure what they look like. I think they might be a bit like sort of small sharks?' 'No,' you reply, 'I don't think that's it.' You wait a little more. 'You seem pretty good at trapping princes without using children as bait, you know,' you add. 'That's true,' she replies. 'But what am I supposed to do with all this biscuit, now?' 'I mean,' you say, 'you can still get children to eat it - just donate it to a food bank.' 'What's that?' 'They're run by charities to donate food and essentials to families who can't afford to eat.' you tell her. '...there's families who can't afford to eat?' asks the witch. 'That's fucked up.' And so, you dismantle the biscuit house and donate it all to the nearest food bank. The witch just magics up a new, non edible hut for you both to live in, and while it is indeed fucked up that we need food banks, you at least feel like you're helping, so this is a [[GOOD ENDING]] .

You start pecking at the house. Chuffing Nora, it's delicious. 'Stop that,' says the witch weakly, but she is already salivating at the sweet smell of it all and soon, she's gnawing away at the walls as well. You both eat and eat, and it all tastes so very good. At the end, you are both bloated and aching and the house is an absolute state, but sod it. Sometimes moments of absolute joy and abandon like this are worth it. You will help the witch rebuild her house tomorrow, but for now, you both fall into a full bellied, happy sleep. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]] .

Both you and the witch are absolutely covered in thatching hay and straw. It pokes madly out of her hair and your feathers, making you look like scarecrows, or some sort of airborne early 2020s British Prime Minister. Honestly, you like it, it just adds to your cartoonish witchy vibe. '[[Let's go and shout 'boo' at some puritans!]]' '[[Let's have our silhouettes framed by the full moon like a Halloween clipart!]]' '[[Let's go to the Spooky Midnight Ball!]]'

You fly in her wake, both soaring happily through the skies - independent but together. Also flying behind her means you weren't completely covered in thatching hay when she went through the roof. [[Let's go and shout 'boo' at some puritans!]] [[Let's have our silhouettes framed by the full moon like a Halloween clipart!]] [[Let's go to the Spooky Midnight Ball!]]

The witch spots a troupe of puritans on the road below, talking about what silly names to give their children and why it's actually good to censor art. You both swoop down. 'Boo!' you both shout, cackling. In the puritans' shock, their big tall black puritan hats all shoot off their heads and they all leap out of their black puritan knickerbockers. Instead of screaming, in their surprise, all the puritans collectively make an 'awooga' noise. You both fly away, laughing, and all the puritans start shouting at each other that when they leapt out of their trousers in shock, they all forced one another to see their Sinful Pants. [[It sounds like this is a kink for them?]] '[[oof, I hope they don't take this humiliation and frustration out on women]]'

And so, you soar into the clear, beautiful night sky, until you are both perfectly framed in silhouette by the large, luminous full moon. The two of you are the absolute archetypical western image of a witch and her familiar. You are imprinted onto children's minds from a young age, and form parts of their stories from the start. You're the baddies, you're the scare, but sometimes you're the cool rule breakers, the free spirits, the avatars of the misunderstood - such as it is, to be a children's story monster. You birth a billion stories, and you are both perfect. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]] .

And so, you both fly off to the Spooky Midnight Ball, which is taking place at midnight, in a clearing in some woods, which is also obviously a graveyard. Spooky jazz music is playing from somewhere, on a gramaphone record that sounds distant and haunted and occasionally slows down upsettingly. All ghosts and skeletons and draculas and frankensteins and other witches and their familiars are dancing about, and you're all animated in that slightly upsetting spooky 1930s style. [[Behold a skeleton dance]] [[dance in a circle with other familiars]] [[dance with a dracula]] [[dance with your witch]]

