#inklings prequel

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

Don't forget! Inklings story in word press 😘

Thank you darling! Here we go! @inklings-challenge I know this isn't technically quite the challenge itself, but it's connected, and it talks about nature, and it's a prequel to my actual inklings challenge entry which I still need to edit so I can post the first scene.

I wrote this during October, but couldn't share it anywhere until the competition I wrote it for was done (it was commended!! I have a nice ceramic mug now :D).

an Inklings Prequel (untitled, suggestions for title are welcome)

Part One: Spring

It was spring, and the frost had melted from the plants, the last snow sliding off branches and tumbling into muddy drifts that warmed and turned to mush. Through the ground new shoots, fresh and green, pushed in their narrow, fragile endeavours. Many of them were crushed by the feet of workers, trudging to and from their homes, completely uncaring of the young abundant growth at their feet.

There was one in the crowd who sidestepped every tender shoot with a care that would seem inordinate to anyone else; but that was just the way she was. Her name was Hadassah, and spring was her least favourite season.

It was so full of change and growth that sometimes it left her dizzy and struggling to catch up with life, like an enormous wave that broke over her while others felt it only as a gentle swell. However, that did not mean that Hadassah was willing to punish the innocent grasses.

Some of them might turn out to be beautiful.

Part Two: Summer

It was summer, and some of the grasses had been crushed and flattened for good, dying brown stalks broken and torn from their moorings. Hadassah was the only one who took the time, while there was nobody else around, to sweep up the trampled grass and deposit it in the great firepit in the centre of town. Nobody ever remarked on it, but it did not stop her.

Occasionally there were fire warnings, and then Hadassah could feel the satisfaction of a job well done, for dry grass was not wanted on such hot days.

Some days she walked to and from work hiding her face with both hands, for it was bright enough to cause her actual anguish, and heat radiated off the ground at her feet and off the bodies of those who walked nearby. Hadassah longed for the darkness of her cloak, but it was too heavy, too hot for the painful temperature. Every so often she fainted, and they tossed cold water into her face and told her to get up again.

Part Three: Autumn

It was autumn, and the scorching heat had faded and left only lingering warmth, the grass dying off as everywhere cooled. The world burned in shades of red and gold and yellowing green, and the leaves were falling into great drifts that privileged seasonal workers swept up and tossed into the firepit. Hadassah welcomed the cessation of unbearable heat, and occasionally paused on her measured, consistent journey to close her eyes and feel the wind on her face. It was still too warm for her cloak, most days, but occasionally she picked it up and pulled it round her, just to feel its comforting embrace, and remember that winter was coming.

She had always found it a strange, restless time of year, a great upheaval as trees shed their painstakingly-grown leaves and animals prepared for winter. There was a great sense of change and difference. Even the smell of the air was different, and a little moist.

Hadassah did not like change, and it was autumn that was her second least favourite season. All the same, she found occasional leaves that struck her with their beauty or fragrance, and kept them until they grew withered, brown, and brittle enough to crunch into powder. Then she would throw them into the pale hearth fire and watch them burn to ash.

Part Four: Winter

It was winter, and the last of the leaves and grasses had been trampled into mush during the first frost. Various trees were heavy laden with fruit, which pleased Hadassah, for she only got fresh fruit during winter. At other times she had to find less expensive options to retain her health, but winter was when those fruits were available cheaply enough for her limited budget.

Hadassah took to wearing her cloak, although not every day until it was truly too cold to avoid freezing on her way to work. It was heavy and cumbersome. The brilliance of summer was well and truly gone by now, replaced by overcast skies and early sunsets. Ice formed delicate patterns that crunched under her boots after freezing sleet and a cold night. If she had known how to skate, she would have rejoiced that the lake froze.

She kept her hands tightly within her cloak, unable to bear the feeling of mittens yet avoiding frostbite. In the evening, while others were out collecting or chopping wood, she would prepare food and intermittently warm her fingers at the fire. Even so, they grew stiff and cold, and developed chilblains.

Still, there was a certain routine and sameness to winter that she appreciated, and for that reason it was her favourite season despite its drawbacks. It was not so cold that she could not last it out without outside assistance. Hadassah liked the comparative darkness of the season, and it was like the embrace she never asked for or initiated. She avoided touch, but the touch of the seasons was pleasant.

Then it grew warmer: and it was spring again.

#writing #my writing #inklings #inklings prequel #hadassah #if you find this elsewhere under another name - no you didn't #you TOTALLY didn't #you DIDN'T find me on another platform! lol #ask #personal #feedback welcome #fiction #the other prequel I wrote which isn't very good at all is gonna be given results in a week or two I think #I don't expect to get anywhere with it and if I did I would be embarrassed #because it's *that bad* #but i will not be sharing it #I do intend to revamp this #the other prequel (a fragile solace) #the actual story I still need to finish #and a third prequel I've planned but not written #and I plan whenever they're ready to publish them as one book bc I think the main story can be long enough to fill out a book #perhaps a small one but still #anyway those are my plans but it'll need work and all #but this story would be what i would expect to use as 'here is a sample of my writing in a self-contained piece' once i edit it #wrote this over two days lol and haven't edited it since #as i said feedback very welcome :D

[fictionadventurer]

I have three stories that I would like to write at least some part of before the deadline for the Inklings Challenge.

I am scrolling tumblr and obsessively looking up book recommendations online.

I see some problems here.

#adventures in the inklings challenge #i am having a scatterbrained week #so very tired yet unable to sleep #mind going off in a million different directions #unable to focus because i have an event at 7 pm #i keep trying to do inklings housekeeping and then forgetting what i was supposed to do #i would like a refund on this brain #at least the obsessive book rec scrolling could be useful for at least one of the ideas #so far the plan is: finish the short story that's been my main focus for the challenge #by just starting at the beginning and writing instead of trying to finesse old material into the new outline #try to write at least one scene that's more of a prequel to the other main idea #and if by some magic i have time left (where??? i don't think you understand the concept of linear time sweetheart) #scribble out a version of the third idea #oh wait there's a fourth one! #that's one's very scribbly though #that one could realistically be written in saturday spare moments #i guess the hope with idea 3 would more accurately be a hope to *start* so it's an unfinished story to write after the deadline #rather than trying to sneak in a new story under the inklings umbrella under false pretenses

[larissa-the-scribe]

Synopsis

Working Title: A Bright Breath Falling

When a new client shows up asking for a private investigator experienced with "land-based extra-normals," Crispin assumes that his next case is going to get interesting. With fae, superpowers, an (un)deadly curse spreading through Santa Juliana, rumors of a cult plotting to bring about an apocalypse, and a new companion helpfully volunteering (without his sanction) to be his partner-in-stopping-crime, turns out that the assumption was perhaps an understatement.

World: [Still unnamed]

A kind of "alternate history" steampunk version of our world. The plot (and connected series) is set in Santa Juliana, a made-up city in Florida, near Saint Augustine. The time period is the mid-to-late 1800's. Superpowers have recently been discovered, which has been deemed unsettling by both the regular and the magical portions of the population.

#is kind of a prequel for the Files #which is a new project in the works atm #I am excited about it tho #plot synopsis #wanted dead and alive #santa juliana files #crispin o'callner #julia cook #inklings challenge

[lumosinlove]

Hi hi!!

As Vaincre begins to wind down (couple chapters left!!), I am getting so so excited to start posting Breakaway.

And…I am hoping to post it on Patreon!

This would be a big decision to make—I know many are looking forward to Breakaway especially, and I know that not everyone has the ability to partake in Patreon.

I ADORE this community!!! It is one of the most fun, cherished parts of my life. I’ll never be able to thank you all enough for your support. You’ve allowed me to grow as a writer! I’m now looking to take the next step as an author. I not only want to keep dedicating time to these characters and this universe, I’d like to be able to dedicate more time. A Patreon would go so far in helping me achieve that!

For anyone who doesn’t know, Breakaway is the Sweater Weather prequel! It follows Finn and Logan as they fall in love over the years they were in college together. The story will start at the first time they meet, the first time they’re on the ice together, the first inkling of there being something more between them…We’ll see them through adventures, injury, and heartache. We’ll end…Well I won’t tell you that yet :)

Don’t worry—Tumblr/Ao3 would still be going strong.

Here’s everything that is coming up on Tumblr & Ao3:

Thread of Gold

Zombie!au (Working title: KEEPSAKE)

Relic Keel (probably a bit of a re-write)

12 Days of Winterfics

& other stories to come!

