#whoops ran out of tag character limit and had to break it up

[elumish]

One way to build your writing skills--a way that I would argue is necessary if you ever want to write original fiction for publication--is to write from the point of view of, and with the focus on, a wide range of different characters.

it's really easy to fall into a rut when writing the same character or characters all the time, or even the same type of character all the time, where characterization tends to become muscle memory as much as anything else. You know what that character will do, so you know what characters of that type will do, so you know what characters will do, so that's what your characters do.

And when you don't have to think about it, you don't build--and can start to atrophy--those muscles required to do detailed, specific, engaging character building. What does it mean for this character, in this time, to do or experience this thing. What are the myriad of things that have built your character up to being who they are, and how do those things (individually and in aggregate) impact the choices that they make, the actions that they take, the reactions that they have, and the people that they engage with.

What can end up happening--and I see this all the time in published fiction--is that authors end up only being able to write 2-3 character types of each gender, and it all feels a bit samey.

Without opening a book by so many authors I have read, I can predict with a fair amount of accuracy what most of their characters will act like, because it's kind of the same across the board. Even when they start distinct, they end up drifting towards the same personality/character types like carcinization.

Writing from the point of view of/focusing on a range of characters (especially if they are different genders, of different backgrounds, with different wants and fears and habits and interests and personalities) forces you to actually be specific in your writing, if you want it to be any good.

Your 15-year-old B-student who really wants to spend their time playing rugby shouldn't sound like your 45-year-old businessman with a penchant for collecting Star Trek action figures who is trying to plan the perfect anniversary for his wife and neither of them should sound like the 23-year-old who spends their time going out at nightclubs and showing up a little bit hungover at work and worrying about finding a job that will let them move out of the apartment they're sharing with three other people.

Practice, and then practice some part, and then keep practicing. Write different characters, ask yourself if you're writing a character a certain way because you think they would be that way or because it's just habit, and be specific.

[scaredandbored]

the one with the sonic showers

for @julie-yard , (sorry it’s so ooc but it’s got DaForge in!)

word count (excluding the compulsory grouching i do in the brackets next because i ran out of space in the tags whoops) : 2233

(also this is my first ever piece of writing using solely other people’s characters so i apologise in advance lol)

(constructive criticism welcome just please be nice i cry really easily)

(hey so data is literally an android and geordie is CHEIF FRICKIN ENGINEER and i am Bad At Physics. so there are large gaps in dialogue which i would LOVE to do some more research on (not sarcasm i really would but i would get sucked into it and never actually write lol) but i’m more of a chemistry/biology Basic Bitch™️ so even though i’m supposed to know enough about sound waves to write that dialogue i don’t trust myself enough to do it)

(also, i’m a First Aid Responder, not a doctor, damnit! so all medical talk in this is me reading three (3) articles on chronic tension headaches and then seeming myself fit to write about it)

(sorry in advance, here you go!)

The alarm he had set for twenty minutes before the beginning of his shift made Geordie feel as though he was being hit repeatedly by a phaser. Wincing, he groped for his VISOR, slamming his other hand on the button that would stop the infernal shrieking. Logically, Geordie knew the noise was just barely above a soft trill, but as he rummaged around his drawer for his acetaminophen hypo, he was considering having a word with the senior medical staff about limiting the volume of the ships alarms in the interest of the crew’s wellbeing.

As usual, the hypo did very little for the inescapable pressure on his skull, and the activation of his visor did nothing but restore him to the state he was before the hypo. Grimacing, he dragged himself over to the replicator in the far corner of his room, toeing off the black regulation bottoms he’d slept in and tossing them into the laundry shoot as he walked by. “Coffee, black, sixty degrees Celsius.”. Hoping against hope the caffeine would keep the dull pain from spiking until he could administer her perscription later in the day. He rolled his head between sips of the slightly too bitter beverage, with the intention of loosening up in order to stave off neck and shoulder tension later in the day. “Computer, set a reminder to schedule a meeting with Dr.Crusher for me, will you?” The computer’s answering trill was, again, much too loud for his liking, so he gave a second order for all automated auditory responses to decrease intensity by 50%.

