#complains about someone and paraphrases them while literally taking their shape

[veilchenjaeger]

Another thing we were robbed of: Cedric in possession of his shapeshifting powers but in a casual setting.

[dusk-realm]

Chrysanthemum [Chapter 11: The First Incident]

Tagging: @featurelengthfics @thedungeonsbat @severussnapesupporter @southsiderepresent @pan-lokistan @gbatesx @a-slytherin-sin @wangmangagavroche @theblackdeath87

Visit my masterlist here.

Before someone comes and calls me out: yes, we are inserting ourselves into the story. Yes, I’ve taken literal chunks of the original book and pasted them or paraphrased them in order to merge them with my own writing. No, I’m not intending to plagiarize anything or pretend that the enterity of the text is mine when it clearly isn’t. And yes, you will see more of this in the future as well.

A/N: the app keeps messing up the draft, so if you see many errors in terms of format, spacing, etc, I sincerely apologise, but I couldn’t fix it.

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October brought to Hogwarts chill breezes and an air of coziness with it. The disempowered sunlight gave place to the soft lighting of candles and torches, which produced the deepest, darkest shades in the intricate furrows and decorations of the castle, creating new contours and strange shapes in the statues and carvings that enticed the imagination.

(Y/N) spent more and more time in the library as Pansy Parkinson grew insufferable, and more often than not, the girl would stock up with diverse snacks for the day and rush back to her hideout like a little vermin, just to not bump into her fellow Slytherins.

On the other hand, Neville had been difficult to see as well lately. (Y/N) learned that Severus had punished him with not letting the Gryffindor out of the classroom until he could brew the Sleeping Draught perfectly, which resulted into a great deal of batches wasted.

Still, after having been released for successfully brewing a cauldronful of the potion, Neville’s guilt overpowered him and he refused to pair up with (Y/N) again, at least in Potions.

Halloween was around the corner, and the castle was being dressed up with exuberant decorations: live bats hanging on the ceiling and even the walls, giant carved pumpkins… and some even speculated that Dumbledore had hired a troupe of dancing skeletons.

‘Severus?’

‘Mm?’

It was October 30th, and she was spending time in the professor’s company while he programmed the upcoming classes. (Y/N) had chosen the Potions classroom as her new favourite spot to do her homework. It was a safe place, and she could help out Severus as soon as she finished. She enjoyed sitting in the same place she had for class, in the middle rows. Her desk was a bit messy with books, parchment and an unfinished essay.

‘I was wondering… is there any way for students to access the Restricted Section? Like, can Prefects go there?’

Severus smiled a bit to himself, lifting up his head. He had been hyperfocusing so much on his task that he hadn’t realized that he was completely slouching over the paper.

‘Is this about that book again?’ He inquired with a smirk.

(Y/N)’s cheeks lit up with a pinkish tint of embarrassment. Severus was sure sharp, but he didn’t use to be that straightforward.

‘Maybe…’ She admitted meekly.

Well, there was something that just appealed her about that book. Maybe it was just the fact that it was forbidden, but the books available for everyone just weren’t enough to satisfy her avid curiosity.

‘You don’t have to become a Prefect to borrow a book,’ Severus explained softly, ‘a signed note should suffice.’ 

‘Ah…’ (Y/N) lowered her head again and continued scribbling in her parchment. Severus, however, did not return to his task. Instead, he observed his student, wondering why she wouldn’t dare to ask for a note but, at the same time, she would be willing to become a Prefect, with everything that it entailed, just to read a book.

 The professor reached out for a small piece of parchment and wrote:

I, Professor Snape, hereby allow the student (Y/N) (Y/L/N) to borrow a copy of Moste Potente Potions.

Then, he signed the note and stared at it for almost a minute before standing up and gently placing it in front of (Y/N), on top of her parchment.

‘What’s this?’ She squinted her eyes before reading it and lifting up her head, wide-eyed, to her professor, who watched her quietly with a strange look.

‘A-are you sure? Can I have it? For real?!’