I’d love to know who might be interested in subscribing to Patreon.

Here are what the tiers would most likely look like:

TIER ONE: $2/month:

General support

Posts about the real hockey world

Daily headcanons

Writing snippets

TIER TWO: $5/month: Everything in tier one plus:

Two chapters of Breakaway every month

Exclusive short stories

Exclusive artwork

TIER THREE: $10/month: Everything in the first two tiers plus:

Posts about my writing craft and process

Monthly Q&As

More surprises that I’ll come up with! I’ve always enjoyed evolving new things to create, and seeing what you all enjoy is a big part of that.

If you could please send me an ask if you’d be interested in subscribing! <3 <3 <3

As always, I’m so so grateful for all of your support over this last decade—wow I can’t believe it’s been that long!! I wouldn’t be where I am as a writer or person without ANY of you—thank you thank you.

Love, Haz

#sweater weather lumosinlove #lumosinlove #vaincre lumosinlove #breakaway lumosinlove

[sofasoap]

A quiet moment  – John Price 

Pairing :  John Price x f!reader.

Summary: Marriage, Baby and life. Fluff and domestic feels. 

This is part of the “Mini” MacTavish universe, but the reader isn’t “ Mini”. Continuation of Little secret and Learning to let go.

“masterlist” for prequel to this Mini MacTavish expanded verse.

Price knocked on the door gently, but there was no response.  Slowly he opens the door to the infirmary, finding you sleeping , curling up in the chair, head in a bizarre angle , in front of the desk. Piles of unfinished paperworks scattered on the side, laptop screen showing you were halfway through typing your report before you dozed off to sleep. The coffee he brought you this morning, untouched. Price is worried about you. You seem to be a bit off lately. Getting tired more easily, not sleeping well at all. Your appetite also changed. You were a big eater before, sometimes you can eat more than him. Now you tend to nibble on crackers and trail mixes, skipping main meals. 

He notices you tend to overwork yourself, no matter how much he nag you not to overexert. Your sense of duty and focus always overcomes your common sense of looking after yourself. 

You startled awake when Price touches your shoulder. “John?”

“ Love, you're gonna strain your neck if you sleep like that. .. and you are drooling.”

Wiping your mouth, embarrassed, “ I am not… and what are you doing here?” “ Wondering why my wife isn’t in bed with me.”

The two of you got married a few months ago after a long courtship. Both of you are pretty low key type of people, and none of you wanted a lavish wedding.: I have cut ties with my family,  you said to him once, and he doesn’t have any close family around anymore. So at the end, with your friends Doc and Ghost by the side as witnesses, Price and you got married in the registry office. The only other people who knew about the marriage was the HR team. 

“You are overworking yourself too much lately, are you sure you are Ok?”

“.... Never been better.” he can sense you are lying, hiding something from him. But he doesn’t press on. Until one day after he came back from a mission he couldn’t find you. Not in your shareroom, not in the infirmary, or anywhere on site. “Captain.”  Doc called out to him as they spotted Price storming down the corridor.  He takes a deep breath before turning around, trying not to show the panic that is slowly building up in his stomach. 

Doc looked left and right, making sure there were no other people in close proximity before they whispered, “She’s in hospital. Got sent there two days ago.”  Price threw a few words of gratitude over his shoulder as he turned around and rushed towards the address Doc provided.

“Oh hey darling, you are back.” You greet him lightly as you look up from your tablet, sitting in the hospital bed. 

How can you be so calm still while on a drip and looking so pale? Just as he was ready to launch another lecture, you seemed to be able to read his mind and interjected before he opened his mouth.

“ Before you tell me off…” you reach over to the side table, grabbing a little print out and handing it over to him. It’s a picture of an ultrasound.

“... John?” No reply. He pulled a chair in and sat down. Stunned. “Are you going to say something?” Voice wavered as your face crumbled a bit. He’s going to be a father. Something that he never thought of. Hell, he never expected to be married or even to be in a relationship with anyone years ago. And here he is,having the first glance of his future child. A soft smile grew on his face. He reached out and grabbed your hand. “Did you know?”

“... I had an inkling for a while.”

“ Why didn’t you tell me?”

“... I wanted to be sure first.” You look down at your finger, fidgeting away.” Plus, things have been so busy at work I… “ He sighed. “ You need to take better care of yourself. Not just for yourself,” He leans over and places his hand on your abdomen,” For the bub, and for me too. Please.” You nodded your head. After getting discharged from the hospital, you found out that you will no longer be staying on site at the base. John has signed a lease for a house nearby, more suitable for a growing family. What surprised you even more was, everything was moved and new furniture was already in place, even the nursery. Full of toys. “.... I might have gone a bit overboard.” Price admitted sheepishly. 

“We don’t even know if it's a boy or girl yet.” You chuckled. “ Hence why I bought both….” you rolled your eyes as he commented.” Plus it doesn’t matter. They can play with whatever they want.” He pulled you in from behind and rested his hand on your slightly growing stomach. “ Thought of the name for the bub yet?” You lean your head back into his neck. “ I was thinking of Grace for a girl… or Kyle if it’s a boy.” he kisses your head. “ I like that.” “ Well, little one, mummy and daddy can’t wait to meet you in a few months' time.”

“Sergeant Kyle Garrick reporting for duty, everyone calls me Gaz….. Something wrong Captain?”“No.. Nothing is wrong. You got a great name.”

“?????”

#call of duty #captain john price #john price x you #john price x reader #john price imagine #john price #john price x y/n #captain price x reader #captain price #captain price x y/n #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #captain john price x female reader

[foxgloveprincess]

For whenever you feel inspired to play with him: Feeezy + pressed together in a tight space + “Ohhh, kitty cat, you have no idea what I could do to you.” 🫠 I think I just hurt myself writing this lollll.

Sweet Jesus, Siri. Fuuuuucccckkkkkkkkkkkk 🥴 This is giving A.W.A. Freezy before he took his princess.

Warnings: Dark AU, Prequel, Predatory Behavior, Housing Instability, Income Instability, Innuendo and Suggestion, Manhandling, Barely Edited. Minors do not interact (18+).

Word Count: 1,600

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing, themes, dynamics, or warnings. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Thank you!

The stone concrete of the park table bench grinds into your thighs. But it’s a free place to sit and spend your time. Plan your future—if you even have one. The coins spread across the table. You flip each one face up and sort them out. It’s all so bleak. 

You check the time on your watch and sigh. You’ll have to head back to Vera’s soon. She’s not your first choice for couch surfing, but she always says yes when no one else does. Staring hard at the coins, potential plans formulate. If only you could land a solid job or two, not like the one at the hotel that only calls you when they need extra hands. 

The cheery, mechanical tones of the ice cream truck chime across the playground. You glance up, the same Mr. Freezy truck that stops by every day. The same ice cream man. It’s no substance, but you get up from your seat for the soft serve, scraping every penny up from the tabletop. 

You hang to the back of the line, arms crossed over your chest and gaze cast to your feet. Shuffling along, you finally get to the front. You glance over at the menu, catch sight of his back, his hands digging around in his freezer. 

“What can I get for you?” he asks, tone harsh and impatient. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pronge,” you say, clear and loud—knowing the exact steps to this little game the two of you play. 

He straightens and spins quick, leaning out his window a bit to get closer to you. 

“Oh, hi.” His lips tilt in the inkling of a smile. His tone far more friendly, though still not soft. You don’t think he knows how. “Soft serve?”

“Yes, please,” you reply with a nod. 

He gets to work, eyes glancing your way every so often. “You want it dipped?” 

“Yes, please.” 

He smirks. “Been meaning to ask,” he begins, stirring the chocolate with a ladle. “What’s your opinion on stuffed animals?”

Caught off-guard by the question, you don’t reply immediately, though you keep your smile on your face. 

“I, uh, I think they’re cute, Mr. Pronge,” you finally say. 

He turns and hands over the cone. You thank him and grab a couple of napkins from the holder. 

“Cause I was thinking.” His shoulders shrug, but his eyes remain focused, intense. “I have a bunch laying around and I got no need for ‘em.” 

“Oh.” You stare at him a moment, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze, wishing you could accept. “I would love to, except I don’t really have space for anything right now. I’m sorry, Mr. Pronge.” You want to look away, ashamed of your situation, but you can’t. That wouldn’t be playing the game. 

