Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Cover Corp, Hololive, or the individual talents. This is a fanwork and is non-canon.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed therein are either coincidence, products of imagination, sprouted inspirations, or otherwise used fictitiously.
AN: This sat idle for year and it is far past time for it to be posted. While many a Vtuber support creativity in one form or several, few have aligned so closely with writing. Here's to The Archiver and happy reading.
Shiori was initially curious about the odd book on the very bottom shelf, but it began to capture more and more of her attention as she examined it. Unusually tall and thin, yet this belied a sheer density of text and images readily apparent through a casual perusing through its pages. The leather cover was long faded with a pliable, crumbly texture. There was little left of any lettering or inlays beyond voids where material must have once filled. Voids that inexplicably called to her with impressions of swords and sorcery; of mages and manticores, of towers and tieflings. Of greater interest and mild concern were the deep imprints of fingers wrapped around the spine and the little, biting crescents brought into sharp relief.
Bottom shelf. Leather bound. Well worn. A book seemingly well-perused and aged, yet stowed far beneath eye level. Perhaps it was meant to be keep secret and safe while still being openly accessible; to the unclear benefit of whom. Dangerous then, but little different from many other books in the deep reaches of The Archive and ill meant for the unprepared in mind, body, and spirit.
However, she'd yet to encounter something exactly like this since becoming The Archiver. The slender volume bore an indelible weight, as if there was not merely one story contained within, but an infinite kaleidoscope of possibilities.
She had no doubts about Archiving it regardless. Books were made for reading and not sitting idly on a shelf. Risk was ever present and the path of The Archiver was fraught with perils aplenty. A few brushes with forbidden and deadly knowledge were only a day's work. Novelty above banality; striving deeply above dabbling shallowly.
Shiori cradled the book, rested her fingers into existing grooves and dug in her fingertips for good measure. That the fit was not quite there, was a consideration for much, much later.
She opened the cover now with the full intent of Archiving and it suddenly became akin to prying the stone lid off an undisturbed sarcophagus. Shiori could not recall the last instance of a book that seemed to resist Archiving and with such great fervor that it only filled her with greater determination at seeing the process through. She braced, grit her teeth, and wretched the book open with force that would normally ruin most hardbacks.
Archiving was in progress and the world around was obliterated in colorless flame.
Rather than entering a scene already in motion, Shiori was instead stood in the vastness of muddled space. She had a moment before knowledge bludgeoned her mind in an unrelenting torrent. Neither hostile nor eldritch, it nevertheless carved lancing winces through sheer quantity alone and she had but to endure until it ceased.
Never before had she seen a world laid so completely bare into base numerics and with expansive tables accounting for every detail from the specific severity of critical injury dependent on origin to the exact frequency of wilder life across regions. It was a staggering amount of plain exposition with morsels of flavor as the domains of religion, lineage, politics, history, settlements, economics, and travel were individually elaborated in sweeping blocks of information. This was the dredging of the entire iceberg in one fell swoop as opposed to exposure of the barest tip.
Many unfamiliar terms passed her by as she had no prior references for them at all and the contexts were similarly bewildering. Most of all were the consistent references to a 'Game Master' or 'GM' as the final and only arbitrator in all aspects of setting, story, and world functions. They seemed to be the principal deity supreme, yet the numerous texts imposed upon her mentioned little or none about any form of worship or explicit reference to the 'GM' as a participant in world affairs.
The flooding knowledge dried to a feeble trickle and Shiori barely glimpsed a semblance of something before something else made itself known in the quiet. She could only identify it as a vague imposition, though perhaps it could be more accurately observed as a geas. In any case, it was an insistent compulsion to 'create her character' before anything else could proceed.
Now, there was most certainly a delicious novelty to that. Up until this Archive, she had only inhabited the barest skin and role of whichever protagonist was long writ within. Given the chance, she would fully embrace the opportunity and declared to play Shiori Novella and no other.