Sliding off his VISOR, Geordie decided to pick out his uniform and dress using muscle memory, the idea of putting his VISOR back on before absolutely necessary was enough to make his stomach turn, violently. “OK, so don’t put it back on, Geordie, it’s not rocket science.” he sighed to himself as he tugged the zip up, catching his thumb in his collar. Adequately annoyed at himself and already aching to take another shot of his hypo, Geordie lamented the fact he hadn’t decided to shower, the warm water would’ve done some good towards the inevitable spasms his upper back and neck would undoubtedly engage in later that evening. Sitting down, he pressed the heels of his almost-cool hands against his temples, rubbing around the terminals for his VISOR, where the ache was the worst. As he considered requesting sick leave and how to tell Riker he’d be missing poker tonight without raising suspicion, his communicator went off, the obnoxious trill sending a jolt of nausea through him as Barclay’s voice rang around his room.

“Barclay to Commander LaForge.”

Geordie winced and sighed before tapping his badge. “LaForge here.”

While Reg was relaying his message, Geordie reluctantly picked up his VISOR and clicked it into place. “There’s been several complaints shipwide about sonic shower malfunctions, the captain has asked us to assemble a team and look into it as soon as possible, sir.”

“Acknowledged. I’ll be in Engineering as soon as I can. Until then, Reg, you get a few ensigns and run a few tests on the basic functions in the malfunctioning units on the lower half of the affected decks. I want the results updated in real time so I can check them against the ones I’ll run. LaForge out.” Geordie considered popping into Sickbay on his way to see if he could get a muscle relaxer to avoid any serious cramping of his neck muscles, but the acetaminophen seemed to be kicking in, and he’d hoped this meant the worst was over.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

After numerous hours of running several different sonic showers at increasingly higher frequencies, Geordie felt as though his head was going to burst. He’d missed the hour he was supposed to re-administer his painkiller by a good thirty minutes, and the ensign he had taken with him to the upper decks had noticed his smile was less a smile and more a pained grimace. When she’d suggested he let her run a few tests while he updated the logs, Geordie had politely declined with a small laugh and an even smaller smile. When she repeated the question ten minutes later, he complied without a word.

Lunchtime arrived what felt like years later, when Geordie finally caved and turned himself into sickbay.

“Hey, Alyssa, can I talk to you for a second?” Geordie held out his hand in a sort of rushed, half-thought out greeting that immediately told Alyssa what it was Geordie wanted to talk to her about.

“Geordie, maybe you should sit the rest of your shift out.” Was all she said in the way of sympathy as she administered several of his usual hypos. This was why Geordie came to her before any other nurse on the Enterprise. Her sympathy was just enough to get her job done and she kept her pity to herself for the most part.

“Well, you know what they say!” Geordie jumped to his feet, rubbing his hands together briefly before giving one sharp clap to test the rapidly receding pressure in his head. “No peace for the wicked. I’ll see you around, Alyssa, thanks for the help.”

As Geordie moved out from behind the thin curtain Alyssa had pulled for privacy, he found himself looking straight up at his best friend, and his heart skipped a beat. “Data!” He grinned.

“Geordie.” Data’s head nodded in acknowledgement. Geordie admired the halo his VISOR caused around Data’s head. “I fail to see the relevance between your chosen turn of phrase and Nurse Ogawa’s reccomendation. I also object to the comparison you have drawn between yourself and the afformentioned ‘wicked’.”

“Data, it was a joke.” Geordie smiled again, the combination of the slightly stronger meds and his closest friend reducing the pain to a tolerable level. The fact his crush on Data was all-consuming only meant he had something to distract himself from what pain remained. “And Alyssa was just being nice, you know how I’d love to take an evening off to fool around on the holodeck.” Geordie immediately regretted his choice of words, but Data remained oblivious, his concerned head tilt still in place.

“Nurse Ogawa is not known for the benevolent prescription of unnecessary sick leave, Geordie.” He opened his mouth as if to suggest something, before closing it again and taking a step forward, placing his hand on Geordie’s shoulder. Now, it was Geordie’s chest that was under considerable pressure. “Do not hesitate to contact me if necessary. I must return to duty.”

Geordie chuckled in order to hide his disappointment at the loss of Data’s hand on his shoulder, shaking his head fondly. “No problem, Data. I’ll do that.”

Geordie was nearly out the door of Sickbay when Data called after him. “I shall see you at poker tonight, Geordie.”

It didn’t sound like a question, but Geordie knew Data well enough to know he was hoping to prompt a response. “I dunno, buddy. I’m kinda tired, if I’m being honest. I’ll let you know later, ok?”

Data blinked once, then twice, then nodded, his head adjusting itself into a neuteral position. “That is satisfactory.”

