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Season 0: Year One C20: New Parchment (1) (Public)
🕑 Added 2025-07-09 17:30:55 +0000 UTCHeart pounding, Rowan held his breath as a nauseating wave rolled through him, and tilted the world off-balance.
He'd have doubled over and emptied the content of his stomach right then, if not for the fascination burying the urge under… Dissolving like embers, the Spell's visual distortions slowly gave way to—”An empty plot?“
“Is it?” Zatara asked, waving a piece of silk cloak he’d pulled from his tophat—a theatrical flourish that briefly covered the Half-Fiend's sight. Then the cloth fluttered away, and in its place loomed the outline of a Mansion…
The blocky shape clawed its way into focus, dragging Rowan’s vision with it until his eyes throbbed just trying to keep up.
"Jesus. And I thought Wayne Estate was depressing already..." A long, winding stone staircase cut through an overgrown, moonlit lawn, climbing toward a sprawling the mansion that looked like it had been carved from the same slab of stone.
Lined with nothing but hard edges and rows of dark, vacant windows, the main building would've passed more easily for a prison than a home. A narrow watchtower rose from the Manor’s left, joined to the main structure by a bare, windowless stone conduit. “Welcome to Shadowcrest, Rowan Locke.”
“You have a nice—” He stopped, realized he couldn’t say it with a straight face, and settled for a lackluster, “Well, you've got walls and a roof.”
“Its appearance is a Ward in itself, designed to repel the idle and the curious.“ Rowan fell in behind the Magician, forcing his focus forward, though his gaze kept drifting past the gnarled treeline, drawn to something that twitched just out of sight.
At first, the Half-Fiend blamed it on the Magic of the place; then on the faint Moonlight playing tricks on restless leaves… Until one of the fuckers moved.
Half-swallowed by ivy, the Angel stood a short distance from the stairwell, its head tilted sideways as though trying to get a better view of the Hellspawn intruding on its territory. It wasn’t the only one either. There were more—at least half a dozen by Rowan's count.
Not a lot of the Statues carried weapons, but those who did looked like they’d been waiting centuries for someone to find out.
One clutched the hilt of a massive claymore with a chipped and broken tang;
Another hefted a bearded axe burdened with moss and mold;
A third knelt beside its broken spear; the tip still leveled at some unseen, long-vanquished foe. “Zatara, I swear if those creepy-ass Statues so much as twitch, I am booking a flight home first thing in the morning.“
Glancing at the Statues, Zatara patiently explained. “They're Magical Constructs—Golems created to defend our Ancestral Home. They're reacting to you, boy.“
“Well, tell them to cut it out.” Rowan growled, fingers closing around the Explosive Batarangs strapped to the inner lining of his blazer.
Zatara finally looked at him, then Shadowcrest's first line of defense. “They're mindless and know only how to best follow their programming. Stay close; give them no reason to deviate from it and you'll be fine.“
Glowering at the watchful figures, Rowan fell into step behind the Magician until they reached the massive oak doors. “So this isn't going to be a regular thing, right? Me getting stared down by your creepy garden gnomes?”
“That—” Zatara started, coming to an abrupt stop as the doors groaned open before them. “Is precisely why our first order of business is a full diagnostic. The wards cannot be attuned to your Magical Signature until I know what it is I am keying into them.”
“Does this involve blood?”
“Indeed… How did you figure?” Zatara asked, right brow arching in mild curiosity.
“Harry Potter fanfictions.”
Zatara’s expression remained as impassive as ever, though Rowan could've sworn he saw a flicker of confusion in the Magician's eyes as he turned, glided down the narrow corridor, and lamented. “There was a time when a mob with torches and pitchforks was the answer to the what our kind could do. Now, it is materials for Fantasy writers… Times have changed.”
“For the better, right?“ Prompted the awed Half-Fiend.
Behind them, the door slammed shut with a boom, sealing off the outside world and locking them in with thirty-three sets of regal armor that flanked each and every doorway, their featureless helmets seeming to follow Rowan’s every step as the duo ventured deeper into Shadowcrest.
“Lemme guess—Golems too?”
“To call them mere ‘Golems’ would be a disservice. The Wards outside are simple Constructs. These have been refined, then etched with Runes to grant them strength and speed far beyond mortal limits. They've also been bestowed a limited form of… Sentience to improve their coordination.”
