kitty-is-writing

[kitty-is-writing]

writecamp day 24

thanks once again to @agirlandherquill for the awesome prompts! you can find today's here if you want to join in :)

we're back with Luke again, much much later than most of what I've posted before, where he's in the process of losing himself

today I picked these two prompts:

There was once a tale of a monster, and there was a tale of men.

A shadowy lair

There was once a tale of a monster, and there was a tale of men.

The one sitting, hunched, broken and withered, in the icy cave knew both these tales well, for he had been a part of both.

The darkness that had been his eternal companion surrounded him, his shield and his sword for hundreds of years. It cloaked him, held him gently as the spell did its work and formed another new shell for him.

The frozen rock that encased him kept these last remnants stable, while they were exposed between forms. Somewhere along the way, in one of the many iterations of this ritual, its cold had seeped into his soul and never left.

The spell wrapped its sharp tendrils around him, building a new body out of the sacrifices he had given it.

This new face would need a new name. Or, at least, one that was different to his last. One he had used long ago, a name as black as what was left of his heart, came to mind.

Tarworth. He had always liked the way it sounded.

This time, perhaps, he would finally gain the upper hand he had sought for so long.

The shadows faded, retreating back into his own, allowing him to stand once more on his renewed legs. As the last wisps of the spell finished their work, he snatched up the small mirror he had left for himself.

The new face had fine, delicate features, and was framed by dark, heavy waves of hair. His eyes shone clear and icy blue once again, lacking the dullness of age they had acquired before. It would serve well for his plans for this cycle.

The cave dripped a farewell as he left it behind. It would do for one more, he thought, before the area was too drained for the spell to work.

There was once a tale of a monster, and there was a tale of men.