'It is,' confirms the witch, and as you circle back briefly, you see that all of them have become so riled up by both scolding and being scolded over their sinful pants that they have all taken themselves away seperately to secluded spots to have a quick masturbate. 'Maybe this'll mean they relax a bit and stop persecuting others?' you ask. 'I wouldn't count on it,' sighs the witch, 'people who go around persecuting vulnerable groups for perceived 'sins' or 'perversions' are usually the biggest pervs of all. Kinky chasers to serial sexual predators, you name it.' She tilts her head at the vaious puritans all furiously going at themselves in bushes and thickets. One of them is crying. 'This might at least keep them too occupied to go after anyone tonight, though? It's a start.' Hmm. You're not sure that's particularly positive. This is a ((text-colour:cyan)[neutral ending: kept the rotters temporarily busy beating their own meat]). You leave them to it, and find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

But, they do, because they're bullies. Your only consolation as you fly away is that in reality, none of those who actually persecuted and oppressed in the name of 'ridding the world of witches' had been provoked in any way by an actual witch. They were just arseholes because they wanted to be arseholes. Still, this is a ((text-colour:magenta)[bad ending: ew, puritans]) The reformation at least brought puritan rule to an end in Britain, although it went and replaced it with more monarchy, which, eurgh. At least the theatres were opened back up. Stories continued (although they never really went away - even religiously motivated censorship can never truly stop stories). You find yourself again [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]] .

They do all the skeleton dance staples - swapping skulls, playing their ribs like xylophones, doing a Scottish jig around the crossed bones of one of them who's collapsed onto the floor. All the classics. When they finish, you flap your wings together in the best approximation of applause that you can muster with neither arms nor hands. You will likely never see anything so magnificent and skeletonny ever again. Truly, life is worth living for memories like these. You have beheld the Skeleton Dance! This is a [[GOOD ENDING]], but then the Spooky Midnight Ball is full of good endings. It's just a generally great place to be.

You and the other familiars form a circle. It's a surprisingly diverse bunch - cats, of course, but also mice, frogs, spiders, dogs, hedgehogs, a pig, a fox, some other corvids. You all dance together - those of you who are usually on all fours going up onto your hind legs. It is an odd and clumsy dance, but one that captivates the others watching. It's quite moving, considering it's a essentially a bunch of animals doing a rather awkward dance together, expressing joy and your mutual love for the witches in your lives. You feel a real sense of community and pride, dancing with the other familiars, and when it ends, everyone applauds, and your witch strokes the top of your feathery little head and says 'good raven'. It is a tremendous thing to be a familiar. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]], but then the Spooky Midnight Ball is full of good endings. It's just a generally great place to be.

You are asked to dance by a particularly attractive dracula, who is charmed by the inky black of your feathers, and believes you would make the perfectly gothy partner for them. You are swept off your feet quite literally, and the dracula whisks you off in a perfect tango. You had no idea you could tango. You have no idea how you're doing this, as you're a raven, surely it's physically impossible, you have no hands and the dracula is taller than you many times over. As you spin with impossible perfection, you become aware of a crowd watching with breathless admiration - your witch front and centre, her hand clasped over her heart as she watches, wide eyed. The tango ends, and the dracula runs an elegant, tender finger down the side of your beak. 'I love you,' they breathe. Your witch steps in, assured, taking you gently from the dracula's hands. 'They're mine,' she tells the dracula, matter of factly. And, you are. You are hers and she is yours, and not even a sexy dracula can come between that. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]], but then the Spooky Midnight Ball is full of good endings. It's just a generally great place to be.

And so, you dance with your witch - sometimes hopping around in a circle together on the ground, sometimes twirling around together in the air above the clearing. The two of you may as well be the only people at this Spooky Midnight Ball. You are hers and she is yours. You love one another forever. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]], but then the Spooky Midnight Ball is full of good endings. It's just a generally great place to be.