His eye glint behind his glasses. His jaw ticks. You wonder if you’ve upset him. A glance at your ice cream cone turns your empty stomach—free food. 

You bite your lip and say, “I’m living on my friend’s couch right now. I can only keep what I can carry.” 

Tears dot your waterline, but you sniff them away. Refusing to break down in front of the generous man. He already pities you enough to give you charity. One a day, everyday. You don’t need to look any more pathetic in his eyes. 

“I understand,” he says, reaching out his window to pat you on the shoulder. An awkward gesture, but one from which you don’t shy away.

“Thank you again, Mr. Pronge.”

He hums and you take the first bite, teeth cracking chocolate. “See you tomorrow.” 

You wave and back away. Already, your ice cream starts to drip down your wrist. You lick at your skin before wiping with a napkin. Another half hour on the park bench, then you’ll head over to Vera’s. 

The lights are so low you can barely see. Music thumps around the walls, barely intelligible. No melody, all about the beat. Sitting at a table with your water, you watch Vera, strutting around the dance floor. She flits from one partner to the next. Her smile shines bright, and it makes you wonder whether she had been telling you the truth. 

Trying to fix the borrowed outfit, you wiggle in your seat. The fabric clinging too tight to all the places you don’t want the attention. You glance around, people watching. Waiting, really, for Vera’s friend. 

The flash of glasses catches your eye. Illuminated by the lights flashing up above. You squint. It couldn’t be. The hair falling around his shoulders, the colorful collared shirt. You’d never seen him out of his uniform. It was hard to tell. If only they’d make this place a little brighter. You shake your head and take a sip from your glass of water. 

“You should be dancing,” Vera slurs. Her body slumps against you. Already intoxicated from a few drinks. She wraps her arms around your neck and presses her face too close to yours. “Come on.” She tugs at your limbs, but you stay put. 

“I thought we were meeting your friend?” 

She huffs and releases you, opting instead to cross her arms and pout. “We will.” You’re surprised she doesn’t stamp her foot with the indignation in her tone. “As long as you catch his eye.” She nods toward the VIP section and the man lounging on one of the couches, surrounded by women. “So, come on.” 

You swallow and stand. This was not the opportunity you expected, but you’d spent your last cent today. You’d have to do whatever it took not to drown. 

Following Vera to the dance floor, you take a deep breath, trying to block out all the bodies crushed together. They press and grind. You sway. Skin crawling at the perceived attention. A fish out of water. 

You hate this music. You hate these people. You hate your life. 

Your hips move from side to side, shaking off hands that grope and the press of strangers. You’re not doing this for them. 

Avoiding the VIP section, you glance around the dance floor. The figure you spotted before stalking right around the edges. You move your way closer, but he continues his path. Like a predator in the wild. He scans every body and swerves around obstacles. 

But you see him, now. The glasses, the downturn of his lips, the tilt of his shoulders. Mr. Pronge. 

You lose sight of Vera in the mass of bodies, but you keep dancing noncommittally. Anything for the chance to save yourself. You spin around, hoping to carve out some personal space. Just something to keep the others away from you. Dizzy, you notice the approaching figure. 

“What’re you doing here?” he asks. 

You meet his eye and try to smile through your shock. “Hi, Mr. Pronge.” You lift your hand in a small wave and keep your body moving. You glance over your shoulder, searching for Vera. 

“I asked a question,” he growls. 

He steps forward, you step to the side. He keeps advancing. And it’s like he’s herding you where he wants you. 

You reach the edge of the dance floor and his hand wraps around your bicep. Leading you away from the crowd and the crush. The volume drops lower and the relief it gives brings a genuine smile to your face. But it’s then you realize you’re pressed against the wall of a narrow, deserted hallway by the ice cream man. 

His brow raises, waiting for an answer. You nod and glance around the small space. Chest pressing to his. 

“My friend wanted to introduce me to someone,” you reply. Hands flexing at your sides. You wonder what you should do with them. Where you should place them. 

“Why?” 

“He might be able to get me a job.” You keep fidgeting, more nervous by the second with him in such close proximity. The moment dragging between the two of you. 

“No one in a place like this has good intentions,” he warns, gaze burning straight through you—was that disappointment or contempt. 

Your eyes drop from his in shame. “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Pronge, you’ve always been so kind to me. I should get back.” 

You try to move away, to escape, but he keeps you pinned in place. His chest expanding with his breath, the buttons of his shirt straining. His arms raise, finding this place to bracket your body, one by your waist, the other beside your head. Swallowing the spike of panic that threatens to grow into an all-consuming wave, you meet his eyes again. 

Something dark shines back at you. In the low light, his hunger finds you its prey. You freeze. Unsure of how to proceed. Balancing on a thin line. Still needing his charity. 

“You shouldn’t quite trust me either,” he whispers, leaning into your ear, arm muscles flexing. You swallow a whimper. He inhales a millimeter away from the skin of your throat and chuckles, dark and syrupy. Your stomach drops, a mix of apprehension and appetite. “Oh, princess, you have no idea what I could do to you.” 

Your tongue swipes over your lips. More thirsty than you’ve ever been in your life. You wait, heart pounding in your ribcage. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

And that’s it. All at once, he backs away. A scream echoes in the distance, above the cacophony of the club. Your head turns in curiosity. The music cuts and you turn back to the ice cream man, only to see him slipping out a side door and disappearing into the night. 

Thank you for sending this over, Siri! I had lots of fun! 💜

#mr. freezy x reader #robert pronge x reader #mr. freezy fanfic #mr. freezy fanfiction #attic wives anonymous #dark #dark fic #✨rachel replies✨ #stargazingfangirl18 #18+ #minors dni

[goose-exclamation-point]

something very interesting i noticed about the newest side order trailer......

Okay so, I've made a personal vow to not drown my blog in Splatoon stuff, despite how much I've been tempted to, but I do have one thing I noticed about the side order trailer which I found quite, quite, interesting

In the trailer's upgrade menu, we see an upgrade labeled 'Run Speed Up', and it's description describes increasing movement in Inkling or Octoling form. ..................... inkling form????????????????

okay so. the trailer seems to set up the idea that its eight and pearl, and the usage of the name 'agent 8' means the events of octo expansion must've happened before this... being labeled subject 10008 by tartar and yadda yadda, i dont think people have brought up the idea that its a prequel or whatever, if so i haven't seen it, but this probably means the events of OE are gonna be atleast touched upon. so theres atleast the fact that pearl knows eight, and if you could choose to be an inkling that'd probably mess up atleast the start of the expansion. maybe im desperate for some sort of agent 4 play ability in this, who knows, but either way. food for thought. there is also the fact that the text appears to be taken directly from the text for the run speed up ability ingame, but ive gone back and forth on this as i feel like. why not just take the part about inklings out?? food for thought and a side order of fries with that

#splatoon #splatoon 3 #side order #agent 8 #agent 4 #< haha. throwing in that tag cuz im evil #side order spoilers

[the-unconquered-queen]

Wait… wasn’t the deadliest gambit supposed to be called the deadliest game?? Or am I just imagining that.

So I had an inkling and went to the wiki to confirm, and The Deadliest Game is the main story, whereas The Deadliest Gambit is a VIP exclusive side story, only that they're switching things up and releasing the VIP side story before the main one. My guess is that it's meant to serve as a prequel to establish the main one.

#ask #answered

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Christmas Alone: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling

For the Christmas Challenge at @inklings-challenge, I've written a Christmas story that ties to my "Beauty and the Beast" retelling, "A Day Late." This takes place before that story, which makes it technically a prequel, but both are meant to stand alone.

Without further ado, here's:

A Christmas Alone

The dining table held a feast fit for royalty, but Beatrice had no eyes for the food. As she pushed a few limp vegetables around her plate, her gaze wandered to the birds and angels painted on the ceiling and toward the rose gardens outside the vast windows. Her mind wandered even further, past the limits of the gardens to an outside world she hadn’t seen for months, where a little cottage would be covered in snow and filled with the hustle and bustle of Christmas preparations. Her sisters would be baking up a storm today. Her brothers would be hunting for Christmas venison. If she were there, she would be decorating the house in every bit of greenery she could find.

In the distance somewhere, a voice said, “Beatrice.”

What would her father be doing today? Would he be out hunting for the Christmas tree alone? Did he miss her company? Did he mourn her, trapped for so many months in a castle with a beast?