He no longer knew which tale he belonged to.

~~~

tagging some writer moots: @nightmaricwriter @sharkblizzardblogs @keeping-writing-frosty @leahnardo-da-veggie @write-with-will

[kitty-is-writing]

Writecamp Day 24

Thank you for the tag! Sorry I've fallen behind a bit, things were wildly busy this last week but now I think I've beaten back that particular beast. This time I chose Thorns as my prompt, using my WIP Nowhere to Nowhere. This scene was pretty quick and will likely get rewritten at some point haha but I'm excited to toss the draft out here anyway!

Thorn was hardly over six inches tall with light bark textured skin, a darker shade at his hands and feet, with a lighter patch of thick lichen colored hair that pillowed around his cheeks and ears. A tail of the same light bark and lichen texture trailed behind him like a persistent shadow. Today he bounced excitedly along as he sprinted to one of the oldest beings in all of Nowhere. A massive tree that towered far above Thorn’s own line of sight and had been resting in the same place for as long as anyone Thorn knew could remember. He approached the arching roots and gently brushed his hand against one. “I have my answer today. I would like to know.” The smell of charred ash entered his nose and Thorn’s eyes rolled back into his head as he collapsed. Thousands of visions flooded his mind at a speed he could barely comprehend. Each choice, each alternate move, one after another after another. His childhood, his adulthood, old age, early death, human friends alongside the residents of Nowhere. In each one he was there in some form or another, sometimes living and sometimes not. Thorn had no hope of understanding any of this even as he was released from the tree’s hold. “I…” He couldn’t find the words, his eyes blurry and his head aching. Another second or two and he collapsed into the sweet nothing of unconsciousness, thankfully devoid of further visions.

Tagging the squad! @aether-wasteland-s @seastarblue @the-golden-comet @agirlandherquill @fangedcinnamonroll @paranormalsaga @artmagicly @juliana-jones @aalinaaaaaa @auspex-author @whenwecantsleep @avidreadersandemergingwriters @tinywater @faeriecinna @meganprimrose22 @amaru2020 @philosophika @jacobmatthewstark @that-weird-kid-from-your-school @mauvelilywilliams @meerawrites @jessicagailwrites @wardenwyrd @dreamworksfanatic @loartacc @ieppiq @aziz-reads @viridis-icithus @desconstruindoeu @tearzofgaia @bi-focal12 @talesofsorrowandofruin @bestbooksintown @houndsofcorduff

[kitty-is-writing]

Get these ai writing assistants out of my face!!!! I don't care if my writing is bad at least it is mine!!!!

[kitty-is-writing]

Siblings questions tag

I have so many tag games to catch up on (。﹏ 。*) I'll start here, a tag from @charlesjosephwrites a while back

I've picked Perlak, Kandrina and Enkarini for this one, the siblings who have found themselves at the centre of most of my books

1. Who looks the most like Dad?

Perlak, down to the scraggly beard and bushy eyebrows.

2. Who looks the most like mom?

definitely Enkarini, she's practically a clone of their mum.

3. Who eats the most?

Perlak, no contest. he once ate an entire roast ham and then asked what was for dinner. (it was supposed to be the ham.)

4. Who has been in the weirdest situations?

either Kandrina or Enkarini, but I'm gonna say Enkarini because her story's not done yet and Kandrina's mostly is.

5. Who sleeps the most?

Perlak again. he'd spend all day in bed if he could get away with it.

7. Most stable romantic life?

well, Kandi is happily married and Enkarini is aroace, so either of them. Perlak was never one to settle down with anyone.

8. Worst habit of each one?

Perlak - picks at his eyebrows and flicks the loose hairs everywhere. Kandrina - won't do the dishes until the sink is full. Enkarini - folds over the corners of book pages instead of using a bookmark.

9. Who's the most dramatic?

when they were younger, Enkarini. she would make a huge fuss whenever something went wrong or she had a little problem. since she grew out of that, none of them are especially dramatic.

10. Who had a weird phase?

oh, all of them! Perlak would only speak backwards for several months, and only answered if the other person did so as well. Kandrina took to keeping snails in a drawer in her room, and fed them on bits of grass and leaves from the garden. Enkarini spent a month walking around with her eyes closed because she was 'practising for when I'm in the dark'.

11. Best cook of the family?

Kandrina, mostly because she's had the most practice.

12. Best memory together?

having a giant snowball fight with all the kids from their home village one winter.

13. Worst memory together?

their mum's funeral.

14. Dream trip together?

they would have loved to travel the Golden Coast together, starting in Astator and heading south to end at Milaci Cove.

15. Would they rather not being able to shower for a month or have the same clothes for a month?