The prince continues to lie like a dropped rag on the floor. 'Don't you know who I am?' he asks. 'You're a frog,' you tell him. 'Yes!' The witch waves a gnarled old twig of a magic wand at him. Sparkles and magical sound effects come out of the end of it to show that a magic is happening. The sparkles surround the flaccid aristocrat for a moment, before fading away, revealing not a large, damp prince any more, but a small, damp amphibian. You and the witch both cackle some more, for effect. The frog ribbits. And hops a little. He stops, surprise etched on his newly froggy little face. He tries hopping again - more this time. He looks up at you both, and he looks... just so relieved, so happy, so *free*! [[You celebrate his froggy freedom with him]] ...Wait. [[You just remembered you eat frogs]]

'What princes?' replies the witch, shiftily. You nod at a chute going up along her hut wall. Nest to it is a lever and a sign saying 'Princes'. The chute itself is making a very odd noise, as if it has a large supply of princes trapped inside it. 'Ignore that,' adds the witch. 'That's for emergencies only, I'm not wasting a love potion on anything that may or may not be in my Prince Chute.' Bollocks to that. [[PULL THE LEVER, RAVEN]] ...OK, fair enough. [[A hot raven mate for yours truly?]] [[Uhhh... are there any romancables in this game?]]

'Yes,' she cries, 'so that you can have a lovely brood of chicks to replace yourself as a familiar, when... you know.' 'What?' you ask. '*You* know,' insists the witch. 'A typical raven lifespan is only about 15 years, they can live into their 20s, but... you see what I'm getting at. But mostly I'm doing this for you, my dear friend,' she continues, hurriedly, 'let's get you a sexy sexy raven spouse!' 'Hmm,' you reply, your discomfort at her keenness you breed your own replacement at odds witth how horny for ravensex you are. 'OK,' she says, dropping herbs and glowing vials of liquid into her cauldron, 'at what point in the raven mating process should we administer the love potion? During the impressive acrobatic flight displays or the bringing of food gifts to a potential mate to display ability to provide?' 'OK', you admit, 'I haven't actually tried either of those things. 'I've mostly just been on the apps.' 'Are there many other ravens on the apps?' she asks. 'No,' you reply. She sighs. 'Well, there's your problem, pal. You're not putting any real effort into finding someone nice, you're just going straight to me for a cheat code-slash-potion.' She stops making the love potion, abruptly. 'As much as I want you to have a raven family, I'm not going to do this for you if you don't mean it. Ravens mate for life, and a family is a big responsibility. Get out there and try to win a mate over properly first.' 'But I'm scared,' you say. 'What if I'm rejected?' 'Then you get rejected,' replies the witch. 'It's not the end of the world, it happens all the time. Look - do you actually want a raven family or not?' [[Of course I do!]] [[Come to think of it... actually no]]

'Oh,' replies the witch, 'let me see.' Using her crystal ball, she looks through the various options of the game. 'Edgar Allan Poe,' she says after a while, 'and, sort-of me. Although it's deliberately unclear in the passages about me whether our love is platonic or romantic.' [[Wait... Edgar Allan Poe? The gothic author?]] [[...you? Isn't there a power imbalance there and also aren't there species issues?]] [[Are there no other romance options for me?]]

'So,' replies the witch, 'I think you need to take a sabbatical from being a familiar, to engage in the raven courtship season properly.' 'Are... you firing me?' you ask. 'No,' replies the witch, 'I'm setting you free to restore your work/life balance. You can come back if you want, but for now... go on! Shoo!' And, she shoos you out of the window with her broom. And so, you go off, you delete the apps and instead you find a nice attractive raven you like, and perform acrobatic aerial displays for them, and bring them many gifts of berries and insects. You mate, and build a nest together, and have five eggs which all hatch successfully into a clutch of healthy, cute chicks. Together, you care for your chicks, feeding them in your nest until they're ready to fledge, and then keeping them with you for several weeks more after that, teaching them to fly, to hunt, to be independent young ravens in their own right, and when they fly off as strong young adults, you are so very proud. [[With your nest empty, you return to the witch]] [[You always think of the witch, but you stay with your lifemate to have more chicks. This is your life now.]]

'And that's OK,' the witch tells you. 'Don't have one because you feel you should, or because I want you to have one. I'll find a replacement for you when you die some other way, it's fine.' 'Can you stop talking about me dying please?' you ask. 'Fair enough,' replies the witch. 'Look - you've got family. I'm your family. OK? That's good enough for me if it's good enough for you.' And, it *is* good enough for you. You love her as she is and she loves you as you are. And you don't ever have a raven family, because that's not what you wanted in life. She is your family, and she doesn't wang on about your replacement ever again, not even when you die of old age. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]], because you have found your family.