“Beatrice.”

Who would be setting up the stage for the Christmas theatricals? Had she told anyone where she’d stashed the curtains and old clothes they used for costumes? She had hoped to convince everyone to put on a comedy this year, but now that she wasn’t there, Ophelia would probably badger everyone into performing one of her silly sentimental melodramas.

“Beatrice.”

The voice, now raised to almost a shout, snapped her out of her reverie. The dining room—and the massive Beast sitting across the table—came into focus. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

Beast’s striped, dog-like face showed concern. It was strange how well she could read the expressions of a dog-tiger-monkey man. His eyes and brows were very expressive. “You seem distracted,” he said in his deep tones. “Is something troubling you?”

It felt impossible to speak of it. That rundown, cozy little cottage was worlds away from this elegant palace full of gold and mirrors and portraits. The Beast did not belong with her family.

And yet...the Beast she’d come to know these last eight months was nothing like the fearsome monster her father had described when he’d come home with the rose. He was gentle. Kind. Patient. A bit moody and dramatic, but reasonable. It was just possible he’d grant this request.

“I was thinking,” she said, keeping her voice far more casual than she felt. “Christmas is in two days.”

Beast' s brow furrowed. “Christmas?” He looked at the gardens outside the windows. “It can’t be. It’s summer.”

“It’s always summer here,” Beatrice said. “That doesn’t mean it’s not Christmas. I’ve been here 226 days, which makes it December 23rd.”

Beast shook his head as if trying to clear away fog. “I suppose it is,” he said at last. “Time rather runs together here.”

That was another reason she needed a holiday. She blurted, “Could you send me home for Christmas? Just for a day or two?”

Beast’s face grew solemn. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“Why not? You let Father come home with the rose.”

“To settle the debt by sending you to take his place. Now that you have come, it is not in my power to release you.”

“It wouldn’t be release. It would be...an outing. For good behavior. I promise I’d come back.”

“I believe you would,” Beast said, “but I have not found a way to safely allow even your temporary release. The rules of this place…”

“Oh, the rules!” Beatrice threw a napkin, but an invisible servant caught it before it could fly very far. “It always comes back to those stupid rules!”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I think you make up half of those rules.”

“I wish I were.” Beast leaned forward, his strangely human eyes full of sincerity. “Believe me, Beatrice. If I could safely send you home, even for a visit, I would, but I won’t risk your life by sending you too soon.”

Beatrice sighed. Her visions of a cozy Christmas faded. “So I have no choice,” she said. “I have to spend Christmas here with you.”

“Is that so terrible?” Beast asked.

Beatrice thought about the cottage--her brothers and sisters gathered around the table, the candles, the meal, the stories, the jokes, the songs, the laughter. It was rustic and chaotic compared to the luxury here, but Christmas in this vast, silent, elegant palace couldn’t compare.

“It really is,” she said.

Beast bowed his head. “I am sorry to cause you distress.”

He rose from his seat and turned toward the far doors, which opened beneath invisible hands.

“Beast? Where are you going?” Beatrice suddenly heard her own last words in her memory and cringed. She half-rose from her seat. “Beast! Come back here! I didn’t mean…”

An eight-foot tall beast could cross a room quickly. Before she could say more, the dining room doors closed behind him.

#

Beatrice peered into the library. The shelves, stuffed to the brim with leather-bound books, towered up to the ceiling, every book still in its proper place. Against the far wall, Beast sat in a wing-backed chair next to a fireplace half the size of the attic she shared with her sisters at home. Even in this warm climate, the evenings could get chilly. Flickering firelight cast light and shadows that tangled with Beast’s tiger stripes.

A book lay in Beast’s lap, untouched while he gazed into the fire. Beatrice approached cautiously and peered over his shoulder. She couldn’t read the language, but the pictures suggested it was a scientific text.

At least he wasn’t reading poetry. If he’d gotten into the melancholy ballads, there would have been no talking to him.

She stepped around the chair to face him. “Beast?” she said softly.

Beast looked up. The tips of his pointed ears drooped, his tangled teeth jutted from his jaw, his long tail hung limply over the arm of the chair, but his eyes were so human.

Her carefully composed apology fled her brain. She babbled, “I want to apologize. About before. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not being with you that’s terrible, it’s...not being with them.”

Beast’s face eased, but he didn’t meet her eyes. “I understand,” he said. “It is natural to wish for your family at Christmas.”

“I just keep thinking about...everything,” she said. “The food and the carols and all of them. I’m missing out on it all.”

Beast nodded, “The first Christmas alone is the most difficult.”

Beatrice sat in in the chair facing him. “You have no idea.” A light sparked in her mind, bringing up a new thought. “Wait. Do you?” She perched at the edge of her seat. “Do you have a family, Beast?”

Beast appeared uncomfortable. He looked down and stroked his tail where it lay over the arm of the chair. “Most people do.”

Beatrice’s mind boggled at the notion of an entire clan of dog-tiger-monkey men. “What are they like? Are there a lot of you? Do you resemble your parents?”

Beast twisted the end of his tail in one hand. “There are...many of us. None of them look like me. I am the only one with such...animal features.”

“Is that why you’re here, then? Locked away like the minotaur?”

Beast grimaced. “My family is not responsible for my current situation.”

Yet he would never say what was. She’d narrow it down eventually, but for now, she had more important questions.

“How do you stand it? Being away from them?”

“I’ve become accustomed to the loneliness.”

And she was trying to leave him. She hadn’t thought of it from his perspective before—Christmas after Christmas alone in this silent palace, with no one except servants that he couldn’t see.

“How long have you been here?” she asked softly.

“Long enough to become accustomed to lonely holidays. I would not subject you to it if I had any other choice.”

Here she was, moping over one Christmas with Beast for company, while he’d suffered who-knew-how-many alone without complaint. Yet she still wished she could leave him. What kind of monster was she?

If only she could have it both ways. “I wish we could both see my family for Christmas. Despite how the two of you met, my father would like you if he could know you. My siblings would torment you, but they’d like you, too.”

Beast’s lip pulled up in his version of a smile. “It’s a lovely picture. I wish I could give it to you.”

How stupid wishes were. Both of them wasting time wanting things they couldn’t have.

Beast suddenly stood up, all eight feet of him stretching toward the ceiling. The book clattered to the floor.

“Be careful!” Beatrice scolded. Just because he had a million books in a huge palace did not mean he could throw them around.

Beast picked up the fallen tome. “My apologies." He strode toward the library doors. "I’ve just remembered.”

As he walked away, Beatrice knelt on her seat, looking over the back of her chair, and called out, “Remembered what?”

Beast turned back with a light in his eyes. “We have much to prepare before Christmas."

#

Christmas morning. Beatrice examined herself in her dressing room mirrors. She wore deep green—a full-skirted silk dress she’d never seen before in her massive wardrobe. With her red curls—delicately arranged by the servants—she looked like a Christmas doll. Like the presents she and her sisters got as children in their days of prosperity in the city.

She smiled at the invisible servants. “You’ve almost made me look pretty.”

She had never been the pretty one back home. She had too much of a mouth for that. Here, she always felt beautiful, without sisters to outshine her. But she would far rather be with them in their attic bedroom this morning. She could almost hear the bustle of their usual morning routine—rustling fabric, creaking floorboards.

Then she realized she could hear something, just outside her door.

She stepped toward the dressing room door. “Is someone in my sitting room?”

She reached for the doorknob, but an invisible hand wrapped around her wrist. Beatrice slapped it and yanked her hand free. “Stop that!”

Another hand grabbed her other wrist. Beatrice tried to step forward, but a strong grip on her shoulders held her back.

“What are you doing?” Beatrice shouted. “Let me go!”

She wriggled out from beneath the hands and managed to grab a hair brush from her vanity, which she smacked against the fingers holding her wrist. A minute later, the hands were back, holding her more securely than ever.

Beatrice struggled against them. “How many of you are in here? Is this a conspiracy? Have you all decided to rebel?” If the invisible servants had started a Christmas morning mutiny, she and Beast didn’t stand a chance.

While she looked for other means of escape, the door to the sitting room swung open, and the servants released her so suddenly that Beatrice fell to the floor. She rose, straightened her crumpled skirts, and scowled at the room, hoping her expression was directed toward at least a few of the servants.

“What was that?” she demanded.

The only response she received was a gentle nudge on the shoulder urging her toward the open door.