Curiously, the insistence moved on from choosing a character to choosing a 'class'. Still bound to a container then; not entirely unfamiliar. Despite the vast array of choices before her, 'The Archiver' by exact name or function was disappointingly absent. While she was tempted by the glut of arcane options seething in the periphery, they were too great of an uncertainty to wield in already foreign territory. Therefore, she would have to hold to the larger of her steadfast companions in the highest esteem practical. There existed a far specialization in 'Weapon Master' that most tickled her fancy: 'Grand Arete' as the highest focus and absolute pinnacle of one weapon. It presented a wondrous opportunity in which her greatsword could freely accompany in an Archive.
As beloved as her scissors and pen, the exact form of her greatsword scribed differently depending on what it was to shape. While she could not name the reason, the exact nature of this Archive had encroached deep into unsettling. So, her greatsword realized as Anathema: a sword for monsters, magics, and men which carved the conflict's climax in the very space of its unsheathing and swing. Anathema inked itself into the shape of an executioner's sword, towering in appearance while remaining deceptively nimble in her hands. Functional first and foremost, the point edged in a broad crescent. The pommel, hilt, and guard lacked ornate finery. Unadorned overall, save for starburst splatters of darkened silver dappled on the steel canvas of a double-edged blade. However perilous this Archive could become, mighty was she who wielded pen and sword in tandem.
The compulsion diverted toward her character attributes and Shiori simply chose what seemed most honest. Strength, adequate; she was only wielding a greatsword as opposed to drawing back a warbow. Dexterity, excellent; it had to be when she was manipulating fine stationery and eating with scissors on a daily basis. Agility, good; many an injury had been mitigated through swift movement and excessive pacing over the long term had done gradual wonders for her locomotion. Constitution, adequate; she was not too frail but ailments could be persistent if they set in. Intelligence, good; knowledge is knowledge, even if much of it was scattershot, incomprehensible, or inapplicable to more common circumstances. Wisdom, excellent; intuition and instinct enough to stand in the general vicinity of the greatest detective. Charisma, excellent; it did not escape notice that words alone were often enough to compel others to respond and managing her domain of Inkwell did much this regard.
Shiori spent little time when prompted for secondary skills and assigned them with barely a glance or thought. People in general knew a tiny bit of everything at least and she knew more in breadth and depth than most.
As she contemplated what form the next step would take, a sudden series of clattering interrupted any further proceedings. She paused and listened.
A resinous clang, a metallic clack, a hollow click, a stony clink, and the sound multitude of other materials bounding off unseen surface echoed throughout the empty space. Too directionless to pinpoint a source and too chaotic to identify an exact cause, yet there existed a consistent, tumbling pattern regardless. The scattered avalanche of objects sounded small to be certain and every collision seemingly ended on a face. Then, everything rolled figuratively, and literally she speculated, to a stop.
The lull silence lurked on oppressive and Shiori took the moment to access her permissions as The Archiver at to reference her current progress in the Archive. She couldn't. This concerned her. She was yet aware of being The Archiver. She knew where her permissions laid. Her capabilities were still present. It was far too early to be lost and she remained lucid to the boundary of reality and fiction. However, there now seemed to be an imaginary distance between herself and her true role. Regardless of her awareness, the more she tried to reach across the emergent abyss, the more yawning between became.
As sure as a gold nib etching into parchment fibers and as indelible as the ink binding into newly scratched channels, Shiori came to a fascinating, inescapable deduction as the form, shape, and color of the Archive finally realized around her.
She was not the sole power in this Archive and in fact, was no power at all.
In the middle of a fine, dining hall, Grand Arete Shiori Novella stands by herself and seemingly beside herself at the very entrance. She looked over her surroundings, a pensive look in golden eyes before abruptly turning on her heel and attempted to open the door as if to leave. She failed.
