theink-stainedfolk

[theink-stainedfolk]

New WIP!!!

Crimson for the Lost

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In the shadowed halls of an Tiānshuò empire, Murong Ruiqi, the poised heir of the powerful Murong clan, burns with a singular purpose: to dismantle the ruthless Yuwen faction and unmask the conspirators who murdered his closest friend. A master of both sword and strategy, Ruiqi moves through the imperial court with a quiet intensity, his warm brown eyes masking a heart hardened by grief. The Yuwens, led by the cunning Empress Dowager, tighten their grip on the throne, sowing discord and silencing their enemies with poison and steel. But Ruiqi is no mere noble—he is a ghost driven by a vow, wielding secrets as sharp as his blade.

Allied with the witty 4th Prince Ji Siyuan and the calculating Duanmu Zexuan, son of the Minister of Rites, Ruiqi navigates a treacherous web of courtly intrigue, where every smile hides a dagger. A cryptic clue—a blue jade pendant clutched close to his heart—hints at a deeper truth behind his friend’s death, one that could unravel the empire itself. As assassins strike and betrayals mount, a steadfast healer, Lan Xiu, offers Ruiqi solace amidst the chaos, his gentle presence stirring questions Ruiqi dares not answer. In a world where loyalty is a lie and vengeance a lifeline, can Ruiqi bring justice to the fallen, or will the shadows he hunts consume him first?

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Character Introduction

Murong Ruiqi

Age: 23

Birthday: April 10

Zodiac Sign: Dragon

Ethnicity: Han Chinese (noble lineage of the Murong clan)

Height: 5’8”

Build: Lean, athletic, honed for combat and agility

Eyes: Warm mahogany brown, gentle yet observant, with a spark of curiosity

Hair: Jet-black, lustrous, tied in an elegant topknot with a jade hairpin engraved with the Murong crest (stylized cloud); falls past shoulders when unbound

Skin Tone: Polished ivory, smooth, reflecting a sheltered noble life

Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous

Style: Opulent silk robes in crimson, emerald, or midnight blue, with intricate crane or peony embroidery; translucent outer layers catch the light. Wears a wide sash with a blue jade pendant and soft leather boots dyed to match his robes. A silver ring with the Murong seal adorns his finger.

Moodboard:

Colors: Deep crimson, jade green, midnight blue, silver

Textures: Silk, polished jade, smooth parchment

Imagery: Calligraphy brushes, blooming peonies, a ceremonial sword with mother-of-pearl, a moonlit pavilion, sandalwood incense smoke

Appearance:

Murong Ruiqi is the embodiment of noble refinement, his handsome face defined by sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and a softly curved jawline that retains youthful charm. His warm brown eyes exude kindness, often crinkling with a playful glint during courtly banter. His jet-black hair, glossy and meticulously styled, is a mark of his status, secured with a jade hairpin. His movements are fluid and deliberate, carrying the grace of a scholar and the precision of a martial artist. A faint sandalwood scent clings to him, and his hands, lightly calloused from sword practice, are otherwise pristine, reflecting his privileged upbringing.

Past:

As the heir to the Murong clan, Ruiqi was raised in the lap of imperial luxury, trained in both scholarly arts and martial discipline. His life has been shaped by duty to his family, whose ties to the Empress bind them to the throne, and by a quiet yearning to understand those beyond his gilded world. A significant bond formed in recent years has redefined his purpose, though its details remain closely guarded.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Compassionate: Sees the humanity in everyone, from servants to rivals.

✔ Intelligent: A quick mind, adept at poetry, strategy, and courtly diplomacy.

✔ Empathetic: Feels others’ pain deeply but expresses it tactfully.

✔ Charismatic: Inspires loyalty with his warmth and quiet confidence.

✔ Dutiful: Honors his family’s legacy, even when it cages him.

✔ Reflective: Often lost in thought, questioning the world’s injustices.

✔ Restrained: Avoids unnecessary violence, wielding his sword only when needed.

Hobbies:

Composing poetry, often inspired by nature or fleeting moments.

Practicing calligraphy, crafting elegant scrolls for family archives.

Sword dancing, blending martial skill with artistic grace.

Reading philosophical texts, seeking wisdom beyond the court.

Quirks:

Adjusts his sleeves or hair when deep in thought.

Tilts his head slightly when listening intently, a sign of genuine interest.

Carries a small scroll in his sash, jotting down spontaneous verses.

Hums a soft melody when walking alone, a habit from childhood.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

The scent of rain on peonies.

Quiet evenings in the family pavilion.

The sound of a well-played guqin.

Honest conversations, rare in court.

The weight of his blue jade pendant, a personal talisman.

Watching the sunrise over the estate’s gardens.

❌ Dislikes:

Deceit and flattery in courtly politics.

The rigid expectations of nobility.

Cruelty disguised as justice.

Loud, ostentatious displays of wealth.

Cold, flavorless meals served at state banquets.

Being underestimated as merely a scholar.

Favorite Food:

Lotus seed soup with red dates.

Braised bamboo shoots with sesame oil.

Osmanthus cakes, delicate and floral, a childhood favorite.

A Line That Defines Him:

“My heart, a mirror, vows to sail with you.”

~~~

Lan Xiu

Age: 29

Birthday: September 18

Zodiac Sign: Rooster

Ethnicity: Han Chinese (rural commoner background)

Height: 5’6”

Build: Wiry, compact, honed by fieldwork and medical tasks

Eyes: Warm amber-brown, like sunlit honey, steady and reassuring

Hair: Dark brown, almost black, soft but less glossy, tied in a loose bun with a wooden pin; reaches upper back when loose, slightly tangled

Skin Tone: Fair with faint freckles and fine scars on hands, slightly weathered

Dominant Hand: Right

Style: Simple cotton or hemp robes in olive, taupe, or faded blue, often patched and herb-stained. Wears a leather belt with pouches for tools, herbs, and a notebook. Cloth or scuffed leather shoes and a hemp cord bracelet are his only adornments. Carries a satchel for medical supplies.

Moodboard:

Olive, taupe, faded blue, earthy brown, Worn cotton, rough hemp, dried herbs, A mortar and pestle, chrysanthemum petals, a worn notebook, a misty herb garden, a braided hemp cord

Appearance:

Lan Xiu’s pleasant, unassuming face—broad forehead, upturned nose, small kind mouth—radiates approachability, softened by faint freckles and a scarred eyebrow from a childhood mishap. His amber-brown eyes are warm and steady, calming even the most frantic patients. His dark brown hair, slightly messy, escapes its loose bun, framing his face after long hours. His wiry build moves with quiet efficiency, hands steady from years of grinding herbs and stitching wounds. He carries the scent of chrysanthemum, ginseng, and ink, grounding and unpretentious.

Past:

Born to rural herbalists, Lan Xiu learned healing in villages before serving as a field medic in border conflicts. His skills earned him a place in the imperial court, though he remains an outsider to its politics. A chance encounter years ago left a lasting mark, guiding his quiet mission to mend more than just bodies.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Gentle: Soothes with words and actions, never forceful.

✔ Observant: Notices subtle signs, from symptoms to emotions.

✔ Resilient: Faces crises with calm determination.

✔ Empathetic: Feels others’ pain as his own, offering solace.

✔ Practical: Focuses on solutions, not status.

✔ Steadfast: Unwavering in his duty, even at personal cost.

✔ Humble: Avoids the spotlight, content in the background.

Hobbies:

Brewing herbal teas, perfecting medicinal blends.

Sketching plants in his notebook for reference.

Wandering herb gardens, finding peace in nature.

Teaching village children basic remedies when visiting home.

Quirks:

Hums a folk tune when focused on work.

Brushes hair from his face absentmindedly while mixing herbs.

Scribbles notes in margins, even on unrelated papers.

Tugs at his hemp bracelet when anxious or reflective.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

The smell of damp earth after rain.

The quiet of an herb garden at dawn.

Honest, unpretentious people.

The warmth of a shared meal.

The feel of well-worn tools in his hands.

The sight of a patient’s recovery.

❌ Dislikes:

Wasteful extravagance in the palace.

Arrogance from nobles who dismiss his work.

Harsh, overpowering spices in food.

Crowds that disrupt his focus.

Deception that harms the vulnerable.

Cold, sterile rooms without greenery.

Favorite Food:

Spicy Sichuan-style noodles with chili oil and pork.

Grilled skewers with cumin and chili.

Herbal tea with honey.

A Line That Defines Him:

“As long as you breathe, you have a choice.”

~~~

Duanmu Zexuan

Age: 27

Birthday: March 3

Zodiac Sign: Rabbit

Ethnicity: Han Chinese (noble Duanmu lineage)

Height: 5’7”

Build: Slender, delicate, with a refined air that belies mental strength

Eyes: Dark, glossy brown, nearly black, piercing and analytical

Hair: Sleek, pitch-black, tied in a meticulous topknot with a silver lotus hairpin; falls to mid-back when unbound, always immaculate

Skin Tone: Pale, flawless, luminescent under candlelight

Dominant Hand: Left

Style: Tailored robes in soft colors (lavender, pale gray, teal) with phoenix or interlocking ring embroidery, reflecting ritual duties. Narrow-cut robes accentuate his slim frame, paired with a coral bead sash clasp and silk slippers. Wears a jade ring with the Duanmu seal.

Moodboard:

Lavender, teal, silver, coral, Smooth silk, polished coral, crisp parchment, A silver lotus hairpin, an ink-stained scroll, a ceremonial altar, white orchids, a moonlit study

Appearance:

Duanmu Zexuan is elegance personified, his refined features—high cheekbones, narrow nose, thin lips—carrying an almost ethereal quality. His dark, nearly black eyes pierce through facades, framed by arched eyebrows that lend an imperious yet softened expression. His sleek black hair is meticulously styled, never a strand out of place, reflecting his disciplined nature. His movements are precise, every gesture calculated, and his slim frame moves silently through palace halls. He carries the delicate scent of white orchid and ink, a nod to his scholarly and ceremonial roles.

Past:

As the son of the Minister of Rites, Zexuan was groomed for courtly precision, mastering rituals, diplomacy, and the art of influence. His life has been a careful dance of maintaining his family’s prestige amidst rival factions. A recent tragedy has left him shaken, fueling his resolve to uncover hidden truths in the court.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Sharp-Minded: Dissects motives with surgical precision.

✔ Elegant: Embodies grace in appearance and manner.

✔ Calculating: Plans several moves ahead in political games.

✔ Loyal: Devoted to those he trusts, though slow to trust.

✔ Reserved: Keeps emotions tightly controlled, revealing little.

✔ Perceptive: Notices subtleties others overlook.

✔ Resilient: Bounces back from setbacks with renewed focus.

Hobbies:

Drafting ceremonial protocols, finding order in tradition.

Practicing archery, a disciplined outlet for focus.

Studying ancient texts on court etiquette.

Arranging orchids, a quiet ritual for calm.

Quirks:

Clasps hands behind his back when listening intently.

Purses lips slightly when skeptical or displeased.

Adjusts his hairpin when deep in thought.

Pauses mid-sentence to choose words with care.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

The scent of fresh ink on parchment.

Quiet, orderly libraries.

The elegance of a well-planned ceremony.

Subtle, meaningful gestures of loyalty.

The soft glow of candlelight.

Refined teas with floral notes.

❌ Dislikes:

Chaos or disruption in rituals.

Overt displays of aggression.

Dishonest flattery or manipulation.

Heavy, greasy foods that dull the senses.

Being rushed or pressured into decisions.

Unkempt appearances in court.

Favorite Food:

Steamed lotus root stuffed with glutinous rice.

Chrysanthemum tea cakes.

Poached pears in honey.

A Line That Defines Him:

“Truth hides in the spaces between words.”

~~~

Ji Siyuan

Age: 24

Birthday: July 22

Zodiac Sign: Monkey

Ethnicity: Han Chinese (imperial lineage)

Height: 5’9”

Build: Lean, well-proportioned, suited for courtly grace rather than combat

Eyes: Deep, rich brown, like aged lacquer, with a lively, mischievous glint

Hair: Jet-black, thick, slightly wavy, tied in a high, neat topknot with a gold dragon-shaped hairpin; reaches just past shoulders when loose

Skin Tone: Smooth, fair, unmarred, reflecting royal privilege

Dominant Hand: Right

Style: Layered silk robes in muted imperial colors (indigo, burgundy, charcoal) with subtle cloud or bamboo embroidery; crisp white inner robe for purity. Wears a wide sash with a jade disc pendant and polished black leather boots. Carries a painted folding fan with a minimalist landscape, used for gestures and subtle defense.

Moodboard:

Colors: Indigo, burgundy, gold, white, Smooth silk, polished jade, lacquered wood, A folding fan with ink-painted mountains, a golden dragon hairpin, a sunlit palace courtyard, citrus pomanders, cedarwood incense

Appearance:

Ji Siyuan exudes a scholarly charm, his handsome face softened by rounded cheekbones, a gently sloping nose, and an expressive mouth that curves into an easy, disarming smile. His deep brown eyes sparkle with cleverness, framed by straight, upward-tilted eyebrows that give him a perpetually curious look. His jet-black hair, slightly wavy, is neatly styled in a topknot, with loose strands occasionally tucked behind his ear. His relaxed grace and open gestures make him approachable, though his sharp mind is evident in the flicker of his gaze. He carries a faint cedarwood-citrus scent, blending palace incense with a southern gift.

Past:

Born as the 4th Prince, Ji Siyuan was raised in the imperial palace, trained in diplomacy and strategy but spared the intense scrutiny of the crown prince. His wit and kindness have made him a favorite among allies, though his distance from the throne allows him freedom to forge genuine bonds. A recent loss has sharpened his resolve, drawing him into a dangerous game of courtly intrigue.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Clever: Quick-witted, adept at reading people and situations.

✔ Kind: Genuinely cares for others, even across class divides.

✔ Charismatic: Wins trust with humor and warmth.

✔ Strategic: Hides his sharp mind behind a playful demeanor.

✔ Loyal: Fiercely devoted to those he calls friends.

✔ Optimistic: Finds light even in dark times, though not naïve.

✔ Adaptable: Navigates court politics with ease, bending without breaking.

Hobbies:

Playing the erhu, crafting soulful melodies in private.

Strategizing over weiqi (Go), honing his tactical mind.

Collecting rare teas from southern provinces.

Sketching landscapes on his fan, a quiet creative outlet.

Quirks:

Taps his fan against his palm when pondering or teasing.

Winks conspiratorially during private conversations.

Hums a cheerful tune when nervous, masking unease.

Adjusts his jade pendant absentmindedly during debates.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

The sound of rain on palace tiles.

Banter with trusted friends.

The aroma of jasmine tea.

Open courtyards bathed in sunlight.

Clever riddles and wordplay.

Festivals with vibrant lanterns.

❌ Dislikes:

Hypocrisy in courtly flattery.

Cold, formal ceremonies.

Bitter foods that spoil his mood.

Being confined to the palace for too long.

Dishonesty, even if strategic.

Heavy, restrictive robes.

Favorite Food:

Sweet red bean buns.

Grilled fish with ginger.

Lychee sorbet, a rare imperial treat.

A Line That Defines Him:

“Laughter hides a blade, but loyalty sharpens it.”

---

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[theink-stainedfolk]

Lacking Motivation for One Wip, I Work On Another

Slicing through the sill, morning air, a sharp *whizz* announced the arrow’s flight across the sun-dappled glade. Time seemed to stretch out, to slow down for Kyu as she watched the arrow strike the wooden dummy with a solid *thwack*. Jarring the dummy into a swaying dance; the large straw hat titled on its head. From in front of her mismatched eyes—a deep, muddy brown on the right, and a vibrant jade green on the left—Kyu brushed her raven-black hair. As she reached down to her quiver, her fingers ran across the cool smoothness of the deerskin, before Kyu pulled out another arrow and knocked it against her polished bamboo yumi. With practiced ease, she loosed the arrow, the sound of a soft *thrum* as it found its mark dead center on the dummy’s chest. An enormous smile spread across her heart-shaped face.

A sweet-scented breeze, which carried the perfume of sakura blossoms and damp earth from the rains the night before, ruffled the multi-colored petals of the various wildflowers lining the deep blue-green pond. The pond, a jewel in the dell’s heart, mirrored the surrounding trees; a towering cedar, its bright-green needles carpeting the ground and added to the fragrance, dominated the area. Wrapped around the cedar was a thick, knotted hempen rope, rough against the touch, held fluttering pieces of paper—prayers and protection spells in elegant script. Below it, a small shrine, well-taken cared of, offered a quiet space for anyone to whisper prayers to the kami of the forest.

Deep within the forest’s shadowy embrace, a rustling whispered through the low-hanging branches. Much like dry leaves that skittered across a stone walkway, the sound was distinctive and not of the wind. Kyu’s sharp eyes, keen as a hawk’s, swept westward—but found only stillness and shadows. Which danced in the rays of light that could pierce the canopy, yet none of them stirred. But she felt it—a presence too quiet for any animal, which would have bolted at her approach. It was a person, no doubt.

Then, Kyu saw a flash—the sun glinted off polished metal, a tanto! The brief, sharp gleam vanished as quickly as it appeared. The hidden person knew they had been discovered. A lithe form, clad in a familiar, dark kosode, clinging to sinuous curves beneath, and loose hakama, swished into view. With a desperate speed, Kyu dropped her bow and drew her wakizashi, in just enough time to parry a blow with a sharp *shing* and countered with a front kick that thudded into the attacker’s gut. The attacker wore a tengu mask; its long, grotesque nose and dark, blood-like sanguine paint were a horrifying sight, if they didn’t know better. Jet-black hair flowed behind the figure like a silken river, a rather amusing familiarity gripped Kyu.

She couldn’t think about it for too long before a reed-soled zōri missed her face by less than an inch. The sharp wind from its speed slapped her face, and it stung like an insult, mirroring the impact of the potential kick. A brutal punch to her solar plexus stole her breath, but Kyu blocked the next strike, letting her grab the smaller woman’s arm. Using practiced judo, she flipped her opponent, which sent her crashing down with a sharp thud onto a bed of vibrant flowers. A cloud of off-yellow pollen, sweet and pungent, erupted into the air.

“Hikaru-chan, every day your skills improve so much,” Kyu complimented as she pulled the young woman up to her feet.

Once on her feet, Hikaru pushed up her tengu mask, where a lopsided grin crossed her rounded face. “One day I shall best you, my friend. As for now, Ranmaru-sensei requests for your bullish twin-brother Keiji-kun. And, for the life of me, I cannot find him.”

Kyu rolled her eyes, a faint whisper of amusement in their multi-colored depths, as she shook her head. “I know where that giant boy is at,” she hugged, the sound a sharp exhale against the crisp air. Kyu’s head snapped towards Raijin’s Peak, the movement sending her thin braid swinging, a soft thudding against her cheek. “Tell Ranmaru-sensei that I shall retrieve my brother, posthaste.”

****

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[theink-stainedfolk]

New WIP!!!

Forever My Foe

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In a realm where dragons are reviled as monsters and knights are forged to slay them, two childhood friends—Mielmir and Kesvirez—once bound by laughter and a playful rhyme, "You’re the dragon, I’m the knight. I’ll kill you, with all my might!"—find their destinies shattered by a curse. One awakens as the very beast he swore to vanquish, while the other rises as the kingdom’s most relentless knight. As their paths collide in a storm of fire, steel, and unspoken longing, their childhood game becomes a haunting prophecy, threatening to tear them apart. Joined by Meisha, a healer with a heart as fierce as her compassion, and Vandri, a warrior whose ambition hides her own vulnerabilities, they navigate a world of secrets, betrayal, and forbidden love. Together, they must unravel the truth behind the curse that binds them—before it consumes their bonds or the realm itself. Will they defy fate to reclaim the love they lost, or will the roles they were destined to play destroy everything they hold dear?

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Character Introduction

Mielmir Nihkum

Age: 23

Birthday: November 6

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio

Ethnicity: Mixed (Human with latent Dragon Bloodline)

Height: 6'0" (183 cm)

Build: Lean but wiry, with an ethereal grace that hides latent strength

Eyes: Gray-blue, with a faint luminescent glow when emotional

Hair: Long, jet-black, silky, often loose or tied loosely with a leather cord

Skin Tone: Pale, with shimmering silver-blue scales along collarbones, spine, and hips

Dominant Hand: Left

Style: Flowing, dark robes or loose tunics to conceal his scales and tail; silver earrings that glint like stars; a mix of elegance and secrecy

Moodboard:

Colors: Midnight blue, silver, charcoal gray, moonlit white

Imagery: A dragon’s wing under moonlight, a cracked sword, a single glowing ember, a tattered letter, a forest shrouded in mist, a silver chain

Vibes: Haunting, melancholic, mysterious, with a spark of hidden hope

Appearance:

Mielmir carries an otherworldly beauty, his long black hair framing a sharp jawline and high cheekbones. His gray-blue eyes seem to hold secrets, glowing faintly when his emotions run high. Silver-blue scales trace his collarbones and spine, shimmering like liquid moonlight, and his curved horns and prehensile tail betray his dragon nature. His movements are fluid, almost feline, but there’s a tension in his posture, as if he’s always ready to flee or fight. His earrings—small silver hoops—catch the light, a remnant of the boy he used to be.

Past:

Mielmir grew up as Kesvirez’s best friend, the louder half of their childhood duo, always playing the knight in their game of “You’re the dragon, I’m the knight. I’ll kill you, with all my might!” He idolized the idea of heroism, training tirelessly to join the Knight Order alongside Kesvirez. But on the eve of their 19th birthday, a feverish transformation awakened his dormant dragon bloodline, sprouting horns and scales in a haze of pain and blood. Terrified of becoming a monster, he fled, leaving only a letter to push Kesvirez away. He hid in isolation, haunted by guilt, until Meisha found him and offered solace—but never the love he truly craved.

Personality & Traits

✔ Introspective and reserved, but fiercely protective when pushed

✔ Carries a deep well of guilt and self-loathing for his dragon form

✔ Loyal to those he loves, even at his own expense

✔ Sharp-witted, with a knack for reading people’s emotions

✔ Gentle in private moments, but guarded in public

✔ Struggles with vulnerability, fearing rejection

✔ Has a quiet strength that emerges in moments of crisis

Hobbies:

Stargazing, finding peace in the vastness of the night sky

Sketching landscapes with charcoal, a secret talent he rarely shares

Tending to small plants, a way to feel human

Running his fingers over his scales, a nervous habit

Quirks:

Twirls his earrings when deep in thought

His tail flicks when he’s annoyed, betraying his calm facade

Hums their childhood rhyme absentmindedly when alone

Avoids mirrors, afraid of seeing his dragon features

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

The smell of rain-soaked earth

Kesvirez’s rare, unguarded smiles

Meisha’s calming presence

The feel of wind under his wings during flight

Soft, worn fabrics against his skin

The quiet of dawn before the world wakes

❌ Dislikes:

The weight of chains or restraints (trauma from the dungeon)

Being stared at for his horns or scales

Kesvirez’s reckless protectiveness

Loud, crowded places that make him feel exposed

The taste of iron, reminding him of blood

Being called a monster, even in jest

Favorite Food:

Wild honey drizzled over warm bread

Roasted venison with herbs

Blackcurrant tarts, a childhood favorite

A Line That Defines Him:

“I was your knight once, but now I’m the beast—and I’d rather die than let you hate me for it.”

~~~

Kesvirez Philei

Age: 24

Birthday: August 12

Zodiac Sign: Leo

Ethnicity: Human

Height: 6'3" (191 cm)

Build: Broad-shouldered, muscular, built for battle but graceful in motion

Eyes: Deep green, piercing and intense, softening only for Mielmir

Hair: Chestnut brown, short and tousled, often swept back from training

Skin Tone: Sun-tanned, scarred from countless battles

Dominant Hand: Right

Style: Practical knight’s attire—leather armor, burgundy cloaks, sturdy boots; always wears a silver ring engraved with a dragon, a gift from Mielmir as children

Moodboard:

Colors: Crimson, steel gray, forest green, burnished gold

Imagery: A bloodied sword, a roaring fire, a clenched fist, a dragon’s silhouette against a stormy sky, a worn leather glove, a single red ribbon

Vibes: Fierce, passionate, unyielding, with an undercurrent of longing

Appearance:

Kesvirez exudes raw power, his broad frame and confident stride marking him as a natural leader. His green eyes burn with intensity, but they soften when they land on Mielmir, revealing a hidden tenderness. Scars crisscross his arms and chest, each a story of battles fought, but his hands—calloused yet gentle—tell a different tale when they touch Mielmir’s scales. His tousled hair and slightly crooked smirk give him a roguish charm, tempered by the weight of duty.

Past:

Kesvirez was the quieter half of their childhood duo, always playing the dragon in their rhyme, reveling in the chaos of their games. He was fiercely possessive even then, sulking when Mielmir played with others. Their dream was to join the Knight Order together, but when Mielmir vanished on their 19th birthday, leaving only a cryptic letter, Kesvirez’s world shattered. He threw himself into knighthood, rising to the top rank, but his heart never stopped searching for Mielmir.

Personality & Traits

✔ Passionate and fiercely loyal, with a heart that burns for those he loves

✔ Possessive, especially of Mielmir, but learning to temper it with trust

✔ Blunt and quick-tempered, but deeply remorseful when he hurts others

✔ Charismatic, with a knack for inspiring (or intimidating) others

✔ Protective to a fault, often acting before thinking

✔ Struggles with vulnerability, hiding pain behind bravado

✔ Relentless in pursuit of what he wants, whether victory or love

Hobbies:

Polishing and sharpening his sword collection

Riding his horse through the forest at dusk

Sparring to burn off restless energy

Braiding Mielmir’s hair, a quiet ritual he cherishes

Quirks:

Clenches his jaw when jealous, a telltale sign

Always carries Mielmir’s childhood ring, even in battle

Mutters their rhyme under his breath when stressed

Stands too close to Mielmir, even when arguing

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

The weight of a sword in his hand

Mielmir’s scent

The thrill of a challenge, physical or emotional

Meisha’s cooking

The sound of Mielmir’s laugh, rare as it is

Warm fires on cold nights

❌ Dislikes:

Mielmir’s attempts to push him away

Vandri’s teasing about his feelings

Feeling powerless or out of control

The Knight Order’s rigid rules

Seeing Mielmir in painCold, sterile places that remind him of loss

Favorite Food:

Grilled venison with rosemary

Buttered potatoes with garlic

Dark ale, sipped slowly by a fire

A Line That Defines Him:

“You can burn the world or run from it, Mielmir, but you’ll never outrun me—I’ll claim you, scales and all.”

---

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[theink-stainedfolk]

This is epic! 😲 The way you painted that brutal battle scene on Salisbury plain had me on edge—total chaos, no chill, just straight-up survival mode. And that showdown between Arthur and Mordred? Chef’s kiss! The dialogue is so intense, especially Arthur’s “I pity you” line—it’s like a gut punch. You can feel his heartbreak and Mordred’s rage. The ending with them both going down? Tragic but so powerful.

Writecamp day 5

Hello, and shoutout as always to @agirlandherquill for the event, and @theeccentricraven for the tag

today's prompt: "I pity you. I do not fear you. I do not despise you. All I can do is pity the frightened wretch of a boy in front of me."

Death had reaped well that day on Salisbury plain. Countless were the lords, knights, and common folk who would not see the sun set.

Near equal to the dead were the living going at each other in desprate hand-to-hand combat. All pretense of chiverly and decorum were cast aside as each man only thought of his own survival. At the center of the maelstrom of bodies, two went at it, ignored by all those around them.

