Reviews for Narodnaya
Guest chapter 14 . 8/30/2013
When coraline said "we've got an army",
I kinda expected wybie to say, "we've got a hulk"
Guest chapter 16 . 8/30/2013
Holy shxt!
Did not see that coming!
anonymous chapter 18 . 5/30/2013
Great story! A bit sad, but still epic.

P.S. I did some research. And found out that, with 61 740 words, it's the largest Coraline fanfic.
hayseed42 chapter 18 . 12/9/2012
Thanks for such a compelling, well-written, and engaging series! This has become one of my favorite stories.
Aryck-The-One chapter 18 . 8/23/2012
. . .

Wow. Just... wow.

Bravo. This is one incredible series you have created, to be it lightly. I have difficulty finding adequate words to describe it... so I'll just say this is one of the most unbelievably epic fan-fiction series I have ever read. Though I don't those words do it enough justice I'll try another time, perhaps.

To be perfectly honest, I think you took Coraline well beyond the bounds of what I would consider "fan-fiction" with this series, coming extremely close to what I would consider original work had you not used copyrighted characters. Still, this is a pretty amazing piece of work (understatement, much), although the ending is rather tragic... with Coraline's soul torn into thousands of pieces and Wybie venturing out into the psychephage's realm on a journey to reclaim the fragments... epic, beautiful, but so very sad...

I don't suppose you'd be willing to do one last story for The Station Sequence, would you? A one-shot like Promenade, to show us the end of Wybie's journey? A happy ending to this epic series? Please, I'm begging you, just one more... I'll let you sew buttons into my eyes. O_O

Regardless, I assure you this will always hold a special place in my favorites list. Bravo, Marquis. Bravo.
Sonosublime chapter 18 . 6/15/2012
wow, I'm kind of depressed after reading this now. Poor Coraline. However, you've left the ending open, and I'm going to go ahead and assume that Wybie sets her soul free :)

In all seriousness, though, you've done the Coraline universe a great service with this fantastic trilogy. Congratulations on finishing it, and good luck with your future writing.
Ybs chapter 18 . 6/5/2012
Hells bells... I just finished Station Sequence... and so get ready for a long long review on why I think it is made of Pure. Awesomeness. If you have neither the inclination nor the time to read a long review, you can just know that I can't go back to reading Coraline fics after this one. I've tried, but nothing compares and I find everything else bland or dissatisfying. That's just how good this series is. There, you can stop reading now, but if you want a longer explanation for why I think this story is just too cool, by all means, continue reading.

Ok, so reasons (not in any order) are:

version of Coraline Jones is just made of pure awesomeness. More than that though, is that she's realistic. I love that about her. You can still see that little girl in the yellow raincoat and gumboots but she grows up. I love that you haven't kept her at some glorious dream age (like 18-22) but have let her age as any normal person should. Granted, a story can't go on forever about a persons life, but rarely do I read a story that has the main character well into her mid-forties and still kicking butt like there's no tomorrow. But beneath all that hard exterior and psychephage kicking persona, she's still human after all. The scene where she asked whether *it* would hurt was simply heart-breaking. That's when it clicked for me what her plan was and I nearly cried. She's human, she has her good points and her bad points but that's precisely why I love her. But I guess what really got me about her was her willingness to sacrifice herself, her very soul. I guess that your work is just different in that it doesn’t come with the perfect happy ending. That Coraline sacrificed her very soul, knowing what it would entail on her behalf just adds to her character. I tried imagining that she somehow survived against all odds and I find that I actually like the fact that she died. It adds depth to her character in that is shows just how much she can place the happiness of others above her own happiness and that for me is the mark of an honest to goodness heroine.

thing that I find totally awesome about her is that she’s not fantastically beautiful, her voice doesn’t sound like bell chimes and that she’s come out with a few scars. A person can’t be in that type of line of work and remain unscarred. Sure probably there’s some sort of cream that can get rid of those scars, but again, the fact that she still has them again adds yet another layer of depth. She’s blind in one eye, her face isn’t wrinkle free (remember that this is after reading Narodnaya) but that doesn’t distract her. I’m sure she had a few moments for self-pity (really, no one could help that) but it doesn’t distract her and she keeps soldiering on.