same clothes, for all three. their wardrobes are not that extensive anyway, so it wouldn't be a huge stretch, and Perlak has been known to bathe while fully dressed anyway.

16. Who's the older one?

Perlak's two years older than Kandrina, then she's another six years older than Enkarini.

17. How would they describe each other in three words?

Perlak on Kandrina: fun, annoying, smart

Perlak on Enkarini: cute, silly, daydreamer

Kandrina on Perlak: adventurous, cool, strong

Kandrina on Enkarini: funny, talented, distant

Enkarini on Perlak: protective, witty, gentle

Enkarini on Kandrina: caring, tough, resilient

18. Role model?

Perlak's role model is his archery tutor, Gecrina, who he came to see as a mother figure after their mother Meradina's death. Kandrina and Enkarini both idealised their mother to a small degree, Enkarini especially trying to live up to the version of her presented after her death.

19. Who usually has the worst ideas?

that's between Perlak and Kandrina, both of them were always getting into trouble.

20. A GIANT insect is on the wall, who's taking care of it?

Enkarini. Kandrina is probably panicking in a corner and Perlak has already fled the room.

tagging @leahnardo-da-veggie because she asked for tags (°◡°♡) @agirlandherquill and @keeping-writing-frosty , plus open tag!

(blank questions under cut for easy copying)

1. Who looks the most like Dad?

2. Who looks the most like mom?

3. Who eats the most?

4. Who has been in the weirdest situations?

5. Who sleeps the most?

7. Most stable romantic life?

8. Worst habit of each one?

9. Who's the most dramatic?

10. Who had a weird phase?

11. Best cook of the family?

12. Best memory together?

13. Worst memory together?

14. Dream trip together?

15. Would they rather not being able to shower for a month or have the same clothes for a month?

16. Who's the older one?

17. How would they describe each other in three words?

18. Role model?

19. Who usually has the worst ideas?

20. A GIANT insect is on the wall, who's taking care of it?

[kitty-is-writing]

writecamp day 24

thanks again @agirlandherquill for these brilliant prompts! this has been a lot of fun so far, I've really enjoyed seeing everyone else's posts too (✿◠‿◠)

today I picked:

A pretty portrait

The picture hung over the mantle, five smiling faces gazing out into the room. Kandrina found her eyes drawn to it over and over, the image of her mother and father, her older brother, and her little sister.

Each family member was absent in some way. Her mother, father and brother already passed from this world to the next, and her sister gone to another land through the magical gateway at the Library. This portrait, painted from her description by one of the university’s budding artists, was her only remaining connection to them.

“It’s beautiful,” Remlik said, joining her in staring at it. “We could get one done of us and the twins, when they’re a little older.”

“I like the sound of that. Maybe you and Remlika could have one done with Bandol and Limari, too, then we’d have a nice set of family portraits.”

Remlik nodded. “They’d look just right, hanging together up there. Who was it you asked to paint this one?”

“Arvis, in the Natural Studies class. He draws such lovely pictures of the plants and animals they study, and he was in the tea shop a while back talking about how he always loved to paint more than anything else,” she said. “That’s why he took Natural Studies, apparently. He wanted to have a chance to sketch all kinds of different things.”

“Oh, he’s in Folaine’s class? My lecture room is just down the hall from them. I’ll have to drop by when it’s quiet and have a chat with the lad. Whether his true calling in life is nature or art, he certainly seems to have a talent with the brush.”

Kandrina smiled. It was one of her little joys in life, helping where she could in small ways. Though young Arvis seemed content enough in his study of living things, she had seen his eyes alight with a burning passion when he talked about creating art. The few moments she had watched as he painted the portrait of her loved ones had been a privilege and a pleasure, and the care and love he had poured into its creation shone through the canvas now.

Her brother’s grin lit with the mischief he had always carried in life, and her mother’s eyes held the love and sadness she remembered there. Her father’s worrying and protective nature showed in the slight crease of his brow, and the softness in his gaze betrayed how deeply he had cared for them all. Her sister, smiling and carefree, a wreath of wildflowers in her hair, captured forever as the sweet and playful child she had once been.

In the centre, Kandrina’s pale golden hair might have marked her as different, but the features she shared with each member of her family made it clear she belonged. Though it was a scene that had never been real, the portrait created a place where her family was whole and together. That was a magic all its own, something no mage could ever recreate.