This time, Geordie laughed, the pain in his shoulders creeping up on him slowly once again, despite Data’s adorable half-attempt at a wave as the doors slid shut behind him. “Computer, what time is it?”

The shrill chime that preceded the response didn’t particularly hurt his head, but Geordie could feel his shoulders tensing even further, and he knew beyond doubt there was no way he would make it to cards that evening.

That evening found Geordie still in one of those awful, shrieking showers. He’d been technically off-duty for an hour now, and desperately needed to take off his VISOR for ten minutes, but Barclay had taken one look at Gerodie’s drawn face and refused to leave him alone in the bathroom they were checking out. “Hey Reg, do me a favour?” Geordie needed to get him out of the room so he could slip off his VISOR and massage his temples. That, or he needed to stop working with the shower on; the high frequencies were really not helping his situation.

“Sir?” Barclay’s hands had stuttered to a sudden stop the minute his commanding officer had spoken.

“Could you run and grab a coffee? The Gamma Shift doesn’t start for another five minutes, we can take a break from this instantaneous reporting.” Geordie didn’t take his head out from the panelling they had removed half an hour ago, afraid Reg would see the pained twist he could feel in his lips and call Dr.Crusher. He knew he could handle it, it wasn’t the worst pain he’d ever had from his VISOR, and he’d managed to subtly administer another hypo when he’d gone to grab them both a water around twenty minutes ago.

“Yessir.” Was Barclay’s anxious reply, and there was a prolonged silence between his response and the sound of the doors opening and shutting. They’d had to shut down all replicator and environmental control activity while they worked, which meant Geordie had five minutes to give his head a well-deserved break. Clicking the VISOR out of its terminals and heaving a sigh of relief, Geordie felt his head swim. Taking a few steadying breaths, he fumbled blindly at the sonic shower’s controls, silently cursing himself for not having shut it off before removing the VISOR. Only succeeding in shifting the tuning to an impossibly more painful frequency, Geordie sat down on the floor of the shower, back pressed against the back wall, head falling back against the cool slate. He rubbed at his eyes. “Goddamn.” His sigh made his head swim once more, and his subsequent calming breaths only served to worsen the sensation. The constant drone pressed down on his head so much the pain from that morning seemed as intimidating as... Geordie couldnt think properly; he could only conjure up an image of Data as he worked at his desk in his quarters, resolutely ignoring Spot on his stack of PADDs, aside from his gentle, regular strokes. The image made him smile, which caused his tensed muscles in his neck and shoulders to spasm, violently. Again, the deep breathing Deanna had helped him with when he’d first arrived on the ship did nothing but worsen the sensation.

Geordie dragged his shaking hand down his face, which came away damp with what Geordie briefly considered to be sweat, before everything went black.

There was a hand on either side of his face, a comforting pressure being applied by what felt like a pair of thumbs around the terminals on his temples. “Do not be alarmed, Geordie.”

Data was whispering, Geordie noted, and his tender head thanked the android for it. “Data? What happened?”

The thumbs stopped rubbing briefly, but resumed without hesitation when Geordie accidentally, slightly whimpered at the loss. “You passed out while completing your tests on the malfunctioning sonic showers. Dr.Crusher administered a variety of medications which she noted in your medical log, if you would like for me to read them to you?”

Despite his hushed tones, Geordie’s head really wasn’t going to put up with any noise for very much longer. “No, no talking, please, Data.” he managed to get out, curling up a little, before starting, which caused his shoulders to spasm lightly. “Wait, my VISOR-” Data’s hands shifted to the problematic muscles immediately, massaging firmly.

“I have your VISOR on the arm of your couch to my left. However, given the negative effect it has had on your condition throughout the day, Dr.Crusher has requested you refrain from replacing it this evening.” There was a pause as a mildly confused but very tired and complacent Geordie allowed himself to be gently manoeuvred into a reclined position, his head in Data’s lap while the second officer returned his hands to Geordie’s head. “I am here to assist you in every way possible, and I have downloaded various massage techniques frequently used on those who suffer from long-term, extreme tension headaches.”

“Why?” Geordie mumbled, slowly drifting off despite the pressure slowly returning with a vengeance behind his eyes.

Another pause, the hands stilled. Geordie frowned and they started to move again, but the silence continued. Just as Geordie was about to fall asleep, Data spoke. “You are my friend.”

“Huh?”

“I am helping you because you are my friend, Geordie.”