2. The entire world in which you've based your story is realistic. It's in the future, so of course there will be technological advances. The colonies on Luna and Mars are evidence for this as well as the possibility of creating a ferrobomb and all those other snazzy things. Also, the Sur-real itself has laws that govern its operation; there are other psychephages as well as a form of government for them (The Court… that just sounds so cool). The fact that you came up with a name for them as a group as well as each of their species just adds to the realism.

3. Characterisation of others – Wybie is awesome. I can’t help but squee to find out they got married (so so cute!) He’s the comic relief, but at the same time he’s also got a depth to his character (perhaps not as much as Coraline, but she is the main protagonist after all) that doesn’t just simply make him that goofy guy that everyone laughs at. Maria is also very well done, I was so sad that she died! Again, another example of the realism in the story. THE AMBASSADOR! For some reason, she is just so epic to me. I love the scene where she and Coraline almost come to blows. It adds a whole new perspective for the psychephages, how they were just doing what they needed to do to survive and yet were getting killed for it. An interesting ethical / moral dilemma and nicely solved with the provision of the recipes for the synthetic soul matter.

Ok, I’ve probably bored you to tears right now, but if you’re reading this sentence, thanks for reading this review in its entirety. Thanks for the awesome ride, the cool fight scenes and for just making my day a whole lot better.

Just for laughs: when I read and get really excited, I tend to skip over words and pronounce them in my head as I think they should be pronounced. Thus I was first reading ‘psychephages’ as psycho – appendages. LOL fail right? It was only until the middle of Narodnaya that I decided to really read the word and pronounce it properly. Well the furthest I got was psycho – phages. Still read it like that in fact, can’t get my head around ‘psychephages’

P.S. will there eventually (as in *ever*) be a sequel series / story? Well, what I’m really trying to ask is… WHAT HAPPENS TO WYBIE AND CORALINE’S SOUL?
IFallLikeLeavesAndSnow chapter 18 . 5/27/2012
Thank you Marquis Carabas for this amazingly well written story, your plot was refined, elegant, and completely original. While not necessarily the ending I was expecting, I can't say it came as a surprise, it just seemed to fit. If this ending were a line, it wouldn't slope upward for a sequal, or go down as a lack luster ending. It wouldn't even be a perfectly even one the just seemed to endlessly continue. The line would gently slope down in a way that shows that it has reached an ending that fits perfectly. There might be a few questions remaining, but a reader can think their own thoughts on them and be satisfied. The story has reached it's end, and the line can now start to fade, it has finally run its course, and now the tale is over. Once again thank you for the story and I hope your next, whatever it may be, is just as amazing and well written as this one was.
TickleTheToast chapter 18 . 5/23/2012
D'''''': Now see, I would never be able to write something like that. I would rip my hair out trying to keep myself from spelling every little detail out and closing every single open-ended sentence with something concrete and most decidedly unnecessary. I tip my hat to you, you awesome, awesome person. I'm not authorized by my limited vocabulary to stamp you with much else, I'm afraid. You're writing is beautiful, I'll just have you know. It's completely well-researched, incredibly creative, wonderfully strange, fantastically well-written, rightfully confusing, amazingly deep, thoughtfully constructed, tastefully genre'd, surprisingly gripping, enormously enormous in its magnitude, and a magnanimous joy to read. Oh, I do hope Wybie finds what he's looking for. But you'll leave that to us, won't you? ;) Can't wait to see your name etched in gold on the spine of a inch-thick novel at Books A Million. Not that I'd recognize it, but I do hope something persuades me to pick it up. I certainly wouldn't regret the experience.

Stay toasted, and never, ever, EVER stop writing. :)

Woodswolf chapter 18 . 5/22/2012
The beauty of the fading twilight

Washing over the whole land,

It enchants, last dancing sunlight,

Every single upheld hand...

It will sing to dark and daylight,

It will say that all is good;

It will brighten when every delight,

It will walk among all food.