~~~

tagging some writer moots: @satohqbanana @desastreus @nightmaricwriter @leahnardo-da-veggie @keeping-writing-frosty

@eli-t-spoon @theeccentricraven @charlesjosephwrites @vesanal @trench-foot

[kitty-is-writing]

writecamp days 21 & 22

super busy weekend for me means double story for you! yay ヽ(´▽`)/ thanks for the amazing prompts @agirlandherquill

here are the prompts for day 21 and day 22 if you want to join writecamp! I grabbed two from each day, and wrote another part of Luke's story ツ

the prompts I picked were:

"It has been too long since I've seen you.”

The sadness of stars

A dripping cage

He watched on with a smile as the world began to change.

Moisture ran down the walls, pooling on the floor beneath him. The steady drip had been the only sound he’d heard for days, aside from his own voice. As he so often did, when things like this happened, he found himself talking to long gone friends.

“I wonder, Phin, if you ever Saw any of this? Did you know how things were going to end up, back then?” He paused, despite knowing there would be no reply. “I’m sure you would be proud of your descendants. Eliza has been doing such good, kind work in the village. She reminds me of your little Lyra. A friend to all, even those that don't deserve one.”

The dripping seemed to slow, the sliver of window brightening as the storm outside his temporary cage eased. Through a narrow gap, he could see a few stars emerge from the clouds. Their gentle twinkling felt oddly melancholy, the distant eyes of a lost lover.

