#That snippet for Indigo was actually written with this tag game in mind

[autumnalwalker]

ROY G BIV tag

Thank you for the tag, @druidx. This looks like a fun new one.

Passing the (entirely optional) tag to @rickie-the-storyteller, @on-noon, @yourlocalboredprocastinator, @ghost-town-story. @broodparasitism, @itusebastian, @void-botanist, and an open tag for anyone else.

Rules: Search your your writing for the colours of the rainbow and post the excerpt

Red: Empty Names - 14 - Down Low

When Ashan finds her some ten minutes later with a satiated smile on her face and watching the spider pull in their stygian catch from the lake, the cut on Eris’s forehead has already healed.  None of the blood painting her new armor red is hers.

Orange: The Archivist's Journal, Day 78

As long as I’m writing, I suppose I ought to take a moment to describe the landing area.  It was another jutting cliff with an arch on the end, like Siren Overlook and the one we encountered to the west.  Twice could be a coincidence, but three times and I’m convinced the whole formation is artificial, not just the arch, columns, and pool.  It wasn’t nearly so overgrown as the western dock – if anything the columns were in better shape than at Siren Overlook – but whereas Siren Overlook was mostly covered in short grass with the occasional tiny white flower or stubborn shrub this was a veritable field of bright orange flowers broken only by the water lily filled pool running down the center.

Yellow: The Archivist's Journal, Day 60

Doffing my boots and carrying them in one hand, I waded in a short ways as I walked the perimeter of the spring.  It’s curious how unafraid the fish and turtles swimming the shallows were of me.  Most I could practically get within arm’s length before they darted away, and if I stood still for a few minutes, small schools of finger-length yellow fish would congregate in my shadow.

Green: The Archivist's Journal, Day 9

Hurrying to catch up with my young companion I pushed my way through the crooked door only to nearly trip over her.  The morning light had transformed the interior space from a surreal void to an awe-inspiring expanse.  Light filled the central nave.  As green leaf-filtered streams on the high side windows.  As vertical golden rays replacing the prior night’s columns of rain from holes in the roof.  As an iridescent wave coming in from the bare remains of a curved stained glass window backlighting the statue of the Reader.  All this reflected off the broad leaf and moss-filled puddles that stretched across much of the floor, still not evaporated days later.  The side aisles were a tangle of roots from the trees above, quite possibly doing as much to hold the structure up as the pillars separating aisle from nave.

Indigo: Witch's Testament: The Fighter

Weapons are raised and aimed.  The crowd begins to back away.  Someone above cracks a joke about how they should have just skipped to waving guns around if it was going to be this easy to solve the problem.

The crowd only backs off so far though, most that made it through the outer gate are still on the inside of it.  Those still stuck beyond push one another over the wall so some might get a better view.  A lone figure left behind by the receding sea of people remains standing in the middle of the reef of broken and smoking drones, tens of meters from the protesters behind him and the forces before him.  His dark clothes are long and billowing.  His pointed hat is wide brimmed to hide his face.  His serpentine familiar, assembled from scavenged and stolen parts, coils up one arm, over his shoulders, and down the other.

Someone in the line of hired guns makes an incredulous remark under his breath about cosplaying wizards.

The man corrects him to say that he’s a witch and his voice echoes through every loudspeaker, portable device, and auditory implant in the building.

The witch strides forward, his eyes glowing indigo from the shadows beneath his hat and matched by those of his slowly uncoiling familiar.

Someone gives an order to fire and an electrified dart wizzes past the unperturbed witch.  Six more darts miss.  Rubber bullets are loaded and combat implants lock in firing trajectories.

To the eyes of the security personnel, every shot should be a hit but impossibly passes through their target and out the other side.  To the eyes of the protestors the witch is walking through a hail of bullets that are all miraculously going astray.  To the eyes of the witch, every implant-assisted firing solution coming from the soldiers before him is being outlined in indigo and nudged to exactly where he wants it.

The witch has already crossed the security line and is on the steps of the building behind them by the time someone catches on and spins around to aim and fire manually.  His familiar rears up and hisses.  The shot goes wide as the entire security contingent seizes up, spasms, and falls to the ground.

The moment the witch crosses the threshold, every light in the building goes out, every door unlocks save for those to the roof and underground garage, and every camera becomes a witch’s eye.

Violet: A Dream About Purple

We are all too busy watching the game to notice anything wrong until a third team tries to take the field.  Their uniforms are purple and their hair appears to be dyed to match.  All of them wear the same vacant smile that crawled its way out of the uncanny valley and speak with offputting singsong voices. 

It is only then that we all look up and see the storm rolling in, stretching across the horizon with clouds of that same unnaturally vibrant violet.  Eerie music rides the wind ahead of the storm, heralding its imminent arrival. 

[elspethdekarios]

I did the WIP folder game last night! In fact, someone asked me about one of my wips so now I'm gonna ask you about one of yours!