"What's the matter old man?" Mordred taunted. "Has age rendered you incapable of cutting me down?"

Arthur ignored the words of his bastard son. Instead, he replied with a heavy overhead blow. Had Mordred not raised his shield in response Excalibur would have cleaved through helm and head with ease. Instead, the blade cleaved the iron rim and lodged itself in the oak body of the shield.

The two men tussled. Mordred's shield went flying, but so did Excalibur. Arthur grabbed a broken lance and steadied himself as Mordred descended on him. Arthur went for several decisive strikes, but otherwise did nothing but block and parry.

"I can sense the fear holding you back. It's not the hesitation of any remaining fatherly love." A grin played on Mordred's face. "What's the matter? Scared? Do you fear that I will cut you down like I did Gawain? Where is the anger, Arthur? Why aren't you raging the way you did when Lancelot betrayed you? Aren't you going to give into your anger and strike me down?"

"No." Arthur finally spoke. "I pity you. I do not fear you. I do not despise you. All I can do is pity the frightened wretch of a boy in front of me."

"Pity? Bah!" Mordred spat. "A feeling for fools and women. A true king needs to cast his heart aside and make the painful decisions. Strike without hesitation or mercy, and put down all who stand in the way."

"That is why I pity you." Arthur sighed sadly. "You could have been anything you wanted. And yet here you are, a cruel tyrant incapable of love or forgiveness. Lashing out at every shadow, betraying those who helped you, even your own mother. You say fear has gotten a hold of me, and yet it is you who has been consumed by it.

"I cannot claim the moral high ground, for I myself have sinned. I am just a man, and I have made many mistakes. I cannot undo the past, but I can save the future.

"For your sake, and for the sake of Albion, I will do what I must to end this madness."

Arthur charged forth with the strength and speed of a raging bull. Mordred was caught off guard. The iron spear head pierced through the armor covering his torso. Then cloth. Then flesh.

Still there was something left in Mordred. With the last few ounces of rage left to him, he pulled himself up the haft and struck Arthur before falling dead.

"And so ends Mordred. And so ends I." Arthur whispered before collapsing himself.

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[theink-stainedfolk]

Omg, this snippet is so emotional! 😭 Justin’s pain is hitting me right in the feels—those lines about Joselyn and the whole vibe of the city being so heavy and dark? Chills. You nailed that raw, aching tone. I’m dying to know what’s got him so torn up and why he’s out there without her! You’re killing it with this—can’t wait to read more! What’s next for Justin? Spill! 💖

Writecamp Day 4 🌄

Huge shoutout again to @agirlandherquill for creating Writecamp!

Rules: choose a prompt (or more) from the prompt list on @agirlandherquill's post, write something and share your creation with the rest of writeblr, and share the game with others, because as we all know writing is a gift and it deserves to be shared! More details can be found here.

For Day 4 I chose "the bite of sadness". I wrote it for a rewritten passage in my main WIP, my YA Dystopia The Blood Cleaners.

As Justin stood up, Naomi added, “You could even write down your thoughts in your journal.” Justin groaned as he remembered that journal. He better start writing to avoid fees.  “Hey, Lady Naomi, I mean, Mrs. Deere? I don’t know what to write in my journal.” Naomi laid out the tray upon oven mats on the counter “Do you know anyone who kept a diary?” “Not personally.” Naomi wiped her hands with her apron. “There’s no rules. Just write whatever you want to. Write down what you want your posterity to know about you. Or just dump your feelings. It can be therapeutic. No one has to read it.” Justin lay on his bed as he took the advice to heart. With all of the stress, pain, and confusion of the past few days, he just needed to say something. He didn’t want to cry. He wouldn’t want to answer when asked why he cried. He couldn’t see Joselyn as she shared his anger. He couldn’t tell her the Fists’ dark secrets that would rile her. He couldn’t assure her that her cause was worth fighting. He couldn’t tell her his pain. She wasn’t there to stroke his hair, breathe on his neck, and tease him with her lips. Joselyn was there to share the sadness. Joselyn was there to take sadness away. All that he could do was return to her. The blood upon the streets, the deathcries, the empty rotting houses, the gunshots. A veil of sadness hung over this city with no hope of lifting. Death followed him, stealing from him. He reminded himself that he was foolish to have gone against Joselyn’s wishes by coming out this way. Without her at his side, saying “I love you” his only companion was sadness.  

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[theink-stainedfolk]

KAULAKRI, MY SCIENCE-OBSESSED SELKIE QUEEN! You’ve gone and done it again, crafting a character who’s equal parts fierce, nerdy, and ready to bite a chunk out of an alien monster for science. I’m absolutely feral for this short, fat, speckled-fur cartographer who’s out here mapping the solar wheel while secretly crushing on Nyda and pretending she’s the crew’s voice of reason. The way she chomped that slimy creature and then immediately reached for her notebook? Iconic. I’m in love with her passion, her temper, and her ability to accidentally cause 66% of the crew’s bad decisions while sounding like she’s giving a TED Talk.

Kaulakri getting crushed by a tentacle monster, biting it back like a true selkie badass, and then spitting out its flesh to take notes on its alkaline taste? That’s the energy of a woman who’d fistfight a black hole for a good data point. And the crew’s reactions—Nyda’s impressed vibe, Faalgun’s squelchy panic, Pash being too prissy to touch the slime—had me cackling. It’s such a perfect snapshot of this chaotic found family.

Next on the list for character introductions!

Kaulakri Ondohuroata: the Cartographer

From up above, I heard the squelchy steps of Faalgun struggling down to my position. I didn't think he believed me about this being a perfectly harmless event. I opened my mouth to reassure him once more, only to be suddenly sprayed with dirt as the bubble burst. Except, it wasn’t a bubble. My eyes went wide as I took in my first sight of alien fauna.  Its pale skin was slimy, likely a close analog to Illari amphibians. Two bulbous white eyes goggled around on either side of a jawless, tooth-ringed maw, while tendrils waved about as if tasting the air. I shrieked as the horse-sized creature lunged at me with two sets of tentacles where there should’ve been arms. All at once, I was on the ground, sticky white flesh crushing my chest, covering my face. I struggled and flailed, yet my hands were largely pinned by its bulk. I could feel its jawless mouth unzipping further down its chest than it ought. A thousand tiny teeth began to rasp against my skull. Now, I knew I was already dead, but fight or flight doesn’t leave so easily. In that moment of terror, certain I was about to be devoured, I did what any self-respecting selkie would. The creature gave a burbling cry as I sunk my pointed teeth into its slimy chest. It tasted disgusting and the mucus clogged my throat, but I didn't stop until I ripped out a sizable chunk. By the time I went back for more, it was struggling to get away, its prospective prey being rather too much effort to handle. It slithered off of me, ripping free another chunk of flesh in my jaws in its struggle to get away. Just as quickly as I was crushed, I found myself free and staring up into the red Lai’ten sky. The dense mucus practically glued me to the ground, so I had to struggle to pull myself free. Thankfully, by this point, Nyda and Faalgun had made it over and helped me into a sitting position. Pash turned up his nose at the prospect of getting any of the slime on him, however, he did at least keep his head on a swivel for any more of the slithering creatures. “Glory’s fucking Hand…,” Nyda breathed. With wide eyes, she ripped a strip of fabric from the hem of her pants to bind the wound on my head, though the pain was fading already and I knew the mark would be gone in minutes. Her expression was strangely impressed, rather than the concern or annoyance I might have expected. “Mmph—” It was then that I realized a large chunk of white flesh was still clenched in my jaws. I spat out the bitter stuff, though I did note the distinctly alkaline taste and pale pink blood. I patted around for my notebook so that I might record the discovery, only to come to a moment of damning realization.

Kaulakri is a woman of many facets; a former selkie shaman in-training, a doctor of ecological research, and somehow, the most mentally stable person on this crew. What a position to be in! If you'd like to know more, feel free to read on (:

Kaulakri, to start, is one of the halawemavish people, or seal selkies. The halawemavish live in the far north and migrate from camps under the waves to upon the ice depending on the season. Their aquatic form resembles something more like a seal mermaid than an actual seal. They tend to be very close-knit and communal, as well as having a rich history of oral tradition, though they often eschew many conveniences of modern society.

This is the environment Kaulakri grew up in. Her childhood was relatively happy, if lonely. Not that she would have a word for such a thing, but Kaulakri is autistic, and as such had a hard time connecting with the other children she grew up with. Instead, she spent her time learning from the enclave's shaman to memorize the songs and stories of her people. She was very dedicated to this, however, the shaman could tell that her heart was elsewhere. Kaulakri had always possessed a deep desire to understand the natural world, on a level not explained in the songs. She could be found staring into tide pools or watching anemones for hours just as often as she could be found reciting stories of the spirits.

In the end, the shaman actually encouraged Kaulakri not to complete her apprenticeship. There were great schools on land, run by humans, where they could teach her what she wanted to know. After some debate - Kaulakri cared a lot for her community and didn't want to abandon them - she decided he was right, so she learned to read real quick, packed her things, and walked onto the nearest island until she found a university. The Yunin College of Natural Philosophy, in fact. Though her knowledge in areas of math was lacking, her grasp of science and history was fantastic, so they let her in, and that's how Kaulakri became the first of her enclave to ever attend a college. She worked her way through at an incredible speed, eventually attaining a PhD and being given leave to conduct her own research missions. Which she very much did. Kaulakri sailed all around the Janazi Isles, determined to make a complete map that included notes on all the flora and fauna of each island. And in the end, she got very, very close. She just didn't count on a rat getting into her ship's food stores and spreading a fever that killed everyone aboard before they had so much as a chance to make it to civilization.

So, unlucky end for poor Kaulakri. She's not letting it stop her though, because as part of the crew of the R.S. Starbreaker, she's been given a chance by the selkie spirits to not just map some islands, but to map the entire solar wheel! The other crew members might've been promised a shot at heaven if they complete this mission, but Kaulakri is more than happy to do it for its own sake.

In terms of personality, Kaulakri seems a quiet sort when you first get to know her. A stuffy, boring scientist happier to take notes on soil quality than to talk to people. Unfailingly polite and a little dense. However, stay around her for long, and a different side will make itself known. Kaulakri is a wildly passionate woman. She loves her work fiercely and can see the beauty in the smallest facets of the world. She also has one hell of a temper if you push her the wrong way. She has just as much energy for hate as she does for intense love of what others might deem unlovable. Aboard the crew, she acts as a sort of driving force to get their mission done well, since she's the only one who really wants to be there. Slowly but surely she's turning everyone else into scientists too. What she is not is the voice of reason. Her polite and formal tone might make it sound that way, but Kaulakri is distinctly aware that she can't die now and is taking full advantage of it. For science!

Appearance-wise, in her land form, Kaulakri is a short, fat woman with skin covered in short gray and black speckled fur. She has long, straight black hair that she keeps in a half-up-half-down style. Her eyes are dark, her ears are slightly pointed, and her teeth are very pointed. She died wearing a practical sweater and pants, over which lays her sealskin cloak. Due to her death by illness, she retains a bit of a sickly look. In her aquatic form, she looks much the same aside from the large seal tail and the fact that her face takes on a bit of an uncanny look, with a longer mouth and wider eyes. Her closest seal equivalent would be a leopard seal.

Fun facts time now!

As mentioned, Kaulakri is autistic. She stims by bobbing her head back and forth and has a very strong aversion to certain cloth textures. She's aware that her social skills aren't the best, but otherwise, nothing about being autistic really bothers her.

She is also a lesbian, not that she ever had time for a serious relationship in life with her work taking priority. And unfortunately, Nyda, the other woman on the crew, is a scoundrel and a bitch to work with and she gets weird feelings in her stomach every time she's around her and yeah even Kaulakri has to admit she's hot as fuck...

Kaulakri's proudest scientific discovery is a novel species of beetle she found on a sand bar somewhere. Ask her about this and be prepared for a four-hour lecture at the very least.

Of all the dangerous decisions the crew has made, 2 out of 3 were her fault for prompting them into doing the dangerous thing. However, she's still getting away with the voice of reason schtick because she uses words the rest of them don't know.

She cares a lot about the crew and their morale and keeps a list of 'Morale Activities' in her diary, with sections on each member.

So yeah! Kaulakri might be my only character ever without an outright tragic backstory (except for, you know, dying), so good for her on beating the odds! She just wants to be in space documenting space moss and totally not getting into an intense, horny-fueled rivalry with the ship's astronomer, Nyda (who I will probably introduce next). Until then, have a bitchin day!

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[theink-stainedfolk]

WIP

Okay all I am doing with this new wip idea I have. Just wanted to get an intro paragraph to expand on when I am done with Astrid's story.

In the pre-dawn hours, a steady, yet gentle, rain fell at just a slight angle. Such a soft pitter-patter that played a beautiful, natural symphony on the metal roof just a few feet above her head. A soft candle flickered in the darkness, casting dancing shadows across the makeshift wooden walls. All the while, the wind would pick up as brief, but intense, gales that shot the rain at the structure and bring a chill to the air. Her mismatched eyes focused on the paperback book in her hands. Its cover long since ripped off, she had read these words dozens—no hundreds!—of times, and the adventures of Alanna never grew old for her. But she couldn’t linger too much longer, two days in any one place is one-too-many. So, closing the book, she tripled-checked that her bag held everything she needed before stuffing the book within its well-worn folds. Pulling on her boots, she took a bite from the dried meat, something she could gnaw on for the next little while. Grabbed her rifled by its smooth wooden stock and stepped up to the entryway, which was nothing more than a threadbare curtain that flapped in the wind.

****

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[theink-stainedfolk]

this is such a cute story! I love how Felix is so dedicated to his willow tree, like it’s his baby or something 😭. The way he talks to it and gets all frustrated but keeps trying is so wholesome. And that twist with the white ooze? Wild! I didn’t even know trees could get infections like that either, lol. The ending with him learning that problems can be hidden deep down is super deep, too—love that vibe.