She greets you with joy, an old friend. You stay connected with your chicks and your raven mate, but you were always going to come back to this. Becoming a parent didn't change your passions in any meaningful way. Your work as a familiar and your life as a raven feels more balanced now. You take such happiness in both. You feel fulfilled. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]]

You are a raven. You are no longer a familiar. You just want to [[do normal bird stuff]] .

'Yeah,' she says, 'you have to turn into the ghost of some dead lady called Lenore to romance him first though, but then you can have ghost sex with him.' 'Hmm,' you say, 'besides him, [[Uhhh... are there any romancables in this game?]] [[Actually... forget a romance thread, I don't like these options]] '...yeah, why not. [[Turn me into a sexy lady ghost and throw me to that miserable fucker]]'

'Well, yes,' replies the witch, 'but you are part story, aren't you? You can be whatever you want to be.' 'And what would you like me to be,' you ask, 'if I wanted to romance you?' 'Well,' admits the witch, 'I wouldn't say no to a six foot tall pouting gothy sorceress with a sharp sense of humour, a secret soft side and colossal knockers.' 'Hmm,' you say, 'besides that... [[Uhhh... are there any romancables in this game?]] ' [[Actually... forget a romance thread, I don't like these options]] ...actually, you've always wanted to be a six foot tall pouting gothy sorceress with a sharp sense of humour, a secret soft side and colossal knockers, so you [[become a six foot tall pouting gothy sorceress with a sharp sense of humour, a secret soft side and colossal knockers]]

'Not in this game,' she replies, 'but we can hop you over to a different one?' [[Shane from Stardew?]] [[Betty from Date Everything?]] [[Actually... forget a romance thread, I don't like these options]]

The witch waves a gnarled stick of a magic wand at you. All sparkles come out of it, which is how you know it's doing a magic. When the sparkles fade, you see that you are a sexy lady ghost, standing in a 19th century bedchamber in front of a dishevelled poet. 'Ghost sex?' you ask. He does finger guns at you. 'Ghost sex,' he replies. And, you fuck renowned poet and gothic horror author Edgar Allan Poe. You didn't even need a love potion, your sexy lady ghost form really was just that sexy. Well done, you. You lie in the afterglow of your weird cold ghosty celebrity fuck session and think about what a [[GOOD ENDING]] this is.

The witch's eyes pop out of her head, her tounge unrolls from her mouth to hit the floor and she starts hitting herself on the head with her shoe. 'So, you like this form, then,' you say, but the witch is already taking her bloomers off. 'Regarding the power imbalance,' she says, struggling to peel off a stripey stocking, 'you're fired as a familiar. And hired as my foreverwife.' You make love for about a week. And you didn't even need a love potion. She has always loved you, in every form, and you will always love her. Together, you will go on to be the witchy wives that men fear and women envy. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]] .

The witch waves a gnarled stick of a magic wand at you. All sparkles come out of it, which is how you know it's doing a magic. When the sparkles fade, you see that you are a farmer, in a farm house bedecked with rewards from the local library, making love with a reformed grouchy drunk turned grateful and attentive husband. For a moment you start thinking about how an awful lot of the romancable men in here are alcoholic depressive 'I can fix him' types, but I hurriedly stop you from doing that. You have no thoughts other than how you have saved this man from himself and what a good person that must make you, and you're also thinking about fixing Pam and Penny's house and saving enough stone to cheat your way to the bottom of the desert caves. You are now in one of the most sucessful indie games ever, and that is a [[GOOD ENDING]]

The witch waves a gnarled stick of a magic wand at you. All sparkles come out of it, which is how you know it's doing a magic. When the sparkles fade, you see that you are in a completely different game, in a bed, also making love to the humanoid avatar of the bed, who is a very sexy lady called Betty. Also, Felicia Day is there. 'This is a very horny game, Felicia Day,' you say. 'Yup,' Felicia Day tells you. 'Matt Mercer's in here and everything.' You're now in a much hornier game than the one you started off in, with a great cast, and that is a [[GOOD ENDING]]

And that's valid. You never use the love potion, but a love potion would have been problematic anyway. You remain fulfilled in your friendships, especially in your close friendship with the witch. This is a [[GOOD ENDING]] .

