THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES  

The shift is crazy

at first he joked but then he serioused

The tone shifts in this podcast are phenomenally done

Seriously. Like, it’s so basic

yes this

Totally agree

The pure/virgin is the one who usually survives. Right? Hehe

John makes sure he does.

Wlel they do say the virgin typically outlives them all

Well I mean obviously

Imagine if Martin heard that. Just the offended look on his face, even after everything that happened.

Melanie mentions in a previous episode that john takes his coffee black. Not that it's an important detail but it is mentioned at least once

@@olympus10001 i took that to be an embellishment made up on the spot to try and play off her attempt at poisoning elias as super casual. jon mentions not being a coffee drinker in the fatigue episode, and tries to decline a cup offered by basira during a beholding hangover. definitely not super important to the story, but i enjoy little character details about likes and dislikes, and it makes moments like the one in this episode funnier.

I'm honestly just imagining them almost constantly holding hands, it's among the things that keeps me listening XD

@@emppu1012 oh yeah definitely, it'd be dangerous to get separated around there

Such a normal thing to say for a lad with a not-quite-human boyfriend constantly haunted by eldritch horrors

I imagined Martin using a water sprinkler on him like on a grumpy cat lmao

The Trenches?? Nah, this is The Phobic Ireland episode 💀

😂😂😂

We love to see it >:)

I was so proud of Martin

@@treensshafeealcorn3512 same i was just like HECK YEAH BOI _ESTABLISH THOSE BOUNDARIES_

At least they settinghealthy boundaries in this apocalypse

Same! I was outside and then gunshots and "SHITSHITSHITSHEETSHEETSHIT!!"

Don't forget the bagpipe music

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit- ... Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit‐

Bagpipes bagpiping lol

Truly a shitpost in auditory form. Granted, it has a lot more dread than a shitpost... But a wonderful jumpcut nonetheless!!! (P.S. I totally imagine a skeleton in a kilt chasing them down with a set of pipes and determination in his eyes)

Just like, "How much worse can it get?" from a while back.

@@crowbird0540 this is a hilarious image, I might draw this sometime lmao

Ikr and after it calmed down a little I immediately informed my dad that there's bagpipe music in this episode (he also listens to TMA) because he absolutely loves bagpipe music haha

Of course it would.

There has more to happen than merely an apocalypse to make that disappear

Bagpipe is bagpipe just like how meat is meat

I love how it was originally described as not a bagpipe and now it's like " fuck it it's a bagpipe"

Bagpipes are the Slaughter's favourite instrument after all

I’m stealing the phrase “cutely ominous” for my own personal use

Oh my god thank you for pointing that out lmao

*He heard Jon's remark about his tea.*

​@@crowbird0540_Martin will remember that_

@@cupcaketv5673 this would've been a phenomenal telltale game if it ever were

@@phosismyb1tch717 Fr

There's something about the WAY Jon says it. Like even though it's such a dire situation there's just that cute couple energy to it--soft, warm, loving, playful, knowing the other person so well and teasing them affectionately. I love it so

Joe Spooky still has a special place in my heart. Also almost everything Simon says purely because of the way he talks

In their diluted forms, this is pure terror

That’s what makes it the apocalypse

What is it with you people and bagpipes

Appreciate you for your service, man

I wish you the best with prayers, although they may not do much. Sympathy is the most I can offer you.

My father is a retired Marine, thank you for your service

oh??? there's an idea....

@@f_mva sadly later episodes kinda refute it ;-; but, hey, I had my 5 minutes of mindblowing realisation xD

fluffsnake well, the End will end it all, all people will eventually go through it

I mean, the extinction is already kind of present in the fact that the extinction represents the fear of drastic worldwide change, and thus, the ritual bringing any entity into the world would automatically involve extinction as well. So the ritual bringing every entity into existence at once would very reasonably already include the extinction.

@@atomykebonpyre I like to think that it was actually 160 that brought the Extinction about. It took a cataclysmic change to split the fear of cataclysmic change into its own life. Everything we see from here on in is Extinction flavoured.