Severus nodded with the faintest of the smiles tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched (Y/N)’s (E/C) eyes lit up and grow wider and wider.

‘Of course,’ said he in a soft voice, ‘you have read far more complicated books at home, you can surely handle that one too.’

(Y/N) bolted off the chair and latched on Severus’ waist in a tight squeeze.

‘Thank you!!’ She squirmed with her cheek pressed against his chest.

Her protector embraced her tightly, preventing her from seeing how glittery his eyes had suddenly gotten.

‘You may be able to check it out before curfew if you hurry up.’ Said he. (Y/N) enthusiastically picked up her belongings and storming out of the cold dungeons, but not without thanking him again and almost yelling him good night.

The joyful days soon turned dark after by the end of October, after the first incident happened.

Everybody found out at the same time: having the Halloween feast come to an end, the whole school left in mass the Great Hall with full bellies to go to their respective dormitories for the night. Even (Y/N) had been enjoying the dinner, as she took the chance to drop by the Gryffindor table to go see Neville after a good while.

But then, the multitude’s hustle died down as it arrived to the passage. Three people were already there; Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley. 

The crowd pushed forward to be able to catch a glimpse of the gruesome scene- there was a message written on the wall that read:

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

And just underneath it, Mrs. Norris, Mr.Filch’s loathed cat, hanged from her tail, stiff as a board and with her eyes open.

Then, (Y/N) saw Draco Malfoy elbowing his way to the front of the scene while shouting:

‘Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!’

(Y/N) had never liked that kid. He was the heir of a rich pure-blood lineage (everyone in Slytherin knew about the Malfoys), and, being aware of his privileged status, the kid had grown into an insufferable stuck up brat that everyone wanted to please just to not upset him.

Soon arrived Mr. Filch, probably summoned by the fuss Malfoy caused,

‘What’s going on here? What’s going on?’ 

After that, he actually saw the scene, with his cat hanging off the torch.

‘My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs. Norris?’ He shrieked. His voice made (Y/N)’s stomach twist with guilt, even though she had absolutely nothing to do with the matter. The caretaker wasn’t and individual you could just get along with; he wasn’t charismatic or nice in any sense, but the Slytherin couldn’t help feeling bad for him. Filch turned to look at Potter with bloodshot eyes:

‘You!’ He screeched. ‘You! You’ve murdered my cat! You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll —’

‘Argus!’ Dumbledore arrived, followed by McGonagall, Lockhart and Severus, and in a matter of minutes, every student was sent to bed, except the three suspects. The uproar moved to the Slytherin Common Room, where the sons and daughters from the most ancient wizarding families seemed a bit too excited about the issue, and other less privileged argued that this had to be something Harry Potter had done.

(Y/N) sensibly retired to her dormitory without participating in the conversation, but she did not sleep that night.

The incident was still present in everyone’s mouths even days after. Filch had been seen scrubbing the wall and warding the crime scene in all his misery, while he attempted to blame and punish any student that showed too much happiness.

The young Slytherin chose to continue with her usual life and spend most of her time in the library, reading her new favourite potions book. She was completely absorbed in every single word, with her nose barely an inch away from the paper, an ugly posture she had unwillingly acquired from her mentor. 

The library was quite crowded for being just a regular Wednesday, but (Y/N) was too busy taking notes of the random stuff that attracted her attention to actually have a look at her surroundings.

What she did notice, though, was that Ron Weasley was sitting at the same table as her, but at the opposite end, in the very end of the library.

God forbid your Gryffindor ass comes too close to a Slytherin, (Y/N) had resentfully thought. 

The red-haired was measuring up his essay for History of Magic when Potter arrived.

‘I don’t believe it, I’m still eight inches short. . . And Hermione’s done four feet seven inches and her writing’s tiny.’ (Y/N) heard the former complain.

