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comicaurora · 6 months

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tldr I committed to a bit too hard

The slow-dawning sunlight dappled down through dense, rich foliage, scattering golden lace across mossy trunks and grassy hillocks. The light caught on the forest floor in a thousand glassy dewdrops and bent, fisheyed, in globed inversions of the canopy above.

No breeze stirred the forest so early in the morning, but a thin mist gathered in the valley under the warming air. Sunbeams lanced through the fog, pale in the dawn but soon to brighten and intensify. For now, the air was damp and cool and still, and the scent of the night lingered.

Pip bent a pawful of grass to the side and sniffed the air suspiciously.

It was too quiet, too still. And with no wind, she couldn't mark the position of the strange beasts and their odd, dusty, acrid scent that had no place in these woods. It hung low and directionless over the peaceful morning, distant but permeating, like a faraway fire.

She adjusted her backslung blade, wrapped her cloak closer around her and dropped onto all fours, nose pointed straight ahead and whiskers standing at attention. Her dusty green-gray wrap would shield her from all but the most attentive prying eyes, and - she quirked an ear, just to be sure of the silence - most of the forest was still asleep, unlikely to mark her passage.

She managed to stifle a flinch as a sound that wasn't a sound bypassed her ears and rang straight into her head.

Pip? Where'd you go?

She exhaled softly through her nose, the barest expression of frustration she allowed herself.

Scouting, Alder. Go back to sleep.

She set off before he could reply, scurrying silently along the mossy forest floor, tracing a sinuous route through the canopy's shadow to stay out of the slow-brightening sunbeams.

Scouting?!

The thought squeaked with disbelief. She didn't answer it.

Alder never had fewer than three thoughts at a time, and the more agitated he became, the harder they became to sort through. A jumble rang in her skull, a snatch of Eldest told us- and moves like thunder and have to hide, that last one echoing in six different ways with the significance it held in his mind. She concentrated on tracing her silent route, one shadow to the next, and came to a stop under a broad-leafed stalk as Alder's distress built to a crescendo.

If she kept moving, eventually she'd slip out of his range. Wasn't that a tempting thought.

I said go back to sleep, she sent, and with an afterthought of inexpert kindness, added I'm being careful. It'll be fine.

The chattering ground to a halt, and she felt the effort it took him to focus his thoughts down to a single thread. Come back, Pip. We have to stay hidden until they're all gone.

We can't hide if we don't know where they are.

Pip caught the beginning of his protest and shook herself violently, breaking off the connection. It was rude, she knew; closing her mind completely was one of her rarer talents, but unlike her other oddities, this one she wasn't particularly respected for. Her skills as a scout were admired precisely because she had such sharp senses, physical and mental both - some days she could even hear the slow, tangled thoughts of the Long Shadows - but when she didn't want to be disturbed, she could wall herself off from the others as thoroughly as if she'd been on the other side of the forest.

And right now, picking her way between treetrunks and sniffing her way towards the bizarre menagerie that had invaded her forest, the last thing she wanted was to be disturbed.

Her right forepaw sank in unexpectedly soft soil, and she recoiled with a stifled gasp. Her eyes darted across the swath of ground, analyzing its shape - and then she widened her scope, scanning the yards beyond that first strange softness. In a low-lying, hollowed track between two thick-rooted trees, the carpet of grass and flowers were flattened and crushed into a felted mat, mud bubbling through it in irregular patches like sickness in a wound. A wide track had been beaten into the soil by dozens - at least dozens, she amended - of flat-pawed creatures. Their dusty, acrid stink lay heavily over it.

She drew back from the unnaturally soft soil. Even with her diminutive size and weight, there was the risk of getting mired in unexpectedly watery ground, and while rescue was never far away in these woods, she certainly didn't want to weather Alder's overconcern or Eldest Luma's quietly smug passivity. Instead she skirted towards a point where the track narrowed, lashed her tail for a momentary burst in balance, then sprang over the mud and latched onto a tree root on the other side, freshly ripped free from the soil and scored with dozens of thin scars from the claws of the marching creatures. She scurried up and settled at the tree's base, where the gnarled roots tangled into a more-than-sturdy foothold overhanging the morass.

With the newfound advantage of height, she surveyed the terrain. The tracks overlapped one another in a mad scramble, pouring up from the lowland forest and curving up and away.

They moved with surprising organization for such motley creatures. She counted at least four very different sizes of print in the track, some barely longer than her own body (nose to the base of her tail) while some were large enough to crush her underfoot without even noticing.