WriteCamp Day Three!

Day Three of @agirlandherquill ‘s challenge!

Featuring little Felix yay <3 aged 12 or so! he was so sweet :(

the prompts I used for today were:

(setting) a wilting willow

(setting) a swathe of sky

enjoy!

———

According to the gardener, the old willow tree had been in the gardens for years, longer than Felix had even been alive. Longer than his parents’ lives, or even his grandparents’. He promptly decided such an old tree should be preserved for as long as possible, and so he went to tend to it every morning himself.

This morning was no different. Felix had woken, freshened himself up, eaten breakfast, and promptly dodged his social duties in favor of caring for his willow tree.

The morning was slightly damp, surely a result of the rains that had fallen over the past months. Felix tsk-ed as he saw his willow was drooping more than usual, some of the leaves starting to wilt once again.

Whatever would he do? Nothing he tried worked; watering it more, or less, or bringing an artificial light. Even when he tried magicking the tree to better health it returned to its wilted state.

Frustrated, he slumped down under the swaying branches, pressing his palm against the rough, flakey trunk.

“What do you need, Miss Willow?” he asked, gently patting it. “I’m doing everything I’m supposed to. Why aren’t you getting better?”

His hand dropped from the tree’s trunk dejectedly. Why couldn’t he fix the willow? What was missing? Plants needed water, soil, and sunlight, and the gardeners assured him that the soil surrounding the tree was perfect. If this tree had everything it needed, why wouldn’t it heal?

~~~

The next day Felix didn’t go to his willow tree. Not the day after, or the day after, or for the week, then the month…

~~~

One month passed, and Felix decided to take another shot at the willow. Determined, he marched along the now-dry path, a pail in one hand and a small book and pen in the other.

He dropped both when he saw the state of the tree.

One of the branches had strange white liquid oozing from it. After a panicked search, Felix deduced that there were no other strange liquids in any other area of the tree. How strange! He had never seen this before, even on other plants.