“So they’re basically Magical T-800s. How lovely,” Rowan muttered, muffling an amused snort. “Guess the rumors are true, after all: Mages really guard their Artifacts like a cat does its shit.”
Catching the baleful glare tossed his way, the mouthy Half-Fiend laughingly raised his hands. “No shade, of course! I’d do the same.”
“I'll have you know some of the Artifacts you just crassly compared to ‘cat droppings’ possess the capability to destroy this world.”
“Oh, please. You act like there aren’t hundreds more world-ending toys out there.” Rowan rolled his eyes as they came to a stop. “I don’t get why you guys even bother, unless it’s for the power. Never mind the Artifacts, we’ve got walking, talking nukes wearing skintight suits patrolling every major city on Earth… They're basically Gods in all but name.”
What was stopping Superman from drilling a hole straight through the Earth’s core?
Or Martian Manhunter from Omni-Manning the planet's surface while shapeshifted as Belle Delphine’s face and wearing red, X-shaped nipple pasties? The answer was: Nothing! And if you guessed that much, congrats—you’re amongst the select few who comprehended just how fucking bonkers some of these Supes were!
As much as Rowan liked Bruce, he wasn’t delusional about the guy’s chances.
Every time 'Batman vs. Superman' ever happened, it was obvious the Kryptonian was pulling his punches, which was why he'd been quite relieved when Bruce finally admitted to having the Metagene. All the prep time in the world wouldn't matter if Clark ever woke up on the wrong side of bed and decided to fastball an asteroid at Earth.
Hopefully, Bruce's new power—whatever it was—would tip the scale in his favor.
“Every Artifact secured is one less in enemy hands, and one less civilian in the crossfire.” Zatara explained, fist tightening on the handle. “I expected better from Bruce's apprentice…”
“I think I’d prefer if everyone had their own world-ending 'Artifact.'” Syndrome might’ve been a petty cunt, but his core belief wasn’t wrong. The Imp—sidekick and protégé of the Batman—might have balked at it on principle, if only out of respect for his broody mentor, but Rowan Locke could get behind—“If everyone’s a super, no one is.”
“That’s a dangerous line of thinking…”
“Is it?” Rowan mused, almost to himself. “Wouldn’t it be better if everyone could protect themselves, instead of dumping the world’s weight on a handful of people? I mean, think about it: If everyone in a bank’s packing and knows where to aim, who’s still dumb enough to rob one, Teach?”
“Humans are inherently unpredictable. Should such power become universal, what safeguards would remain to prevent daily catastrophe?“
“Other Metas?“ Head tilted, Rowan spoke like he was trying to teach basic math to an incredibly slow child. “Isn’t that already how it works…? You all act like power’s a curse, when it could be so much more.“
“You’re surprisingly idealistic for a Gotham-Born Demon.”
“Not idealistic. Realistic.“ Said Demon corrected. “The only thing that checks power is greater power.”
Zatara opened his mouth, only to find his tongue tied. Thankfully—mercifully—his daughter chose that moment to make her presence known.
“Daddy! You're home!“
“Saved by the bell, Teach. Saved by the bell.” Rowan grinned, already backing into what appeared to be a dining hall. “I’ll leave you two to it.”
Wandering over to the table by the fireplace, Rowan slid into a chair and tapped the glossy surface.
Shadowcrest’s dining hall was smaller than Wayne Manor’s, but the warm lighting and close-set tables gave it a homier vibe—enough to make his eyelids droop.
Rowan yawned, rubbing at his eyes, half-expecting Alfred to materialize with coffee and oregano tea to kill the aftertaste like he always did. Sadly, despite all evidence to the contrary, the Batler wasn’t actually omnipresent. Shame, really.
“God—” The Fiend winced, just a little. “I need a coffee.”
Suddenly, a cup dropped in front of Rowan, making him flinch. “Huh… Neat!“
He eyed the discolored brew, took a sip and nearly spat it back out. “Okay, I know I’m asking a lot, but can I get literally anything other than an Americano?”
The cup vanished, then reappeared a second later, darker this time.
The scent alone strong enough to clear his sinuses.
The taste, on the other hand, was like drinking distilled charcoal with a shot of adrenaline… In other words: 'Perfection.'