The tracks were only a few hours old. The swarm must have passed in the early pre-dawn. She strained her memory to try and recall if she'd felt any tremors from down in the sleep-halls of the hollow, but if she were honest with herself, they were too far down and too well-insulated by the soft soil walls to have marked their passage.

She turned her attention to where the trail vanished from sight, curving over and up the slope. The land in that direction was treacherous and, to the mind of her people, best avoided. Gravel slips and rain rivulets ran down between the massive plates of rock that jutted out of the soil, and even though trees and flowers overgrew them, their roots could not be trusted to hold the ground together enough for safe passage of one of her size. Fresh rainfall unearthed and dislodged glassy chips of stone, and the soil turned to mud and slipped between the boulders, exposing treacherous chasms that could swallow an unwary traveler. The shattered earth built up and up until it abruptly skewed and slanted down in a gentle curve, like the ground had been struck with a terrible force and the shattering had rippled out from the center. And in the heart of that broken land, glimpsed fearfully from treetops or the shadow of the stones, lay the stronghold of the Long Shadows.

Once, long redmoons ago, Pip had traveled three days and nights to scale the shattered peaks herself, to see the stronghold with her own eyes (mostly due to a burst of rebellious curiosity after a scolding from Eldest Luma). The works of the Long Shadows could always be distinguished from natural formations or nests - they had a love of smooth things, and the stone they shaped stretched cleanly skyward and bore no footholds beyond the straight, geometric fissures that ran up and through them. So Pip already knew that the stronghold was encircled by a massive shadowcrafted cliff, pale and smooth as ice and taller than trees, and it surrounded the entire stronghold just behind the shattered peaks. Beyond the wall, great columns and cliffs jutted skyward, more smooth handicraft of the Long Shadows. At times they were even spotted outside the walls, tending great swaths of land in the same precise straight lines they shaped their stone. Those tracts bore vast quantities of food in unnatural abundance, some that grew nowhere else in the valley, but the Long Shadows guarded them closely and harshly punished intrusion, and the Eldest three generations before Luma had forbade anyone from entering (or even approaching) their strange geometric works, no matter how lean the winters became.

She debated following the trail. It would inexorably lead her towards the stronghold, but if the creatures were focused solely on the Long Shadows, that was valuable information to bring back to the hollow. No doubt Eldest Luma would be pleased to have yet another reason to avoid the Long Shadows and their works.

A sudden awareness prickled in the small of Pip's back, shivering up into her ears and all the way down to the tip of her tail. Her gray fur bristled and she froze, eyes darting wildly, seeking the source. The feeling had no obvious impetus, but she trusted her tail with her life, and something was happening. Something sourceless, something…

At the base of the root she was balanced on, a sprout punctured the trodden soil and curled upwards, splitting into pairs of pale green leaves. She watched as it climbed to twice her height in less than three beats of her racing heart.

Instinct took over. She scampered up the tree like a shot, finding footholds in the bark with a practiced ease that belied her jolting terror. She plunged into the safety of the leafshadow and clung to a branch, breathing fast and shallow and trying very hard to stay quiet.

Below her, a green carpet spread across the mire as grass and flowers bloomed impossibly fast.

The Weeping Shadow was approaching.

Pip strained her ears and caught the hint of a whisper of movement through the grass, distant and soft but certainly coming closer. It was pointless to cast her eyes towards the darkness - The Weeping Shadow was, in the stories, always swathed in gray, near invisible in the shadow of the canopy, and it passed in many tales without a trace, save for its flowering footsteps as its passage drove the forest to frenzy.

But it never came so close to the stronghold. The Weeping Shadow's domain was the deep and tangled woods, much further into the valley than even the hollow. It haunted the river and the wild places, and its realm was thick with plants of impossible vitality and sweetness - but not even the bravest scout dared its domain, even when hunger was rampant. The fruits of the Weeping Shadow's realm were steeped in an absolute sorrow whose depth defied comprehension, and the slow pulse of its thoughts churned in dark and wrenching misery that could be heard across half the valley. It was too much for the mind to take for long, and scouts that had strayed into its influence took moons to recover from the borrowed grief.

That had been the prickling on Pip's neck. The slow approach of the Weeping Shadow was already casting a pallor on her mind - and it was getting closer.

Pip's thoughts scrambled for her next move. If she stayed hidden, the Weeping Shadow would pass nearer to her than anyone had ever dared. She flattened her ears against her head and focused on the walls around her mind. Could she close herself to it strongly enough to hold out?