She had half a mind to stay right here, just to spite them. But she was curious.

She edged through the doorway and found Beast standing in her sitting room, resplendent in a suit of royal blue that dripped with gold and silver embroidery. He bowed to her. “Merry Christmas, Beatrice.”

“Merry...Christmas,” Beatrice said, bemused. “What are you doing in my sitting room?”

Beast gestured to the wall opposite the windows. “I was overseeing the delivery of your present.” A large, rectangular something was mounted on the wall and draped with a white sheet. In deference to the season, a gold bow had been placed in the center.

She hadn’t even thought of presents. It hadn’t occurred to her, trapped in a palace where Beast already owned everything.

“Did you wrap it yourself?” Beatrice teased, to hide her embarrassment. She stepped toward the wall and picked up one corner of the sheet. “May I?”

Beast’s eyes shone. “Whenever you like.”

Beatrice pulled off the sheet with a flourish. A heavy, carved wooden frame, as thick as her hand, as tall as Beast and nearly as wide, surrounded a painting. An interior Christmas scene, with a family gathered around a table in a room bedecked with ribbons and greenery. Yet something about the scenery looked familiar, something about the people tugged at her memory—

With a gasp, Beatrice saw that the family wasn’t just any family—it was hers. Every face was unmistakable. There was Viola’s dark hair, Rosalind’s freckles, Ophelia’s bright green eyes, Henry’s scar from where Edmund had pushed him out of a tree. And there, at the head of the table, his face mostly turned away, but unmistakable...

“Papa,” Beatrice breathed.

She ran a hand over the painting, the brushstrokes rough beneath her palm, as she touched every face in turn. “How did you do this?” she asked Beast. “You’ve met my father, but all the rest…”

“A gift from my godmother,” Beast said, “long ago. It shows us those who are far from us. It won’t show my family, but with a bit of rule-bending, I convinced it to portray yours.”

Yet another wonder of this place. Beatrice marveled at it. A masterwork of a painting. Every brushstroke precise. The colors vivid. The shadows and light as real as life. She felt as though she could walk inside the frame and be with them all.

She turned away, overwhelmed, with tears pricking her eyelids. “It’s lovely, Beast. I can’t thank you enough.”

A lump in her throat choked her. It was a lovely, thoughtful gift, and yet—it was almost worse to see them like that, memorialized in a single still image, like people long dead.

She was being ridiculous. She turned back to the painting.

Her jaw fell. Papa, who had been turned away, now faced directly toward her with a smile on his face.

“What?” Beatrice stepped toward the painting and scrutinized it. “I’m sure he was facing the other way before.”

“Was he?” Beast asked wryly. “This is a painting that must be watched closely.”

Beatrice examined the painting. It wasn’t just Papa. She was sure Viola’s arm was more outstretched than before. Henry’s eyes had opened wider.

A moment later, there were more changes. Papa’s mouth was open in a smile now. Viola held a pot of tea.

The image changed again, again, again, tiny movements every time, and soon it was changing so fast that Beatrice couldn’t see the changes. Everything in the picture moved in perfect fluid motion, as if the people inside were alive. She watched her family laugh and chatter as they shared a breakfast of tea and Christmas bread. There was no sound, no scent, but her memory filled in the gaps. She could hear the same old Christmas morning jests, hear the birds outside the window, smell the pine of the wreaths, feel the warmth and closeness of being with her family on Christmas morning.

Tears ran down Beatrice’s face, and she didn’t even try to stop them. “Thank you, Beast,” she said. She wiped her face in her silken sleeve—she had hundreds of dresses, but she couldn’t waste a moment of this miracle hunting down a handkerchief. “This is the Christmas I wanted.”

Beast bowed and backed away. “I shall leave you to enjoy it.”

Beatrice leapt toward him and seized his arm. “Don’t you dare!” Though she barely came up to his chest, she dragged him toward a sofa that had been turned to face the wall. “You are staying here. Sit.”

Beast, seeming lost and bewildered, meekly obeyed.

Beatrice spoke to any invisible servants that might be in the room. “Do we have any Christmas bread available? Something like what’s in the painting?”

A single knock on the wall. Yes.

“Bring some to us,” Beatrice says, “and a pot of tea. We’re sharing Christmas morning with my family.”

In moments, the food arrived, and she and Beast shared it in a picnic on the floor while she explained everything that was happening in the painting. Though she talked almost without stopping for breath, Beast listened to everything attentively, as if he was as hungry for company as he was for breakfast.

This was different, but it was good. A Christmas she could never have imagined, but one she would never have wanted to miss, here with her strange, hulking, melancholic, thoughtful Beast.

She had so much she wanted to say, to let Beast know what this meant to her, and no words to express it—she didn’t do well with sentiment, and some things were too deep for speech.

At last, on impulse, she threw her arms around Beast’s neck. “Thank you,” she said.

Beast, stunned, was frozen beneath her, but after a moment, he relaxed and returned the embrace.

Catching herself as she realized what this might look like to a beast who had proposed to her every day she'd lived here, she hurriedly pulled away and said, "I'm still not marrying you!"

For once, the refusal didn't leave Beast looking forlorn. He merely chuckled, his eyes sparkling. "I don't mind. Right now, this is more than enough."

She settled back to her seat, relieved he understood. It was. More than enough.

"Merry Christmas, Beast," she said.

He placed one of his hands over hers. "Merry Christmas, Beatrice."

#the bookshelf progresses #inklingschallenge #inklingschristmaschallenge #imagery: gift #fairy tale retellings #beauty and the beast #i tried very much to make this a comedy but i couldn't make it work so i settled for sentiment #i hope i managed to keep in some bits that read as humor #also please appreciate the effort i went through to finish this story with a migraine #for some reason these stories in particular take me much longer than i think they should #i know how things should happen but the exact order of details eludes me #this one was much worse than a day late #i had three substantial versions #one of which was nearly finished before i completely overhauled the whole thing #also the time travel story i talked about is still in the works #this was an early idea but then it faded in favor of the time travel one #then when i sat down for serious work on the time travel one beatrice came forward and decided she wanted her story told after all

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

It was spring, and the frost had melted from the plants, the last snow sliding off branches and tumbling into muddy drifts that warmed and turned to mush.

the first sentence of 'Ever Changing, Ever Near' - one of the prequels to the inklings challenge. it focuses on the change of the seasons. the prompt for the competition is 'nature', with no required word count.

#inklings #inklings prequel #writing #my writing #excerpts #feedback welcome

[echo-bleu]

i read the latest 'towers we built' snippet and i am losing my mind about the perspectives of the people in Amen! I was enchanted by it before but I was thinking of Eärendil and Celebrian's viewpoints - now I'm imagining the Amenyar elves and it is Expanding my brain!

Aaaah thank you so much!!

Most of the fic will actually be from the Amanyar's POV! For now everything I've written of the actual fic is from Maedhros's POV, and there will be a bunch of prequel ficlets catching up with various elves (I've written Idril, Celegorm and Thingol so far).

They will have a lot to puzzle about! Celebrían's arrival really triggers cascade reactions. She has some memory issues both due to her trauma and to Irmo's work trying to make sure that she won't "disturb the peace" with the wrong information, but he couldn't erase everything the way he did with the others.

Such as, for example, the fact that there's a statue of her mother in the memorial for the Noldor who died in the Darkening...

Maedhros, Fingon and Finrod are the main characters of the main fic. Once they get an inkling that there's something wrong, they won't let it go, and it will take them all the way to Middle-Earth and back. With some unpleasant realizations along the way.

Here's another snippet of Nelyo's POV from chapter 1 for you:

“If it was you, I would move all of Arda and beyond to find you,” Finno says quietly, proving that their thoughts are along the same morbid line. “And I’d never let you go again.” “Even if it was for my own good?” “I would have sailed with you. I would have gone with you anywhere.” Celebrían’s husband didn’t come with her. He has unfinished business, Eärendil said. What is keeping him there, in a land strife with war, that prevents him from following his wife to safety? What is worth taking the risk that she’ll fade, alone, far away from him? “Maybe they have children,” Nelyo says. “How terrible it must be, to be thus sundered.”

snippet 1, 2, 3 from yesterday | original post

#echo's fanfiction #fandom love #those towers we built #silmarillion #tolkien #maedhros #fingon

[palettesofrenaissance]

📝 Willy and/or Noodle? Only if you want to ☺️

📝 and a character and I'll do an analysis of them.