He quickly sketched out what the branch looked like and trotted off to find the gardener. Perhaps they would know what this was?

~~~

Felix sat under the newly-cut branch, a swathe of sky contrasting the green canopy. Apparently the white gunk was an infection!

Provided, he didn’t know much about trees at all. But that wouldn’t stop him from trying to help.

“I had no idea trees could get sick,” he started. “I really thought I was just doing a horrible job at tending to you! It’s nice to know you’ll be doing better now.

“… you will be doing better now, right? Gardener Tia said you hadn’t been getting the water you needed because of that white ooze. Now that the infection’s been cut out, you’ll do okay!”

He hummed happily. The tree wouldn’t die, it would stand here forever and ever and ever and nothing—not an infection, nor bad weather—would ever take it down. Felix was happy with that.

It seemed that sometimes, problems would start deep within something, and no one would see what the issue really was until it burst through the cracks and revealed itself. He wrote that in his journal. It was an important lesson, to him at least.

———

me when I do actual research into willow trees.

I hate writing /joke

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[theink-stainedfolk]

WAIT ANDNAKSBKW THIS IS SO CUTE AJEVKQNMA

Oh, Faalgun, my precious scaly disaster! You’ve got me wrecked with this tiny lizard captain who’s drowning in shame but still barking orders like the boss he is. The image of him napping on a heating pad (because cold planets make him sleepy, I’m screaming) while also squaring up to fight a dude three times his size? That’s the Faalgun Special: 50% guilt, 50% unhinged courage, 100% adorable. I’m obsessed.

Pash calling him adorable and roping him into singing while he strums his shamisen? That’s the chaotic wholesome content I’m here for. I can just see Pash grinning with those creepy red teeth, like, “Sing for me, tiny captain!” while Faalgun’s muttering about how he doesn’t deserve this duet but does it anyway. The fact that the crew looks to him in a crisis, even when he’s refusing the captain title, hits me right in the feels. They believe in him so hard, and he’s out here thinking he’s the worst. Somebody get this lizard a hug and a therapist!

The clothing upgrade journey sounds like a saga in itself. I’m picturing the crew staging a full-on intervention to yeet those rags, with Pash probably trying to “gift” him a stolen jacket in the most fae way possible. What finally convinces Faalgun to ditch the tragic uniform? Does someone sneak him a shiny new tricorn hat to seal the deal?

Next on the character intro docket for The Final Voyage of the R.S. Starbreaker!

Faalgun Falani, the Captain

I’d been numb for so long. Ever since I was a boy, the feeling haunted me. It took me a long time to realize boredom isn’t painful to most people, that it doesn’t consume most of your time. It’s not that I think everyone is boring, I swear. Believe me, most folks are entirely too fast for my liking. Gods beyond, I… will not be going into detail because then we’d be sitting here for another twenty pages and no one needs that. It’s more like an itch. Plenty of things make me happy throughout the day: quiet mornings, singing to myself, having a pint after work, though that last one is a little harder now that I’m dead. But that itch is still there. It’s like that ankle you sprained when you were a teen that never quite healed right — it doesn’t stop you from running and jumping around, but that ache is always there.  I think other people have the ache too, but we all fill it in different ways. For me, the only time it leaves me alone — the only time I can really be at peace — is when I’m walking that line between fortune and ruin.  I got into a lot of fights when I was a kid. I’m sure it’s not surprising to hear I didn’t win many — a short Halan stature certainly isn’t unheard of on the Flying City, but it’s rare, and I’m pretty compact even by that metric, so I was always the smallest in the orphanage where I grew up. Even so, even after every boot to the stomach and poke in the eye, I always came back for more. It was the only time I felt alive. The only way I knew how to alleviate that itch. In regards to that, flight school was the best thing to ever happen to me. That line between fortune and ruin became a starry horizon. The rush of a fist to the jaw became the rush of G-forces pulling at my stomach. I excelled, to say the least. I trained to get good at docking procedures and memorized every regulation in the handbook, but really, in my heart, I was there for those lightning moments where the world fell away because I was flying too fast for it to keep up.  I guess gambling was just easier, though. It was certainly a faster fix. I never wanted….

Faalgun is fun because he is a military veteran with a gambling addiction that was eventually the death of him and the cause of a massive amount of trauma in the process. He is also, however, a 3'5" little lizard guy who likes to sing in secret and wears a little tricorn hat. Ah the dichotomy.

Faalgun, a mentioned, grew up in an orphanage after being surrendered as a hatchling. His home, the Flying City, is a rather singular place in the solar wheel, as it is the only space-faring civilization. Picture a giant cruise ship/space station but made of wood. Powered by magic, the Flying City moves between the three inhabited planets and trades goods between them. They are protected by a vast fleet of voidskiffs (magical spaceships) and as soon as he was able, Faalgun left the orphanage to join this fleet.

From there, his rise in rank was pretty meteoric. Faalgun is truly a fantastic pilot and captain. A little overly fond of risk for sure, but the Flying City Navy isn't an active military at the moment, so his fancy maneuvers were somewhat overlooked. Other than that, he was incredibly by-the-book. Many people resented him for his quick ascent to the rank of captain, others stuck close hoping some of that luster would rub off on them. Fairweather friends, you could say - not that Faalgun could tell the difference. He was glad to have people to hang out with for once, and thought nothing of it when they first invited him out to a casino.

Something is a little off in Faalgun's brain. Adhd or a family history of addiction or both, he doesn't know, but either way, he lives for an adrenaline rush. In this way, gambling was like catnip to him. In record time, he lost all his money, his house, and, in a final blow to his pride, he was stripped of his rank in a dirty alleyway after his commanding officer tracked him down. He got in debt bad. No one was there to support him - his 'friends' abandoned him the moment he lost his rank and he had no family to speak of. In the span of about a year, he was sleeping under a bench half-drunk trying to figure out which loansharks would still talk to him. Soon enough, he found the answer was zero and also they were quite mad he hadn't paid back any of the money he'd borrowed. Some thug eventually beat him to death in an alley and that was that. Faalgun's soul went to the hell of the goddess Ibara, patron goddess of sailors and explorers. He'd failed her as a wanderer of the stars. Except now, with this mission given to the R.S. Starbreaker and its ghostly crew, he's been given a second chance. And even if he thinks he's the scum of the earth, he refuses to screw up again.

Soooooo, he's got some issues, to put it lightly. Aside from those, Faalgun is a pretty shy person. Some social anxiety for sure. He does well when in command; he's highly organized, rules oriented, and does things by the book. But in more personal settings, he tends to be quiet and a little awkward at making conversation. Very introverted fellow. Due to the trauma surrounding his death, Faalgun's self-esteem is terribly low. He thinks of himself as a terrible, weak wretch of a person and refuses the rank of captain aboard the R.S. Starbreaker even though he's already doing the job pretty much. In death, he wants to be a 'better person,' so he avoids cards and dice like the plague, and does his best not to let his impulsiveness get the better of him on missions. He doesn't always succeed, but sometimes that's for the best. If anyone of the crew is going to take a risk to rescue another, or throw themselves into a fight to defend the ship, it's Faalgun. He might not be the official captain, but this is still his crew and he has a duty to them.

Very sad lizard, very angsty. But what does he look like? Well, as stated, Faalgun is a lizard. Picture something like a dnd kobold. He stands at around 3'5" - closer to 3'0" really, most of that 5" is his horns - and has pale blue scales and a ruff of white fur that cascades from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. He's around late twenties in age. His eyes are yellow and reptilian, his horns have almost a crystalline sheen, and he has two whiskers on his snout, like an Eastern dragon. His blood is a dark blue. As for clothes, Faalgun still wears the torn and stained military uniform he died in. He sees it as a reminder of what he truly is.

Now for some fun facts because there's gotta be something fun about this man!

Faalgun is a fairly talented singer. He got into it as a kid and though he has terrible stage fright, he sings softly to keep himself occupied while steering the ship.

He's asexual, mostly because I think it's funny to call him an 'ace pilot.' He's probably demiromantic also. He's been in one relationship in his life and it was kind of a shitshow between those two factors and some very poor communication.

Because he's a reptile, any cold planet they go to, he tends to get very, very sleepy.

Building off of that, the entire crew thinks Faalgun is downright adorable. Not that they'd ever say so. But they are thinking it very hard.

He's probably the best trained fighter on the ship, which would be great if he wasn't the size of a six year old.

Anyhow, that's Totally-Not-Captain Faalgun Falani! Ostensibly the leader of this voyage, walking ball of guilt and trauma, and also cute little lizard guy. A man of many facets. I hope you enjoy and have a bitchin day!

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[theink-stainedfolk]

FIRST OF ALL SORRY FOR DISAPPEARING!!! I HAD TO DELETE TUMBLR TO HIDE FROM MY FATHER!!!

OH, PASH, YOU MENACE. I’m losing it over this chaotic fae gremlin thinking “thank you” is some kind of bizarre incantation while simultaneously terrorizing poor Anarac with his star phobia just to get some me time. The fact that he’s holding back because he’s lowkey terrified the crew will yeet him into the void? Iconic. I can’t with this kid. Your reply has me cackling and clutching my heart at the same time.

Anarac trying to gentle-parent Pash while Nyda’s out here undoing it with “stop coddling the murder-hobo” energy is the dynamic I didn’t know I needed. I’m picturing Anarac with a tired dad vibe, like, “Pash, please, we don’t lock friends outside,” and Nyda just yeeting a boot at Pash’s head for good measure. The fact that Pash genuinely believes they’ll turn on him is so sad but also so him—this fae brain cannot compute kindness, and I’m obsessed with how it’s breaking him in the best way.

You’re killing it with these Starbreaker disasters. Pash is the feral cat I’d die for, and I need more of this crew’s chaos. Also, Nyda sounds like she’s ready to suplex Pash into next week.

As per a unanimous vote, it's finally time for individual Starbreaker and Wild Type intros! And as per special request, I'll be starting with my troublemaker Pash (;

Pashananath: the Negotiator

I gestured over to where Nyda carried three of the five swords initially packed onto the ship. “We can pay with steel. Also, directions to anywhere that sells clothing would be divine.” I was sick and goddamn tired of wearing this laundry day outfit. ‘It’ll just be a little show at a bar.’ ‘No one important will see you, it’s fine if you leave laundry for tomorrow!’ Little did I know some meathead would take offense to my rendition of Mother’s Tub and decide to put a broken bottle through my throat about it (not that I blamed him — that piece was not my finest work), and now clever little me was living out eternity in a pair of too-short pants and a wrap shirt with a stain on the sleeve. Even besides me, Faalgun’s uniform was fucking disgusting and I was tired of looking at it.  Duja scratched the back of his head. “That’s not an inconsiderable order. I don’t sell instruments and I don’t know what you mean by ‘rune,’ but hammocks, cards, and high quality rations I do carry. However, I just traded for a stack of steel ingots when the Flying City was here a month ago, so I’m pretty flush on that. I’ll sell you the hammocks for the swords, but you’ll probably get farther if you bring something else for trade. Or just go exchange your currency. I know you Flying City types love a good barter, but we do use money here. That’s not— That’s not, like, a foreign thing for us.” “You’re sure you won’t trade for the swords?” My eyes flicked to the shopkeep’s bearing. He was not a well-muscled man, and he didn’t seem to be carrying any weapons. “I— No. That’s what I just said,” Duja huffed. “I’d be happy to trade for other things, if you have them. Lumber, precious stones, silk — I’m just flush on steel right now. If you don’t have the cash, there’s a casino down the road you could try your luck at. Just tell them I sent you.” My eyes flicked to his slim throat. “Say, you don’t have any weapons behind the—” I was cut off with a squawk as Nyda grabbed me by the ear and hauled me back. “Just a moment!” she told the shopkeep. I mumbled a string of insults under my breath as she pulled me into a group huddle with her and Kaulakri. Negotiate. Don’t negotiate. What the hell did she want from me? We weren’t even going to be here that long — there was no reason for us not to just kill this guy. “I had it handled,” I hissed, shooting a glare at Nyda, which she instantly reciprocated. “I saw that fucking look in your eye, Sarytasi.” Absently, she scratched at the wound in her side. “The way I see it, if we wanna afford furniture, rations, and new clothes, we’ve got two options.”

So, uh, the boy has some issues. Read more below the cut to find out all the juicy details of what they are!

Pash is one of the Fair Folk (or the fae or Sarytasi or whatever you call them). Pash is also, like the whole of the R.S. Starbreaker crew, dead. The god-empress of the fae, the Gloaming Queen, sent his soul on this mission to pierce beyond the barrier of End that encircles the solar wheel and he cannot fail her orders.

The fae are... odd people. They value individual happiness to an extreme. If Pash saw a man wearing a jacket he liked, he would have no issue killing that man for the jacket. Likewise, if someone killed him for the same jacket, well, fair's fair. This pattern of behavior deeply impacts how he interacts with the crew. He has little respect for boundaries and the only reason they can get him to contribute anything is either because he finds this particular task entertaining or he knows that if the crew ganged up to beat him into submission, they would win. Violence is a way of life for the fae. In their land, the strong take from the weak, and the best a musician like Pash can do is hope he's entertaining enough to stay in their good graces.

Which is to say, yes, Pash is a musician, and a very good one. All fae are created by the Gloaming Queen with a singular purpose in mind: their Contribution. Pash's Contribution is music. He's far better at that than he is at negotiating. In the Next-Door Land, where the fae reside, he spent his life (fae don't measure time, so who knows how long that was) playing for tavern crowds before meeting an inglorious end by way of a broken bottle slitting his throat after someone didn't like his song. He isn't too bitter about it, all in all. And it wasn't like he left much behind. The fae aren't known for their close relationships, and Pash had none. His interactions with the crew of the R.S. Starbreaker is his first time meeting non-fae and it's been an... experience for him.

But on to personality! Yes, he's a little brat for sure, but Pash does have a streak of kindness in there somewhere. He likes to cheer the crew up by playing music or telling jokes, and he does help around the ship to an extent. He does this because deep down, it really does make him happy to see his friends happy. This isn't to say his attitude doesn't cause friction, of course. In just as many instances as he decides to help out, Pash is selfish, lazy, and has a bad habit of asking very personal questions. The third area that it's important to understand about him is that he's afraid. Fae society operates on fear; the weak fear the strong, the few fear the many, and everyone trembles before the Gloaming Queen. Pash is afraid of the crew because, in his mind, they're wildly unpredictable. They don't act how people should - they pay him kindnesses he doesn't understand. It frightens him, though in some deep part of his heart, he longs for such grace. Slowly but sure, Pash is going to realize some things about himself and his people, and I'm certain the road will not be smooth in that regard.

But what does he look like? Well, all fae look different, but the Gloaming Queen made Pash to be tall and lanky - about 6'2". He has pale skin and a body covered in a light dusting of dark fur, as well as a tufted tail. His pupil-less eyes and pointed teeth are both solid red and he smiles frequently. He's got shaggy dark hair that comes down to his shoulders and pointed ears also tufted with fur. His outfit is pretty simple; a wrap shirt and loose pants paired with sandals. His hands are markedly graceful and can play any instrument that's placed in them.

Now for some fun facts!

Pash has no real sense of time, fae don't measure that and their land is in an eternal state of dawn and dusk, and also they don't age from when they're spat into being. Ergo, he has no clue how old he is or how long he's been dead for. However, he has the vibes of an 18 year old who just moved out of his parent's house and is still figuring out laundry, so it's safe to say he's young.

The instrument he has aboard the ship is a shamisen. Pash loves playing music, it makes him feel safe, however, he doesn't enjoy singing.

His favorite bad habit is asking really intrusive and uncomfortable questions while in someone's personal space.

Other than music, perhaps the only thing he respects is the Gloaming Queen. Like all fae, Pash was biologically made to be unable to resist her orders and he thinks of her as a perfect being.

Well, that's all for now! I hope you like my fucked up murder-hobo fae boy, he's such a disaster. I'll probably go through all the Starbreaker characters for intros next, then Wild Type. Thanks for sticking around <3

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[theink-stainedfolk]

This is some vivid food writing, damn! I can practically taste those spiced beef dumplings and smell the mutton simmering in those cauldrons. Astrid’s living the dream with all that savory goodness, even if she’s stuck peeling potatoes, lol. The way you described the honey-wine ham-hocks and those puffy pastries? Chef’s kiss. Makes me hungry af. You got a knack for making her punishment sound like a vibe—kinda jealous of her kitchen grind!

I've Been Writing Food

“I think I did rather well in the second round,” Jaxon stated between bites of his spiced beef dumpling, which dripped sauce creamily down his chin. It was his favorite meal, after all. “But I’d bet my last sun” — suns were the common gold coin, moons were silver, and the one Astrid was most used to, were dirts, or copper coins — “that you win the honored position. You’ve more than earned it since you have come here.”

Astrid stuffed a fork-full of dumpling into her mouth. “Anyone other than Giles,” she said between chewing. “I hate that bastard.” Each bite was a welcoming explosion of flavors in her mouth: those spices from Iona; beautifully aromatic rosemary, that subtle thyme, and mouth-numbing black pepper; added to it all the buttery potatoes in every dish.

****

This punishment felt like a reward to Astrid in a way. Though the onions will sting her eyes, and her hands will ache after hours of peeling potatoes, she would welcome their rough texture against her fingertips, it was all worth it. She could imagine the clattering cookware and the simmering steam from massive cauldrons, heavy with food, which may have looked a thick, dull brown liquid where various vegetables and meats bobbed up and down. That rich aroma of mutton—distinctive and delicious—accentuated by locally-foraged herbs and vegetables, the height of cuisine here in the snow-lands. She nodded, a silent affirmation. “Yes, sir. Thank you for your leniency and a chance to improve myself,” she murmured, like a scolded child, which she very well was.

****

Dinner wasn’t always the same; today, the delicious, savory scent of meat pies filled the air—Astrid’s favorite. She watched the cooks’ flour-dusted hands shape each one; the dough yielded under their practiced touch. Chicken, beef, and mutton overflowed within each in an indeterminable mix. Between lessons over these past couple of weeks, she had peeled hundreds upon hundreds of potatoes, washed just as many dirty pots. Yet, Astrid found a strange satisfaction in these chores. It grounded her amidst her studies and stuffy surroundings. A punishment she welcomed with opened arms, alongside the morning training sessions that were less a punishment and more of a welcoming to sharpen and improve her sword-arm.

****

Astrid sat at her usual table, the worn wood nicked and pitted, a rather lonely emptiness settled in despite the succulent feast before her: savory roasted ham-hocks lathered in thickened honey-wine and mutton legs coated in darkened seasoning almost burnt from the fires, yeast-scented breads—both hearty dark rye and those buttery rolls, that were puff and plump and took on any sauce and gravy—along with heaps of vegetables, baked potatoes piled high, and as many sweets as one could desire: those little chocolate-squares that were just sweet enough to cut through the dark bitterness, puffy-pastries filled with a stout-flavored cream that was a complex counterpoint to the overly-sweetness, and many more that Astrid tasted and enjoyed, yet it did not light up her heart. It was more than enough for her and the dozen kids still left in the dorms.

****

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[theink-stainedfolk]

OH MY GOD, FAALGUN. This tiny, angsty lizard captain has stolen my heart and stomped on it with his little clawed feet. You’ve done it again—created a character who’s such a perfect mess of contradictions that I’m obsessed. A 3’5” kobold-looking space pilot with a gambling addiction, a tricorn hat, and a secret singing voice? I’m in love, I’m in pain, I’m ready to riot for this sad scaly boy.

That opening about the “itch” of boredom? Straight-up haunting. You nailed the visceral ache of someone who’s chasing adrenaline just to feel something, and then you layer it with this heartbreaking backstory of loss and failure. Faalgun’s fall from grace—losing everything to gambling, getting beaten to death in an alley, and now carrying that guilt into the afterlife? It’s so raw and real, but then you hit me with “he’s a little lizard guy who sings to himself” and I’m just done. The dichotomy, as you said, is perfection. I want to wrap him in a blanket and also watch him recklessly pilot a voidskiff into a black hole.

Some things I’m screaming about:

The way you describe his need for that “line between fortune and ruin” is chef’s kiss. It’s not just thrill-seeking; it’s like he’s only alive when he’s teetering on the edge. That shift from fistfights to G-forces to gambling? It’s such a clear thread of who he is, and it makes his descent into addiction feel inevitable yet tragic.