A wild fear beat against her ribs. She wanted to stay clinging to this branch forever, but she also wanted to bolt, to sprint the length of the branch and fling herself into open space, trusting the soft soil to cushion her fall - or rather, if she were honest with herself in that moment, heedless of what the fall might do to her. The desperate urge to flee was strong in her people, and here, faced with a terror closer than ever before, it was nigh overwhelming.

But Pip had a third instinct that overruled all others when she allowed it, and it had been slowly growing in her mind ever since she'd slipped from the hollow before the dawn. It was a hunger, of a sort, and one that warred always with fear. The hunger was curiosity, a thrumming urge for exploration and understanding that spurred her on through peril and dark for the promise of clarity on the other side.

The beasts in her forest were descending on the stronghold, and their passage had stirred the Weeping Shadow from its domain. Something was happening - something vast, something perhaps unknowable. But it would certainly stay unknowable if she didn't even try to know it.

And perhaps the Weeping Shadow knew.

Pip had more control than most over the openness of her mind. It alarmed her peers, sometimes, that she could pass among them in silence, unreceptive to their soundless speech. It unnerved them more, for those who knew - from a time when she was more open with her secrets and her strangeness - that she could at times hear the deep thoughts of the Long Shadows, and stranger still, sometimes even catch a shred of their meaning. The idea that the minds of the Long Shadows could in any way compare to the bright, clear thoughts of her people was on the surface laughable, and just under that surface, frightening. Still, she knew it was true. Their minds were dark, slow places, but they contained meaning and knowledge, most beyond the reckoning of her kind.

The mind of the Weeping Shadow was an abyss of grief and sorrow, but if she could attune her senses to it - if she could withstand its pressure - she could, perhaps, glean its purpose in the shattered peaks, and what it knew of the creatures that she pursued.

The underbrush cracked. Pip flattened herself against the branch and peered intently at the sound as the rolling wave of green spread under the tree, blanketing in every direction.

A shape moved in the shadow of the trees, ponderous and slow.

Pip felt her eyes grow hot and stinging, the space behind them heavy with unshed tears. A borrowed bottomless grief encroached on the walls of her mind, lapping at it like a swelling river threatening its banks.

The Weeping Shadow broke from the treeline and stepped forward.

It towered, even from Pip's high vantage point. It was gray and still and almost shapeless in the dim of the canopy, but twin lights glimmered near its summit, pale green like the sprouts boiling at its feet.

Pip's head pounded. The pressure of its presence was terrible. It was vast, yes, but the power of the sorrow within it seemed vaster still - like all the forest around it was desperate to weep, and the Shadow was the only part of it that could, yet it refused to.

The Shadow tilted its head down, and the lights of its eyes vanished in the gloom. But it was not weeping, Pip knew. It was… looking.

Looking at the tracks under its carpet of grass.

Pip gritted her teeth, gripped the branch, and opened her mind.

It was gentler than she had anticipated. The pressure and power was indescribable, but once she stopped trying to push it back, she found it moved her rather like water would - with force, but without pain. It was almost easy to let the thoughts of this vast creature buffet her where they would.

The words in the Weeping Shadow's mind were unknown to her, but she felt a snatch of them repeating over and over again. The words mattered less than the feeling that drove them, and as she focused, she realized that the Weeping Shadow was, in some way, at war with itself; the thoughts were not all in agreement. The repetition smelled of deep, old terror, but its loop was broken over and over again by a different, newer thought - one that Pip herself was intimately familiar with, strong enough that she needed no translation to parse it:

But I can help.

Dimly, in her faraway body, she felt tears pouring from her, hot and desperate from a grief she couldn't fathom. Her claws gripped the bark of the branch. The Weeping Shadow's thoughts, at the moment, were focused on its inner war, but it did nothing to shield Pip from the substrate of its misery. Still, she was onto something. If she could just push through, she might learn what the Weeping Shadow understood of the intruders to their forest.

Pip dug deeper. The Weeping Shadow knew what these creatures were - knew what they intended - believed it could help in some way - but what did it know of them?

Running below the looping dread and the punctuating bursts of hope, Pip glimpsed a glimmering ribbon of understanding wending its way just below the Weeping Shadow's conscious thought. It snaked under the fear, coiled around the thought of help. This had to be the knowledge that had motivated the Weeping Shadow's unheard-of migration. This was the mystery of the creatures answered.