‘Where is she?’ Harry asked, and (Y/N) couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

Soon after, Granger reappeared from in between the shelves,

‘All the copies of Hogwarts, A History have been taken out,’ she said, sitting down next to Potter and Weasley, being the closest to (Y/N), yet without acknowledging her presence. ‘And there’s a two-week waiting list. I wish I hadn’t left my copy at home, but I couldn’t fit it in my trunk with all the Lockhart books.’ She sounded so ridiculously irritated that (Y/N) had to physically restrain herself from cackling, although the corner of her lips still curled up in a telltale smile.

‘Why do you want it?’ Potter asked his friend.

‘The same reason everyone else wants it,’ said Hermione, ‘to read up on the legend of the Chamber of Secrets.’ 

(Y/N) even stopped pretending to read in order to catch every detail possible, but Hermione said she didn’t remember the story.

Pity, (Y/N) thought, but she didn’t have much time to turn it over as the bell rang, signalling the beginning of the next lesson.

‘Who can it be, though?’ Hermione said in a quiet voice, as though continuing a conversation they had just been having. ‘It has to be a Slytherin, that’s for sure… I’ve thought that maybe…’ But she didn’t dare to finish the sentence.

‘Maybe..?’ Echoed Harry, raising his eyebrows.

‘(Y../N)?’ She finished with a strange expression, as if the simple thought of it caused her some sort of physical pain. Ron let out a little chortle at the suggestion.

‘I mean, what do we know about her, really? Nothing! And she’s smart enough to act and not get caught…’ The girl explained.

‘Smart? She’s the age of Fred and George, Hermione, and she’s in our class!’ Ron argued.

‘But,’ Hermione continued, bending closer to the boys and lowering her voice, ‘she has improved a lot, haven’t you noticed? Plus…’ At this point, she was barely whispering. ‘Neville told me that she doesn’t have parents. Wouldn’t that make her the only Slytherin heir? What if… she failed on purpose because she was… well, waiting for something?’ She locked eyes with Harry with a guilty expression, as though she didn’t want to even suggest that the heir of Slytherin had been waiting for him to come to Hogwarts.

‘Well,’ said he, ‘you’ve got a point there. And she speaks like Snape...’ 

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ Ron frowned.

‘He’s the Head of Slytherin, Ron. What if they’re working together? He has to know something. C’mon, it’s Snape.’ Harry remarked. 

‘I don’t think it’s (Y/N), she doesn’t look like the type. Who’d want to frighten all the Squibs and Muggle-borns out of Hogwarts? Let’s think,’ said Ron in mock puzzlement. ‘Who do we know who thinks Muggle-borns are scum?’ He looked at Hermione. Hermione looked back, unconvinced.

‘If you’re talking about Malfoy —’

‘Of course I am!’ said Ron. ‘You heard him — ‘You’ll be next, Mudbloods!’ — come on, you’ve only got to look at his foul rat face to know it’s him —’ 

‘Malfoy, the Heir of Slytherin?’ said Hermione skeptically.

‘Look at his family,’ said Harry, closing his books, too. ‘The whole lot of them have been in Slytherin; he’s always boasting about it. They could easily be Slytherin’s descendants. His father’s definitely evil enough.’

‘They could’ve had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries!’ said Ron. ‘Handing it down, father to son. . . .’ 

‘Well,’ said Hermione cautiously, ‘I suppose it’s possible. . . .’

 But how do we prove it?’ said Harry darkly. 

‘There might be a way,’ said Hermione slowly, dropping her voice still further with a quick glance across the room at Percy. ‘Of course, it would be difficult. And dangerous, very dangerous. We’d be breaking about fifty school rules, I expect —’

‘If, in a month or so, you feel like explaining, you will let us know, won’t you?’ said Ron irritably. 

‘All right,’ said Hermione coldly. ‘What we’d need to do is to get inside the Slytherin common room and ask Malfoy a few questions without him realizing it’s us.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ Harry said as Ron laughed.

‘No, it’s not,’ said Hermione. ‘All we’d need would be some Polyjuice Potion.’