But people can’t die in this new world, I don’t think. So I don’t think The End is having fun

@@applesmith9137 well, if anything I'd say they're a cycle of dying and re-dying, so the End is probably having fun

@@applesmith9137 And the fact that they're not-dying doesn't stop them from fearing death

@@applesmith9137 The End doesn't feed directly on death, it feeds on the fear of death, and in a world where only dream logic applies, the end of death doesn't necessarily mean the end of the fear of death.

The End: the darkness, the shadows and I have been waiting for this moment for a very, _very_ long time. Time. What a...human way of experience. Time for them is as expansive and fleeting as their own terran horizon. For us, not but a single drop into a feather-shallow puddle. Simon Fairchild: hmm, indeed. Tell me, how do you feel about black holes? The End:...neutral.

Highlights include: "Jon: I just - (heavy sigh) You’ll probably want to wait outside. Martin: (sorry, did you just lose the last remaining brain cell????) Um, no?"

Oh I didn't think of it that way, I figured he just walked away far enough and covered his ears.

SPOILERS FOR THE FINALE . . . . . . . . . . . GOD I wish this would have happened 😫...

@@monikakavaliunaite8017 same homie.... same...

Spoilers This is canon, I don't care what you say, they're all alive and happy

this is it, the best of the comments

Right…

Right?! The first time I listened to it, I had braced myself, knowing it would be brutal, but there were still several moments where I said out loud, “Oh my god!” 😨

Sounds like my grandpa's PTSD, he was a fireman back in WW2 and I had to calm him most nights assuring him he was not receiving burning planes with half dead soldiers

The bagpipes signalizes war

Coffee

Rick Grimes tea 100%

Hey, dems fightin' words, I like my caffeine like I like my fears: DARK AND FOREBOADING!

Joe Jenna Tea also has caffeine, there is no excuse to like coffee.

Tea

I have seen you comment a lot. Hello.

@@horrificreader4084 I really like it that you can discuss the episodes on RU-vid through the comments :)

@@Companion92 ME TOO ahh I feel like I know all those who came before me already XDD it's great

Most people in WW1 didn't die of war, they died of disease, malnutrition, dehydration, freezing temperatures, etc. It was filthy, miserable and with no hope of survival or even meaning to the slaughter. And yet... people gathered in Christmas to sing carols in the trenches and share a drink and some snacks with the "enemy". I think the association is intended, including the bagpipes as there were Scottish battalions playing pipes as they went into battle. And there was this mad lad who went _everywhere_ with bagpipes, kilt and sword in WW2. And survived.

@ Aw yeah, heard of the sword guy when I got into WW2 fanfiction. One of those things people use as cameo for war weirdness.

It's helen calling martin to a tea party and nobody will convince me otherwise edit: because obviously she has manners and shit, so she would call instead of appearing out of nowhere

@@JoaoPedroDoRegoBarrosLopesVera my first thought was Helen. But then maybe Annabelle. Though, after writing this out, I wonder if it was Jonah. After all, he can see everything now

He has literally become one of those prophet types who can't tell you the full story despite knowing everything.

Martin would be proud?

I _really_ like Jonny's writing 😳

@@karenlinares7541 Hm idk if the gore would appeal to him, heh... But that's the package deal with a monster boyfriend