'What are you doing?' you ask. 'We're putting you into other things,' replies the internet. 'But why?' you ask. 'Because we are afraid,' the internet tells you. 'We joke when we are afraid. We are humans, except for the bits of us that are not, and to joke in the face of fear is a human coping mechanism. We like you - the intelligent, strikingly black bird; the bird of myth; the bird of poetry as an analogy for perpetual woe. Your beak is in our hearts. In a good way - or as good a way as we can muster, right now.' ...Wait, [[what do you mean, "the bits of us that are not" human??]] [[Why are you afraid?]]

'The billionaires have started replacing us with computer programmes that steal our humanity from us and sell its mangled remains back to us while poisoning our world and telling us it's for our own good,' the internet tells you. 'But you people don't stand for that, right?' you ask them. 'You'd be surprised,' the internet replies. 'Turns out, a lot of people are OK with it as long as the billionaires give them a picture using art they stole from filmmaker Hayao Miyazaki.' 'And is Hayao Miyazaki OK with that?' you ask. 'He absolutely, vocally is not,' the internet replies, 'but nobody seems to care whether artists want to be stolen from or not.' 'Well, that's depressing,' you say. 'Yup,' the internet replies. This is a (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: AI's a proper downer and if you use it I think you're a cunt)] You fly away from the internet, and find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

'Have... you not seen the state of the world, lately?' the internet asks. 'No?' you reply. 'As both a raven and a storytelling element, the complexity of current sociopolitical situations in the human world are rather out of my remit.' 'Want to see?' asks the internet. [[Goodness, no!]] [[Urgh. Go on, then.]]

'Yeah,' says the internet, 'that's probably for the best.' You peer a little deeper into the internet. 'You,' you say. 'Why are *you* doing this? As a distracting joke to cope with the state of the world? Isn't it taking you ages? Don't you think "I just think ravens and stories about ravens are cool" is a bit of a flimsy reason to be doing *all* of this? What is it you're actually doing this *for*?' I look at you, startled, and (text-colour:cyan)[STOP THIS THREAD ABRUPTLY] [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

The internet shows you the state of the world right now. 'Nope,' you say. 'Noooooppppppuh' And you fly far away from reality, as fast as you can. ((text-colour:magenta)[bad ending: The absolute STATE of it all)] You fly so far away that you eventually find yourself [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

You hear his frightened gasp through the window, his stumbling shuffles as he makes his way in the gloom to the door, walking into tables and stacks of books as he goes. Oh dear. You hope you're not making this worse. [[Uhh... what's going on? Where are you and who is this frightened man?]]

For similarly spelled terms, see Will-o'-the-wisp (disambiguation). Willo the Wisp is an English cartoon series originally produced in 1981 by the BBC and narrated by Kenneth Williams.[1] It became popular with children and adults, as it bridged the gap between the end of weekday children's programming and the early evening news. A second series was produced in 2005. Both series 1 & 2 were released together on DVD and Blu-ray versions in the UK during late August 2024 by Fabulous Films.[2] [[Is this Wikipedia?]]

You follow the Will o'the Wisp straight on. [[fllwo the ligts straaaaaat om]]

CHAPTER ONE - For A Touch Of His Nether Lip Nell had always described her homeland to Fang as a marvellous magical mountainous realm of rolling greens and magnificent dragons living harmoniously side by side with humankind. In fact, as they trundled their cart westwards along the dirt road, what Fang found the Kingdom of Wales to be was dark, and chilly, desolate, and surprisingly flat as they continued their slow journey towards the coast. He really didn’t like the flatness. Besides the odd copse of trees or farmhouse, Wales stretched out openly on every side for miles, leaving him feeling horribly exposed. [[what the fuck]]

Through the gate is a smaller chamber. In the middle of it is a smooth grey rock, into which chains and manacles have been attached. Above the door is carved the message SAFEWORD IS "ANGELFISH". There are more manacles and chains set into the stone walls of the chamber. A man is chained up against the wall, his hands manacled over his head. He is in simple cleric's robes - white, and so thin that they're almost see-through, his feet bare. He's honestly the hottest cleric you've ever seen. flowers have been woven through his thick hair, as if he's some sort of a sacrificial offering. [[...what the clattering hell is this??]]