Harry, Ron and Hermione walked toward the Library in formation. The recipe they needed was supposed to be in a book called Moste Potente Potions, according to Snape (and Hermione), and although it was bound to be in the restricted section, Hermione believed that she might be able to convince Madam Pince to let her consult it really quickly for their Potions Homework. 

Their request, however, was quickly and firmly turned down by the librarian, who gave the trio such a nasty glare that could very easily scare off a hippogriff.

‘What are we going to do now?’ asked Ron as he plopped down at the same table as the other day. He was specially bummed out, and so did Harry, who sat down by his side. 

‘There’s still a way...’ Hermione sighed, sitting down in front of the other two.

‘Which one?’ Inquired Harry.

‘We need a signed note from a professor.’

‘But who’s going to sing it?’ Asked Ron, ‘“Hard to see why we’d want that book, really, if we weren’t going to try and make one of the potions.’

‘I think,’ said Hermione, ‘that if we made it sound as though we were just interested in the theory, we might stand a chance. . . .’

‘Oh, come on, no teacher’s going to fall for that,’ said Ron. ‘They’d have to be really thick. . . .’

And so, the trio went to the thickest professor they knew, Professor Lockhart, who was so full of himself that he didn’t bother looking at which book he was signing a permission for.

However, their plan didn’t go quite as they planned.

‘Sorry, this book has already been checked out.’ Madam Pince had sternly said after barely taking a look at the note.

‘I can’t believe our luck.’ Protested Harry as soon as they had left the library.

‘And now what?’ Ron asked, giving a little kick to the floor.

‘This is incredible…’ Hermione breathed out. She leaned against the giant wooden doors, staring up to the ceiling. ‘Who could have taken it, though? Not someone from our year, that’s for sure. That book is way too advanced to-’

‘Excuse me,’ a soft feminine voice interrupted her rambling.

‘Oh, hi (Y/N), sorry.’ Hermione hurriedly moved away from the door and let the Slytherin girl enter the library. She was carrying a bunch of books and other stuff. 

(Y/N) had to twist her body into a weird position in order to not drop anything she carried. Her body was fully turned toward the three Gryffindors, and she smiled awkwardly. When she turned around again, Ron peeked above her shoulder out of nosiness, and clutched Harry’s robes in shock.

Hermione had also caught a glimpse of the moldy book on top of the Slytherin’s pile and let out a gasp.

On the cover, the title read, quite clearly: Moste Potente Potions.

[blueraith]

Some folks still need to learn how to constructively comment

Wish I could say that I’ve been writing Chapter... 12(? Legit, I don’t often remember the chapter numbers outside of the Google doc) since posting Chapter 11 (we’re just gonna assume I know where the fuck I’m at in my own story, okay? Give me this).

But that would be a bald faced lie.

(Mostly because of my sister’s graduation and all the family visiting and the concurrent back injury I was suffering. Really kills the writing mood when you can’t sit up properly to type.)

This is going under a read more, because this incident Vexed Me To The Max(TM) and triggered a Rant of Epic Proportions(TM).

But graduation has been over, and my back has been feeling great. What really kept me a bit down since all that was over and done with is that very morning I’m feeling better, I see that I have two comments on the 100 fic I’ve put on indefinite hiatus. Yeah, it’s not an active story, but I still care about it, and I’ve been thinking about it recently. So, in short. I still care about it a hell of a lot. Hell, I care about everything that I write. I’ve written fanfiction at what’s nearing 10 years now, but nothing has erased the fact that putting yourself out there in the public eye takes a hell of a lot of effort and, sure, a smidgen of courage and confidence.

Well, this lovely commenter told me that my word count was way too high, that I was slowing my story down, and that they skipped to the last chapter (from Chapter 2, they skipped 6 chapters of ongoing character development, an ensemble cast, Ark politics, and canon fix-its) “40k words and [Clarke’s] still not on the ground yet??”

This is me paraphrasing both comments. I deleted them with extreme prejudice from the fic because I wasn’t leaving that kind of useless bullshit on my work after it effectively ruined my mood for, like, four days.