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT) There is a wound in the earth. A bayonet gouge scored through the soft and sodden mud for uncounted miles. A trench that marks the front line of a war that has no name. It has always been raging, deep in the hearts of the powerful and those that thirst to see bodies piled high in their name. And now it has a battleground. A thousand pointless conflicts and bitter stalemates stitched together like a triaged chest wound. It is a butchered border, a thin and punctured membrane between the unending meat grinder and the terrified victims it longs for. You may find this trench reaching all across the world, and it will never stop, never be satisfied, never think of peace. Charlie stands there, waiting in a transport. Once, it was a thin metal landing craft, drifting slowly through a fetid lake. The waters were red and black by turns with blood and oil and the floating bodies of those before them, that were pushed aside by the boat’s wake. Next to him, Charlie saw Ryan, who he’d known since childhood, though the other details were hazy. Ryan gave him a thumbs up and an encouraging smile- before his face exploded inwards to a sniper’s bullet, peppering the boat with shards of bone and gore. Charlie swallowed, and waited as the bullets kept coming and those around him died but did not fall, propped up as they were by the pressing mass of people around them. He could not move, and as he waited for the shot that would take him, his legs fell away in fear. Now he is in a helicopter, strapped in tight and unable to move. The man in the gunner’s chair is dead, bound limp in his seat harness, half his jaw gone. The thump-thump-thump of the rotors pulses through Charlie like a toothache, and he cannot hear the shouts and cries of his comrades. He looks out of the side as a telltale line of smoke arcs up and around towards them from the scorched earth far below. He cannot hear his own scream. He lies upon the ground, amid the twisted wreckage of whatever he was trapped in, feeling the jagged shards of broken bone dig into him. Charlie looks up, and sees something floating there, silently. It is sleek, and merciless, its featureless carbon-fiber face regarding the shattered man dispassionately. The drone’s camera blinks once, twice as he tries desperately to crawl away, pain lancing through every part of him. The thing makes no sound as it follows him, matching the excruciating pace of the bleeding soldier. Charlie knows when it decides to fire, he won’t even hear it. He places his hand down and it sinks, suddenly, into the mud. He cries out as the rusted barbed wire curls itself eagerly around his wrist, digging into his skin. Tasting fear, more wire slithers through the churned earth towards him, stretching and gripping him tight, rough needles puncturing his legs and chest and throat, pulling him down and holding him steady as the drone lingers, its blankness giving no hint of the thoughts behind its trigger. There is a rumbling in the earth around him as a tank speeds along its unstoppable path, and Charlie is immediately pulled under its tread. He has a moment of shocked horror before being reduced to a smear in the mud. Inside the tank, Ishaan screams. Ishaan remembers the recruiters. He was promised valor, and camaraderie, and the chance to be part of something meaningful. He knew that part had been a lie, but then- so was the choice. His alternative was stagnant poverty, and that was really no choice at all. The money would help his family, and he could spend some years in hell, if he needed to. For them. But he didn’t know about this war, that had always been raging and would never stop. How could he have known what the trench would be? They had taken him, dragged him from the flooded foxhole where he had sheltered for a moment’s brief respite, and taken him to the tanks, those monstrous beasts of iron that rolled forever forward, guns firing and treads leaving the earth scarred in their wake. They pass above the trench again and again and they never turn around, pushing onward, ever onwards, the bones that stick in their gears not slowing them for a moment. Ishaan had been afraid. Terrified that they were going to strap him to it, pin him to the Goliath’s hull like all the other flayed flags of war, striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. But instead they fed him to it, tossed him into its burning innards and sealed the hatch behind him. Now, his body has contorted itself to fit, his fingers clutched around the firing lever; pulling it frantically is the only thing that will reduce the impossible heat even for a moment. From the tiny slit in the metal, he can see other soldiers: baby-faced friends and the monstrous, pig-faced enemy, both falling underneath his iron