(( art by dark_roast - archiveofourown dot org /works /7586881 ))

On a black rock promontory over a sea of dead pixels in the deep starless void sat a Scribe, a Plotbunny and a Muse. The Scribe did not look up from the notebook balanced on his knee in which he was furiously editing something he disapproved of. The Plotbunny merely stared out into the blackness, watching, waiting, thinking. The Muse conjured illusions of flame that danced in the upturned palms of his burning hands. The volatile chemicals he had been snorting that morning to turn his inner flames a variety of bright colours left him still lucid. From the slender, curved shapes that spun and swept their arms around, twirling and merging with each other as they crossed paths, he was mostly thinking about women. He hummed a jaunty, off-key tune under his breath, to which he roughly timed the pyromantic display. Every now and then, the Scribe glanced up at the performance, then went back to writing. He didn't show it that well but he was impressed, even inspired, which was saying something after he had seen it ten times before today alone and countless more since he had known the huge shaggy red-bearded man.

"I've always wondered," he suddenly commented, breaking the relative silence of a place so remote from the civilised Universe that sound had not been installed as a feature yet, or had broken down long ago and never repaired. All three of them had brought in sound devices that were kept permanently on, the Plotbunny even coming equipped with a cybernetic port to jack the device directly into his brain and the Muse apparently seeing the need to provide manual backup. Still, it was something they were in desperate need of: an unspoiled blank page.

The other two turned to look at him as he spoke, the Plotbunny's long floppy black-furred ears pricking up, the Muse still balancing his dancers to spin on the spot like music box ballerinas, "I've wondered, how do you two manage to play with fire around books all day and it not cause any problems? And other record keeping machines. They're not flame-proof. Well, not as much as they'd need to be to survive around you two."

"You think that you can tell the good tales without any fire? All the best stories are about fire. The spark that ignited creation, the primordial that brought life to the darkness. The fires of the Ragnarok, burning everything to ashes," he opened his broad mouth into a grin that revealed rows of sharp pointed teeth. There was a dangerous gleam in his eye as he spoke of the end times.

"The ballad of Decurion the Ifrit and Vespertini the Gorgon, said to be the greatest tragic love story in the Universe," supplied the Plotbunny. A light flashed on his bracers, accompanied by a low, regular droning noise. He glanced down at it, tapped a few buttons on the control panel, then whacked it against the rock.

"Trust me, that tale's greatly exaggerated," the Muse informed him, "The last time I went back to my realm, I saw those two alive and well at the market place, still the same three thousand year old, crotchety bastards, smacking Phoenixes with their canes for perching on a bench they want to sit on, won't pay full price for anything, insist on paying in souls, still with their wits about them enough to find something to criticise on all the stalls."

"Recording an event isn't always about the raw truth, Surt. It's about telling everything, from everyone's perspective, including people who only know some of the facts," said the Plotbunny, "That's why we're such a large team. It's getting a more complex task every day. People to hunt down inspiration and send it back, people to get the ideas in some semblance of logical order, people to make sure the writing is good enough quality to match..."

"That's true, although I think it might be something more to do with the size and significance of the sagas we get assigned these days," said Scribe, "Not that I'm complaining."

"Well, I'm all for telling things from everyone's point of view, I just don't like bald-faced lies. I didn't say there weren't plenty of stories about those two, mind you," the Muse interrupted, "The things they were buying from the stalls, well, you can buy almost anything from Muspelheim if you can stand the heat, but it's the plans they had for what they bought that'll make your face red. Let's just say, their fires haven't died down, and Decurion's always been fascinated by petrification, while Vespertini..."

"Surt! That's not the kind of thing we're here to write about!" the Scribe scolded him, "Why were you watching them in the first place? Why were *you* in a place like that?"

The Fire Giant turned Muse cackled and slapped his leg, causing the fiery illusions to dissipate as though he had accidentally crushed them, "Oh, this story doesn't have me in it. They can't all, I'm afraid! Although, Bunfire, I'm surprised as well that you brought up the love story. I didn't know you had a romantic side!"

"Such tales are effective as inspiration."

"Of course they are," he rolled his eyes, "Scribe, why don't you answer questions that are actually mysteries, like how the hell our Bunny friend is so good at inspiring emotions in people when he can't admit to having them himself?"

"At least I have a name," retorted Bunfire, glancing meaningfully at the Scribe called Scribe.

"Please don't let this turn personal," said Scribe, "We're here to do our jobs and tell a story. We came all the way here to the back of beyond, sooner or later the observer-observed relation will kick in even though we've been careful with our narrative impartiality, so I say we get started right now!"

"Okay then, to work," Surt rubbed his hands together, bringing up a shower of embers, "So, Scribe, what do you want to write about today?"

"Something big. Bigger than the Ragnarok. This space is huge and we need to generate a lot if we're going to rebuild after the Anticlimax."

"Bigger than the Ragnarok, you say?" Surt's eyes flared.

"I can narrow it down to twenty-five current search results," said the Plotbunny.

"No, no, don't bother. I know just the tale. It's one that's been on my mind a lot lately anyway," said Surt, "Let's talk about the day when the Ragnarok went wrong."