“He refuses the rank of captain aboard the R.S. Starbreaker even though he’s already doing the job.” OUCH. This man is out here leading a crew while drowning in self-loathing, and I respect the hell out of his commitment to being his own worst enemy.

The crew thinking he’s adorable but not daring to say it? I’m cackling. I can just imagine Pash smirking in the background, knowing full well Faalgun’s a badass but also wanting to pinch his scaly cheeks. Does Pash ever try to mess with him about it, or is Faalgun too intimidating despite being, like, three feet tall?

His torn uniform as a reminder of his failures? That’s such a gut-punch detail. It’s like he’s wearing his shame, and I need to know if the crew ever tries to get him into something less… tragic. (Please tell me Pash has attempted to “borrow” him a new outfit in the most chaotic fae way possible.)

Ace pilot, literally asexual? I’m howling. The pun alone deserves a medal, but the fact that his one relationship was a disaster just adds to the Faalgun Cinematic Universe of Angst.

Next on the character intro docket for The Final Voyage of the R.S. Starbreaker!

Faalgun Falani, the Captain

I’d been numb for so long. Ever since I was a boy, the feeling haunted me. It took me a long time to realize boredom isn’t painful to most people, that it doesn’t consume most of your time. It’s not that I think everyone is boring, I swear. Believe me, most folks are entirely too fast for my liking. Gods beyond, I… will not be going into detail because then we’d be sitting here for another twenty pages and no one needs that. It’s more like an itch. Plenty of things make me happy throughout the day: quiet mornings, singing to myself, having a pint after work, though that last one is a little harder now that I’m dead. But that itch is still there. It’s like that ankle you sprained when you were a teen that never quite healed right — it doesn’t stop you from running and jumping around, but that ache is always there.  I think other people have the ache too, but we all fill it in different ways. For me, the only time it leaves me alone — the only time I can really be at peace — is when I’m walking that line between fortune and ruin.  I got into a lot of fights when I was a kid. I’m sure it’s not surprising to hear I didn’t win many — a short Halan stature certainly isn’t unheard of on the Flying City, but it’s rare, and I’m pretty compact even by that metric, so I was always the smallest in the orphanage where I grew up. Even so, even after every boot to the stomach and poke in the eye, I always came back for more. It was the only time I felt alive. The only way I knew how to alleviate that itch. In regards to that, flight school was the best thing to ever happen to me. That line between fortune and ruin became a starry horizon. The rush of a fist to the jaw became the rush of G-forces pulling at my stomach. I excelled, to say the least. I trained to get good at docking procedures and memorized every regulation in the handbook, but really, in my heart, I was there for those lightning moments where the world fell away because I was flying too fast for it to keep up.  I guess gambling was just easier, though. It was certainly a faster fix. I never wanted….

Faalgun is fun because he is a military veteran with a gambling addiction that was eventually the death of him and the cause of a massive amount of trauma in the process. He is also, however, a 3'5" little lizard guy who likes to sing in secret and wears a little tricorn hat. Ah the dichotomy.

Faalgun, a mentioned, grew up in an orphanage after being surrendered as a hatchling. His home, the Flying City, is a rather singular place in the solar wheel, as it is the only space-faring civilization. Picture a giant cruise ship/space station but made of wood. Powered by magic, the Flying City moves between the three inhabited planets and trades goods between them. They are protected by a vast fleet of voidskiffs (magical spaceships) and as soon as he was able, Faalgun left the orphanage to join this fleet.

From there, his rise in rank was pretty meteoric. Faalgun is truly a fantastic pilot and captain. A little overly fond of risk for sure, but the Flying City Navy isn't an active military at the moment, so his fancy maneuvers were somewhat overlooked. Other than that, he was incredibly by-the-book. Many people resented him for his quick ascent to the rank of captain, others stuck close hoping some of that luster would rub off on them. Fairweather friends, you could say - not that Faalgun could tell the difference. He was glad to have people to hang out with for once, and thought nothing of it when they first invited him out to a casino.

Something is a little off in Faalgun's brain. Adhd or a family history of addiction or both, he doesn't know, but either way, he lives for an adrenaline rush. In this way, gambling was like catnip to him. In record time, he lost all his money, his house, and, in a final blow to his pride, he was stripped of his rank in a dirty alleyway after his commanding officer tracked him down. He got in debt bad. No one was there to support him - his 'friends' abandoned him the moment he lost his rank and he had no family to speak of. In the span of about a year, he was sleeping under a bench half-drunk trying to figure out which loansharks would still talk to him. Soon enough, he found the answer was zero and also they were quite mad he hadn't paid back any of the money he'd borrowed. Some thug eventually beat him to death in an alley and that was that. Faalgun's soul went to the hell of the goddess Ibara, patron goddess of sailors and explorers. He'd failed her as a wanderer of the stars. Except now, with this mission given to the R.S. Starbreaker and its ghostly crew, he's been given a second chance. And even if he thinks he's the scum of the earth, he refuses to screw up again.

Soooooo, he's got some issues, to put it lightly. Aside from those, Faalgun is a pretty shy person. Some social anxiety for sure. He does well when in command; he's highly organized, rules oriented, and does things by the book. But in more personal settings, he tends to be quiet and a little awkward at making conversation. Very introverted fellow. Due to the trauma surrounding his death, Faalgun's self-esteem is terribly low. He thinks of himself as a terrible, weak wretch of a person and refuses the rank of captain aboard the R.S. Starbreaker even though he's already doing the job pretty much. In death, he wants to be a 'better person,' so he avoids cards and dice like the plague, and does his best not to let his impulsiveness get the better of him on missions. He doesn't always succeed, but sometimes that's for the best. If anyone of the crew is going to take a risk to rescue another, or throw themselves into a fight to defend the ship, it's Faalgun. He might not be the official captain, but this is still his crew and he has a duty to them.

Very sad lizard, very angsty. But what does he look like? Well, as stated, Faalgun is a lizard. Picture something like a dnd kobold. He stands at around 3'5" - closer to 3'0" really, most of that 5" is his horns - and has pale blue scales and a ruff of white fur that cascades from the top of his head to the tip of his tail. He's around late twenties in age. His eyes are yellow and reptilian, his horns have almost a crystalline sheen, and he has two whiskers on his snout, like an Eastern dragon. His blood is a dark blue. As for clothes, Faalgun still wears the torn and stained military uniform he died in. He sees it as a reminder of what he truly is.

Now for some fun facts because there's gotta be something fun about this man!

Faalgun is a fairly talented singer. He got into it as a kid and though he has terrible stage fright, he sings softly to keep himself occupied while steering the ship.

He's asexual, mostly because I think it's funny to call him an 'ace pilot.' He's probably demiromantic also. He's been in one relationship in his life and it was kind of a shitshow between those two factors and some very poor communication.

Because he's a reptile, any cold planet they go to, he tends to get very, very sleepy.

Building off of that, the entire crew thinks Faalgun is downright adorable. Not that they'd ever say so. But they are thinking it very hard.

He's probably the best trained fighter on the ship, which would be great if he wasn't the size of a six year old.

Anyhow, that's Totally-Not-Captain Faalgun Falani! Ostensibly the leader of this voyage, walking ball of guilt and trauma, and also cute little lizard guy. A man of many facets. I hope you enjoy and have a bitchin day!

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[theink-stainedfolk]

Oh, I’m thrilled to know Pash gets worse before he gets better—my favorite kind of character arc! The fact that he’s out here causing problems, dodging crew beatdowns, and slowly unraveling at the seams because someone dared save his life? That’s peak disaster fae energy, and I’m eating it up. You’ve got me hooked on this morally dubious theater kid with a shamisen and a death wish.

I love that the crew’s selflessness is like a cosmic glitch in his worldview. Pash’s brain must be doing backflips trying to process people valuing him just for existing. I can’t wait to see how he squirms under that kind of kindness—and how it chips away at his murder-hobo instincts. Does he ever have a moment where he tries to “repay” their kindness in the most unhinged fae way possible? Like, “Thanks for saving me, here’s a stolen dagger I killed a guy for” vibes?

Also, I’m dying to know more about the R.S. Starbreaker crew. Who’s the poor soul stuck wrangling Pash most often? And what’s the wildest thing he’s done on the ship so far? Gimme the chaos. And don’t hold back on Wild Type either—I’m ready to fall in love with more of your weirdos. Keep ‘em coming! <3 Also, what us the full form of R.S. Starbreaker?

As per a unanimous vote, it's finally time for individual Starbreaker and Wild Type intros! And as per special request, I'll be starting with my troublemaker Pash (;

Pashananath: the Negotiator

I gestured over to where Nyda carried three of the five swords initially packed onto the ship. “We can pay with steel. Also, directions to anywhere that sells clothing would be divine.” I was sick and goddamn tired of wearing this laundry day outfit. ‘It’ll just be a little show at a bar.’ ‘No one important will see you, it’s fine if you leave laundry for tomorrow!’ Little did I know some meathead would take offense to my rendition of Mother’s Tub and decide to put a broken bottle through my throat about it (not that I blamed him — that piece was not my finest work), and now clever little me was living out eternity in a pair of too-short pants and a wrap shirt with a stain on the sleeve. Even besides me, Faalgun’s uniform was fucking disgusting and I was tired of looking at it.  Duja scratched the back of his head. “That’s not an inconsiderable order. I don’t sell instruments and I don’t know what you mean by ‘rune,’ but hammocks, cards, and high quality rations I do carry. However, I just traded for a stack of steel ingots when the Flying City was here a month ago, so I’m pretty flush on that. I’ll sell you the hammocks for the swords, but you’ll probably get farther if you bring something else for trade. Or just go exchange your currency. I know you Flying City types love a good barter, but we do use money here. That’s not— That’s not, like, a foreign thing for us.” “You’re sure you won’t trade for the swords?” My eyes flicked to the shopkeep’s bearing. He was not a well-muscled man, and he didn’t seem to be carrying any weapons. “I— No. That’s what I just said,” Duja huffed. “I’d be happy to trade for other things, if you have them. Lumber, precious stones, silk — I’m just flush on steel right now. If you don’t have the cash, there’s a casino down the road you could try your luck at. Just tell them I sent you.” My eyes flicked to his slim throat. “Say, you don’t have any weapons behind the—” I was cut off with a squawk as Nyda grabbed me by the ear and hauled me back. “Just a moment!” she told the shopkeep. I mumbled a string of insults under my breath as she pulled me into a group huddle with her and Kaulakri. Negotiate. Don’t negotiate. What the hell did she want from me? We weren’t even going to be here that long — there was no reason for us not to just kill this guy. “I had it handled,” I hissed, shooting a glare at Nyda, which she instantly reciprocated. “I saw that fucking look in your eye, Sarytasi.” Absently, she scratched at the wound in her side. “The way I see it, if we wanna afford furniture, rations, and new clothes, we’ve got two options.”

So, uh, the boy has some issues. Read more below the cut to find out all the juicy details of what they are!

Pash is one of the Fair Folk (or the fae or Sarytasi or whatever you call them). Pash is also, like the whole of the R.S. Starbreaker crew, dead. The god-empress of the fae, the Gloaming Queen, sent his soul on this mission to pierce beyond the barrier of End that encircles the solar wheel and he cannot fail her orders.

The fae are... odd people. They value individual happiness to an extreme. If Pash saw a man wearing a jacket he liked, he would have no issue killing that man for the jacket. Likewise, if someone killed him for the same jacket, well, fair's fair. This pattern of behavior deeply impacts how he interacts with the crew. He has little respect for boundaries and the only reason they can get him to contribute anything is either because he finds this particular task entertaining or he knows that if the crew ganged up to beat him into submission, they would win. Violence is a way of life for the fae. In their land, the strong take from the weak, and the best a musician like Pash can do is hope he's entertaining enough to stay in their good graces.

Which is to say, yes, Pash is a musician, and a very good one. All fae are created by the Gloaming Queen with a singular purpose in mind: their Contribution. Pash's Contribution is music. He's far better at that than he is at negotiating. In the Next-Door Land, where the fae reside, he spent his life (fae don't measure time, so who knows how long that was) playing for tavern crowds before meeting an inglorious end by way of a broken bottle slitting his throat after someone didn't like his song. He isn't too bitter about it, all in all. And it wasn't like he left much behind. The fae aren't known for their close relationships, and Pash had none. His interactions with the crew of the R.S. Starbreaker is his first time meeting non-fae and it's been an... experience for him.

But on to personality! Yes, he's a little brat for sure, but Pash does have a streak of kindness in there somewhere. He likes to cheer the crew up by playing music or telling jokes, and he does help around the ship to an extent. He does this because deep down, it really does make him happy to see his friends happy. This isn't to say his attitude doesn't cause friction, of course. In just as many instances as he decides to help out, Pash is selfish, lazy, and has a bad habit of asking very personal questions. The third area that it's important to understand about him is that he's afraid. Fae society operates on fear; the weak fear the strong, the few fear the many, and everyone trembles before the Gloaming Queen. Pash is afraid of the crew because, in his mind, they're wildly unpredictable. They don't act how people should - they pay him kindnesses he doesn't understand. It frightens him, though in some deep part of his heart, he longs for such grace. Slowly but sure, Pash is going to realize some things about himself and his people, and I'm certain the road will not be smooth in that regard.

But what does he look like? Well, all fae look different, but the Gloaming Queen made Pash to be tall and lanky - about 6'2". He has pale skin and a body covered in a light dusting of dark fur, as well as a tufted tail. His pupil-less eyes and pointed teeth are both solid red and he smiles frequently. He's got shaggy dark hair that comes down to his shoulders and pointed ears also tufted with fur. His outfit is pretty simple; a wrap shirt and loose pants paired with sandals. His hands are markedly graceful and can play any instrument that's placed in them.

Now for some fun facts!

Pash has no real sense of time, fae don't measure that and their land is in an eternal state of dawn and dusk, and also they don't age from when they're spat into being. Ergo, he has no clue how old he is or how long he's been dead for. However, he has the vibes of an 18 year old who just moved out of his parent's house and is still figuring out laundry, so it's safe to say he's young.

The instrument he has aboard the ship is a shamisen. Pash loves playing music, it makes him feel safe, however, he doesn't enjoy singing.

His favorite bad habit is asking really intrusive and uncomfortable questions while in someone's personal space.

Other than music, perhaps the only thing he respects is the Gloaming Queen. Like all fae, Pash was biologically made to be unable to resist her orders and he thinks of her as a perfect being.

Well, that's all for now! I hope you like my fucked up murder-hobo fae boy, he's such a disaster. I'll probably go through all the Starbreaker characters for intros next, then Wild Type. Thanks for sticking around <3

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[theink-stainedfolk]

New WIP!!!

Ledgers & Legends

---

In the chaotic kingdom of Aravelle, where magic defies logic and taxes are a nightmare, Ezirta Judrures wants nothing more than to go home. An accounting student from Earth, Ezirta’s been isekai’d into a world that doesn’t even know what a spreadsheet is—yet somehow, his knack for numbers has earned him the title of “Sage of Spreadsheets,” a reluctant hero fixing the kingdom’s finances one sarcastic quip at a time. But when he crosses paths with Vimaimir Junzenzir, a newly appointed Sentinel of the Veil whose impulsive bravado masks a heart full of doubt, and Sirivan Trinzen, a stoic knight whose loyalty hides a deeper struggle, Ezirta’s plans for a quiet escape unravel faster than a poorly balanced budget.

The Veil—a mystical barrier protecting Aravelle from shadowy horrors—is fraying, and Vimaimir’s sacred duty to guard it comes with a catch: he has no idea what he’s doing. As the trio is thrust into a web of rogue mages, magical rifts, and court conspiracies, Ezirta’s sharp mind and sharper tongue become their only hope for survival. Vimaimir’s reckless courage pulls them into danger, Sirivan’s unwavering discipline keeps them alive, and Ezirta’s begrudging care for these two disasters might just be what holds them together. But in a world where chaos reigns and the Veil’s secrets run deeper than anyone realizes, the trio will have to confront their own fears—and each other—if they want to save Aravelle from collapse.

---

Character Introduction

EZIRTA JUDRURES

Age: 22

Birthday: March 14, 2003

Zodiac Sign: Pisces (intuitive, empathetic, but often overwhelmed)

Ethnicity: Mixed (A blend of South Asian and European heritage, reflecting a modern Earth background)

Height: 5’8” (1.73m)

Build: Lean but slightly soft, the kind of build that suggests late nights studying rather than physical training.

Eyes: Hazel, sharp and expressive, often narrowed in exasperation.

Hair: Dark brown, wavy, and perpetually messy, falling just past his ears—always looks like he just rolled out of bed.

Skin Tone: Light olive, with a few freckles across his nose from Earth’s sun.

Dominant Hand: Right-handed (practical, precise, good for writing).

Style: Practical yet unintentionally disheveled—scarves in muted colors (often tangled), loose tunics, and sturdy boots he picked up in Aravelle, paired with his old Earth glasses (slightly scratched). He looks like a stressed scholar who accidentally wandered into a fantasy world.

Moodboard: A cluttered desk with coffee stains, a glowing ledger under candlelight, a stormy forest, a sarcastic Twitter post screenshot, a worn scarf in sage green, a calculator next to a magical rune, and a black cat curled up on a pile of books.

Appearance:

Ezirta is a study in contrasts—his lean frame and messy hair give him a perpetually harried look, but his sharp hazel eyes miss nothing, always calculating the odds. His light olive skin is often flushed from stress, and his glasses slip down his nose when he’s deep in thought. His scarf, a constant accessory, is both a comfort and a hassle, often getting caught on things as he storms through Aravelle’s chaotic streets. He’s not imposing, but there’s a quiet intensity to him, like a man who could either save your kingdom or lecture you into submission.

Past:

Ezirta was a third-year accounting student, juggling exams, internships, and late-night study sessions fueled by instant coffee. He dreamed of a stable corporate job, not adventure, but one night, while cramming for a tax law exam, he fell asleep over his textbooks—only to wake up in a field in Aravelle, surrounded by farmers who thought his calculator was a holy relic. In the months since, he’s carved out a reputation as the “Sage of Spreadsheets,” fixing the kingdom’s finances with his modern knowledge, but he longs for Earth’s predictability, even as he finds himself drawn to the chaotic Sentinel who’ve crashed into his life.

Personality & Traits

✔ Sarcastic: His default mode—sharp quips are his shield against this world’s nonsense.

✔ Pragmatic: Always looking for the most logical solution, whether it’s sealing a rift or balancing a budget.

✔ Stressed: Constantly on the edge of a breakdown, his eye twitches are legendary.

✔ Empathetic: Despite his grumpiness, he cares deeply, especially for Vimaimir’s insecurities and Sirivan’s exhaustion.

✔ Quick-Thinking: His mind is a steel trap, solving problems others don’t even see.

✔ Guarded: He hides his longing for Earth behind humor, afraid to admit he’s starting to belong here.

✔ Reluctant Hero: He didn’t ask to be the Sage, but he can’t walk away from people who need him.

Hobbies:

Organizing Ledgers: He finds peace in numbers, even in a magical world.

Reading to Vimaimir: It started as a way to help with nightmares but became a ritual he secretly cherishes.

People-Watching: He observes Aravelle’s chaos like a scientist studying a bizarre experiment.

Sketching Runes: A new skill he’s picked up to understand this world’s magic, often doodling in his ledger margins.

Quirks:

His eye twitches when he’s annoyed, which is often.

He adjusts his scarf constantly, a nervous habit from Earth.

He mutters modern slang (“OSHA violations,” “tax season”) that no one in Aravelle understands.

He always carries a small pencil stub from Earth, a memento he refuses to let go of.

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

Order and structure (spreadsheets are his happy place).

Instant coffee (he dreams of it, Aravelle’s ale doesn’t compare).

Vimaimir’s earnestness (he’ll never admit it).

Quiet moments (rare, but he savors them).

Solving problems (it’s the only thing keeping him sane).

Earth music (he hums old pop songs when stressed).

❌ Dislikes:

Chaos (Aravelle’s default state drives him up the wall).

Magic (he calls it “physics with extra steps”).

Being called “Sage” (it feels like a burden).

Vimaimir’s recklessness (it stresses him out).

Crowds (too many people asking for “blessings”).

Nature (thorns and mud are his enemies).

Favorite Food:

Instant Ramen: A nostalgic Earth craving he can’t find in Aravelle.

Honeyed Bread: A local treat he’s grown to like, especially when stressed.

Spiced Lentil Soup: Reminds him of home-cooked meals on Earth.

A Line That Defines Him:

“I didn’t sign up to save a kingdom, but apparently, I’m the only one who can add around here.”