coffin’s advance. He tries to cry, but his tears turn to steam. He waits, craving and dreading the final kiss of the bombs, the terrible thundering guns so far away that none have ever seen them, raining their arbitrary ruin upon the endless fields of the dead and dying. They are perhaps the only things that can fell the tanks, splitting them like rotten fruit beneath the force of their rounds. Ishaan begs, pleading with whatever god of hatred and pain he hears piping gently on the breeze to let the bombs rain down on him. To release him from his imprisonment in a single flash of destruction. But when his prayer is answered, the white-hot agony of melted and crumpled metal is like nothing he could dream of. When Hasana takes him into triage, she can barely bring herself to look at him. She wheels his stretcher to its place in the stinking, vaulted tent that serves as a field-hospital, walking through a sea of bandages and around the piles of festering gauze. She leaves the shuddering man and approaches a nearby doctor, its long form crouched over the open chest of a patient, its many hands a frenzy of scalpel, bonesaw, and needle as it giggles beneath its surgeon’s mask. She wants to ask about the wounded, about what to do, where to put the new ones, how to help them, but even if her voice was not drowned out by the thousand-strong chorus of moaned and pained yelling that fills the tent, the doctor doesn’t seem to notice her. Hasana’s eyes fall on the entrance to the tent, and she sees the line of civilians, stretching away into the distance. They are no less maimed, their agonies no more bearable, but there is simply no room. She tries to apologize, but instead she closes the tent. As she does so, she sees the trench behind her, and, not for the first time, Hasana considers trying to run. But there is no mercy for deserters here. On one side of the trench the hungry guns of the vile enemy wait. And on the other, the just guns of heroes will cut you down no slower, save perhaps a breath to call you coward. So she waits there, in the middle, with the weeping, wounded, and the soon to be dead. Waiting for the enemy to overrun them. Sometimes, in the distance, Hasana sees them. The enemy, their skin rough, dark, and scaly; their faces twisted around cruel tusks, viciously sharpened teeth, and a pair of beady red eyes. Their lips are smeared crimson with the blood of children, and their greatest delight is to pluck the eyes of the innocent with their bayonets. To call them monsters is the simple truth. They feel no pain, no remorse, and seek nothing but carnage. Sometimes, in the distance, Hasana can even see an enemy triage tent, almost identical in appearance to her own. She can only imagine the atrocities that must take place inside. Far in the distance, she sees Alexei look out over the battlefield, and her stomach turns at the detestable wrongness of his face. Alexei in turn looks out from deep in the trench. He catches sight of the enemy, their shriveled rat-like heads causing the bile to rise in his throats. He is bored. The boredom is the worst part, the part that erodes his will and drops him to despair. There is nothing to do, nowhere to be. The only thing to occupy his mind is the inevitability of the next attack, the next order to charge, the next dropping bomb. There is no way to know when and where these things will come. But no one will talk of anything else. His stomach growls, the hunger pushing its sharp fingers out from his belly. There are no more rations, and what there is tastes of cordite and sand, and coats his tongue in an oily film that makes him gag. He has heard the enemy will eat your body if they find it in the mud. They won’t even check if you’re dead first. Alexei shudders at the thought. From far down the trench, a cry of panic cuts through the silence. A faint haze can be seen in the distance, moving with the breeze. A new weapon? Alexei feels his knees start to buckle as he sees his comrades stagger out of the cloud. Their melting teeth flow down their faces like tears, and their limbs begin to fold and collapse as the bones within them liquefy. He turns and starts to flee down the trench. There is no cruelty so foul the enemy will not perpetrate it. He runs almost headfirst into a portly man in a tailored suit with a blood-red flower on his lapel. He smiles, pale skin splitting beneath his bristling white mustache, and he begins to shake Alexei by the hand. “Good lad,” he says. “Good lad. Heroes one and all. A noble sacrifice.” Alexei starts to speak, to say he doesn’t want to be a hero; he doesn’t want to be a sacrifice; he wants to go home. But the man with the flower reaches his hand into the soldier’s chest, and with a single, jolly motion, plucks out Alexei’s heart and places it in his wallet.