Taking another swig, Rowan raised his glass. “Whoever you are, you and me? We’re tight. Cheers.“
After some hushed back-and-forth between father and daughter, Zatara finally entered the dinning hall with his daughter in tow. His gaze then fell on the steaming coffee the Fiend was slurping down. “I see you’ve discovered one of Shadowcrest’s functions.”
“Wait, are you telling me the building made this?!”
“The Ward did,” Corrected the Magician. “It can prepare any dish, so long as there are raw ingredients in the pantry and clear instructions for the final product.”
A calculating grin slowly spread across Rowan’s face as he leaned in his chair, fingers steepling like a scheming Saturday morning villain. Time to test the claim. “Can I get a… Pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and stuffed crust?”
A fresh plate appeared with a soft thud less than a second later.
He stared for a second, then let out an incredulous laugh. “That's it! You've gotta teach me this shit, bruv!“
Alfred would probably have a fit, but Rowan knew he couldn’t stay at the Estate forever. Sooner or later, he would have to move out—get his own place, and having comfort Wards like this would make the transition a hell of a lot easier. “Are there other similar Wards? I'm talking ones that can do my laundry, fold my clothes, take out the trash and—”
“Really?! That's what you wanna learn?“ The tiny girl tagging along finally asked. “Not how to conjure a Shield of Light, or speak Fireballs into existence?”
The Fiend met her bewildered stare with a pleased smile. “I absolutely want to do all of that, young lady, but you have to have the right priorities.”
“And the right priority is pizza?“ Zatanna deadpanned at the boy who was taking a massive bite of molten cheese and speaking through the mouthful without a single shred of shame. “Hell yeah! You two want some?“
“Ew, no.“
“I think I'll pass. My heart's not what it used to be.“
“Your loss.“ Shrugging, Rowan picked up the tray, but the motion was met with twin looks of disapproval.
“And where do you think you’re going with that?”
“Ew!” Zatanna chimed in, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
“I thought we had somewhere else to be?”
“Not while you’re carrying that grease slab,” Zatara said, his tone bokering no room for argument. “Finish it. Then we will continue.”
With the last slice of pizza gone, Rowan let out a satisfied sigh.
“Come.”
They stopped by a circular door bound by thick bronze chains next. “This is the Vault… It houses our family's collection of Artifacts. We'll not be entering today.”
“What a shame.” The Fiend muttered, eyeing the door with open greed. “I was hoping to find something I could pawn-off.”
Zatara wisely ignored him—already used to the boy's tomfoolery by now.
Rounding another corridor, their small group of three stopped in the Library that, surprisingly, turned out to be the most normal-looking room in all of Shadowcrest. Which, given the place, wasn’t saying much. “I shall retrieve a few rudimentary texts for your initial studies. In the meantime... Zatanna?“
“Yes, Daddy?”
“Keep our guest company. And do not let him touch anything.”
“Geez, thanks for the vote of confidence, Teach.”
“Confidence must be earned, not assumed.” Zatara replied smoothly, vanishing down the aisle without so much as a glance. The moment her father went out of sight, the girl’s posture did a complete 180°. Gone was the sweet girl who nodded along to her father’s every word.
In her place stood the future 'Mistress of Magic,' who gave Rowan the distinct feeling she really, really didn’t like the idea of sharing her pa' and space with another kid. Luckily for her, she was an only child in most Timelines… “Just so we’re clear: You’re not stealing my dad from me.”
Rowan almost laughed at the accusation but thought better of it. From his personal experience, kids could be petty little shits, and the last thing he needed was Zatanna Zatara hounding his ass over something he didn’t even care about. “Relax, kid, I'm not trying to. I’ve already got my own crib.”
“Kid?” Crossed over her chest, Zatanna demanded. “Excuse me? How old are you, anyway?”
“Thirteen, I think?”
Her chin immediately lifted, a note of triumph in her voice. “Well, I’m fourteen.”
The Fiend met her declaration with an unimpressed stare, before howling. “What, do you want an applause? Shall this lowly peasant roll you a red carpet? Wait, hol' up… Fourteen?! And you still call yer pa ‘Daddy’?! Oh, that's just fucking precious.“
She couldn’t've possibly known it, but Rowan was absolutely going to lord this over her 'till the End of Days.