Geordie smiled softly, shaking his head. “I know that Data.”

Another pause, much more brief, and the hands did not stop their gentle rubbing on his delicate head. “What was the purpose of your inquiry, Geordie?”

And Geordie, as much as he wanted Data to know, he couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t say he wanted Data to be there because he liked the domesticity of this situation, to be there not only to massage his knotted muscles and play nurse, but to hold his hand, to kiss his forehead, to... “No purpose, Data.” He sighed softly, settling further into his best friend. “None at all.”

His breathing had lengthened, he was almost fully asleep but not quite there yet, when he felt cool lips press against one of the terminals, then the skin right beside it.

“Hmmm, Data?”

A pause. “Yes, Geordie?”

A mumble, the beginnings of a snore.

Slightly more urgently, “Geordie?”

“Said, I l’ve ya,,,”

Several minutes of soft snores and gentle massages later, an almost unintelligible: “I believe... I am in love with you also.”

fin

i was going to put in a bit about Data finding Geordie because he hadn’t gotten back to him about the poker but then i felt like it took from the kind of,,, geordie pov vibe i had going idk

hope you enjoyed!

sorry for all the inevitable typos i did this on my ipad and i didnt proof read because i’m kinda using this one shot prompt thing as a warm up to writing as opposed to actually writing fic? idk if that makes sense but i enjoyed writing it and i hope you enjoy reading it!

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 20/32 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Dragon Age II  Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution, Drowning, Wilderness Survival Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

Yvanne set to shipbuilding—an art of which she knew nothing—with a ferocity of an animal trapped.

A ship was just a pile of floating wood and a sail, wasn’t it? It didn’t need to be fancy. It just had to get her off this forsaken rock. She was a mage—the youngest-Harrowed mage in her entire Circle—and she had absolutely nothing better to do, so by Andraste’s fiery tits, she would build a seaworthy vessel, and she was getting off this damn rock.

Her first attempt didn’t even hold together. Her second fell apart as soon as it hit the water. Her third overturned and dumped her into the surf almost immediately. The fourth made it a little further before doing the exact same thing. The fifth was destroyed in a sudden storm and was never launched. The sixth held together in body, but the sail kept ripping away.

 By this time it had been weeks, and she was weighing the possibility of drowning herself after all.

 Assuming this place would let her drown. Now that was a frightening thought.

You know, you don’t have to do this alone,  she thought. Or remembered, or was told.

 At first the thought seemed like nonsense. Of course she had to do it alone. There was no one else here.

 But—no, that wasn’t true, was it? She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t alone at all.

 “Alright, spirits,” she said aloud. “You want me to come home, you’ll have to help me.” No answer that she could hear, but she didn’t care. They      would    help her; she’d already decided. It was their own fault that she was in this mess.

 At Kinloch, spirit magic had been painfully limited. Even her own discipline of spirit healing, closest to the Fade, had been restricted to interactions with nonverbal wisps. As a safety precaution; lest the spirit mage become corrupted. Yvanne had always liked the wisps, brainless as they were, but they weren’t much for conversation. She needed more than wisps. She needed a shipwright.

 So she started summoning spirits.

 Everyone she summoned, she interrogated. What was the best shape for a small deepwater vessel? How could she best seal the space between the woven wood? How might she make a sturdy sail, and how ought she rig it? What did they know of navigating deep waters? Of coastal shelves? Of the wind patterns in this part of the sea?

 At first it was slow going. She didn’t know much about summoning      particular    spirits. Even if she could more or less zero in on spirits of knowledge and curiosity, getting one that knew anything about shipbuilding was harder, and getting them to talk about      that    instead of whatever random thing they were interested in at the moment was nigh impossible. Yvanne learned a great deal about the varieties of beetle native to the jungles of Seheron, the exhaustive details of Avvar inter-tribal relations, and the true names of every mollusc that lived at the bottom of the Narrow Sea, but not much about shipbuilding.

 At least spirits were decent company. Or maybe that’s just how it seemed to her after months of isolation and fever dreams.

 Spirits of Curiosity would be happy to tell her anything they knew, if she answered their questions in turn. Only their questions were esoteric things she never knew how to answer, like ‘how many truth and beauty in a singleton?’ and ‘what is the nature of endings?’. Many spirits of knowledge immediately took offense to be treated this way and refused to share anything until she humbled herself. Some haughty spirits who she was relatively sure were Pride demons in the making could be made to help her just by watching her do it wrong, whereupon their urge to correct her took over and the entire task

 One watched her clumsily stitch her sail in the making for the better part of the hour before snapping and begging to have the use of her hands.