It set him thinking once more about Theresa. The wounds left by her absence were old, now, scars that had faded but would never truly heal. “You still hold my heart, Resa. There were others, that's true, but none were you. I see parts of you all around me; a child with your smile, a flower that carries your scent, a cat with fur the colour of your hair. Constant reminders of you, parts of the world that bear your beauty. But not you. It has been too long since I've seen you.”

“Talking to yourself again, Silas? People will think you're crazy.”

It took him a second to respond to the name; he had used so many over the centuries that it became difficult to remember which was the most recent. When he looked to the door, the small hatch had slid open, a grinning freckled face peering into his cell.

“They already know that, Morgan.” He returned her grin, glad of the friendly face. “Here to let the lunatics out of the asylum?”

“Just the one of you. Best stay clear of the door, I couldn't find the key so I brought my own.”

A faint hissing, followed by a loud bang, and the door blew open, bent and blackened at the edge. “Ms Blake's infamous skeleton key always does the trick,” he said, waving wisps of smoke away.

“It does attract unwanted attention, though. Best get a wiggle on, Si.”

He stood, following her quickly through the dark corridors of the prison. Alarm bells rang out, other prisoners banged and shouted as they passed, boots stomped nearby, but Morgan Blake always had a plan.

She darted into an empty cell, slammed the door shut behind them and shifted the bare bed aside to reveal a narrow opening in the floor. “It’ll be a squeeze, but you’ll manage, skinny boy.”

He smiled and slid himself through the passage, clearly a new creation. It twisted downwards for a short stretch, emerging in the city sewers, judging by the smell. Morgan landed beside him, lighting a lantern she must have left down here in preparation.

“I’m surprised you didn’t brawl your way through the guards,” he said as they resumed their escape. For as long as he had known her, Morgan had been a fighter, first as a scrappy and wiry young girl, then as a tough dockswoman. He would not have been surprised to hear she had wrestled her way into the prison to break him out.

“Would have taken too long. Besides, it wouldn’t have been a fair fight. A few dozen of them and only one of me? Too easy.” She tossed her shaggy black hair over her shoulder, smirking. “So what did you do this time?”

“Just a little light treason, you know. Calling for the death of the King of Cruelty, assisting the rebellious Dukes, hiding Royal Guard deserters.”

“The usual, then.” She winked. “If you want to lay low, I’ve got a spare room. Nothing as lavish as that lovely damp cell, but you’re welcome to stay.”

“Do I need to? From the guards’ gossip, I hear the war may be over soon. Our lovely Queen has lent her own family soldiers to the cause, it seems. Vengeance for the many abuses his majesty inflicted upon her over the years, perhaps.”

She reached a ladder that led up to the streets above. “Really? Maybe I didn’t need to break you out after all, then. If we’re about to have a change of monarch, you might have been pardoned in a few weeks. Up you go, Si.”

“Maybe. I appreciate the rescue, nonetheless.” He reached down to pull her up, focused anywhere but the starlit sky. He did not need the distraction of memories right now.

“Good. Now, wherever you plan to go next, you’ll need a shower and fresh clothes. I have both at my place.”

He smiled, following her once more through the streets of Falridge to her small home. If nothing else, a shower and a long sleep would do him good. The following afternoon, both were awoken by yells and cheers, and he jumped to open the shutters.

In the streets, all through the city, people looked to be celebrating. Common folk mingled with weary soldiers, and in the mix of people outside, he caught sight of a man wearing the insignia of Edward DuRiza. One of the minor nobles of his court, if memory served.

“What’s happened?” he called, hoping someone would hear and answer.

“The King is dead!” one of the soldiers shouted back, a wide grin plastered across his tired face. Those around him cheered anew, some raising flagons and tankards. “His head flies like a flag from the palace gates, and the Queen is to return tomorrow!”

“Damn. All that effort planning a prison break, and you would have been released within the week.” Morgan nudged him, watching the revelry from beside him.