This, perhaps, was Pip's only mistake. As she caught the thread of that understanding, it abruptly yanked against the current and plunged her down, down, down into the icy depth of the Weeping Shadow's truest misery. Its knowledge of these creatures came from the same bone-deep wellspring as the torrent of tears, and Pip screamed aloud as it battered her mind full-force. Alien thoughts crashed against her, unbearably loud; the grinding of bone, the shifting of stone, the pounding of waves greater than any river, the splintering of mighty trees. A twisting, a breaking - a power like a maddened, wild animal, thrashing and uncontrollable, kept in check only by its own terrible exhaustion and grief. She was so, so small, and somehow in the depths of this vastness she was even further diminished, crushed to a single point of light-

And something was watching her.

With a last mighty burst of willpower she released the thought-thread, flung herself away, and tumbled off the branch. It was something of a mercy that she was too stunned to feel the impact, and the carpet of seedlings cushioned her fall.

The first thing she became aware of was her breathing, high and fast and shallow in time with her racing heartbeat, real panic and borrowed sorrow draining away with shocking rapidity. Second, she felt the pain; her head pounding with spent exhaustion, her paws cramped in every joint, her back and shoulders bruised from where the impact of the fall had driven her scabbarded blade against her spine.

The third thing she became aware of was the shadow stretching towards her, claws stretched as long as her whole body, the deep purple of the skies after dusk.

The Weeping Shadow loomed over her, vaster than mountains. Two points of green pierced out from the dark.

She ran.

#aurora #prose writing #look. I have no explanation #well no I do have an explanation #and I'm curious if this makes literally any sense to anyone but me #but I had fun and that's what counts #pip's fine I have plenty more ideas for her

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bardicbird · 1 month

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Working on my own Disco Elysium skills! Individual art pieces and descriptions (in the style of the game) below the cut :]

DIALECTICS

Examine verbal landscapes. Get to the truth of the matter.

Cool for: Logicians, Philosophers, Asshole Devil’s Advocates

Dialetics urges you to look beyond the basics of conversation. It encourages you to discuss theories, truths and falsehoods, until you exhaust everyone around you with your sheer affinity for taking the most convoluted routes to your deductions—but, hey, it works! Those people are only *really* annoyed because you very accurately psychoanalyzed them.

At high levels, Dialectics will help you reason with even the most convoluted of situations. You will be an unstoppable detective, who may occasionally suffer from some unintended side effects such as: your brain and mouth moving too fast, overcomplicating little things, becoming an insufferable jerk, and joining your local debate team. With low levels of Dialectics, you’re going to have a difficult time seeing through both worldly and interpersonal deceptions. You may find yourself being taken advantage of.

EVOCATION

Recall emotions and imagery. Paint complete pictures of the past.

Cool for: Visualizers, Chronic Observers, Witnesses Of Crimes

Evocation allows you to call forth memories that may otherwise be lost in the recesses of your mind. Previous instances of sound, touch, taste, feeling, sight—all of these are at your beck and call: able to be summoned within and around you in a great miasma of experience. You will be able to relive important events, even those that were only mere seconds, and examine them closer to reveal what you couldn’t comprehend in the moment.

At high levels, Evocation will help you reimagine scenes that may have happened years ago, lasted the length of a blink—or, perhaps, even allow you to picture memories that you were not present for. You will find yourself constantly transported to the past: a single whiff of a familiar perfume enough to completely derail your senses. With low levels of Evocation, you’re going to have a hard time remembering simple conversations and potentially important visual details. You will have to rely on others in such scenarios.

BODY OF LAWS

Know your rights. Remember fun courtroom trivia.

Cool for: Lawyers, Law-Evaders, Stick-In-The-Muds

Body Of Laws is responsible for your ability to follow the law at any given time—or don’t! Just because you know the rules doesn’t mean you have to play by them. Regardless, it certainly allows you to recall a, frankly, embarrassing amount of your government’s regulations, and may encourage you to ‘stay in your lane’, so to speak, regarding them. Governments aren’t the only entities that enact rules, though: you will also find yourself privy to understanding unspoken boundaries set by people, nature, and even your subconscious self.

At high levels, Body Of Laws will either make you an *extremely* insufferable goody-two-shoes, or a *wildly* effective cheat-of-the-system. You may end up feeling suffocated by all these restrictions you can so clearly see, causing you to become complicit with the movings of the machine—or potentially apathetic to why we need some of these restrictions in the first place. With low levels of Body Of Laws, you may find yourself accidentally violating boundaries you didn’t know existed—whether they be legal, personal, or cultural.