 She hesitated. Wasn’t that like possession?

     No, no, not your soul, not even your whole body,    it snapped.      Just your hands!  

 In the Circle this would have been an obvious dupe, a trick to get her to let her guard down. For days Yvanne refused. But her hands would not cooperate. Even if she knew in her mind how to do it, she didn’t know in her body. On the edge of tears of frustration, no longer caring if she became possessed—after all, who could she hurt here?—Yvanne gave in.

 It was strange, to feel a force besides her own animating her body, but not altogether unpleasant. The sail was finished by sundown, and she knew that if she had tried to do it herself, it would have taken all week, and still come apart in the end.

 She thanked it as it left. It haughtily deigned to acknowledge her, and returned to the Fade. And she was no worse for wear.

 One spirit, however, was notably absent—the fiery-eyed charcoal being who had appeared to her before. She’d grown wary of it, even to hate it, but now she missed its presence.

 “Well?” she said to the air. “And what about you? You started all this, didn’t you? It was your doing? Come out, then. Show yourself, and let’s talk.”

 But the spirit—if indeed it was a spirit—wasn’t feeling chatty. Even the whispers had died down since she had begun work on the ship, as though they were satisfied that she was finally getting a move on.

 In those days she came to understand all that a spirit mage could be. To be a spirit mage was to be more than yourself. It was to be part of a vast network of experience and emotion and being; it was to be part of the world, this one and the other. She was not yet such a mage; but she could imagine becoming one.

 All the while, the sun rose and set—but never where she expected it. Time was passing on the island, sure enough—but in fits and starts and haphazard bursts. She tried not to think of what world she would find when she finally sailed away from this place.

 Slowly, but much quicker than it otherwise might have been, her ship came together. Sometimes the furry jungle creatures came out to watch her at her work, having determined her not to be a threat. A few brave ones even ventured out to have a closer look. On the day she raised and secured the mast, they broke out in excited whoops and chitters.  She’d miss them.

 Before braving open water, she took her ship for a jaunt around the coast. A sailor’s memory, collected by a spirit of longing, filled her mind, and she knew just which rope to pull, which to secure, how to catch the wind in the triangular sail so that she always travelled in the direction she wanted. She launched successfully, and ran back aground without incidence. She was seaworthy.

 The ship could float, but would it survive the open sea?

 She began to make preparations to finally leave the island. She stocked up on provisions; preserving what could be preserved, hoping the rest would last at least a little while. With hesitation, she forewent water; for that she would summon rain. There wouldn’t be room on her one-woman ship otherwise; she would be relying on fresh-caught fish for some of her food as it was.

 Initially she tried to chart the likely winds in the area; but winds came with seasons, and she had no idea what season it was. She didn’t even know      where    she was. She had initially assumed a tropical latitude; but maybe even that wasn’t the case. She knew nothing about what she would find when she sailed beyond the island’s coastal shelf.

 Finally everything that could be done was done. Her boat was sturdy. Her provisions were stocked. The winds here never changed—they only ever blew inward—so there was no point in waiting for a favorable wind. All that was left…was to go.

     Come home,    they’d said. And what would happen if they took her back to Ferelden? If she saw the pennants of Amaranthine again? Would she face that place again? Or would she turn around and walk right back into the sea?

 “Okay, spirits,” she muttered, double-checking the security of her provisions and hoisting the sail. “I don’t know where I need to go, or what I’m supposed to do, so this one is all on you.”

 The wind filled her makeshift sail.

 —

 The first day at sea, she watched the sun’s path as it rose and set and rose again. She was half-convinced the island would not let her go, that no matter how  the wind blew, she would always find the island in her sights.

 But that didn’t happen. She watched it disappear behind the waves, and stay disappeared. For so long she’d thought of nothing but getting away.

 Now here she was, away.

 Even the spirit voices, her constant companions, had quieted.

 Now here she was, alone.

 She had a paddle, and a sail she could trim, and she could find her way by the stars which now were nearly the same every night, but she knew it wouldn’t matter. The sea was too vast and too strong. She would go where its current took her.  Her skin had long since cracked and dried and callused from salt and sweat and labor, and her hands ached as new exposure opened old cuts. All around her stretched horizon.

 The wind blew. The waves lapped. The sun shined.