He nudged her back. “We wouldn’t have had last night if you didn’t go to that trouble.”

“Worth it.” She stretched, turned away. “I’m going to get dressed and go join the party. You coming?”

“In a bit. I think I want to enjoy the view for a bit, first.” From here, the palace was a distant blur across the city, but he liked to imagine he could see the King’s head wobbling about on the pike it had undoubtedly been thrust onto. The people of Oakshire were finally free of Robert’s rage and cruelty, and with the right push, the kingdom could begin a new path.

The Queen seemed a fair and just ruler, from what he had seen. He would give her a chance to prove her leadership skills, before planning any further meddling. In the mean time, this infectious joy filling the streets felt like a good sign. He watched on with a smile as the world began to change.

~~~

tagging some writer moots: @leahnardo-da-veggie @eli-t-spoon @keeping-writing-frosty @oh-no-another-idea @trench-foot

@mysticstarlightduck @write-with-will @sharkblizzardblogs @aalinaaaaaa @rhiannonhgarrard

[kitty-is-writing]

If you're a writer and you see this post, stop what you're doing.

WHENEVER YOU SEE THIS POST ON YOUR DASH, STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND WRITE ONE SENTENCE FOR YOUR CURRENT PROJECT.

Just one sentence. Stop blogging for one minute and write a single sentence. It could be dialogue, it could be a nice description of scenery, it could be a metaphor, I don’t care. The point is, do it. Then, when you finish, you can get back to blogging.

If this gets viral, you might just have your novel finished by next Tuesday.

[kitty-is-writing]

this is incredible and I love it

Astrid and The Blood of Frenkir - Chapter One Snippet

In a land as dangerous and beautiful as the people who inhabit it; there lived a girl of twelve by the name of Astrid—a peasant girl of unremarkable stock with no discernible direction or blood of note. She made the decision that from this day forward, no longer would she be that little girl named Astrid. No, instead, she’d go by Aegir, the name of her cousin with whom she was close with at one time yet had passed from sweating sickness many moons ago. Father’s work as a farrier kept him busy with the horses, mules, and donkeys of the traders, merchants, and various lower-tier nobles that kept their manors and lands close to Lykkested, the capital of Álfarune, which was the northernmost province of the ancient kingdom of Upplond.

The ancient kingdom of Upplond, or the kingdom of the north elves, nestled against the towering, snow-capped peaks of the Snow Dragon mountains to the east; a silent, imposing barrier that separated them from their age-old rivals in Vestford. A continuous, chilling wind carried with it the briny scent of the ocean from the restless Rømskog Sea, whose waves lapped and crashed against the western and southern shores. Its salty spray and dangerous storms, mastered by these northern elves; the rhythmic roar of the waters existed as a soundtrack to Upplond’s very existence. The cold, damp air held the sharp tang of brine and the distant cries of gulls.

With a desire for the path forbidden to her, Astrid’s desire to join King Ragnar’s court first as a page, then a knight, burned deep in the pits of her stomach and forefront in her mind. Sinewy and strong, a girl on the cusp of womanhood who lacked the curves that would define her gender. Much for the better, she thought. Astrid wore a close-fitting under-tunic against her lean chest, covered with a long tabard over to hide even further.

There came a sharp, biting wind that brought with it that nostalgic brine aroma, and something different, of distant adventures and tales. It ruffled her reddish-blonde hair—cropped short behind the pointed ears of her people, with even the left tip she pierced with a sharp needle and an iron ring kept in it, as was the boyish fashion at the time. Something her parents were against, but they did not, nor could not, stop their strong-willed girl.

****

@fablesandfragments @seastarblue @vesanal @theink-stainedfolk @leahnardo-da-veggie

@aalinaaaaaa @an-indecisive-nerd @write-with-will @the-ellia-west @carb0n-m0n0xide

@inadequatecowboy @kitkins13 @watermeezer @shepardstales @dyrewrites

@i-do-anything-but-write

Want to join my tag list? Click here and interact with the post. Send me a message, or even just reply to any of my posts asking!

[kitty-is-writing]

me when the plot won't plot like it should

[kitty-is-writing]

Writecamp Day 20

Back at it again with the prompt Tears of Time. This ended up fitting right into the start of my next chapter for Atlas, so I couldn't pass up the opportunity!

TW: implied abuse

"Don't fight, you'll lose." The skinny man took a step forward, drawing another warning from CJ. Macie could see the clip of a large concealed pocket knife laying on the outer edge of frayed denim. She didn't hear that he wanted her backpack. Nor that he swore to let her go if she handed it over immediately. Macie wasn't there to hear it, gone to The House With The Broken Window. Her heart sent blood rushing in her ears as her brain rapidly connected the same dots it had when she was nine years old. Hot tears welled up in her frightened eyes and she began to hyperventilate while desperately scrambling to her feet. Both men stepped forward this time and CJ lunged, clamping onto the larger man's ankle for a few seconds before letting go and making a leap for his face. Macie finally found her voice when CJ's pained yelp from a heavy booted kick rang out across the walls. "NO!!" Both a plea and a command. She felt a strong sense of deja vu as she landed a punch across the jaw of the skinny man and was met with a back hand strong enough to split her lip. CJ pivoted abruptly and tore into the man's leg before he could strike Macie again. Just as before, with blood in her mouth yet again, she screamed as she'd been taught. "FIRE!! FIRE!" Only this time it wasn't her mother who came in to save her in the nick of time. This time it was a handful of regular folks including the father she had seen the day before. Both of her attackers were soon distracted by the shouting crowd and driven out of the shelter by verbal stones. CJ pressed close to Macie, gently licking her fingers while softer voices wrapped around her and asked a million questions she had no hope of answering. Macie let them offer a cool compress for her lip and she didn't complain when the shelter staff brought her to a quieter area so she could eat her breakfast in peace. CJ was even given a couple slices of crisp apple, with Macie's permission, as a reward for his good service. She smiled and thanked each person she could and quickly made her way back out onto the sidewalk.

Tagging the squad! @aether-wasteland-s @seastarblue @the-golden-comet @agirlandherquill @fangedcinnamonroll @paranormalsaga @artmagicly @juliana-jones @aalinaaaaaa @auspex-author @whenwecantsleep @avidreadersandemergingwriters @tinywater @faeriecinna @meganprimrose22 @amaru2020 @philosophika @jacobmatthewstark @that-weird-kid-from-your-school @mauvelilywilliams @meerawrites @jessicagailwrites @wardenwyrd @dreamworksfanatic @loartacc @ieppiq @aziz-reads @viridis-icithus @desconstruindoeu @tearzofgaia @bi-focal12 @talesofsorrowandofruin @bestbooksintown @houndsofcorduff

[kitty-is-writing]

writecamp day 20

thanks again to @agirlandherquill for these fantastic prompts today!

I tried something a bit different today, sort of related to the one I wrote for day 7 of writemas last year (*^‿^*)

the prompts I picked were:

"We will make it in time, I promise."

The crunch of paths

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

“Are we there yet?” A mocking whine.

“What are you, five? You can see we're not there.” An irritable snap.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

“We're going to be late. I told you we should have left earlier.” A sulking complaint.

“We are not going to be late. How could we be late to somewhere we're not expected to be?” An exasperated groan.

Crunch. Crunch. Thump.

“How long is this stupid path?” A frustrated shout.

“It might be shorter if you stopped whining and walked faster. Get your butt up and move, we're not getting anywhere with you sat on a log.” An angry bark.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

“We're never going to get there.” A dejected sigh.

“Yes we will. We will get there, and we will make it in time, I promise.” A gentle reassurance.

Crunch.

Crunch.

“In time for what? You said we're not expected.” A puzzled question.

“In time for a tasty meal and a hot drink before moving on. Come on, now, I can see the tavern lights.” A coaxing encouragement.

Crunch.

“I'm so cold.” A breathless whisper.

“I know. I'm sorry.” A heavy acceptance.

Snow buried their footprints as soon as they were made. Two unmoving lumps were buried like the footprints, several miles behind them.

Still, they trudged onwards, towards the soft glow of the tavern that welcomed every traveller at the end of their journey.