#WOW the quality is. Yikes. maybe i’ll fix that later idk i can’t be bothered #i have ideas for most of the rest of my skills which im very excited abt but i wanna finish up the logic set first #VERY excited for the one abt eloquent/charismatic speaking which is either going to be called loquacity or purple prose haven’t decided #leaning towards purple prose bc yknow. I’m a writer.#can you tell i love em dashes. can you tell.#EDIT: okay i played around w quality a little u might need to click for better bc its tumblr. also i still wanted to keep it a little #-crunchy. lmao #disco elysium art #disco elysium #disco elysium skills #my art #100+

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moran4444 · 1 year

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he doesn’t like it(lies)

[ID: Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint fanart. Kim Dokja gently cups Yoo Joonghyuk's head as he presses a kiss beside Joonghyuk’s eye, multiple "kiss" effects floating around them. Joonghyuk, blushing, frowns and emits a weak protesting sound. The background is pale pink, and the piece is softly overlaid with a pink and purple glow. End ID]

#orv #omniscient reader's viewpoint #kim dokja #yoo joonghuyk #joongdok #dokhyuk #kiss kiss #fall in love #tu tuuu tu tuuu tu tuuu tu tuuu #i dont think the pink background is the best idea but eh #thanks to princess-of-purple-prose for the ID #described

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memories-beneath-the-skin · 5 months

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Love isn't complicated if you can make syrup

Filter the debris you don't want to start with

Don't judge her for her past

Select a pot with room to boil

Accept her for the woman she has become

Medium heat, let it come up to temp slowly

Love her mind, not just her body

Small bubbles will form,growing in intensity

Tell her every time you think it, how you feel

Wooden spoon, gentle stirring, cycle the liquid

Fill her with trust, not regret, care for her

Once rolling boil, watch carefully as it begins to reduce

Kill the doubt, fight her fears, build her soul

The thicker the liquid becomes, reduce heat

Support her dreams, value and listen to her thoughts

Stir,now is not the time to step away

Unconditionally love her or let her go

The syrup should cling to the spoon not drip

She should fill your dreams, claim your soul

The syrup will thicken as it cools, don't reduce too far

She should be the air your need, the water for your thirst

Enjoy the creation it will be intense with flavor

Be the man she needs, not the one she wishes she had

Life is too short not make syrup or love with all you have inside

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six-white-venus · 3 months

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the worst trait of me and my family is probably this: we never learned to say the word sorry.

i) my best friend and i, we are no people. knives? maybe. liars? definitely. but people? i’m not so sure.

knives were never forged to be tender (what a shame, what a shame) and we too, fall and slay what we meant to protect. him and i, we go for the throat when we clash. we hurt and bleed and oh, i should be terrified, i should be running for my life, but all i am is tired and a bit lonely and would really like his arms around me.

( “can we please stop fighting now.”

“oh god yes please.”)

because time and time again, this man has held my heart in his hands and cleaned its festering wounds with cotton dipped in alcohol (always the healer, always the lover) and wrapped gauze around them with clinical precision. and i have walked through the maze of his head and tended to his withering garden, have dragged the sun and fresh air and all the oceans to the barren land to make it bloom (always the poet, always the lover).

him and i, we have never needed words because we are knives forged in the same fire and at the end of the day, we both know that he will be the one who wordlessly stitches my broken heart and i will be the one who sings him to sleep.

ii) let me paint you a picture:

blue that fades into red that fades into black that fades into blue that fades into red. loud, clashing and nonsensical. a pit in your stomach that was dug with desperation and blunt fingernails. how do you colour anger that is also pain, grief, hate, love, fear and truth? the smell of the paint is foul and clogs your windpipes. blunt fingernails and blue and black and madness. can you bear to look at what you created without flinching?

that’s what anger looks like on my father. a horror. a mottled bruise. a hellfire.

all his life, my father has been scorned, belittled, beaten, spat on. his mother didn’t love him right because her mother didn’t love her right. my dad loves like he hates. something is fucked in his head and heart and his words fade into black and blue and red and this shitshow always ends with me sobbing, bleeding, dying on the floor. my father watches with his hackles raised and his eyes red and wide and glowing. once wounded, an animal never sheathes its claws. it strikes the ones it loves and walks away with its head held high and hands trembling.