With more confusion than frustration, Shiori continued to make repeated attempts and was unable to grasp the ornate knob. On every occasional fumbling, she sometimes paused, tilted her head as if hearing something only she could, before going back to forcing the door. The final try has her crashing into the door with her full, insignificant body weight. It remained unmovable and Shiori is left as if she had simply rested against it.
"What the frick," she said and is resigned to facing the room once more. Between long tables blanketed with wealth, food, and drink, richly dressed individuals stood among one another. Shiori may have caused much commotion in trying to open the door, but no one else seemed perturbed by her personal ordeal. She looked carefully over the room. The bewildered expression on her face suggested that, despite taking little notice before, she is uncertain if anything has changed at all. Apparently deciding that standing idly would accomplish little, she stepped forward toward the nearest grouping of well-dressed individuals.
She stepped between them, hands open in peace, and said, "Hey! So, great party huh? Who's it for?" The two nearest individuals turn toward her. One comments that her presence at the banquet has ruined the entirety of the festivities and the moment that one is finished, the other asks Shiori to take swift leave and relieve them of her uncouth, unrefined, unsociable personage. Shiori looked between them as if unable to decide who to respond first. She declared, "Well, that was unnecessarily rude."
The man, now that it becomes clear one of them was, replies that it was a rather restrained response and could have been worse on account of her mixed and clearly ill-breeding judging by her two-toned hair and sullen appearance. The other, a woman, chooses to remain silent, having said all that needed to be said.
A brief pause in proceedings as Shiori contemplated an appropriate reaction. She raised her hand and motioned to slap the wine glass out of the man's hand. Though moments before impact, she suddenly turned to look over her shoulder as if distracted by else.
When she turned back, her expression skewed into one of bafflement. She looked to the ground as if expecting something to have fallen there. She looked at the face of the man, whose expression had not changed beyond a comment that she had only added barbarism to her list of deficient qualities. The hand holding the wine is folded around his wrist with the wine glass itself held firmly upside down. Shiori continued looking between the floor, glass, and hand before poking at the man's wrist. The man scoffs at her incomprehensible lack of decorum. "Oh good gods..." Shiori said with some measure of perturbation but it is unclear to which patron deity she referred.
Seemingly having gathered enough of this interaction, Shiori weaved through the unmoving masses toward the banquet tables. Her delicate hand reached down to rest on a golden apple. She plucked it from the elaborate bowl of fruit before whipping her head toward the ceiling as if spotting something out of the corner of her eye or perhaps hearing something unusual. Despite this repeated behavior, nothing has changed about her surroundings. The consequence of her distraction is clear as the apple in her hand is now crumpled into a fibrous mess. Clearly with more curiosity than concern, she nonetheless brought the broken fruit up and bit into it. She wore a difficult expression while attempting to work it down her throat. Despite all the fruit being the finest in the realms and of the highest quality, something about the flavor or texture of the apple clearly did not agree with her. Shiori studied the apple, her fingers played along the frayed edges of the bite and grasping into the flimsy hollow before rudely placing it back on the table.
Perhaps in a desire to cleanse her exacting palate, Shiori picked up a glass of red wine from the table. She studied it carefully as she swirled it with unnecessary vigor and was unable to spill so much as a drop. She raised and upended the entire glass to drink as much as possible in one motion, yet put the glass back on the table without inebriating anything. She pierced a finger through the surface of the liquid, rubbed her index finger and thumb together as if to confirm its dryness, and gave a pointed stare to the sunken divot before pursing her lips. "Curiouser and curiouser," she muttered to herself.
There is no rush to do anything. The party goes on and the people remain. Shiori makes observation again with greater care than she had before. She paid special attention to all corners of the ceiling with the occasional flicker of her eyes and swivel of her head to something only she can perceive, or thought she did. It is only when she glanced toward the far end of the hall that disbelief crossed her face and her palm laid over as if expressing incredulity on how she ever missed the sight.