Why was it bullshit? Well, for one thing taking the average word count per chapter, it’s only a little over 5k words per chapter. Look. I balance out my word counts very carefully for each story that I write. This fic has a longer than average word count compared to my more recent stuff (which is around 4k per chapter) because of all the fuckin shit I was pulling off in this particular fic. Reworking canon to better explain why the Arkers were resistent to the radiation on the ground while having the superior blood that the Mountain Men wanted without putting them up in their shitty space station for thousand of years that evolution would have actually required them to have gone through to be remotely realistic.

Jake’s alive in this fic because I don’t like dead characters shaping character development on a pre-canon basis. Personally, I dislike orphan/parental loss storylines before the specific original work has even started. I get that orphans exist in real life. But YA media has a disproportionate amount of dead parents. Eh. I wanted to do something different. So, this means there’s an entire extra character in the story that I have to write and develop.

Diana Allers actually matters in day to day Ark life instead of just showing up and nearly murdering everyone because she’s a selfish bitch for little to no reason other than to make Abby’s already pretty damn full storyline even more packed than it already was. (Seriously, why didn’t they develop Allers more? She’s lazily implemented in canon, and I hate it. Lord only knows I enjoyed Abby and Raven’s plotlines far more in several places of Season 1 rather than Bellamy’s Manpain Adventures Lite Before He Turns Into A Complete And Utter Psychopath Later On In The Series).

Jaha is far more competent and slimey than he is in the show, rather than being a foolish man who is barely toddering along in the plot towards something useful.

Abby and Jake are at odds because Jake technically betrays Clarke and allows her to get arrested in the beginning of the story. They adopt Raven in the interim and they’re all awkwardly trying to free Clarke while pretending that Jake and Abby aren’t having marital problems. Well, Jake and Abby are pretending, Raven is as blunt as she usually is and just calls shit like she sees it.

Ensemble cast. There’s literally a tag on this story that tells you all that “This Story Is Literally About Everyone.”

So.

Yeah.

Clarke’s not on the fucking ground yet. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? Having skipped past 6 chapters.

Is 5k really that long? I wouldn’t know, personally when I read a longfic, I go into it knowing that the chapters might be long as fuck because I know that I’m reading a fic that could literally take me through several days and I read pretty damn fast. Not that 40k words is really all that much when you’re rewriting a TV show using all the characters who already exist in canon and then getting into their thoughts and motivations because that is literally what books do, this isn’t a screenplay, I wouldn’t be caught dead writing one because I despise them. Sorry, but you’re getting the full range of thoughts and emotions of everyone involved. I know, that’s just awful, getting hours and hours of content for free, but god forbid the plot doesn’t run on your timetable.

But that’s really the crux of this rant, isn’t it? NEVER complain about word counts, people. Too short? Who the fuck cares? The author could be just beginning their writing careers, so to speak. Word counts of any significance takes practice, first of all. So, not only could they might or might not have the required experience to write longer chapters, they may not even want to. And that’s fine. Because they do this FOR FREE.

Same thing with longer chapters. Are you really going to come at me, nearly a year after I’ve written and posted this work, complaining about word count, as though there’s even a remote chance that I’m going to go back and edit down all of that time and effort I put into that work to satisfy your fragile reading stamina?

Pfffffffffft.

I mean, this is funny to me in some regard because I’m over here wondering just what would be a good length for this person. Part of the reason my chapters tend to be at least 4k words long is because that’s generally where I can get a comfortable amount of character interaction, introspective thought, and plot moving forward. All three of those things matter to me when writing chapters. I hate reading too short works (and no, I don’t tell these authors this. I read what they give me and just deal with it because they’re entertaining me for free) and it’s little more than characters just trading dialogue with each other. I want to know what they are thinking about as well. I want a bit of narration. I’m reading something from a specific character’s point of view, and I want that chapter to ooze the personality of that character.