 Now here she was, alive.

 On one day, a dolphin swam alongside her for nearly an hour, curiously bumping her craft with its head, so hard she worried it would break, until the creature grew bored and swam away. Another day a school of fish leapt out of the water and landed in her boat by the armful, flopping and squirming in desperation. Another day she woke to cloudy skies and an approaching storm, and all day long the rain and wind buffeted her, the waves rose to terrifying heights, and if not for her magic, she surely would have been lost. But as the sun rose the next day, her boat was intact, most of her provisions still aboard, and she was still alive.

 There was still no land in sight.

 Slowly her provisions dwindled. To conserve energy, she slept. The vivid realness of her Fade dreams had not lessened with distance from the island—they appeared to simply be part of her now. She walked upon the verdant sea as her unconscious body floated. She dreamt of mangrove trees and bald cypresses heavy with grayish tangles of moss, shooting up from deep dark standing water. She dreamt of jeweled spiders in impossible webs, of morning fog and heavy air, of somewhere new-old and strange-familiar. She dreamt of a grand city rising above it all, with a tower of living wood pulsing with life at its center. The whole time she could not shake the sense of pursuing somebody who always remained just barely out of reach. Even when she did not sleep, she was not fully awake. She was a mote upon the endless iron-blue, and she was no one and nothing, and she was the only soul in the whole world, and she was all she needed.

 She awoke when her ship ran aground.

 Truly awake for the first time in weeks, she shot up and nearly sobbed with relief. There was land! There were the mangrove trees, there were the rocky shores!

 Then she realized that her boat was rapidly filling with water.

 She shot up. There was no saving the craft; the shore rocks had fatally gashed open the faithful vessel’s belly. In her haste to check the damage, she stood too quickly, overbalanced the craft, and capsized.

 It wasn’t the first time on her journey that the vessel had capsized and required rescue. But now there was no saving it. The remnants of her provisions were floating away from her.

 She wobbled onto the rocky shore.

 Yvanne didn’t know how long she’d been on the island—or how many years had passed in the interim. But wherever she was now, it was where she was supposed to be. She could feel the same pull she had felt before, stronger now, urging her to come further inland.

 Wherever this was, it wasn’t Ferelden. She released a sigh of relief she’d forgotten she’d taken.

 Well, that could wait. First she would dry off, and find some food.      Then    she would go and meet her destiny, or whatever it was she was supposed to do here.

 Having grown accustomed to aloneness, she quite forgot that openly using magic might earn her sanction. So she quite brazenly summoned a pile of logs to come walk over to her and arrange themselves to her liking, set them magically afire, and earthshaped for herself a comfortable place to recline.  She was considering whether her food options would be better inside the forest or in the water when she realized that she was being watched.

 A whole group of travellers were staring openly at her. How much had they seen?—no, it didn’t matter. They’d seen enough. Wild visions of discovery by Templars shot through her mind. They would report her. Of course they would. And then she would have Templars to evade—no, better prevent it in the first place. Better handle this before it got away from here, even if she did something she didn’t want to have to do—

 And while these awful thoughts spun in her head, the travellers approached with smiling faces and greeted her in a language she didn’t understand.

 “I—what?” she coughed. The man who’d spoken, dark-skinned and blue-eyed with a turban wrapped around his head frowned slightly and repeated what he’d said. When her slackjawed expression didn’t change, he said something else, and then—

 “How about this?”

 “Oh! I—understood.” It had been so long since she’d talked to anyone but Fade spirits. Now he probably thought she barely even spoke Common.

 “Good!” he said, beaming. “Greetings to you, Seeress. Have you had a hard journey?”

 “I—er—uh,” Yvanne said intelligently, looking back at the sunken remnants of her boat, then back to the travellers. “Yes?”

 “Then of course we must feed you! No, we insist. We would not leave a seer in need.” The man gave a knowing look to his companion.

 In astonishingly quick succession—Maker, where were they getting it all?—the travellers brought out food, blankets, cushions to sit on, spices for the fire.  After weeks at sea and untold months on a deserted island she didn’t have the decorum to protest; she devoured everything they gave her and asked for more.

 Near the end of the meal one of their party brought out a pan flute and started to play; a woman besides him started to sing and clap along. Someone handed her a flask of something, something sweet that burned in the best way, even as she realized that she didn’t particularly want to be drunk anymore.