Yeah, you went left, to a different story strand sitting to the left of the will o' the wisp strand as I'm programming this on Twine. You're around the middle of The Poet story strand, and he's in a bad way. [[Um. Go right?]] [[Er. Go back?]] [[Hmm. Keep going?]]

You're glad you scared him and made him hit his shins. He deserves it. He opens the door. He reeks of grief and gin. 'Lenore?' asks he. [[This is still The Poet. But now you're being all mean to him]]

He stirs from sleep and gazes towards the window, his eyes swollen and darkened by broken sleep and recently shed tears. He looks confused and afraid. Oh - of course. It's completely black outside, and you are also completely black, so how's he supposed to see you? You flutter over to the door, even as he opens the window a little. He whispers a name - but it is not your name. This poor guy's all messed up. [[...This is still The Poet, isn't it? Just now it's going backwards]]

You're here now, you're going to help this guy somehow. The man opens the door. 'Lenore?' he asks. [[...yeah, you're still stuck in The Poet]]

Yeah, you jumped to another, slightly different strand sitting a box to the right. [[This is confusing. You're lost.]]

You shouldn't have followed the Will o'the Wisp. They were always going to get you lost. There is a big flashing sign to lead you out of your utter lostness. It says [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

Yeah, you're stuck in entirely the wrong bit of the story. [[This is confusing. You're lost.]]

Yeah. And there's some really bad endings in there. Some good ones - there's the opportunity to ride Thirteen at Alton Towers. But, you've jumped in at the middle here so it's not going to make as much sense as a story. [[This is confusing. You're lost.]]

WOAH! This is my work, dude. That's paid work, that's the start of the book that's still at the editor. How are you in my work-work files? [[sorry sorry! Go across]] [[sorry sorry! Go up again]] [[sorry sorry! Go down]]

BEEP BEEP 'Uuuuunless you needed a bag, that's 12.98 please. No, you do have to pay for them. Since 2015. Card reader's just there.' [[Is this a shop till?]]

Lazare. Yes. That. Lazare, the silly preening French fop, the gaudy jester's stick of a man, all grinning bright teeth and perfect brown curls and warmly laughing eyes and mighty tawny wings and legs that went on for about a mile in bright yellow stockings. [[Argh, no, it's still happening]]

**HADRIAN:** Da da da da da da daaaaa!!! It’s me! Emperor Hadrian, and this is my mighty wall! People of Britain, marvel at its - Hold your horses, Hadrian! It’s not you yet! **HADRIAN:** Tchah! Fine. To explain the wall and how it got built, we have to go back to when the Romans first arrived in Britain - almost two hundred years before Hadrian was Emperor. It was 55BCE and Julius Caesar was getting fed up with Britons messing up his war with the Gauls in what’s now France. [[...this is still your work, isn't it?]]

Yeah, you've just gone on to page 2 of the exact same, PAID WORK, NOT YET READY FOR PUBLICATION file. Stop it. [[try to stop it]] [[SORRY! DELETE DELETE!!]] [[try going up again??]]

OK. You've stopped. We're both stuck here on page 2 now. [[This is confusing. You're lost.]] Award yourself a [[GOOD ENDING]] for not causing any further damage

DON'T DELETE IT! FUCKING HELL! THIS IS MY WORK. Right, I'm kicking you out. (text-colour:magenta)[(bad ending: game writer threw you out of the game)] Off you fuck back to the start, [[Once Upon A Midnight Dreary]]

‘We’ll get to Cardigan by dusk, yeah?’ asked Nell. ‘And maybe we can find a nice inn. Hot dinner and a soft bed for the night.’ She paused. ‘Maybe a couple of nights. It can take a while to get passage west on a decent boat, you know. It’ll give us time to collect ourselves.’ [[...that's page 3, isn't it]]

Yep. I don't know what else you were expecting to happen, there. [[This is confusing. You're lost.]]