These are all the things I keep in mind when I write to my word count goals, personally. Doing it in less than 3k words might be possible, but it would sure as hell be annoying.

But most of all, it just irritated the fuck out of me. Like I’ve said multiple times in this rant. I do this for free. I don’t expect you guys to know this, but in order to get these substantial updates when I can manage to actually feel well enough to write and get them published, it takes me EIGHT TO TWELVE HOURS of sitting in front of a computer screen to have a chapter finished. On a good day. Yes. Most of the chapters I put out are done in one day, in one block, and I’m often up until 5 AM finishing something up. I have severe ADHD. Sometimes it is a chore to get shit put on a page because I can’t sit down and focus my thoughts enough to sound even coherent. Sometimes I have issues keeping up with what the beginning of a long sentence was about and I have to constantly keep up with what the fuck I’m even talking about in any given thought.

So, you have an author with a severe executive function disorder attempting to concentrate hard enough to get her own thoughts in character for each and every character that is featured in any given story while attempting to resist even the most mundane distractions while desperately hoping she’s going to hit a period of hyperfocus long enough to get substantial work down, but if that happens she’ll probably forget to eat because she’s on a writing binge that goes on with actual significant work for a period of several hours.

I love writing, despite the challenges I have to deal with in order just to get it done. I love most of the comments that I receive. I’m coming off a period of extreme depression from some family issues I was dealing with. My skin is rather thin at the moment and that irritated the fuck out of me, but those two comments knocked more wind out of my sails that I really wanted them to, and that bugs me even more.

But I am more experienced in fic writing than probably your average person. This commenter pissed me the fuck off, but I’ve moved past this, it’s hardly shattered my motivation to write forever.

But a careless commenter could easily do that to someone just getting into fanfiction. And it makes me wonder just how often this happens everyday, every hour, when entitled, spoiled people who think their needs are more important than the author doing this FOR FREE decide to voice their terrible opinions on their works. I love my readers, I don’t hold myself beholden to them, but they are extraordinarily important to me. Plot, pacing, and character development are all my own when I write because first and foremost, I write for myself. It’s a hobby that I clearly have to work very hard at to even be remotely successful at, and taking anyone else’s standards into account is never going to happen when I have to live up to my own already very high expectations. But I do keep y’all in mind when I’m devoting my time, energy, and effort in. The chapter lengths I have partly exist to make up for the wait times I inevitably have between each release. I very much know that I am sporadic and inconsistent when updating. So, when I do, I want to have something that isn’t just a whisper in the wind when it finally cycles to the top of the AO3 listing.

I know there are inevitably readers who didn’t like my content, or do think my stuff is too long. That’s fine. But don’t come into my space and give me two comments that were effectively “TL;DR” and expect that not to be a slap in the face. Because it is. I have wonder if the fandom kids today even know the kind of slap backs this sort of thing would have gotten in LiveJournal.

But, never mind that. I’m a big girl, I took some petty revenge in deleting that bullshit from my boards and then setting the fic to moderated mode, but what I would like anyone who decides to read through what is actually a long winded post (all my rants are, admittedly) to learn is that you are not reading professional work. You are not reading work that has been paid for. You are not reading work that has been professionally edited. I’m not saying that you can’t have standards for fic, lord knows I have many, but I don’t go into an author’s work and leave shitty comments. Never. Constructive criticism on fanfiction keeps the author’s time in mind, their skill level over what they’re actually capable of, and whether or not they’re even open to criticism. Some authors don’t even want your advice. They just want to know that you liked it. And if you don’t, just don’t say anything. I’m not quite that fragile personally, when someone is giving me useful criticism that can be used to actually improve my quality of writing, but I will freely admit that clearly I have a sore spot about comments addressing word counts.

Get out of here with that shit.