~~~

tagging some writer moots: @leahnardo-da-veggie @keeping-writing-frosty @eli-t-spoon @mysticstarlightduck @oh-no-another-idea

@theeccentricraven @ryns-ramblings @charlesjosephwrites @write-with-will @desastreus

[kitty-is-writing]

writecamp day 19

a little late, but here is my story for yesterday's writecamp prompts! thanks again to @agirlandherquill for running writecamp :)

today we're with Luke again, as he discovers the elves' first attempts at chemical warfare

the prompt I picked was:

He was innocent for once in his life - this deed was not his doing.

The battlefield lay silent, scorched and bloody, those who might have collected the fallen lying scattered and still across it. None of the uniforms were of the human armies, which meant elven science rather than human magic was at play.

A heavy yellowish haze hung around his knees, something he didn’t recognise but instinctively wanted to avoid. His shadows formed a protective layer over his face, shielding him from whatever that substance was.

Overhead, the black dragon circled, casting another rippling shadow over the already darkened field. Friend, partner, master, servant, teacher, pupil - Sceadu was all of these things to him, depending on how their bond flowed that day. Today, though, both were equal in the face of this horror.

Often, one or the other of them would be gloating, pleased at their work and their ingenuity. Each had committed similar foul deeds, over the years they had been bound together. Luke had schooled himself over time to remain detached from it. He had little choice, all things considered.

This time, though, he could let himself see it for what it was. He was innocent for once in his life - this deed was not his doing. For once, he could allow himself to feel the weight of tragedy, and judge the ones who were responsible.

“What have they done here? This mist, it's nothing magical. What have they created?” he whispered to himself.

Gingerly, he nudged one of the fallen soldiers over, revealing the poor man's face. Blisters and sores covered him, and his eyes looked swollen, a trickle of the greenish elven blood dried at the corner of one.

“They have meddled with nature once more, my friend. I dare not land; who knows what effect the lingering mist will have on me.” Luke looked up, seeing Sceadu hovering above him.

“Yet you have no concern for my wading through it?”

The dragon flicked his head to the side, as though dismissing the question. “You chose to walk the ground instead of remaining in the sky with me. I do not control your actions, and I know you cannot perish from this chemical perversion.”

Luke glanced around once more, glad of the black haze his shadows had formed around him. “I've seen enough. The question now is, what should we do about this?”

“Should we do anything at all? What twisted weapons the elves use against each other are no concern of mine, or of yours.”

“It will only be a matter of time until this, or something similar, is used against my kind, or even yours. That will be a concern, and one we ought to have a plan for.”

Sceadu nodded as Luke rose into the air beside him. “You make a fair argument. Gather a small sample and we shall see what can be done to neutralise it.”