“So what?!” Zatanna stomped, cheeks beet red as Rowan doubled over, wheezing.
“N-Nothin’. You’re a daddy’s girl—nothing wrong with that!” He immediately backpedaled, just in case the girl stopped calling Zatara that and the overprotective Magician decided to pin the blame on him. Getting tossed through solid bricks and mortar once was more than enough for him. “It's just… Surprising, that's all. Didn't take you for the type.“
“Well, then stop laughing.”
“Aye, aye, Captain!” Rowan gave a mock salute, though the grin tugging at his lips refused to die.
“You still are!“
“Gimme' a break—I'm fookin' trying!“
It took him a whole minute to compose himself still.
Hands on his hips, Rowan caught his breath, dusted his blaxer and grinned through the tears. "Ah, your dad's gonna fucking kill me… Worth, though.“
If he survived, though, she’d never know peace.
This was basically an instant knockout for every verbal spar.
Although, given how sheltered she was, Rowan doubted Zatanna even realized how cringe it sounded to the average person.
'Or maybe I’m just a cynical cunt and this is actually the norm? Nah… Couldn't be.'
“Are you quite done?“ Glowered the Magician.
“Quite.“
“Hmph!” Zatanna huffed, pivoting on her heel with all the grace of a theater kid denied the lead role.
“How tragic.” Still chuckling, Rowan turned toward the shelf behind him.
It was stacked with dusty, ancient tomes that looked like they hadn’t been touched since the time of Merlin.
'If this were a Xianxia novel, this would be the part where I stumble onto Forbidden Secret Technique Number #69 and instantly advance to Peak-Something Stage.' He mused, mostly to himself. Then, as if the universe was in on the joke, a whisper suddenly floated by his ear.
'Coooo-ome!'
“Holy fucking shit that worked…”
Still half-convinced he was being punked, Rowan followed the voice, curiosity outweighing common sense. He stepped into the shadowed aisle, boots echoing faintly against the old wood as the air grew colder.
'Come to Usssss, Hellspawn…'
He looked up, coming face-to-face with a book bound in treated human skin.
“Nope.“
If that wasn’t THE Necronomicon, Rowan would eat his shoes.
'W-Wait! You seek power, don’t you? Knowledge beyond mortal comprehension?!' Cried the Book of the Damned.
The gullible mortals usually stopped at 'Power,' unfortunately…
“What do you think I am, three? Fuck that.“
Rowan exited the aisle, dusting his hands as if he’d just handled something foul and was met with the sight of a panicking Zatanna.
“Wassup?“
“Where were you? What did you do?!” She hissed, her hands glowing faintly. “Did you touch anything?!!“
He gave her a lazy, dismissive wave. “Some ugly-ass Grimoire tried to get me to touch it. Thankfully, I remembered the lesson.”
“What lesson?“
“Stranger-danger.”
Yawning, the Fiend slumped over the desk like a bored cat. “When’s your dad coming back, by the way?”
“He’s probably forgot where the novice books are… Us Zataras don't need those.” She narrowed her eyes. “Stop changing the subject! Did you touch anything? If you did, you've got to tell me!”
“I told you, I didn't. Stop getting your panties in a bunch, Jesus.“
"Will you please take this seriously! Your life's on the line!"
She held the stare as though hoping to bore a hole through the boy's head and whispered. “No. This won't do. If something's affected you, you'd never admit it.“
Having had quite enough of the bothersome girl, Rowan called out.
“Alright, Teach, you’ve had your fun. Show yourself before your daughter bites off more than she can chew…”
The illusion of old bookshelves suddenly bled at the edges before collapsing entirely, revealing Zatara who looked like—Nay, who'd been there all along. “You knew.”
“I had a hunch.” Rowan admitted, his gaze drifting away from the magician. He began to walk the perimeter of the reading table, his fingers trailing lightly across the dusty wood. "I didn’t think much of it at first, but after a bit of thoughts, it just didn’t add up.
Why's the fucking Necronomicon be on the first floor, unguarded and dumped in a shelf of unimportant auxiliary scrolls?
Why'd you leave your daughter with a Half-Demon you just met unless you were confident you could intervene at a moment’s notice?