In short. If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Me, do me next ;)

Send me your URL and I’ll tell you

My Opinion on;

Character in general: The first stage of the forging process is the hardest. It starts as simple bar stock. Then it is heated and hammered until the first faint shape of the sword it will become one day can be seen.Zarek was the offspring of Ares and one of his many mistresses, a mortal. The woman wanted the divinity but not the offspring of the union, and before he drew his first breath, before he had lungs with which to do so, she tried to rid herself of him. Clearly, she did not succeed. Once he was born, she abandoned him to the windswept crags his soul would come to resemble. This too, failed to kill him, and he was taken as a slave. Having survived infancy, it’s impossible to say that his masters knew what they had in their hands but they misused the dark eyed boy. Kept him locked away only to be taken out when it suits.

The Blade is then quenched. This rapid cooling process realigns the properties of the sword, toughening and strengthening it.

Whipping boy. Scorned and disregarded. Unloved and abused. What should have produced a short and pained life ended up creating a tall, broad and hard man. They hadn’t expected his mind to be voracious, quick to learn and quick to judge. They hadn’t expected that every scar and mark on his body would be a stone for him to climb up on. From child to soldier, he excelled at martial prowess, earning him a reputation that could only be whispered in the dark.

The process repeats itself: 

Heat. He sacrifices body for freedom. Long limbs. Stinging sweat. An aura of calm as screams rise up around him. The world slowly spinning as blades and shields clashed. Always moving. Always rending. A force of nature that could not be stood against. Conquest.

Hammer. Isolation. Groups gathered in camp nursing battle wounds, sharing their measures of food and drink. The ribald talk of soldiers who survived the day. They stop laughing as he walks by. All eyes on him, wary. They do not trust. They do not welcome. Their fear can be tasted in the wind.

Quench. Red hair spills down her shoulders. This girl who becomes a princess. They have known each since they were young. His valour has earned her, he’s bought her through oceans of blood. Her eyes look to him, she smiles.  He is not moved by this, but it’s… expected. She sees a soldier. He sees the world ablaze. Through the smoke of would be pyres he doesn’t see betrayal. Why settle for a General, when you can become a queen? She didn’t know his birthright. She didn’t know the man she murdered would rise up as a demi-god. He still spills her blood in the wedding bed, and her new husband’s too.The Process repeats itself.Heat. Different geography, same story. Only he is a mercenary now, fighting for the highest bidder. Always only one step ahead. He has learned what he is through his only friend, a being that is called Sin. The God-killer. They make a pair, don’t they. Leaving decimation in their red-stained wake. But still. While he cannot deny he enjoys himself, there is something that haunts him. A hatred black as his soul is stained. His father has not forgotten. And his father fears…even a god cannot undo prophecy.Hammer: This thousand years later and Ares can clearly see the mistake he has made, allowing the boy to live. To become a man. To become a demi-god. And so he plots and he strikes from shadows, for what good that does him. The old god does not think as fast, doesn’t hunger as deeply. Though sharp, his teeth are yellowed with age and changing belief while his son’s legacy only grows.Quench: Another woman. More red hair and dark eyes and lips that would rival Aphrodite’s if such thing would not call down the wrath of Olympus. She, too, is a child of the divine, unlike the last. She, too, has ambitions. He takes her to his bed, it is expected and he has never shirked duty, his chains might be broken but they’ve never been cast completely off. Ares comes to her, and makes pretty promises. A new place among the gods for the cost of one insignificant life. She takes the bargain. He barely survives. Wreaks his vengeance but…perhaps his father succeeded in a different way. What little good there might have still been, what hope he might have sheltered carefully in the heart she cut out of his back… is crushed. Nothing left for him to cling to. The Process repeats itself.Heat. He stares out over the water choked with green and haunted by moss covered Cyprus trees ~a bitter joke, isn’t it? Named for the country of his father’s longest kept lover.  He is alone. Has been for yet another thousand years. Takes company when it suits him. Pays. Leaves. Stone and steel do not need or know softness. His scars are enough. The air is thick, the heat steals breath and he bares his teeth. Because something dares tread his domain.