but here’s what happens when the curtains close: he pulls me into his arms and brings me tea. he wipes away my tears with hands that has moved mountains to make me smile. he kisses my forehead and tells me that his mom didn’t love him right. my grief is like anger and indignation and love. i wrap my arms around him and cry all the tears he never had the luxury to. who should say sorry, really? is it him or his mom or his mom’s mom or this stupid fucking world? my father has never said the word sorry. he never needed to. this is what love looks like on us. a horror. a mottled bruise. a hellfire.

iii) despite it all, i am not usually an angry person. i take after my father and my mother, after all. i rage like my mother (quick, loud, fire that burns out almost as quickly as it sparked to life) and fight like my father (aim, shoot, bullseye). my sister does something even mildly upsetting and before i know it, i’m cursing her to be miserable till she dies. not even an hour later i’m draping myself over her shoulder and bugging her till she rolls her eyes and smiles ever so slightly.

(“do you have no shame?”

“yeah no i don’t think so.”)

my family and i, we never learned to say the word sorry. because the word sorry never meant sorry, not to us. because at the end of the day, that’s all it is: a word. and it sticks to the back of my tongue and the dents of my molars and gets tangled in my mouth when i try to spit it out. so i grab it by its throat and thread it into my being. i find it so much easier to hide my pathetic inability to do one thing that doesn’t scream that there's something wrong with me with the truth of another three words:

“i love you”

and they are always echoed back to me, just a few million times more tender, in ways only we can understand.

“yeah, i know.”

“that’s great, but there’s no escaping dishes duty.”

“oh, shut up, you.”

“what’s that for?”

a pause and a hum.

“i love you too.”

#vi is back on their dysfuctionally healthy familial love agenda again #it's like. that one quote #love is a doing word #everything stems from love. everything gets its meaning because they are all doing words #maybe it's the way we've all benn raised/fucked over by the world but #saying sorry feels so.... wrong. hollow. it's simply not enough #i've grown up feeling like nothing i do is enough and that also travels to my way of apologising #we are all damaged in one way or another but we are all capable of so much love #and that's what my family and friends have taught me #it's okay if you're messed up and have no idea how to be a functional person. it's okay to screw up. we can sit and fix it #together #my writing #prose poetry #love #words #writeblr #prose #familial love #love languages #anger

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rukafais · 10 months

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the funniest part of seeing people dunking on DnD (which is fine, it’s not for everyone and some people have had understandably bad experiences) is seeing what people suggest as Better Alternatives to DnD or things you SHOULD start with as a new tabletop player

because oh my god. Oh my god. Fucking Exalted? Fucking World of Darkness? You’re recommending THOSE as newbie-friendly? Fucking EXALTED?

#like owod/nwod is idea and prose rich to its detriment #you need someone to point out the immediately relevant bits so you dont get lost in the sauce #but EXALTED? EXALTED FOR BEGINNERS? DO NOT DO THAT TO SOMEONE UNLESS YOU HATE THEM #EXALTED IS EVERY SINGLE IMPENETRABLE WRITING THING EVER INCLUDED IN WOD TIMES TEN

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thewriteadviceforwriters · 10 months

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Unique Fantasy Story Idea Prompts

A young woman discovers that she is the last of her kind, a race of people with the power to control the weather. She must use her powers to save her people from extinction.

A group of friends go on a camping trip in the woods, only to discover that they have stumbled into a magical forest. The forest is home to all sorts of creatures, both friendly and dangerous.

A boy finds a magic book that allows him to travel to different worlds. He uses the book to explore new and exciting places, but he soon learns that the book is more dangerous than he thought.

A young woman is chosen to be the next in line to the throne of a powerful kingdom. However, she soon learns that the kingdom is not what it seems, and she must fight to save it from a dark and sinister force.

A group of rebels fight against an evil empire. They are outnumbered and outgunned, but they are determined to free their people from oppression.

A young man is given a magical sword that is said to be able to defeat the evil dragon that has been terrorizing the kingdom. He must journey to the dragon's lair and slay it, or the kingdom will be destroyed.

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how-the-feathers-have-fallen · 10 months

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you're so fucking welcome to cry in my bathroom. you hear me?

steal the spare key from under the doormat or the key under the shoe rack or the key in the flower vase or the kitchen drawer or my favorite candle-

or steal it right out of my pocket.