 The hour passed in easy, if nonverbal, camaraderie. It seemed that only one of the travellers had a language in common with her, though some of his (she assumed) children made some attempts. It was he that finally said: “Seeress, we have shared with you all that we had, foregoing nothing. Now you will speak to the spirits for us?”

 Yvanne stared at him. “Sorry—what?”

 The man gazed at her with a small, puzzled smile. “The spirits. You will intercede with them on our behalf, yes?”

 “I...don’t know how to do that. I’m sorry.”

 The man’s small smile faded to confused frown. One of the children tugged on his tunic, and he said something to her in their native tongue. Now the whole company burst into murmurs. “Of course you can,” the man said to her. “Are you not a seer?”

 Yvanne only stared blankly.

 Now the man was getting annoyed. “We      saw    you doing magic,” he said. “Of course you are a seer.”

     Oh,    she thought. “I’m sorry, I—the problem is I’m not from here, I’m not really a seer. I mean, I am a mage, I can do magic, and I talk to spirits sometimes, but I don’t—know what you’re talking about? I’m really sorry.”

 After a beat, the man with the headwrap translated this for the benefit of the rest of the group.

 “Not that I’m not grateful!” she assured hurriedly. “Maker knows I am! But I didn’t realize I…”

 “No, not. It was our mistake. Do not worry,” said the man in the headwrap, clearly disappointed.

 A few more uncomfortable minutes passed. The travellers mostly spoke to each other in their own language and started to pack up their things.

 “Well, seer or mage or whoever you are,” said the man in the headwrap, “We must be heading on. Where are you going now?”

 “I don’t know. A long time ago I meant to go to Dairsmuid. But I was waylaid. Some force—I think a spirit—is drawing me somewhere, but I don’t know where. I know that doesn’t make much sense. My life has taken some strange turns recently.”

 The man adopted gave her a patient, puzzled look. “Good luck to you, then. But if you decide to go to Dairsmuid after all, then you’ve met some fortune. Dairsmuid is less than a league inland, over that way. If you follow the trail you’ll be there within the hour.”

 The travellers moved on, and Yvanne was left alone.

 The mangroves called:      come home.    The voice was stronger now than ever.

 But this wasn’t home. She had never been here before, for all she saw it in her dreams. Home was flagstones and blue pennants and silverite armor. Home was high iron walls and a mountain of letters to answer. Home was the only person who had ever really known her. Home was someone that she’d never known at all. Home was a tower of shame and disgust, bound up with love and devotion so tight it would never be parted. Home was lost to her.

 As though in a dream, Yvanne pushed through the foliage.

 As promised the trail through the mangroves gave way to a settlement. Her bare and callused feet stood not on mud but on wood, smooth planks carefully arranged into a walkway raised above the standing water. Houses stood on raised posts, more and more of them as she walked on. A whole city, built on the water. Long and narrow boats made up more than half the traffic of this city. She knew exactly where to go.

     Come home.  

 Finally a tower rose up before her eyes; not of stone, but wood, and not of dead wood, but living wood. The biggest tree she had ever seen in her life grew there. Young men and women stood outside it, but when they saw her approach, they let her pass.

 And in she went.      Come home.  

 Inside was dark, lit only by greenish, flickering wisplight. An old, old woman sat upon a throne of living wood. Her eyes were closed. She breathed, but only just. Yvanne watched her for a time, and only then did she realize that the old woman did not merely sit upon the throne of living wood; she was fused to it.

 “Was it you who called me here?” Yvanne demanded.

 Not speaking, nor opening her eyes, the old woman inclined her head.

 Here within the tree, the spirit voices were utterly silent. Yvanne was alone in her head for the first time in months.

 Questions leapt to her lips. Why? How? Who are you? What do you want from me? Why did you bring me here? But her tongue remained still, and the old woman said nothing.

 “Well,” Yvanne said instead, and sank to her knees. “Here I am.”

 The old woman’s ancient puckered mouth formed into a smile.

 “Here you are,” she said, and opened her eyes. They were green and pale and bright as the moon, shining out from her ancient chestnut face like jewels. “Come here.”

 Yvanne came forward, eyes downcast. She could not stand to look at this person. It was all too much.

 A papery hand touched her cheek, raising her chin. Yvanne found herself staring into the woman’s remarkable eyes. For a long moment they only looked.

 “So,” the old woman said, “here you are.” Then she smiled, utterly radiant. “My heart rejoices to see you in the flesh, my great grand-daughter. We have all been waiting.”