But the last time it will see one

Is the last time they will breathe

Over time the ones that serve them

Will over the age deplete

But when people no longer walk

Over the magic fields of gold

Then they forsake the gods of walking

And will fade in endless cold

The end is near

It's coming to kill us

The end is near

It's coming to destroy

The end is near

It's coming to fade us

All of us will

End without joy

The end is near

It's waiting and watching

The end is near

It's coming to play

The end is near

It's coming to laugh now

All of us will

Not wake up in day

When the end times approach,

When all are dead,

May these verses sing

Of praise to the heads

Of the three bold deaths,

Of the three good friends,

Of the three great lives,

Of the three bad ends.

The end times approach

Where are they now?


to the characters


i have but a poem for you:





will be the




because if they're the




then there's no one to


before them



what is the end like?

what is death?

i have a million questions for you.


at the same time, i have but bits and pieces

shattered hopes, shattered dreams

shattered theories, shattered desires

but most are not.

your end was a simple one, in the simplest sense

it was a death

open up another way, another portal

it was sad and miserable

create another way out

my theories were all right

look at it from the underside

all had pieces of the truth




all except one


but why am i bragging here?

why am i doing so?


it is because you had the most impact

you were the core


one of my theories went unpublished.

it is the one that was not true.

it involved a very powerful scene, involving you and another, one whose name shall go unsaid. the name, the shape is obvious to everyone.

the one that was there, however, was powerful; possibly even more so, depending on what angle you look at it from.

a man sets out on a quest to help someone hopeless, one that will surely end in his doom

a woman finds a new world and a lost friend



the end is upon you.

the end is here.

where are you now?

what are you all the same?


i believe i must end this here.

why must i?

because i wish to state one last lie, one last unproven theory.

then i will have three.

the stormcrow sequence.

the theory above.

thirty thousand words.


three is a very powerful number.

count all the threes in the world, and you have many.

three pennies for each and you have much power.


i must go, my friends.

enjoy whatever worlds await you...

...if any wait at all.

Model Builder chapter 18 . 5/22/2012
After I watched the movie "Coraline" for the first time, several thoughts came into my mind.

The first was, why couldn't this story have been written back when I was in grade school for me to read, when I REALLY needed it? (Because Neil Gaiman is almost exactly one year younger than me, that's why! Duh . . . .)

The second thought was, "It's over? There is no more? No sequel in the works? I. Want. More!

And fanfiction came to my rescue in the name of the Marquis-Carabas.

He had me hooked with "Other Gods," and most recently, "The Station Sequence," where he took Coraline, Wybie, and other characters, both those from the fertile mind of Neil Gaiman, as well as many original characters that seemed like they had been with us from the very beginning, especially Ms. Maria Ortega.

The hardest things for me about writing this review is, A. To not repeat what I have written before. And, B. To not reveal any spoilers.

So let me just say this: As long as fanfiction exists, there will always be new adventures for Coraline and Wybie to have, and for us to follow along. And as long as the writers of said stories follow the nice example of the Marquis-Carabas, I will have no fear regarding the quality of said stories.

In conclusion, if I had the opportunity to say anything at all to Coraline, it would be, "Thank you for letting me tag along with you on your wonderful adventures in fanfic land."

And to Wybie, I would say, "Good bye, and good luck . . . ."
Grey Noise chapter 18 . 5/21/2012
Bravo, sir, on finishing this epic. This story goes beyond good fanfiction and manages to be a good story in its own right, something few enough stories on this site manage to do, and maintains excitement, suspense, and atmosphere throughout, despite growing quite pretty far beyond the source material. The ending is open enough to show that this isn't the end of the story, just the end of the one you wrote. Thank you for writing this, and I look forward to your next project.
Woodswolf chapter 17 . 5/21/2012
I am crying now.

Why am I crying?

Because you just published two chapters in a row.

You monster.

I have been waiting so long, and you go and publish both of them three hours after I add chapter 16 to my list of permanent bookmarks.

*ends melodramatic moment*

But let us see how this ends.

Be aware that the contents of my next review will most likely spill over thirty thousand words, and I might have to go back and restart at the beginning of Wells Street Station to get it all out.

Let me see the end.
Model Builder chapter 16 . 5/20/2012
When you said that Coraline had ". . . a hell of a contingency plan," you weren't kidding, were you?