I have quite a bit to say about this which you may or may not agree with. This turned into a vent, I apologize

There was a post on here that said the 2023 version made the characters too nice and I have to agree with that, this coming from source material from a man who wrote people being turned into pigs (and pork being a source of food), an inn keeper killing and taxidermy-ing the young men who come by, a child nearly being eaten by a giant, countless orphans, being permanently turned into a mouse, made ducks hunt humans... Like come on

Noodle Smith / Noodle Slugworth

That little girl was depressed; she said she's never felt much hope or happiness. I wouldn't doubt she was deeply and clinically depressed, with all the things that came with it. Yes, she's a sweet girl in the movie but there was a quite a bit about her that concerned me which was glossed over or made to be quirky and fun: she's so cynical and realistic, having little imagination for a kid, her willingness to do dangerous things without batting much of an eye... Not to mention what's seen between her, Scrubitt, and Bleacher. Scrubitt was obviously calling the shots and I wouldn't doubt she was the main one beating, starving, and all around torturing Noodle, feeding her lies, beating her down mentally, and mentally manipulating her into not running away. I know that Dorothy, Noodle's mom, is going to have a booked calendar full of therapy visits with one hell of a fee. Poor girl was just a child with a Cinderella beginning.

Willy

Now Willy... He was much too nice. Yes, I get that this was a prequel so some people will be different, but this version was barely recognizable, not even having much of an inkling of the 1971's personality. There were seconds in the movie, but it really felt like the director told the actor to tone it down or didn't let the actor go all the way like he probably initially wanted. Lost potential. Willy, as an older adult, is a grey character; as an older adult, yes, but even then there are core bits of people that exist even when they were younger. This was missing from 2023 Willy. By 1971 his personality has been described as a bit of a narcissist

He's "innovative, flamboyant, stubborn, arrogant, and authoritarian. He loves to be the center of attention by putting on outrageous attire. He cannot stand questions and considers them as criticisms or threat. He always brags the products he creates to his guests." He wants to mold Charlie into being more like him for goodness sake

Where was this in the 2023 one? Aside from the clothes and the few, miniscule flickers of that crazy in his eyes? If you want to say like "he goes crazy from being paranoid, cheated, and being in isolation" which is true, there should have still been some of that beforehand. In 2023, he's a soft, generous guy who's a mama's boy at heart, which is nice, but showing the seeds of his narcissism that will bloom when watered with the ill fortune that's to come was what I was looking for. Like I said, he's a grey character; selfish, has some narcissism, but he can be a nice guy and be caring, but the 2023 didn't balance this well enough

As someone said on Tumblr somewhere: there's a reason he's been used as a sarcastic meme

#asks #I guess this is a vent about the analysis of the characters #noodle had little to go by unfortunately #wonka #wonka 2023 #noodle #noodle wonka

[hexiewrites]

on eddie not apologizing in carve your name:

I got a comment on carve your name into my chest that really had me buzzing (in a good way!) with thoughts about character development, and I wrote out a whole reply explaining where I was coming from and figured it may be worth sharing too.

I've seen the take that eddie gets off 'easy' at the end of carve. he never really apologizes to steve for how he's treated, and at the end of the fic doesn't really have consequences for this. steve has grovelled and apologized and done something on a huge public stage, and eddie... well. he's been a little shit.

I love seeing people pick up on that, because it was something I did with a lot of intention! when you write from single character POV interactions like this can often feel unbalanced, especially if we feel connected to one character more than the other. but all of carve was written with both of their ongoing development and feelings strongly in my mind. the sequel is going to touch on this a lot, and there are hints as to what's to come in my answer to the comment I got, so stop here if you don't want any inkling (but still want to know that yes, eddie is going to have a lot of his own making up to do). otherwise, enjoy this unrestrained ramble on my character choices.

(oh, and also: serious spoilers for carve your name below! read at your own peril!)

off the bat: Eddie needing to apologize for how he treated steve is definitely going to come up (more than once) in the sequel. we're going to get some insight into the character development steve has gone through (and if you read the prequel, i hope you can see how much he's a different person in THIS fic compared to that), and these boys are going to need to spend a really solid amount of time working through where they are as people and how they've treated each other (on both ends). eddie definitely has a lot of apologizing to do and is going to really need to prove to steve that he has grown and changed, and is still growing. steve definitely still has wounds from the way eddie has treated him (aka: as disposable), though steve has also made choices in this fic that are going to have serious repercussions.

ultimately, eddie absolutely makes a bad call here when he kicks steve out and refuses to listen to him, and he focuses so hard on all of steve's faults that he really ignores his own (as we often do when fighting with someone who riles us up). but the thing is: he mades a bad call because he has been hurt over and over, and he is STILL hurting with the fact that steve just kind of wants to gloss over everything and go back to their previous arrangement, when it has substantially changed eddie's life. don't forget he's also got brenner over his head and he is terrified of losing his career, so he's trying to take brenner's warning to heart, he just isn't very good at communication (all characters in this fic need therapy should be a tag, huh?).

at the end of the day, we have two characters here with their own faults, insecurities, and struggles. steve (as we'll get into in the sequel!) has his own self worth problems and has always been one to try to smooth over problems and just 'get back to normal' even if it's no longer working for the people around him (see: his breakup with nancy in canon). he is going to need eddie to prove that he's in it, that he wants this as much as steve did. eddie's got faults too, he's a hair trigger who's quick to jump and slower to think through the way his actions read. his original plan here was to sit down and talk to steve after the game but when steve changes things with the kiss, well, he gets caught up.

for me this was a good stopping point because it marks a solid conclusion of eddie's arc (from their first encounter where he still thinks he hates steve, through all these issues of his interpretation of steve's sexuality and fear of being outed, working through what it means for eddie to be queer and out in hockey not on his own terms, etc). steve taking the steps to fix it, to prove to eddie that he's all in, is what eddie needed to conclude this arc, to know that steve is going to stick it out even when it's really really hard.

but it's not the end of their character development, and in a lot of ways this marks the beginning of a huge change for steve. in the background of this fic he's spent a lot of time coming to terms with his sexuality and he thinks that this is going to "fix" it and solve their problems, but he's just opened himself up to a lot of issues and he's going to need eddie to reassure him and support him as they deal with the (absolutely massive) problems that coming out like this is going to cause them.

anyways, phew. tldr: eddie absolutely has apologizing to do, and a lot to make up for and to prove to steve that he is as in it as he is in his head. but steve has more things to overcome too, and they will hurt each other again (as humans do!) before they figure things out. they have a lot to get through as a couple in the sequel, from BOTH sides. I've tried to write this whole verse as balanced as I can (though having single character POV can often make things feel less balanced, even if they're not!) and that's going to continue to be a theme in the sequel.

#carve your name into my chest #steddie hockey au #steddie hockey fic #PHEW this was a lot #i was just so excited to have someone catch this and i wanted to go through where i was coming from with this choice #hex is writing #hex writes stuff #meta analysis of my own fic #i loved getting to write all this out haha

[baladric]

For the writer ask meme!! 🎀 🪄 💌 (I wanted to ask everything but I showed restraint- if 3 is too many just do one or two ok love yooouuu)

hey i LOVE u :')

fic writer ask meme!

🎀 Give yourself a compliment about your own writing

oh boy hmmM well hey there little guy, you sure can write a sentence that punches people in the face!!!!! and you're very good at naming ocs, and your worldbuilding gets lusher and lovelier every time you sit down with it!!!

🪄 What is your post-writing/sharing aftercare? How do you take care of yourself or celebrate yourself when you've finished a fic?

answered here!

💌 Share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

i say it a lot and i KNOW y'all always tell me to hush but i feel SO BAD that all i ever wanna talk about is pirate au, and yet there's nothing out here for anyone to READ!! STILL!!! nearly a year later!!!!! but it's so in progress, and it only gets better, and i literally cannot wait to tie off the first draft and start the editing pass to make it cohesive from the start—at which point we'll start posting it! like post as we edit kind of a thing!!

so. i mean. UH. HERE'S A FUCKIn PREQUEL PIRATE FICLET IN ITS ENTIRETY a;ldkfjwl;f shhhhh nobody tell celebros i shared her xmas present before we posted the fic (jk she reads my tumblr)

He did not know why he was surprised, but all told, it took a good long while for sailing to become fun. He had theories, of course—six years of running wild with only Freja to impose a schedule had evidently done a number on his habits—and now there were work shifts to keep track of, and problems to solve with only one right answer (“When in doubt, call for Sozu or Arnezha or Iölo or me or literally anyone other than Sinker, I beg of thee, darling.”) There were knots to learn—a startling discovery, as he had thought he knew them all already—and terminologies and what do you mean, there are two ships?