Hammer: She was small. A nuisance at best. He doesn’t want her here. Doesn’t want anyone. But she is a helpless child, one who can barely speak a civilized tongue and he’s moved to pity. Warns her away, promises to lead her back to her sunlight and her vibrant riot of colour and people. Life’s funny that way, makes other plans when he isn’t looking, and she touches him. And he’s cursed, isn’t he…because he can’t, no matter how hard he tries, get rid of her. They make a wager, and they try to kill each other. She doesn’t succeed…and he’s disturbed because for once…neither can he. But she is mortal, and he has time. Nothing else but. He doesn’t feel the constricting webs of fate until it is too late.Quench: She loves him. Regardless of how he feels. And there’s the rub. He does. He...feels. Has very definite opinions about this that don’t become clear until she dies in his arms and he keeps her there, cradling her small body. He grieves, perhaps, for the first time in all of his life. But, with her first new breath, reborn in the same place that was her grave, his eyes narrow. His path is set. The blade is carefully sharpened, edges ground to a fine point and honed. Now, it is finished. Ready to be wielded by anyone who has the strength and courage to command it.That is what his father has always known, the glimmer the god of war has tried over aeons to destroy, piece by piece.Zarek only obeys himself.

How they play them: I love Z. And I have absolutely no idea why. He’s a little arrogant. A lot abrasive. He is stubborn, infuriating, sometimes callous. His actions and thoughts are questionable at best, almost evil at his worst. But there’s something compelling too, if you look deep enough, past the facade he puts up and wishes the whole world to see. Hints of what could have been, if it had turned out differently. If he’d been nurtured instead of scorned. Ghosts that whisper that he wasn’t always this way, and might not always be. And over the year I’ve been privileged to play with Zarek, he’s actually changed. Slowly, subtle enough that it can be overlooked if you aren’t paying attention. He’s compromised. Given ground. He’s not soft by any means but he’s learning. Growing. And that is maybe an author/mun’s hardest won accolade. The ability to show this and still keep the character recognizable and alive.The Mun: My Other is a shy and reclusive little thing. Very few people get to see her the way I do, and fewer still get a chance to play with her. But you know what? She cares. Whether you’re my mutual or someone I’ve mentioned in passing, she reads and enjoys from afar, and she’s very quietly cheering us all on. In a month, I will have known K-mun for a year. We talk every day, from morning until night. Sometimes we’re quiet and only type a few things between hours. Sometimes we can’t type and read fast enough and overlap several conversations at once. She is absolutely one of my best friends and she is family. I well and truly love her, if that isn’t obvious. I hate that she lives so far away and I have to sometimes stop myself from sending her random messages at 2am. She’s gracious enough not to have complained. This meme reply is actually more a love letter to her and her character, in case it wasn’t obvious.

Do I:

RP with them: For Beth, it was literally love at first sight. I tried to warn her. I told her no. She didn’t listen, and I am glad she didn’t. I am sure that there are days Kmun sits with her phone or with laptop and wishes, for once, that ….how was that put me by someone else…? Ah yes, slightly paraphrased for language: 

“I’m sure he’s magnificent, but could you get off him for five whole seconds so we can have an adult conversation?”Want to RP with them:  Why is this even a thing. That is a stupid question, as evidenced by not only Beth and Zarek, but also Seren and Riley, and Aspen and Riley. And Sin and Isk. And Sin and Beth. And Aylen and Sully and you know what, I should just come clean and say that we are practically inseparable. And in a month, who knows, we might have another 219861785 other muse-pairs.

What is my;

Overall Opinion:  I want to point out that she is a multi-muse blog {says so RIGHT in her name for the folks playing at home}. That she can keep that many characters distinct and relevant and I don’t think she gets the credit she deserves for that. I don’t think I tell her enough that she makes my day, that I love her muses, that I love her writing. I will follow her anywhere.And if all ends tomorrow, if she never writes another word again, I will continue to love her and her worlds and her stories.

**Note: Mun’s answer are all to be completely honest. Don’t send url if you don’t want brutal honesty