I did NOT see THAT coming.
Woodswolf chapter 16 . 5/19/2012
Let me just state this.

The first thing I did when I saw this was I scrolled down to the very bottom, averted my eyes, and pressed the 'Review this Chapter' button.

Okay, if you didn't see that coming, I don't know what to tell you.

I had predicted something like this (it was far unlikelier then, however) ever since somewhere around the end of The Ellipse. And Chapter 14 on this proved my theory, and Mr. Carabas, The God Of This New Age Of Prosperity And Epikness, confirmed my suspicion.

Suicide missions are fun. Yay.

Now Wybie gets to mourn for eternity and research and go fuck with the lives of the Court.

They don't like being fucked with, I'm afraid.

This actually reminds me of something I wrote in my notebook a while ago (From what I can tell, it was when I was still writing The Pamphlet, so February/March or something, maybe earlier):

Her life was born by love - or, rather, by fighting a sick, twisted version of it.

And then, later, she fought with courage and despair and chaos.

But how did her life end?

At the end, she fought with their leader, Fear.

Whether she won or lost I could not say.

But there was an empty spot near her, back where someone else used to stand.

How many, I can not say.

But there is at least one.

And there could be no spot left at all.

The spot can't be empty if there's no one that says it is so.

Now, I have one more quote to recall, this time from the work itself.

"The question of what shall ultimately prove the more satisfying has occurred," it purred, in a tone as cold and deadly as a naked blade. "For your flock to be leaderless, without that which could give hope, set adrift in fear-" ...

"-Or…" And here, it became truly thoughtful, the rage all but gone. "To see their greatest defence and hope fail, slowly. For even her knowledge and power to be futile in the face of every attack, and for terror to take them with no recourse, with no hope of another arising…" ...

"Once your world is nothing, once everything you ever fought for is in ashes, once you are alone," it said, "Then I may bother to return for you."

Chapter Seven. Drums.

A beautiful passage, to be sure.

And what meaning! What sadistic foreshadowing!

"Burn," came the insidious whisper from Tantibus. White fire filled the world, white fire and pools of shadow and two terrible, soulless eyes filled with bind hatred.

Two seconds.

Coraline lunged, knife cutting a silver trail through the air, placing herself past the ferrobomb. Wybie started forward. Again.

"And be nothing," came the last words of Tantibus, the Old Terror, Tlaloc, La Terreur En Marche.

One second.

Tantibus's head curved forward, teeth blazing like blades in a field of fire.

The Ambassador swept past, sweeping Wybie off his feet before he could react, in a grip too strong to allow struggling, and a sharp, barked command from her opened a door in the air.

Wybie, trussed over the beldam's shoulder, grabbed out and cried out Coraline's name before the Ambassador sprung for freedom.

Coraline thrust forward, and the impact of her knife into Tantibus's forehead shuddered and stopped it in its tracks, and shook the world.


to the characters


What could have been an alternate fate.


The deaths had been counted. The Vice President had been sworn in and thus became the newest President of the United States of America.

The burial of the former President happened the next week.

The coffin was closed during the service. Theories spread wildly as to why the coffin was kept closed; the government's official response was that the President's body was too mangled by the battle and left too gory to display.

Theories and rumors, alas, still spread, as it didn't make sense that the body was too mangled; the people assumed that she had been wearing heavy-duty combat armor (and a trench coat lined with iron chainmail, but that was beside the point). How could she have been 'mangled'?

The theories were all wrong. No one could have guessed the truth.

So the coffin was closed, by request of her spouse and friend, a man who had watched both of his best friends die over a matter of weeks; one human, one bearing the symbols of what the rest of humanity would have called 'bloodthirsty gods'.

The latter had been his wife.

At the funeral, he did not speak as the world expected him to, of her triumphs and policies and life; he spoke, instead, more to himself than those present or the country.

"People don't think of what they have until it's gone. We just assume that we'll always have it forever, whether it is a person, a home, a livelihood, a job, a wife, a friend. We think we'll have it forever, and when we lose it, we feel remorse, but have to try to move on."

He paused for a moment, letting it sink in.