(what do you mean why do i have so many house keys? ask this house why it has so many ghosts and why they keep leaving me)

break in at 3 am and make yourself at home

cry in my doorway if you can't make it any further

I'll get out of bed and carry you up. we'll sit on the floor of my tiny dilapidated bath stall, going through the box of shitty make-up I never bought and try to laugh

or throw plastic potted plants out the window onto the rusty pile of baby bikes I never rode if you need to scream and watch something shatter. I'd trade a million styrofoam sunflowers for your laughter

or we'll just curl up in a tight ball and lay in the ancient tub, turn on the shower and weep and wail and sob and shout till we're floating in a salt water ocean

who cares if the tile floor's cold. I've got a dozen fluffy robes hooked on the door. We'll build a soft nest to crash on and a fort to protect us. we'll find the old paperbacks I hid in the the laundry basket and read till the sun rises and sets and explodes.

who cares about those stupid lumps of porcelain plastic. they're ugly and I never wanted them. I think I'd rather have you break them than the world break you.

who cares if the tub's a little rickety and the water's cold and the boiler's old and loud and slow and we'll get soaked to the bone.

I'll hold you till you stop crying. and then I'll hold you after. when you need to come back from where you left to. back to my senior citizen tub in my decrepit water closet in the house you're welcome to. back to me and all my goddamn keys for the same empty lock.

#icarus' feathers have found a use #pov: you ask me to lend you a pen | icarus sheds his wings/just for a moment/just for a thought/just for a feather/and then he falls #poetry #yearning #longing #inspired by a post #spilled ink #poets on tumblr #going through my drafts from during my exams trying to make these half formed ideas into actual poems #lexi if u see this im working on the one i left in ur tags. haven't forgoten it #prose #free verse

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dobaara · 11 months

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Our hands at each beginning by S.R.

napowrimo day 10 using @mercuriian 's prompts (x): ‘(with your hands)’ ((pictures from mississippi masala (1991)))

#I LOVE THIS SM YOU HAVE NO IDEA #my writing #napowrimo #napowrimo 2023 #poetscommunity #writerscommunity #poetry #prose #words #poems on tumblr #poets on tumblr #poetblr #litblr #writeblr #spilled poem #spilled ink #spilled words #spilled thoughts

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gourmet-trash · 7 months

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when my Real World Responsibilities chill the fuck out i would actually really like to write some of this properly, but i am just. i can't remember what blog it was on but someone talking about astarion NOT ascending but when gale DOES and i am.

hear me out, okay. fuck the actual canon of when that happens and that it's more realistic, even inevitable, that godhood would Fuck A Person Up, Actually. instead, imagine if you would, after getting (somewhat) over feeling understandably betrayed pissed about the whole situation, astarion would still not be super thrilled off the bat to be wrapped up in another person where he's so far on the lower scale in a power differential. that's not cool at all! but how do you find balance in a relationship when your boyfriend decides to go and become a fucking god???

you don't, of course, not really. even making him your chosen isn't going to fix that. BUT. you can maybe tip the scales by giving that boyfriend free reign over, oh i don't know...the actual religion you're about to inspire? religions have symbolism! color associations! hierarchies and titles! they have stupid little phrases for their followers to say to each other and ridiculous rituals and prayers to steep themselves in. their gods have dramatic monikers and their followers have asinine rules. it's complicated pageantry, but that's the kind of allure that draws people in and convinces them to donate, to devote.

and rather than let time run its natural course, let those things unravel organically as people find, interact with, come to know a new god....well why the hell should a bunch of nobodies be allowed to decide all that when astarion knows gale better than any of them anyway?

sure that means you end up with a religion where the running gag expected behavior is to wear your finest shoes to worship and to donate them at altars, and yes you end up with people earnestly saying shit to each other like "may you always find a helping hand through the stone" because...well what did you expect giving your petty ass boyfriend the freedom to decide your religion's devotions and practices after pissing him off? but you also get tenets like holding felines in the highest regard, beautiful temples that collect offerings of, yes, gold and shoes, but also books and items with fascinating enchantments and meals you've mentioned in passing.

and your chosen, your head of church, is perfectly suited and even more perfectly eager to see to it that your name, your practices, are not used to justify...certain unseemly ambitions. because you - neither of you, really - would be well suited to a passive, turn the other cheek religion. and your teachings would not miss a chance to remind your followers that your godhood rose out of the ashes of the Dead Three's Chosen. and, well. sometimes your boyfriend wants to turn something inside out, and who are you to deny him that??