Simply put, it was a lot, and Maia took care not to harbor regrets, but it was occurring to him in drips and drabs that this was maybe a teeny tiny little bit of a mistake. That, perhaps, Shaleän had been right, and he was not necessarily cut out for the sailing life. That maybe Paris had had a point when he hinted that Maia could have been of just as much help (if not more) at home, with Freja.

He was tired and he was sore in places he hadn’t known he owned and he missed his warm little bed in Freja’s warm little cottage and this was all just so strange. Idolatry was a child’s game in which he had seriously overinvested, and now it was like being struck over the head to realize that Shaleän on her gilded pedestal was a criminal—a pirate, the King of pirates.

He’d had an inkling, of course, but it was one thing to fantasize about his rake of an aunt, the glint of her saber raised in the battle cry, and another to stumble across a frightened goblin child in the same cargo hold in which he himself had hidden not two days before, her hair shorn in a servant’s crop and one of her ears notched in a clear sign of past cruelty. It had been another thing entirely to calm her down and bring her to Shaleän, propped on his hip, his collar still damp from her tears, and learn that she was part of a matched set squirreled away in a secret room on the ship, and that her mother was as yet too deep in the megrims that sometimes stole over a person whose situation has taken a sudden, hopeful turn to keep a proper eye on her michen.

Was this smuggling? Soul trafficking?

“No,” Shaleän had said, her frown heavy and fitting far too well on her face; lines Maia had attributed solely to her broad, bright grin suddenly made more sense. Frown lines. Scowl lines, like wheel ruts worn into the hard-packed earth of her. “It is liberation, Maia. We offer what freedom is available in this blighted world to the people who need it most, and my only regret is that I cannot give it to everyone suffering under the weight of man’s cruelty and greed.”

So, he was… adjusting, one could say. In light of the insistence with which he had forced his way into this world—onto Shaleän’s ship, into Shaleän’s so-called business—he found this struggle to be more than a little embarrassing.

It was not fun—it was work. Good work. Work with an undeniably positive influence on the world, regardless of who might label the unlicensed liberation of indentured servants a crime.

Maia brought a smile to the fugitive Min Pallared’s face within an hour of meeting her properly (And Cstheio Cairei, was the hold in which they hid their refugees small) and it was work, but he felt that spark of light as a tectonic shift in the bedrock of his soul. Paris was wrong—he could help here, without a sword. And so he did it again with their next lot of escapees—a family of Telvar, whose anxious tails and too-wide eyes made Maia sick to his stomach in the imagining of the lifetime of cruelty required to so damage them. They reminded him too much of himself, those first few months away from Edonomee, and when he laid in his hammock between shifts and caretaking duties, he could not help but sink into gruesome thoughts of what he himself would have become, had he been left to Setheris’ cruel hands for a lifetime.

It was work, to be sure, but he had never felt so alive as he did in those first months aboard that two-faced ship.

All around him were people, storied and vibrant, and he doubted he would ever tire of cracking them open, that they might tell him of their families, their dreams, lost loves and the folklore that belongs to single blood lines. Sozu Khalamar and his grandmother’s insistence on the ill omens of curdling milk. Sinker Shipsblight and the long string of willful calamities that had earned him his moniker, and the respect of Paris. Iölo Marin and her repeating dream of sprouting wings to fly away from everything she had ever known.

And, of course, there was the music. He had not expected the music.

Sometimes, as they drew to the end of a hard sail, Paris would turn a blind eye to the halving of the usual night shift in favor of a sleepy skeleton crew abovedecks, and everyone else would retreat to the ship’s galley and drain the last kegs of ale dry. It was a raucous thing, everyone thoroughly soused, and then someone would start singing—Sinker, usually, lusty and loud as the south wind.

The repertoire were things Maia had heard before, having spent nearly half his life in sailing communities: rowing songs, shanties, bawdy ballads. He knew the tunes to most of them, if not the lyrics—and the ones he did not know came to him quickly.

Almost six months on, he felt he had nearly gotten the hang of it all. He could scale the mizzenmast in sixty seconds, rarely got tangled up in all the different words for wind, and could wail a bawdy drinking song with the best of them.

They had just finished one such song, and Maia’s cheeks were hot with drink and the youthful embarrassment of singing about breasts with a zealous lot of sailors on a dry spell and a trio of especially fervent marnai. He was fully considering tapping out from the excitement of it all, when someone cried over the merry shouting of the men, “Let’s have Maia lead one!”

The roar that rose at the idea was a thing of beauty. It sped Maia’s pulse, for he doubted that even an ocean’s worth of ale could fake such unmistakeable delight. The clamor rang of something like acceptance, and Maia was helpless to resist the hands that chivvied him to stand atop the swaying table.

Someone pressed a fresh flagon of ale into his hand, and he heard shouts of “Let’s have it, lad!” and “Put thy chest into it, sprout!” as well as a clangor of song requests—and, so dizzied, Maia startled himself as much as everyone else by belting out the opening call of his favorite shanty:

“Ye nations have your princes, you kingdoms have your kings,

But we who set to sail the sea

Bow only to the Wind!”

Laughter and cheers of recognition met the first bit of the tune, and though his voice shook with sudden nerves at the start, by the time he reached the chorus, he had built to a jubilant shout. He raised his flagon as all joined in the singing.

“So follow me, lads,” the crew of the Glorious Dragon wailed as one voice, and Maia stomped the tabletop with all his might.

“‘Fore he storms upon the fray!

Corat’ will whip you down to dust

And blow you straight away!”

The beating of fists and stomping of feet raised the beat of The Ballad of King Corat’, and Maia did not think he had ever smiled as hard as he did then, singing of his legendary aunt, the King of Pirates.

“The baron sees no bloodshed, the emperor no rain,

But the Serpent King who skims the sea

Reigns only over pain!”

The men howled, and a jostling in the crowd caught Maia’s attention—the crew shifting to give Shaleän, Corat’ herself, space as she waded towards the table, her grin a rakish slash of white in the warm dimness of the galley. Maia beamed and reached to haul her up beside him, and they stomped out the chorus together, arms around shoulders.

“So follow me lads!

‘Fore we heel to his domain!

Corat’ will crush us down to dust

And rinse us down the drain!”

“Your krakens and your sirens,” Maia sang, thrilled as Shaleän joined him, her voice rough and far from tuneful.

“Your leviathans and all

Know better than to raise a hand

To Cruelty the Squall!”

She clashed her flagon to his, dousing them both thoroughly in ale, and Maia did not know if he had ever been so happy in his life. It was such a simple feeling, yet so large that it brimmed over all of his shakily sketched borders, rendering him a jubilant creature in Shaleän’s tight grip.

“So follow me, lads!

‘Fore he finds us in a pall!

Corat’ will strike us down to dust

And spell a fell downfall!”

And so they sang and stomped and crowed for the whole sprawl of verses, telling a blazing tale of Shaleän’s conquests—and her pressed to his side all the while, loud and calamitous and alive alive alive. The both of them, so very, wildly alive.

Maia’s voice was shot by the end and his blood ran hot with a palpable sense of belonging unlike anything he had ever felt. Joy, repeating. Life, glorious and wretched and reeking of too many people in too small a space.

Shaleän embraced him then, like she knew what brilliant cacophony was brewing in his chest. Like it was the work of her life to hold him in one piece, whether the shaking be a thing of joy, or of grief.

“I love thee, my heart,” she murmured for him alone. “More than every jewel in thy Lady’s starry sky.”

“Oh,” Maia said—a silly thing, for he had long known the timbre of his aunt’s love. It was only that having this talented, determined crew respond to him with nothing but delight in their collective voices had stripped him raw, and it brought to the surface that little part of him that still curled into a protective ball when he slept. And that part was ever so hungry for all Shaleän and her crew offered.

“I love thee, too,” he replied, squeezing her tight enough that she gave a little Oof of surprise. “More than the whole sea.”

“More than the mermaids?”

“More than every blessed fucking fish in the place.”

Their laughter was lost beneath the clamor of their crew, which was just fine with them.