"When I pulled her off the battlefield, I knew it was too late. I knew she was beyond help once she took off her helmet; she asked for one more kiss and died halfway through it."

He was tearing up; he promised himself he would remain calm, even in the face of the lies he had to tell. He would lie to the world, just like she had lied to him; she didn't tell him what she had to do, and so he wouldn't tell the world what she did.

"I carried her body onto the aircraft quickly, and everyone was respectfully silent. When the bomb went off a minute or so later, she had already long passed."

He didn't cry. He couldn't. He had to remain calm and collected. The lies were tearing him apart. No one knew the truth; a select few that had been there might have realized that these were lies.

No one, however, knew the full truth. The secrets lay with the dead. The only living person who knew of what his wife had done on the last day of her life was him, and he had only found out about it after all was said and done.

"We all lost a woman today, the leader of this fine country, one who had given herself up to finish off the Tantabilic Tendency once and for all. We should appreciate this, and mourn respectfully, but be overjoyed that the terrorists that sought to end our world are dead and gone."

There were a few smiles among the crowd as he concluded the speech; he had given a speech of hope and rebuilding, he had given the people, all the innocents, the whole message: the one that caused them pain was dead.

But his pain was not abated. He had lied to the country; he had lied to the people here. But most of all, he had lied to himself.

It was not alright – he wasn't 'okay' with what she had done. He understood why she needed to do it, but at the same time… she should have told him, at least. He could have had one last look at her single remaining eye, drunk in all its color and complexity and beauty.

Then he might have been ready.

The coffin had been closed for one reason, one and only one, and it was for no mangling, for no gory remains. It was for the shock that would have arisen had the President's face ever been shown again outside of photographs.

The former President of the United States had gone for all, and had given up much. Eventually, however, she had to give up and gave in, once she realized it was over either way.

He could never know whether his wife had died with her eye open or shut; the one that was left was covered by obscene, evil materials, things that he never wanted to think about or see ever again.

The service concluded shortly: everyone attending threw in a rose, a note, or something that only they would know what it meant and said. He walked up and stood by the hole in the ground where the coffin was; the mounds of dirt to the side cast a large shadow over the pit where the coffin lay, covered in flowers and small pieces of paper. With time, everything in and around the coffin would rot away, leaving nothing behind.

Not quite everything, he thought.

For the second time that day, he began to speak, this time alone, speaking to someone who would never hear him again.

"Hi," he whispered. No one could hear him, but only the wind, the dirt, and the coffin were there to listen.

"It's been a lonely week without you," he said, cursing himself as he said it. Why was he here, talking to a grave? He should be somewhere else, celebrating.

He should be anywhere but here. He needed to forget.

He cried in the graveyard that day. He cried for himself, for his wife, for everything that had happened in the past few months. He cried for conclusion.

"You left a few things on your desk," he told the grave, and the dirt, and the wind, and the coffin. "Thought you'd want them. I got you a few things, too."

Into the grave he tossed three things: a fresh bouquet of white roses, bought that morning, and a small note, with nothing but a few short words of regret and loss. After the final gift had been tossed, he almost regretted tossing it: a hat, one that his wife had worn many times over the thirty or so years he had known her.

But it belonged to her, and so with her it would stay.

"I love you," he said quietly. "Goodbye."

The man left the graveyard, heavy with remorse, sighing to himself, with his heart even heavier than it had been before.

In the grave, the coffin lay, covered in flowers and possessions and notes and loves and tears and dirt; in the coffin, the body lay, covered in the symbols of all of the creatures she had learned to fear.

She did not die fighting. She died in submission.

But she died in the name of bravery. Even as time passed, even as the body slowly decayed to dust and ash inside the coffin, the button stayed true. It was the last connection to the name on the gravestone, the last symbol of the ones who loved her, and the last testimony to the final actions of the woman who lay there.


An awful way to die, no?

You don't want to live, no matter how much you want to. You want to die, no matter how much you don't want to.

Your life is a mess of contradictions and insecurity.

I see a glimmer of hope, yes, but I also see one last thing.



But happy, in a disturbing
60 | Page 1 2 3 .. Last Next »