Chapter Text
IF YOU ARE ALSO INTERESTED, HERE IS THE "SOUNDTRACK" FOR THIS EPISODE!
Avalanche Warriors Soundtrack Thing
If you have time, please take a listen! I've worked on this one for almost a year!
Anyways enough self promotion, time to go to the story!
. . . .
Nighttime. Gravity Falls, Oregon. Probably around midnight, or something like that. Time is ambiguous for ambiguous reasons. Give the author a break, he’s a tired little egg.
Specifically, the Mystery Shack. A wondrous hut of fabricated attractions, at least, mostly fabricated attractions. Home of Stanford Pines, infamous con man. Though most of the house remained still, with twins Dipper and Mabel fast asleep, a singular room on the ground floor of the Shack remained lit.
Stanford was closing the Shack, as he always did every night, making sure every exhibit, every attraction was safe and secure. It was his pride, his life’s work, or at least a good part of his life’s work.
Then he gazed at what he had been working at all night, a brand new attraction that made him certain that this would boost his business exponentially.
He handled each artifact and item carefully and cleaned up the area surrounding it meticulously, determined that the attraction’s first impression would be an impressive one.
After a little more work, Stan finished arranging the spotlights and refilled the smoke machine. He took a step back and admired his work.
It’s perfect.
Stan eventually turned off the lights to his exhibition and went up to bed. He set an earlier alarm than usual, because impressions matter to him a lot. He needed to capitalize on this rare opportunity.
He had trouble sleeping that night, out of a strange mixture of eagerness and anxiety. Which emotion was more prominent? Stan did not exactly know.
He knows he secured everything perfectly, but was still unsure of something.
Back in the freshly built exhibit, in the middle, sat a rather primitive looking scepter. Bones formed the shaft, tied together by some sort of lacing or small rope, presumably out of some form of aged leather.
Towards the end of the spear, the bone base was sharpened to a crisp point. Attached to the head of the spear were two glossy black blades, cut crudely in jagged angles, like obsidian. Though the blades looked initially brittle, the age and gentle chipping of the blades indicated it was under heavy use for a long time.
At the very core of the head of the spear was a slot, containing a small fracture of some form of gem.
It appeared that the small crystal served no other purpose than aesthetic choices, though it would be hard to imagine stylistic choices on such an old weapon.
In the darkness of the exhibit’s room, that small little fractured crystal hummed a dull green glow, fading as fast as it had started, returning to dormancy.