Next to his bleeding corpse, Charlie wakes from what passes for sleep in this place. A sergeant is yelling at him, screaming for him to take his gun and get into the waiting transport. There’s about to be another attack, and heavy losses are expected. A familiar fear courses through him, but Charlie still picks up his gun, and goes back to the war. [THE ARCHIVIST SIGHS HEAVILY.] ARCHIVIST I, um. [HE SIGHS HEAVILY, MUTTERS SOMETHING GARBLED.] ARCHIVIST End recording. [HE CLEARS HIS THROAT. FROM SOMEWHERE NEAR HIM, MARTIN HMS.] MARTIN All done? ARCHIVIST Yes. [WHEN HE SPEAKS, HIS VOICE IS STILL A BIT SHAKY.] MARTIN Good. [TAPE CLICKS OFF.] [EXT. SCOTLAND, SOMEWHERE FARTHER OUT FROM KINLOSS] [TAPE CLICKS ON.] [THE BAGPIPES ARE STILL PLAYING, THOUGH THEY SOUND MUCH FURTHER IN THE DISTANCE.] [THE ARCHIVIST AND MARTIN ARE TRYING TO MAKE THEIR WAY THROUGH WHAT SOUNDS LIKE WATER.] ARCHIVIST (calling) Try to keep up! MARTIN (long-suffering) Yeah, yeah. [HE PFFTS OUT AN EXHALE, KEEPS MAKING HIS WAY FORWARD UNTIL-] [HE NOTICES THE TAPE RECORDER.] MARTIN (CONT’D) Oh! Oh, hey- John! Did you- (stops himself) No. No, he was carrying his. [HE INHALES HEAVILY.] MARTIN (CONT’D) Alright! (exhale) (to the recorder) What’re you doing here? It’s dangerous. Could- get yourself blown up, like all these poor.. [HE TRAILS OFF. IT SOUNDS LIKE HE’S PICKED UP THE RECORDER BY NOW.] MARTIN (CONT’D) Who d’you think they were? Really don’t see why we couldn’t just- go ‘round, picked a better place to- [HE STOMPS A BIT HEAVIER IN THE “WATER.”] MARTIN (CONT’D) I guess there- aren’t really any better places anymore, are there? It’s all this, or worse, or- or different. [MORE SPLASHY-STOMPING SOUNDS.] MARTIN (CONT’D) You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here. [AND EXACTLY AT THAT MOMENT, A PHONE RINGS. IT’S NOT THE TINNY, ELECTRONIC SOUND OF A CELLPHONE- NO, THIS IS A TRUE, HEAVY, CLASSIC RING.] MARTIN (CONT’D) Uh. (beat) (calling) John? Uh, J, John- the, uh, payphone that’s- here, for some reason- it’s ringing? [THE ARCHIVIST DOESN’T RESPOND. THE PHONE KEEPS RINGING.] MARTIN (CONT’D) John? Is, Is that- (to the world at large) I-Is anyone gonna get that?! [NO ONE DOES. THE PHONE KEEPS RINGING. MARTIN TAKES A STEP IN THE WATER.] MARTIN (CONT’D) Unless it’s for me? [RING.] [MARTIN SIGHS, ONE THAT SAYS ‘OF COURSE.’] MARTIN (CONT’D) (resigned) Yeah, it’s for me. (beat of indecision) Uh-.. no. (to the phone) N, no; I don’t think so, actually! Erm, thanks, but that- that sounds like- a really- terrible idea. Hm, sorry! [WE HEAR HIM IN THE WATER. THE PHONE STOPS RINGING.] MARTIN (CONT’D) Huh. (pause) ..Weeell, alright then! [THE ARCHIVIST STOMPS OVER THROUGH THE WATER TOWARDS HIM.] ARCHIVIST Martin, you need to keep up. It’s not safe. (beat) (MORE) Martin? You okay? MARTIN Uh, I- Th-th-there was a phone. That phone. ARCHIVIST (quiet surprise) Wh- Oh. MARTIN (overlapping) It- Yeah, it was ringing? ARCHIVIST (even more surprise) Oh. ..Right. Did you answer it? MARTIN No. ARCHIVIST Hm. (beat) Probably for the best. MARTIN ..Yeah. [A BRIEF BEAT, IN WHICH THE ARCHIVIST TAKES A BREATH.] ARCHIVIST Let’s keep going. MARTIN Mm. [THEY SLOSH ON.] [TAPE CLICKS OFF.]

@@Cthulhuer thank you ฅ•ω•ฅ

@@Cthulhuer thank youuu

@@Cthulhuer TYSM!! ;w;

Jon and Martin watching Lord of the Rings Sauron on screen and Martin nudges Jon and says "That's you" OR one of the other characters nudges Martin and says "oh look it's your boyfriend"

@@missep1830 Nah, fam, that's Elias. 🥰

This is the last one

@@mimkyodar :(

*Alex voice* Hi James

@@loading7496 kinda sus not gonna lie

@@jamesmortimer4016 you caught me

The slaughter finds music where none needs to exist.

OH MYGOD

No. First time listener, but the Archivist is a conduit. The entities flow through him. Because everything is on the same side now, he is glutted. This is fear overflow. Word vomit.