"Bath in a fresh stream." It sounds lovely honestly. Full of comfort. I'd love to learn more :)

These games are so fun because it gives us another way to connect and share with each other. 😊 Thanks so much for tagging me 🥰

Ooh I'll have to go look at yours after this!

So the bath in a stream piece takes place in Act 1 right after fighting Ethel. They make camp in a peaceful little spot where the stream makes a bit of a horseshoe shape, and there are enough trees for cover that each of them can bathe in private. Elspeth finishes her bath and sees Gale a little bit away hunched over and gripping his arm. Here's a snippet. Actually this is like 90% of what I have written of it lol:

One by one, they took turns bathing on either side of the bank. Elspeth was disgusting, and more than ready to wash the filth and hag guts from her skin. She gathered her night clothes and spare linens to dry off with before weaving through the small thicket of trees. Undressed, she dipped her foot in the water before stepping in. It was cool, sending a shiver from her toes up to her shoulders, but she stepped further in until the water came up to her waist and she could submerge herself. She plunged her head beneath the water, letting the shock of cold pull her away from reality for a few moments. As she washed her body and rinsed the soap from her hair, she tried her best to push their current predicament from her mind and savor the moment of luxury they’d been lucky enough to find in this place. 

Night was beginning to fall, but between the fire and the bright light from the full moon, it wasn’t dark. It was like a suspended dusk, not quite nighttime, not quite day. Elspeth dried herself off and got dressed, still using the linen to shake her hair dry as she walked back to her tent when a quiet but strenuous breathing caught her attention. It came from the shore at the front of the riverbend. She could make out a spot of purple through the trees. Gale was sitting on a rock, his back to her, hunched over.

Her sandals crunched through the pine needles and coarse sand as she approached, and he turned to see who was there. His face lit up for a fleeting moment when he saw her, but quickly fell somber and… was he blushing?

“Are you alright?” she asked, seeing the concern in his eyes. His hair was wet, pushed back from his face to reveal the orb’s tattoo stretching up his neck.

“Oh, I’m–I’m just–” he sputtered out, flustered at her unexpected visit. “Yes, I’m alright–I’ll be alright.”

There was an uncertainty in his tone, quite different from his usual confidence and optimism. It unsettled her. As she stepped closer to him, she saw that he was tending to an injury on his forearm. He held a soft linen to his arm, a clean bandage sat draped across his knee, ready to be used. 

“Gale, you know I can heal that for you,” she said as she moved to kneel in front of him for a better look. He didn’t move his hand away from the wound.

“Not this one,” he grimaced. “I’ll be fine, Elspeth, I promise. Given my… condition, it’s just a symptom I have to endure.”

She furrowed her brow as he spoke. If his condition had some kind of effect on his ability to be healed, he hadn’t mentioned it before. Why was he being so cryptic?

“Show me.”

“El, really–” he began to protest.

“Do you trust me, Gale?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then trust me now,” she said. “Healing is what I do best. Let me try.”

He locked eyes with her for a moment longer, as if contemplating the extent to which he was willing to be vulnerable with her. 

“Fine,” he conceded. “But it’s not pretty.”

The sight of the wound under his hand made Elspeth gasp, though she tried her best to hide it. The gaping lesion in his flesh wasn’t red and bloody like she expected, but a purple as dark as midnight. When he lifted the linen, thick indigo began to pool in the open center of the wound. It wasn’t fresh–the scar tissue and dark, crusted edges told her that this had been there for a while, not to mention the sickly yellow bruise that surrounded it. 

“Gale,” she managed to say softly. “What in the hells happened?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“The orb did this?”

He nodded. “It is… destroying me. From the inside out.”

“How long have you had this?” she asked.

“Ever since the magical items started losing their effect. It’s as if infused magic isn’t enough anymore. It wants something stronger. It’s feeding on… me.”

“Gale, it’s been a tenday since that last artifact!” she reprimanded. A pressure started to build up in her throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because there’s nothing you can do. And I don’t want you to have yet another problem to worry about.”

“And how do you know there’s nothing I can do?” she asked. “Seen any other clerics about this? Healers? Doctors?”

“No, of course not,” he said. “I think this, like our tadpole problem, is beyond what a cleric or a healer could do. It’s too powerful.”

She took another look at the wound, gently probing the bruised skin around it for signs of infection. It wasn’t hot or swollen. It was just skin that had been ripped open.

“Can I try, at least?” she asked. “Maybe I can’t do anything, as you suspect. But we’ll never know if I don’t try.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

As she hovered her hands over the wound, a vivid turquoise light glowed from her palms. Specks of magic floated through the air like a light snow, stray bits of weave spilling out from the concentration of magic particles infusing into his open flesh. Healing magic emitted a perfect temperature, no matter the situation. It was warm like a soft blanket but somehow icy like chilled metal at the same time. It was odd–but that’s just the nature of magic, she supposed.

When she removed her hands, the gaping, purple crevice was no more than a raised, violet scar.