~~~

VIMAIMIR JUNZENZIR

Age: 23

Birthday: July 22, 2002

Zodiac Sign: Leo (charismatic, loyal, but prone to self-doubt—perfect for his Sentinel role).

Ethnicity: Aravellian (a native of this fantasy world, with a mix of the kingdom’s diverse human lineage).

Height: 6’1” (1.85m)

Build: Wiry but strong, built for agility rather than brute force, with the lean muscle of someone who fights but doesn’t train methodically.

Eyes: Amber, warm and expressive, often wide with excitement or shadowed by doubt.

Hair: Light brown, shaggy, and slightly curly, falling into his eyes—always a mess from his antics.

Skin Tone: Sun-kissed tan, with a few scars from his reckless adventures.

Dominant Hand: Right-handed (but he’s clumsy enough that it doesn’t matter much).

Style: Practical but chaotic—leather armor that’s always scuffed, a cloak that’s torn from getting caught on things, and boots caked with mud. His Sentinel mark glows faintly on his chest, a constant reminder of his duty.

Moodboard: A sunlit forest clearing, a dented sword leaning against a tree, a golden retriever mid-leap, a crumpled map, a warm campfire, a handwritten letter with smudged ink, and a bright amber gemstone.

Appearance:

Vimaimir is a walking contradiction—tall and wiry, with the kind of energy that makes him seem larger than life, but his shaggy hair and torn cloak give him a boyish, unkempt charm. His amber eyes are his most striking feature, always flickering with emotion, whether it’s excitement, doubt, or fierce determination. His sun-kissed skin is marred by small scars, each a story of his impulsiveness, and his Sentinel mark glows like a beacon, a symbol of a duty he’s still learning to bear. He looks like a hero who hasn’t quite figured out how to stop tripping over his own feet.

Past:

Vimaimir grew up in a small village on Aravelle’s outskirts, the younger son of a blacksmith with a knack for getting into trouble. He idolized the Sentinels, legendary guardians of the Veil, but never dreamed he’d become one—until his older brother, a Sentinel candidate, played a prank that backfired, resulting in Vimaimir being chosen instead. Thrust into the role just weeks ago, he’s been grappling with imposter syndrome, terrified he’ll fail the kingdom and the Veil. His meeting with Ezirta and Sirivan, marked the start of a journey he never expected, one where he’s finding his place alongside two people who make him feel like he might be enough.

Personality & Traits

✔ Earnest: His sincerity is disarming, even when he’s being reckless.

✔ Impulsive: Acts first, thinks later—often to his detriment.

✔ Loyal: He’d die for Ezirta and Sirivan without hesitation.

✔ Self-Doubting: His imposter syndrome runs deep, making him question his role as Sentinel.

✔ Charismatic: His warmth draws people in, even when he’s a mess.

✔ Optimistic: Finds light in the darkest situations, often lifting others’ spirits.

✔ Protective: Especially toward Ezirta, whom he’s come to love deeply.

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

Adventure (he thrives on the thrill, even if it gets him in trouble).

Ezirta’s sarcasm (it makes him laugh, even when it’s aimed at him).

Swordplay (he’s not great at it, but he loves the rush).

Campfires (they remind him of simpler times in his village).

Storytelling (he loves hearing Ezirta’s Earth tales).

Aravelle’s festivals (he’s a sucker for the music and food).

❌ Dislikes:

Failure (it feeds his imposter syndrome).

Being alone (he needs people to feel grounded).

Politics (court intrigue confuses and frustrates him).

Silence (it lets his doubts creep in).

Shadow creatures (they terrify him, though he’d never admit it).

Feeling useless (his biggest fear).

Favorite Food:

Roasted Meat Skewers: A festival staple from his village days.

Sweet Buns with Berry Jam: A treat he buys whenever he can.

Ezirta’s Honeyed Bread: He’s started loving it because Ezirta does.

A Line That Defines Him:

“I might not know what I’m doing, but I’ll protect what matters—even if I trip doing it.”

~~~

SIRIVAN TRINZEN

Age: 25

Birthday: November 10, 1999 (a Scorpio, fitting his intense, loyal nature).

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio (reserved, protective, with hidden depths).

Ethnicity: Aravellian (from a long line of Sentinel guardians, with a rugged, northern Aravellian heritage).

Height: 6’3” (1.91m)

Build: Broad-shouldered and muscular, built for combat, with the disciplined physique of a lifelong warrior.

Eyes: Gray, piercing and unreadable, like a storm cloud on the horizon.

Hair: Black, short, and neatly cropped, a stark contrast to Vimaimir’s messiness.

Skin Tone: Pale, with a few scars from years of training and fighting.

Dominant Hand: Left-handed (a subtle quirk that makes his swordplay unique).

Style: Functional and disciplined—polished armor with the Sentinel crest, a dark cloak for stealth, and boots that are always spotless despite the chaos around him. He looks like a knight from a storybook, if that knight was perpetually done with everyone’s nonsense.

Moodboard: A stormy cliffside, a polished sword in the rain, a lone wolf howling at the moon, a neatly tied scroll, a dark cloak billowing in the wind, a shield with a crescent emblem, and a single white flower on a grave.

Appearance:

Sirivan is the picture of a disciplined warrior—tall, broad-shouldered, and imposing, with a presence that commands respect. His black hair is always neat, a stark contrast to his pale, scarred skin, and his gray eyes are sharp, missing nothing. His armor is meticulously maintained, etched with the Sentinel crest, and his dark cloak adds a layer of mystery. He moves with precision, every step deliberate, but there’s a quiet weariness in his posture, a sign of the burden he’s carried for years.

Past:

Sirivan was born into a family of Sentinel guardians, raised in the northern reaches of Aravelle where duty is everything. Trained from childhood to protect the Veil, he excelled in combat and strategy, but the weight of his family’s legacy left him emotionally guarded and exhausted. He was assigned to guide Vimaimir when the younger man unexpectedly became Sentinel, a role Sirivan takes seriously despite his frustration with Vimaimir’s chaos. Meeting Ezirta, added a new layer to his life—two people who challenge his stoicism and make him question what he truly wants.

Personality & Traits

✔ Stoic: Rarely shows emotion, keeping his feelings tightly controlled.

✔ Loyal: His dedication to Vimaimir and Ezirta is unshakable.

✔ Disciplined: Years of training have made him precise and reliable.

✔ Protective: Sees himself as the trio’s guardian, often at his own expense.

✔ Exhausted: The weight of his family’s legacy has left him quietly burned out.

✔ Poetic: A hidden trait—he has a way with words when he lets his guard down.

✔ Demiromantic: Only feels romantic attraction after a deep bond, a struggle he’s just beginning to understand.

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

Order (he thrives on structure, the opposite of Vimaimir’s chaos).

Combat training (it’s where he feels most at ease).

Quiet nights (a rare chance to reflect).

Poetry (a secret passion he keeps hidden).

Ezirta’s reliability (he respects his quick thinking).

Vimaimir’s heart (he admires his sincerity, even if it drives him up the wall).

❌ Dislikes:

Chaos (Vimaimir’s antics are his personal hell).

Emotional vulnerability (he’s terrified of opening up).

Failure (it’s a betrayal of his family’s legacy).

Crowds (they make him feel on edge).

Disloyalty (he can’t forgive betrayal).

Being called “Hey Siri” by Ezirta (though he secretly finds it amusing).

Favorite Food:

Herb-Crusted Venison: A hearty northern dish from his childhood.

Dark Bread with Cheese: Simple, practical, and filling.

Spiced Apple Cider: A rare indulgence that reminds him of home.

A Line That Defines Him:

“Duty is my shield, but even shields can crack under the weight of a kingdom.”

---

My ♡s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue @keeping-writing-frosty @oliolioxenfreewrites @vesanal @orphanheirs @dauntlessdraupadi @oros-ash3s @pheonix358 @loveyouloatheyou @write-with-will

[theink-stainedfolk]

I love how you approached the prompt—it’s introspective, melancholic, and quietly powerful. The way you personified Time as both a burden and a scapegoat felt so real; it’s something we’ve all done in different ways, blaming the passing of time for how we feel while knowing deep down we play a role too. The line “Time is a heavy thing. It weighs on my shoulders…” instantly drew me in. And that last paragraph?? It hit hard—like a quiet epiphany delivered in tired breath. Beautifully written and incredibly human.

WriteCamp Day One

yahooo! it’s another challenge from @agirlandherquill , similar to Writemas from last year :3

here’s the entry post!

the prompt I chose was “the weariness of time”, and I decided to make another journal entry! take a guess at who’s writing… if you dare… (don’t look at the tags and cheat k)

Time is a heavy thing. It weighs on my shoulders, dragging me down with memories of what once was.

It tugs on my face, drawing my mouth downward into a perpetual frown. Maybe I always was one to grumble at every turn, but I blame Time for making it harder to smile. Maybe that’s stupid. I don’t care.

Truth be told, I am weary, and it is only Time I can blame for it.

…Perhaps I am the problem. Time only has so much power, after all—my time is for me and me alone to use. I spend it mulling over what has already happened instead of pushing forward and shrugging that burden off of me.

… I think that’s enough journalling for today.

me when I get too real during my journaling:

writing taglist!

@bunnymermaidwrites @aalinaaaaaa @vesanal @cepheusgalaxy

@fifis-corner @urnumber1star @thebookishkiwi @sunflowerrosy @theink-stainedfolk

@threedaysgross @mundanemoongirl @satohqbanana @bamber344 @imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese

@viridis-icithus @cc-writes-stuff @anothersummerofsleep @sharkblizzardblogs

@verdant-mainframe @kittrrrr @ruvastuon @agirlandherquill @annothersummerofsleep

@nczaversnick @zerotothex @oliolioxenfreewrites @bardic-tales @rumeysawrites

@pizzamanstan @seafloor509 @an-indecisive-nerd @cacophonyofwords @corinneglass

[theink-stainedfolk]

That’s such a heartfelt and atmospheric piece—it feels like a breath of fresh air just reading it. There’s something almost sacred about mornings like these, isn’t there? The kind that feel too rare to belong to real life—too soft, too golden, like the world has decided, just for a few hours, to let its guard down.

I could picture it all so clearly through your words: the scent of damp stone and sun-warmed petals, that gentle ache of wanting to stay just a little longer, linger in that moment where no one’s watching and nothing is expected. Ryuji’s yearning for normalcy was like holding a familiar ache in my own hands. I loved how you captured that—how even a simple errand becomes something meaningful when you're usually stuck under a thousand unspoken pressures.

And Kageko—god, I adore their dynamic. The constant commentary, the quiet bickering—it reads like second nature between them. Loud, messy love in its own odd way. But that flower shop moment... something about it made me still inside. Like I too wanted to reach out and run my fingers along those petals, stand in the hush of that small space and breathe for once. It makes me wonder—who are the flowers for? (Or do I already know?)

Thank you for this. For this walk through the streets, for the sunlight, and for the way you let even the smallest thing hold weight.

You already know, but I’ll say it again: you write people in a way that makes them feel real. Real, and worth rooting for.

‧͙ ⁺˚*･༓☾ Flowers For My Love ☽༓･*˚⁺ ‧͙

Ꮺ. Can I Call You Rose — Thee Sacred Souls

Can I call you rose? / Cause you’re sweet like a flower in bloom / Can I call you rose? / Cause your fragrance takes over the room, baby

The trips into the city were always Ryuji’s favourite.

Stepping out from beyond the tree-lined borders of the Sector’s base seemed to have some sort of effect on him. A breath of fresh air, a sort of relief settling inside of his chest — these visits always found some way to soothe him. It was freeing, he assumed. Being trapped within the same setting for so long, no break from his surroundings… it all became suffocating, in the end.

Which was exactly why these trips were some of his favourites. The little break, however short it may be, a quick interval within his usually rhythmic days, a time to be alone, unrestrained from the usual eyes of judgement upon him. It all allowed him to have a sense of normalcy, in his life filled with the very opposite.

But it was especially this morning, of all mornings, that Ryuji felt truly glad to make this trip. With extra time to spare, the walk to the city felt less like an errand and more like a vacation; the boy momentarily free from all of his expectations.

The day was truly perfect. With a pleasant breeze in the air, the sun cutting its way across the horizon in a swirl of orange, leaving the sky washed golden by its soft brilliance, and the gentle smell of petrichor to greet him, Ryuji couldn’t be more at peace. Days like these were scarce, once-in-a-blue-moon type of occasions. You were lucky to experience such kindly weather more than thrice a year, when the planets all seemed to align in just the right way, dulling the harsh, unrelenting atmosphere of Seras into what one could assume it had been like before the Fall.

Days like these were meant to be spent basking in the warmth of the sun, its glow smiling down upon them; they were meant for relaxation, for enjoyment. And the townsfolk evidently agreed, as when Ryuji passed through the streets, he found them cluttered and bustling with people, citizens in high spirits as the morning opened up in full. The good weather was even almost enough to reduce the amount of sideway glances he received his way. Almost.

But for once the burning stares from strangers weren’t enough to distract him, leaving him tense and burning uncomfortably with an all-too familiar shame. For today something far more important currently occupied his thoughts.

Remind me again… why the hell are we doing this?

Kageko’s voice was dripping with annoyance, his displeasure evident from the sharpness of the breath against the nape of Ryuji’s neck, slightly harsher than usual. Ryuji held back the urge to scoff at his brother’s impatience, side-eying him from where Kageko hovered. Or at least, he assumed he was supposed to be hovering. With the sunlight beating down against the block brighter than it typically would, it was near impossible to make out Kageko’s blur of a figure. The only way to track his movements was through his grating voice, never falling silent for too long.

Ryuji drew his shoulders back, standing up a little straighter as he rounded the corner. “Because,” he muttered, quickly glancing to the left of him to ensure nobody could see him. “I felt like it.”

Kageko let out a long, bored sigh, blowing hot air into Ryuji’s ear.

Lame-o.

Ryuji paid him no mind, eyes wandering over the many shops that lined the street instead. Of course Kageko found this little trip stupid, that didn’t come as much of a surprise to the boy who had to live with every single one of his decisions being needlessly criticized and made fun of for his entire life. He was sure that even without making this short detour Kageko would find something else to be annoyed with. He always did. Whether he be in the library, training, or outside, nothing was ever enough to satisfy him.

And so on Ryuji continued, groceries in hand as he cut his way through the market, the soft rays of sun a welcome warmth upon his back. And despite Kageko’s many quips and complaints, he couldn’t be enjoying himself more.

After a quick stop at a concession stand to gather some fruit for Ophelia, Ryuji finally found himself in front of the very shop that he had come here for.

‘Bells and Thistles’.

Kageko mocked, sneering. He took in the shop beside his companion, eyes flicking over the stout little building with evident disapproval.

The place was quaint, small. Tucked into a little corner, pressed beside a local bakery with wafting scents of sugary goodness drifting out onto the street, attracting flocks of people to its doors. The floral shop was easier to miss, with a brick tile pattern and eggshell yellow trim, two circular windows revealing the interiors which had been packed to the brim with a variety of different flowers. Shades of sunshine yellow, peach, baby blue, pastel pink, and violet all bloomed before his very eyes, vibrant and beautiful as ever.

Out of every shop that lined these cobblestone streets, this was the one that took the cake by far. Even with the alluring smells of the bakery next door, the fancy futuristic collectibles from the antique store and the sparkling signs directing towards a variety of different art stands, Ryuji always found himself standing right back in front of this entrance.

He could spend hours staring at these flowers, admiring the vibrancy colours, taking in the softness of their texture, the freshness of the floral scents. He loved it.

Blegh, I hate it here. Kageko scowled. It’s so boring. Why can’t we go somewhere else?

Ryuji readjusted the strap of his satchel, pulling it taut across his shoulder. “You know,” he whispered, swinging the door open. “With the amount of complaining you do about always being stuck at the base, I thought you’d be a little more appreciative.”

Kageko let out a gasp of indignation. Appreciative? It’s grocery shopping, for christ’s sake, that’s nothing to be excited about. It’s still the lame old shit we do every other day. But the musical festival happening downtown, now that’s—

“Welcome!”

The pleasant greeting of the shopkeeper kept Ryuji from listening to any more of Kageko’s nonsensical rambling. “Ah Ryuji,” she called, waving from behind the counter. “It’s nice to see you, my boy.”

Miss Frazier was a kindly woman, short and wrinkled, with a gentle sort of way of carrying herself, a type of youthfulness to her despite her age. Hard working and kindhearted, Ryuji had grown to enjoy her company throughout his many visits to her shop. She was one of the nicer folks throughout the city, not as quick to judge and discard him as the others had been. He liked that.

“Good morning, Madame,” he greeted, nodding to her. “How are you?”

“Oh just fine, just fine,” Miss Frazier mused, tapping her fingernails upon the counter in a rhythmic manner. “Lovely day it is, isn’t it?”

Ryuji nodded, his attention drifting towards the wide display of flowers carefully set up around the place. The interior always felt a little smaller once you stepped inside, but with the plants bundled in rows upon every square inch of the walls, Ryuji could never make himself care. It truly never failed to take his breath away.

“Anything special in mind that I can get for you today, dear?” Miss Frazier asked, cocking her head in his direction. She’d always been so careful with him, something he appreciated. It was more than he could expect from most.

“No, that’s alright.” Ryuji smiled, crossing through a particularly pink row, a variety of bouquets sprouting up for him to select. “I think I’ll be okay.”

Flowers, flowers, flowers. Kageko sighed. Who even likes flowers? They’re pretty much the most useless thing on the entire planet.

Ryuji could not bring himself to be bothered today by Kageko’s onslaught of comments, simply continuing on his leisurely way, passing through the shop without any true urgency, allowing himself to soak in the beauty of the store. He passed by lilac, lavender, and Canterbury bells; Fuschia and calla lily. Each bundle was more eye-catching than the last. He couldn’t tell if he’d ever be able to decide on one — if he’d just allow himself to become lost within the store for the rest of his life, the flowers and caring shopkeeper all he would ever need for company.

Yet finally, a specific bouquet caught his eye.

A more simple arrangement than he would usually go for, the bouquet contained two varying flowers: A set of pale, faintly purple Gladolius, stunning as he had ever seen, which were standing straight behind an arrangement of widely bloomed, vibrantly pink orchids. Ryuji smiled softly, picking up the bouquet and bringing it close to his face. A nice scent, with the fruity sweetness of the orchids and the gentle clove-like fragrance of the Gladiolus mixing well with each other.

“Excellent.” He murmured.

God, can you hurry up already?

Tempted to hold back and continue perusing just out of pure spite, Ryuji approached the front counter, placing the bouquet on the counter and reaching inside his satchel for his wallet.

“Found everything you need?” Miss Frazier smiled, ringing up his item with refined practice, wrapping the bouquet with a fancy sheet of paper, a milky-white colour that went well with the flowers. She hadn’t bothered him much during his time here, something he’d always be grateful for. The small moments of almost-quiet were something he forever looked forward to.

“Yes,” he replied, dishing out a wad of bills and sliding them over. The lightness in his wallet as he dropped it back into his bag was a heavy reminder on why he made these trips on such rare occasions. His paycheck didn’t even come close to compensating for something as precious as Miss Frazier’s flowers.

Miss Frazier smiled as she pressed the bouquet back into his palms, placing the receipt on top. “It was nice seeing you again,” she murmured, offering him another smile as he bid her goodbye. “Enjoy yourself, Ryuji. The flowers too.”

“Oh, I will.” He replied, turning to make his leave out. “Thank you.”

A gift for someone special. What wasn’t to enjoy?

°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

This has to be the stupidest fucking idea you’ve had in your entire life.

The sector was surprisingly quiet as Ryuji made his arrival back into its clean, orderly halls. With most recruits away to either their classes, training, or other morning activities, Ryuji had no one to try and avoid as he trekked down the passage to the left wing balcony. Somewhere that was lesser-known by those new to the Division, closed down after a particular Noroi attack some years ago, Ryuji had spent countless nights sitting atop the rickety old rail, dangling his legs with Odesa positioned dangerously beside him. And that was exactly why, without a doubt, he knew he’d find her there, hidden from the others below.

She’s going to hate it, Kageko continued on, taking on a sing-songy voice as Ryuji drew nearer. We should go with my idea, serenade her with a song! Theatrical, romantic, and original. What’s not to love?

Ryuji shrugged him off, rounding the corner. “Don’t start getting jealous now, brother,” he said, tossing Kageko a glance over his shoulder. “It’s a bad look.”

Kageko squawked, whirling in front of him in a rage. Jealous? I’m not jealous. I just know that you’re a complete dunce who thinks flowers are going to impress a girl like Odesa. I mean, really? You seriously can’t do better than a couple of pathetic little—

Leaving Kageko to fume behind him, Ryuji slid into the little crawl space leading to the balcony, squeezing himself between the boards that blocked it away from the rest of the Sector. The bouquet was pressed tightly to his chest as he shimmied out onto the other side.

He found Odesa there, just as he expected.

She stood leaning against the railing, still in her sleepwear from the night before, just a tank top and basketball shorts; nothing special. Her hair wasn’t elaborately done up as Ryuji usually could expect, instead thrown into a simple ponytail that hung loosely from the base of her neck. Yet to Ryuji, she couldn’t have looked more elegant. Even in the simplest of clothes, she managed to make them look extravagant and carefully-picked.

And when she turned, face brightening at the sight of him, sunlight beaming out around her like a halo, Ryuji could have sworn she was the prettiest girl on the entire planet.

“Morning, my love.” He smiled, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “How did you sleep?”

Odesa leaned her back against the metal of the railing, soaking him in. “Good enough.” She said with a nod, hooking her hand around his waist and drawing him in nearer. Her thumb moved gently, tracing small circles just beside his hip. “How’d the morning errands go?”

“Just as planned,” Ryuji replied, welcoming in the warmth of her touch with a soft hum. He pulled his arm from behind his back, pressing the bouquet into the empty space between them. “I brought flowers.”

Odesa took in the bouquet, with its fancy, expensive wrapping paper and vibrant flowers tucked inside, and her eyes lit up. “Oh you big mush,” she grinned, bringing them up to her nose to smell. “Thank you. I love them.”

Ryuji could hear Kageko scoff from behind him.

Odesa held the flowers gingerly, glancing up to meet his eyes again. “What are they?” She asked, that little lilt of curiosity present in her voice. Ryuji adored it.

“The purple one is called the Gladolius palustris,” he murmured. “Also known as the sword lily. It’s supposed to signify integrity and strength — that’s how I knew it was perfect for you.”

Odesa snorted, smiling in that wide way she did whenever he talked about these things. Like she wouldn’t trade his long-winded explanations for the world. As if nothing else were more important than what he had to say. Her eyes were on his, shining with a sort of reverence that she reserved only for him. He never felt more real than he did when she stared at him like that.

“And the pink ones,” he continued, swallowing as his cheeks flushed. “They’re orchids. Known as the Phalaenopsis amabilis, or sometimes the moon orchid. They’re supposed to symbolize grace, femininity, and admiration.” He recalled, ignoring the sound of Kageko coughing nerd into his ear.

Odesa grinned. “Well they’re perfect.” She said, pressing up onto her tiptoes to kiss him. It was soft, sweet, and gentle. Everything he could have ever wanted.

God, he’d never get over her. Her voice, her taste, her touch, her feel — he loved every part of it. Just basking in her presence would be enough for him to spend the rest of his life satisfied and content. With her, he never cared about anything else.

Odesa pulled away, grabbing his hand in her own. “Let’s find a vase for these, why don’t we?” She asked, cocking her head towards the side and leading him back towards the foyer.

And Ryuji let her, the promise of another brand new, lovely day with his girlfriend pushing away all other annoyances and grievances. Kageko, nor whatever other unwanted attention he received at the base would be enough to dull his good mood. All he needed was her smiling at him, and he knew at once—

Things were looking up.

|I MASTERLIST

Hello everyone, long time no see!!

I haven’t written anything in practically forever (not counting Chrysalis chapters, obv), so take this little oneshot lightly. I’m not one for romance but Ryuji, Kageko and Odesa have been basically living in my mind rent free so I’m hoping to finally introduce them properly and expand a little on their characters in the near future.

This might be a little cringe and mushy but… IDC IDC LIVE YOUR LIFE TO BE CRINGE IS TO BE FREE YOU CAN’T STOP ME

Comments and reblogs are much appreciated ^_^

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[theink-stainedfolk]

WIP Snippet

“My original choice was you,” Master Riley informed—his breath misted out in front of him.

He loomed over Astrid, whose own recent growth spurt still left her a head-and-a-half shorter. Long, braided, brown hair, streaked with gray, whipped around him in the sharp, clean wind. The air seemed to vibrate with the joyous sounds of Rognac’s week—a feasting celebration honoring the God of War and Honor and his wife, Celene, Goddess of Fertility, Motherhood, and Spring. The rich aroma of roasted meats, freshly baked breads, and desserts of all kinds filled the air; it was a beloved time, when work ceased and all feasted on the land’s bounty. Most academy students left for home a day or so ago. Their families welcomed the spring rebirth in such traditional ways. Giles had left two weeks past, and nary a soul had heard from him or his knight. But Astrid remained; the chill wind carried with it that familiar scent of rebirth to come, but she preferred the academy now. Lykkested would offer no warmth, just allegations and problems.

“Then why did you choose Giles?” Astrid asked, leaning against the frozen stone wall of Blomma Castle. “If’n you wanted to choose me.”

There came a long, contemplative breath, as if he self-remembered a memory long forgotten. Regret, perhaps? Maybe it carried some kind of pain for him, regardless of such a ponderous look overcame his grizzled features. “Some things will always be out of our control,” he replied. “And like flotsam in a river, we can only just go with the current.”

“Mother used to tell me that life is many things, but it is rarely fair.”

“Sounds wise, your mother,” he said resigned. “I promise, in the next few months, I’ll get you something deserving of your skills. After the holiday, though. As for now, just try to enjoy the feasting.”

****

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