And even if you Zataras don’t need the novice books, there’s no way you don’t have Wards or some other ways to track your collection, if not summon them outright. Why on Earth would it take you ten minutes to locate Spellbooks? The whole thing stank of a setup…“ And judging by Zatanna's wide, unblinking eyes: “She wasn't in on the play, I take it?“
Letting loose a weary sigh, the Master of the Shadowcrest combed through his mustache. “I keep forgetting who trained you.”
"'Tis alright, Teach. Happens to the best of us… If you’re done playing games, mind casting whatever Spell you need and pointing me to the nearest bed?”
“He taught you well.“
“Pre-eetty sure that's just the Gotham in me. Anyway… You said something about a diagnosis?“ Watching her father buddy up the same boy he’d labeled a potential Planetary Threat earlier, Zatanna hurried to catch up and shouted, “Wait for me!“
Contrary to Rowan's expectations, it was not a lab or a study Zatara led them up, but a winding spiral staircase to the highest point of the central Manor: The Observatory. The room was circular, its domed ceiling a seamless pane of enchanted glass that showed a breathtaking view of the cosmos. Nebulae swirled above in vibrant colors, while constellations unfamiliar to Rowan pulsed softly.
In the center of the marble floor was an intricate circle etched in what looked like silver.
“Nice,” Rowan whistled. “Very… Aleister Crowley. You sacrifice goats up here too?”
“Only on Tuesdays,” The Magician replied, moving toward a brass astrolabe near the edge of the circle. “The diagnostic requires a focused Nexus of celestial and telluric energies. This room will serve as that Nexus… Zatanna, the kit.”
She nodded, retrieving a small, velvet-lined wooden box.
From it, she produced a shallow crystal bowl and a small, ornate silver knife.
Rowan eyed the Ritual Dagger warily. “You couldn’t just use a sterile lancet from a first-aid kit? What is this, the Bronze Age?”
Once again, the Magician ignored him, taking the offered items with great care.
“A logical question, for one so accustomed to a world of steel and science. This your first lesson, Rowan Locke, so listen and listen well: For one of the foundational principles of all Magic is Sympathy… To influence something, you must use a Tool that shares its nature.”
Holding up the silver knife, he gestured at the tools.
“You see a weapon. But silver’s nature is one of purity, a reflection of truth. It's not meant to Cut, but to Reveal that which is hidden. The crystal is a lens. Its purpose is to focus and clarify what can't be seen with mere sight. We will use it to Scry the Soul… A disposable lancet of plastic and steel has no history; no purpose beyond the mundane and is thus inert, for the Tool must match the Intent. If you would—”
“That was a lot of words just to say 'Like begets Like.'” Sleepy, the Fiend snarked as he extended his wrist. “Question: Who, or what assigns an object its ‘Nature’?“
“Us. Through science… Through observation, ironically enough.”
“Us?”
“Indeed! All living things possess a form of awareness… Even the simplest of bacteria can sense, and in doing so, assign function.“
“If a tree fell in a forest and no one's around to see it, did it fall at all?“
Rowan snorted, then hummed thoughtfully, oblivious to the thin line running red down his palm. “That still doesn’t track. Humans aren’t the only living things on Earth. What’s good for us can be lethal to another… Take, for instance, chocolate—it’s a treat for most humans, but it’s poison to dogs and cats.
If their Collective Awareness assigns it the function of ‘Poison’ and ours designates it as ‘Food,’ whose perception's correct?“
For a second, he could've sworn he saw a glint in the Magician's gaze—one of appreciation no less!
“You are the first student I have had in decades who has questioned the law, rather than simply asking for the Incantation… Most just want to learn flashy Spells.”
Off to the side, Zatanna suddenly stiffened.
“It's Magic, Teach.“
“It's Magic, indeed!“ A knowing, enchanted smile touched Zatara's lips. “And to answer your question: Both are.“
With snap of his fingers, a hellish light exploded out of the bowl.
“Unfortunately, it seems further questions must be left for the morning. Now, let's see what we're working wi—”
He never got the chance to finish as the crystal cracked, then melted to a puddle, spilling crimson when the liquid inside should've been as clear as its container… Former container, to be more precise.
Glancing at the previously confident Magician, Rowan raised a brow.
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but that wasn't supposed to happen, was it?“
“… No. It appears I've underestimated you yet again, Mr. Locke."
"Please. Just Rowan will do."