#i just really love the idea of astarion building gale's religion #to be equal parts petty bullshit #and also something that he could stand to be associated with #maybe i will eventually manage to make this coherent #and put it into proper prose like i want #BUT WE SHALL SEE #bloodweave #baulder's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #gale of waterdeep #gourmet trash talk

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thepersonalwords · 3 days

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I don't care that they stole my idea.. I care that they don't have any of their own

Nikola Tesla

#Nikola Tesla #thepersonalwords #Idea #quotes #literature #life quotes #author quotes #prose #lit #spilled ink #writers on tumblr #writing inspiration #poets on tumblr

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poems4girls · 7 months

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do you ever think about how close todd and charlie must have gotten after neil’s death? todd probably spent most of his days in charlie’s room - sneaking out of his own - talking, crying, laughing. remembering. they told each other stories. talked about their memories with neil. charlie would talk about the shenanigans they were up to when they were much younger and innocent. like that one time neil stayed at charlie's and he fell from the swing. mr. dalton took care of him, he cleaned his scraped knees and gave him a consolatory popsicle. neil's eyes lit up, his dad would've never done that. charlie knew; he regrets not helping him more, not being by his side when he needed it most. todd would talk about the first few weeks they spent together. the deep talks they would get into. well, neil would start them, opening up with some random thought but once todd started adding to the conversation his own reflections, that's when neil stopped talking. he just listened to todd and his rants, even when they didn't make sense and he'd stop mid sentence to giggle at himself. neil was always listening. he was there for him. just like todd was there for him. but it wasn't enough. charlie and todd both loved neil and now, neil gave them a mission. they had to take care of each other. years went by, todd and charlie kept retelling each other the same old stories, keeping his memory alive in their minds. neil also wanted them to keep on experiencing life. todd and charlie lived. they lived together, apart, for as long as they could. they lived for neil too... so isn't anyone else thinking about them or is it just me?

#just a thought #i didn't proofread this #i have no idea if this makes sense #dps #prose #dead poets society #anderperry #neil perry #todd anderson #charlie dalton #blurb

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revelisms · 4 months

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Don't you want to be—

(what what what, darling?)

—mirror to some piece of this: moon-slash of his wretchedness, recklessness, fawning fingers pleasure-peaked sharp-tongued wickedness—

(why why why, darling?)

—hair slicked back and smile perfect.

His silks feel like death-robes, his pulpit a coffin, his congregation a stew of want and need. His own needs selfishly curtailed and forgotten. Drowned in skin sticky with sweat and voices biting nothingness in his ear: in his brother's cracked-open wines and the slam of his foot on the gas pedal, fueling life into an engine that screams, a vile communion with the hoarse shattering of his own.

At the cliffside, pomade wind-tussled from his hair, layered instead with salt-grime and smeared tears, he smokes.

His mother's own habit, sourly inherited.

The scent is nostalgic the way celluloid film loses its stain: bitter, half torn, stuffed in the pockets of his mind, nonetheless. The same brand of cheap woody tobacco he smells on her when he's close enough to lay his head on her shoulder.

Not that she offers.

Not that he asks.

The sun is dipping on the horizon: a blood-orange half-moon slurped down by a dead sea.

He ticks his thumb over the paper rolled between his knuckles. Watches the ash flutter like polluted snow to his feet. Through his lungs breathes a soldier's quiver, weighing him down like lead: sighs out black magic, white-eye light, the taste of empty pleasure on his tongue, a throat-trip of rusted ambrosia.

He looks not to the heavens—but to the red-soaked sea, below: to the black gate of Olde, the Beneath, the Beyond: wings of skin, not of feathers, beasts gray and fanged, and violet spellwork unspoken in his hands.

In thirteen months' time, the adopted darling will succeed him. The little copper-haired boy he still sees, sometimes, with both eyes that watery ocean-blue. The child his mother wrapped her arms around, without question. The heir his father, in spirit, will learn to accept—after he's carried out his head on a spit.

Him, the doomed Failure from the start.

Him, the one they've all watched and waited to fall.

He hears reason in the memory of Ghoul's—Omega's—his—otherworldly grumbling: that it is one path of countless.

A curse that this eye can see them, at all.

But he feels sureness in his bones, more than any sureness he's known before.

All their days are numbered.

(and yours?)

The stubbed end of a cigarette rolls between his fingers. Against the points of them: a purple spark. The paper folds upon itself, blackened and writhing: burns and burns in hellfire and ash.

A year, if he's lucky.

A smile twitches on his mouth: paintless and crooked.

And, oh—will he give them a show.