#aj answers #himbohaggins #ask meme #ask #the writing tag #maia's a pirate now #;alskdfjawl;kfdjw IDK GUYS I WANT EVERYONE TO CARE ABOUT THIS FUCKING STORY AS MUCH AS I DO

[generation1point5]

Though it’s likely beyond the scope of what Arches set out to convey, the implications given in its epilogue have me thinking of greater patterns and themes that could be explored in the world of Echo. Spoilers below the readmore, given how fresh the public release is.

In the timeline where Cameron did not dodge the shot to the head and persisted as a voice in Devon’s thoughts well beyond Echo reveals interesting twists with regards to the nature of certain places in Echo’s earth. Echo is not the only nexus of active paranormal activity, where the refractions of a given being are captured like snapshots and persist in the minds of others present, echos in a very literal sense of the word. For all intents and purposes, it is a simulacrum devoid of personhood, like an extremely sophisticated machine capable of mimicking all the physical conditions evident in a person that people can relate with. Philosophically, it begs the question of personhood, and identity being beyond the assemblage of thoughts and memories that comprise an individual. But that is not what I am most interested in; I am more fascinated by the potential for other spots like Echo to be found, and the ramifications of their advent.

Narratively, it means that a similar group of people could experience identical things in other isolated pockets around the world, or that there are places that are primed to awaken at the first tragedy to be triggered. To fit within the horror genre, these awakenings must be an isolated affair, affecting a select few who are helpless to avert the circumstances they are plunged into, a local incident of mass hysteria. The Devon that lived on in the absence of Cameron made it his life mission to stop these buildups from occurring anywhere where they might be found, but to my mind this mission felt impossible, if only for the fact that these events are not necessarily performed at an individual level, but can be products of systemic failure. Of course, broadening the scale from the individual to the systemic shifts the genre from horror to apocalypse, but that is precisely what I am moved to think of.

Death on a mass scale is depersonalized for the sheer necessity of being able to process it without a complete breakdown. War has been whitewashed time and again for this very reason, but the realities by which it is known, to those who manage to survive its horrors, know it to be nearly unrivaled in most respects. Twice, the world itself experienced killing on an unprecedented scale in both casualty rate and sheer distances the war had reached. On such a scale, I wonder if it were possible that many Echos, triggered together and with a buildup in the millions, could create a resonance cascade that would eventually spill over into an apocalyptic event.

I already had inklings of these thoughts when considering The Smoke Room, taking place in the time period where a world war raged, where the landscape of continental Europe had been completely turned upside down in an unprecedented outbreak of violence. The Smoke Room as a prequel also makes nods to this dynamic; it puts heavy emphasis on the superstructures and socioeconomic forces which contribute to the conditions that will trigger the inevitable calamity of Echo. I have also made prior assertions that Echo in the thematic sense is a place where the dynamics of the human condition and its fallibility are accelerated to its logical conclusion. Applied on a global scale, many Echos triggered by the fallibility of mankind could arguably come with its own consequences. It is not so different from the realities we find ourselves in today when considering the future of climate change, late-stage capitalism, and the resurgence of reactionary conservative political movements across the globe. Politics, after all, are just the expressions of human psychology applied on a mass scale.

In this respect, I am reminded by the prescience of Dostoyevsky's writings and the near-prophetic conclusions they often reached. With regards to the world of Echo and its own themes and commentary, I believe the nightmare depicted in Crime and Punishment’s epilogue fits the general sentiment for a possible apocalyptic event befalling its earth, as a consequence of unnumbered atrocities building up across the scattered nexuses of the paranormal across its lands. In many ways, it does not feel so different from what could be feasible in our own future today.

Men attacked by them became at once mad and furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual and so completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples went mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched looking at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what to consider evil and what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed each other in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march the armies would begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing all day long in the towns; men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was summoning them no one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned, because everyone proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed on something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another, fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All men and all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread and moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the whole world.

#personal #blogging #writing #not going to tag any of the Echo Project stuff since these thoughts are largely tangential to the material it is inspired by

[biblioflyer]

Ahsoka Theses Intro

I'm late to the party as usual but I wanted to let the show digest before I started banging out some thoughts. Some are pedestrian, many meandering. On the whole I liked it but also I felt like there's a lot of nits to pick with how the story unfolded.

As an amusing device, I'm dividing up my praise and complaints into Light Side and Dark Side Takes. As always, this is my two credits, your mileage may vary and I'm also down for having something I missed pointed out that seemed blindingly obvious to someone else.

And no, its not the usual complaints about Mary Sues or "Look how they massacred my boy!" blather that centers Legends as peak storytelling.

Additional entries in this series:

Light Side: "Balanced" Anakin

Dark Side: Efforts were clearly made to develop complex, layered characters through heavy prosthetics and contact lenses but someone dropped the ball on supporting these performances.

Just to prime the pump and for a sampling, here's a few short ones.

Light Side: The Action Choreography. 

I have generally been in favor of the return to more tense, tactical swordplay as compared to the flamboyance of the Prequel Trilogy. The jockeying for position and mind games before the first stroke is made really worked for me. I know some people seem to feel like the Prequel Trilogy’s high octane, more acrobatic combat conveyed the idea of superhuman power more, but the older I get, the more I find it more tedious than exciting.

Dark Side: The conflict between Ahsoka and Sabine just didn’t work for me. 

At any point. I was frustrated and disengaged with how the series saved the context for the sullen silences and the clipped remarks until the series was mostly over.

It certainly seemed like an attempt to set up an intriguing mystery. Why are Ahsoka and Sabine at odds? Is it Sabine? Is it Ahsoka? Is it Ahsoka’s baggage from the Jedi and Anakin? Is it Sabine’s Midicholorian deficiency? 

We don’t get a real clue until Ahsoka’s shadow play with Anakin. Then we finally get the unpacking of some of her fears over being tainted by her experiences as a child soldier and being the padawan of the man who went on to become the second most evil person in the galaxy up to that point.

Huyang’s explanation of the conflict to Ezra, in my opinion, steps all over the much better explanation that it was all Ahsoka and her conflicted feelings over the Jedi, how she was trained, and whether she was herself actually a good person after everything she had to do. Instead the explanation is apparently that Ahsoka is afraid of what Sabine could become with the right training. 

Which isn’t necessarily bad as explanations go: Mandalorians aren’t exactly known for being on the same page as the Jedi as to when violence is and isn’t an appropriate tool for a situation. It's just an explanation that is less directly connected to Ahsoka’s journey from gray to light.

I suppose these two explanations aren’t even mutually exclusive. Huyang is observant but not omniscient. Nothing says he has to be taken as if its from an entirely reliable narrator, although he’s presented as pretty darn reliable. Further, it could be both at the same time: Ahsoka fears that she is incapable of training someone who won’t fall to the Dark Side and she also fears that Sabine’s baggage and instincts lead to a natural affinity with the Dark Side and a Dark Side Mandalorian would be bad news indeed.

Light Side: Ahsoka Tano, Child Soldier

The switch from seeing animated Ahsoka to a live action, age appropriate Ahsoka was harrowing. It absolutely, positively did what it needed to do: to represent all of the complicated feelings Ahsoka has about the Jedi Order, Anakin, and the trajectory of her life. It's left unsaid, but it offers an implicit explanation for why she doesn’t stay on as a teacher for Luke’s new Jedi Order nor are there hints that she had any inkling to mentor him. 

That Ahsoka would struggle to form a connection with Sabine, another child of war, would make perfect sense. I’m slightly less thrilled about Huyang going so far as to suggest Ahsoka feared Sabine, but it might be proper to say that what Ahsoka fears is that she only knows how to forge people into instruments of destruction and thus any lineage she starts will be at risk for falling to the Dark Side.

Baylon is also an effective mirror to show what Ahsoka could be if she’d traded fear for resentment and let it curdle.

Credit where credit is due, Ariana Greenblatt can play any traumatized alien child she wants. That is a kid who has a natural talent for acting through prosthetics. Watch this kid, because I think she could be the female Doug Jones if she wants that career path. 

It just shouldn’t have taken five episodes to reach this kind of breakthrough in unpacking the title character’s motivations.

#star wars #ahsoka #ahsoka series #ahsoka show #ahsoka 2023 #ahsoka tano #star wars ahsoka #sabine wren #light side #dark side #jedi #ariana greenblatt #ahsoka review #ahsoka commentary #ahsoka analysis