On the far end and separated from all the festivities, sat a dark figure on his dark throne. He was impeccably dressed in a fine suit upon which was decorated blackened armor as well as protruding spikes at his extremities. An imposing, tall and horned helm concealed most of his features save for two glowing red eyes that pierced through the darkness of the eye slits. He sat motionless and stared straight across into the banquet hall at no one and nothing in particular.
"That's the bad guy. A very obvious, fantasy bad guy," Shiori said as she walked toward the dark throne. "He dies and we'll see where this goes," she said and looked around to gauge reactions, but strode along as she found none. It is only when she cleared the banquet hall and was into the empty span across to the dark figure, that she unclasped her greatsword from her back.
At her approach, The Dark rose from his throne, rapier in hand where there was none before. Unlike Shiori's steady advance, he hurries forth with agency enough that his metal sabatons thumped softly with every footfall.
Shiori did not alter her path, apparently content to take the more leisurely engagement as far as initiative is concerned. "Easier than dealing with a giant mace, I guess," she said. At the last moment, she raised her weapon into his charge and braced herself.
The Dark rushed forward without care as the greatsword pierces through him and his suit for an instance before it slides over entirety without harm.
Shiori was surprised. "Hang on, that definitely hit!" she said, though her body was already in motion for a followup strike. The movements were exceedingly awkward for a Grand Arete, as if she was attempting motions never trained by that class. She whirled to put her greatsword into the path of the incoming attack. The rapier is guided along half-length of the bigger sword and thrown harmlessly to the side.
Or so it seemed as the rapier slips effortlessly past the entire length of her weapon and strikes her in the shoulder. She was again surprised, apparently very surprised. Shiori moved to restrain the rapier in her shoulder, in confidence of her padded gauntlets, but The Dark withdraws his weapon beyond her grasp. She swung her greatsword in a wide arc to clear the immediate space and he leaps back to avoid being hit.
She eyed the rapier closely, as if appraising it for any particular qualities or irregularities. Anger blazed in golden eyes as she yelled, "That's the farthest thing from Gáe Bolg or Gungnir! Something is rotten in this state of Denmark and you're going to expose what that is!"
Shiori danced forward using her body weight to unleash her greatsword in closed sweeps that did little to invite retaliation. Wisely, she has given her movements to her weapon as any Grand Arete should.
The Dark steadfastly thrusts his rapier at every pass with an occasional cut for measure even as he continues to successfully dodge most of the attacks. It is almost as if Shiori intended to wear him down, waiting for a mistake that she could truly strike on. Neither side make significant progress in damaging the other for several rounds.
Shiori's offensive changed as she crescented her greatsword overhead to drive him back further. Something The Dark obliges by again leaping far back out of melee range. Then, she unexpectedly turned around, exposing her unguarded back to him. Whether this is an unorthodox tactic to goad her opponent closer or a foolish disregard for her personal safety, it nevertheless provides an uncontested opportunity for The Dark to take advantage of.
Landing from his backwards leap, The Dark crouches deeply in preparation to launch forward into a fearsome thrust which would decisively end this encounter.
Shiori paid no attention as she stared intently upward, looking very directly with a fierce focus. "The game is finally afoot," she whispered and flipped her executioner's sword into the air before declaring, "Anathema! The tide is turned. The narrative is mine. The author is dead!"
Anathema began bleeding a sacred darkness as the silver starbursts across its length shimmered in vitreous luster. Blade over hilt, Shiori caught it firmly in both hands and reared it backward, far too early to even attack The Dark with, and heaved it with all her might at a non-existent target.
Long before Anathema left her grasp, it had already began to rend. The gentle maelstrom of starry night tore gaps through and out of spaces between as it rippled through the air.
As Shiori was completely focused on her foolishly thrown weapon, she is unable to defend herself from speeding death in the forms of the Dark and his ever closer rapier. With her back completely vulnerable, The Dark stops just short and twists his body to more powerfully throw all of his being forward with as much regard to his defense as Shiori to hers.