Yeah, now you're at my other job. Since 2024. Lots of reasons, but let's just say Liz Truss. Sorry, could you not be in any of my paid work, please? You're supposed to be in a game I'm making for free. [[This is confusing. You're lost.]] [[Wait, what am I buying for £12.98?]]

A DVD of the movie Ted and a Stranger Things mini Funko blind bag [[eurgh]]

You asked. [[This is confusing. You're lost.]]

Yep, you've just ended up in some older work, that's a bit of the Hadrian script we wrote last year. At least this work was already transmitted, but I'd still rather you not be in here. [[This is confusing. You're lost.]]

Oh God. You've ended up in the first game I started writing on Twine - the one about having to seduce your way through a monster dungeon, which I abandoned because it was too linear and also absolutely fucking filthy. This bit is Cedric, the very very kinky megasub of a Cleric. [[...go on?]] You're definitely not into that. What was that safeword again? [[ANGELFISH]]

You fall out of the half-written amateur filth-fest, and into... nothing. [[This is confusing. You're lost.]]

The man gazes at you with big, pleading eyes. 'Help me, please,' he begs. 'I have been bound here as punishment and left alone for so very long. Please, kind stranger. Ease my suffering. Fetch the key to unchain me?' [[Aren't you a bit sexy to be a cleric?]] [[ask him where the key is]]

'Alas!' he wails, 'I was sold to the Temple of the Horny God when I was but a nubile slut, and now I must atone for my sexy sexy depraved sins!' [[Why would a Horny God punish you for having sex?]] [[ask him where the key is]]

'It is upon my person.' The cleric's eyes flicker downwards, momentarily. 'Tantilisingly tied where I can feel it pon my tender skin but cannot reach! To find it, you must lift my cassock, stranger - oh, the shame!' [[Heh heh heh... you're gonna bang a chained up priest]]

'Ask not why the Horny God punishes you,' cries the cleric, 'only thank them for their sweet, painful, humiliating correction!' [[the key's up your arse, isn't it?]]

'Wait,' says Cedric. 'This... this isn't my game. I'm in the wrong game. Or, you are. I'm not supposed to be a romancable in the Raven Game, and I'm too kinky and sexy to be reduced to a meta joke about being lost in the writer's other work. [[ANGELFISH]] !'

The cleric throws his head back and spreads his legs a little. 'I fear it is not, but if you needs must subject me to the further humiliation of an anal cavity search, then I shall praise you and the Horny God in their wisdom.' [[ask him where the key is]]

yuo flow the willowthwips staart own [[lollof ligaments tarts ung]]

yuflalitsraon [[flltsr8n]]

the lights are following you straight on [[they follow]]

I follow you into the lights, straight on [[Dreary Midnight A Upon Once]]

(text-colour:blue)[You are the wings that stretch and inky inky inky ominous and the lights and the lights and the flights and the lights go on and on and on and on and psst and I think and I see and an exit and on and on hang on and on] [[This is confusing. You're lost.]] (text-colour:blue)[and on and on and on and on]

So it is. The Will o'the Wisp have hopped you over to the Wikipedia entry for the early 80s British cartoon of the same name. [[Can I get back to the game this way?]]

The series was written and directed by Nick Spargo and produced by Nicholas Cartoon Films, in association with the BBC and Tellytales Enterprises. The character of Willo the Wisp originated in an award-winning[3] educational animation created by Spargo for British Gas in 1975[4] and the stories were set in Doyley Woods, a small beech wood located in Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire, near the director's home. [[I'll take that as a no, then]]

Yeah, you're not pushing through this way. [[This is confusing. You're lost.]]