The Dark remains unimpeded to the very last moment as she seemed very deliberate in not making further motions of opposition. The rapier will strike true and strike critically. It pierces through the first layer of her lacking armor and-
Stepping through the newly made gap, Shiori ignored the table with intricate mechanisms and displays in favor to where Anathema laid on the floor. Beyond her weapon, there collapsed something in the rough shape of a human, garbed and hooded in a thick cloak. It splayed out limply with its back to the wall. One of its arms was broken thinly, though she saw no blood or flesh in the dim glow of the room. Shiori couldn't perceive beneath the darkness of its hood, but did observe its uninjured hand reaching out for a small object among many others on the floor.
It was a die with twenty faces that shifted constantly in material body as well as the engraved numbers. It unmistakably laid upwards on '20'. All the sounds she heard throughout this Archive, was someone else rolling dice; for her. This had to be the fabled GM and they were still trying to assume control.
Shiori rammed the GM harder into the wall in a cacophony of dry rustling in the dead air. She swiftly reached into a skirt pocket to unleash her smaller companion and plunged the scissors beneath what must have passed for a sternum. She met no resistance. There was even less as she began snipping upward through papery flesh to where a heart should be and out through the semblance of a throat. She stood back to examine her work and the GM laid like a pile of desiccated scrolls.
Now that the deed was done, she finally attended to the table. It was of beautiful make and of an unknown wood. The surface sunk inward impossibly to reveal the set-piece of a banquet party in miniature. She loomed over the papercraft assortment of model furniture and figures all set on a subtle grid. She spied the man with a broken hand, the wine glass a one piece part of him all along. There was a tiny apple balled up and a tinier wine glass with a needlepoint hole through the center. The Dark was even less impressive on second look. Possessing of some diecast parts, the miniature remained outstretched toward a target now absent.
There was a single page by the table and it carefully outlined all of her characteristics from physical description to class choice to personal inventory. She understood. The GM was the principle power in this small world and she was a player on its stage. But given she was the only participant, the GM could be nothing more than a paper god, yet still posed trouble enough to interfere with the course of Archiving. Though to be doubly sure, she picked up Anathema and stuck the GM through as firmly and decisively as one would stake Dracula in his coffin.
Having exposed and elucidated the core of this Archive, her work here was done. There was no longer more narrative to experience beyond what she made for herself. Shiori reached out for her permissions as The Archiver and found there was no longer a block in place. As she could leave whenever she pleased, there remained only one thing left to do.
The die left alone on the floor was still continuously shifting in form and numeric style. She picked up the d20 and rolled it around in her fingers. The most concrete existence in the room besides herself, it was a relic by itself and a holder of power. In her grasp, it began to settle. The shifts quieted until they rested decisively on a dark, glassy substance in which ethereal black ink continually wisped beneath, in, and just above the surface. All twenty faces bore finely etched, bronze-gold numbers in calligraphic flair. They flickered steadily in their own internal light, like a steadfast lantern piercing the gloom to safeguard passage or a seductive lure beckoning toward an unobserved demise.
Satisfied, she slipped the d20 into a skirt pocket. Taking one last survey around the dim room and the impaled figure of the GM, she closed the book on this Archive and it all dispersed like mist before the dawning sun.
Shiori considered the volume in hand carefully. It was an intriguing Archive, not conventionally dangerous enough to pose a true threat, but unorthodox enough to snare the unwary. It was a text that could not be Archived alone. Any venture would require at least two to play, lest the paper god within unfettered without direction or purpose. She placed it exactly back to where another may discover it once more.
Few things were certain about being The Archiver and the speeding dark of the unknown would always outpace the illumination of knowledge. She fished out the d20 and thumbed over each face; a rare, stable memento of her recent experience. Regardless of a second encounter with an Archive of similar nature or journeying a turbid future yet writ, she would be rolling her own dice.