He formed a sphere of shadow around a part of that sickly yellow mist, sealing it tightly. Whatever danger this posed, he wanted to avoid it if at all possible.

~~~

tagging some writer moots: @leahnardo-da-veggie @eli-t-spoon @keeping-writing-frosty @write-with-will @theeccentricraven

[kitty-is-writing]

Cara and the Will-o'-the-Wisp Chapter 3 Excerpt

Knock-knock-knock-knock!

Cara was in that state between full-on slumber and being aware of all around her, sitting on that border of both worlds. That, for a moment, she could not tell the difference between either, and if the knocking came from either or.

Knock-knock-knock-knock!

Finally startled out of her dozing daze, she emitted a sound much like a deflating bellow; a huff and a sigh escaped from her when she stood up and padded over to the window for a quick peek behind the curtain. There stood in his corduroy slacks and white undershirt stretched across his bulbous stomach, stained with only what Cara could guess at was Mr. Jakub Kaczmarek. He peered at her with his bright blue eyes, which forced her to give a small wave.

As Cara opened the door, handed cocked on her hip, she greeted, “hey, Mr. Kaczmarek. What’s up?”

“Ah, little Cora. Hello to you,” he returned the greeting in his thick Polish accent. “Are ya busy, little one? I just need to borrow ya for a few minutes. Well, more precisely, your balancing ability.”

Scrunching up her nose, Cara regarded him for a moment before she said, “it’s Cara, and for what?”

“I need your help to get my little Mruczek down from the rafters,” the man pleaded.

“Um, what, or who, is Mruczek?” Cara questioned him, with her head tilted to the side.

“Ah, Mruczek is my star kotek,” as he spoke, his broad chest puffed up with pride. “He will be the star of the show. Has that je ne sais quoi, unlike his brothers and sisters. Shall film him doing tricks and put it on that YouTube website.”

“Oh, my mother mentioned that. You are training your cats for some movie or some such, right?” Cara’s face lit up with such a brightness its radiance could challenge the sun at its zenith.

However, today the sun hid behind a curtain of gray, as rain drummed a steady rhythm on the weathered wooden awning above, a soothing, melodic percussion. The persistent downpour of the past few days had softened her mom’s usual strict rules about going outside in the rain. Though she knew the rules forbade her from going beyond the porch, Cara did not care as her parents were away. Besides, Mr. Kaczmarek lived just upstairs; surely, that would be alright.

“Well, I’ll never say no to a kitty in need,” Cara said, rocking back on her heels before stepping out to place her hand under the cool rain for a moment.

The porch was the newest part of the house, built in the past few years, and wrapped halfway around the house with a fresh coat of lacquer on it before the Quin’s moved in. Its smooth wooden surface was wet and cool beneath Cara’s feet as she approached the gleaming metal gate that separated the Quins and Mr. Kaczmarek. But being partially-opened, Cara pulled it open and looked at the rather steep, black-painted metal stairs, slicked from the rain, and each step a small, precarious adventure. With unwavering confidence, she ascended, the rhythmic slish-slish of her bare feet on the wet metal echoed despite the rain. She waited for Mr. Kaczmarek at the top, who protested the state of his knees and lower back before he had to heave and push to open the door, the protesting scrape of wood on wood a counterpoint to the metallic squeaking of the hinges.

Before Cara even crossed the threshold, a wave of an intoxication aroma, acrid yet tangy and alluring, it filled the vast attic—a rich steamy aroma from the wide pot bubbling on the ancient cast-iron stove, its black surface radiated a dying heat. Beside the pot, a greasy frying pan lay abandoned, next to a metal bowl stacked high with golden-brown, crescent-shaped dumplings, their crispy edges promised deliciousness within. Cara’s stomach rumbled; the savory smell and future feasting momentarily erased the purpose of her visit.

“Pierogies, Cora,” he grunted with the entirety of his chest, which caused the girl to have a little start.

“It’s Cara.”

“Have at ‘em, my girl! I always make far too many. Cheese, potatoes, onions, just like my babunia used to make. Homemade sauerkraut in the pot—I age it for months! Once ya get my little Mruczek, I’ll give ya as much as you want.”

Cara had a job to do first. In a shadowy corner, on a dark brown, slightly damp rafter, a tuxedo-colored cat with piercing blue-green eyes glared at Cara. It sat above a cracked clawfoot tub, its old shower curtain frayed and hung askew, creaked faintly on its metal rings. Seven other cats, a flurry of fur and curiosity, surrounded Cara. Mr. Kaczmarek, with the smooth, low tones of a practiced diplomat introduced them: Puszek, Kociurwa, Philemon, Kicia, Hank, and Gruby—a fat, gray-blue cat seemingly oblivious to everything, his soft fur a fluffy cloud of indifference.

“Besides Mruczek—my pride and joy!—Kicia can put on a performance second only to him. The rest? Bah, just backup acts, I say.” An almost haughty sneer crossed his face while he gazed at the felines. “They won’t hurt ya none. Maybe a brief hiss. Perhaps an arched back and a fake scratch,” he laughed. “Philemon is a bit of a wee coward, so don’t mind her. Now, what ya need to do is climb up this here ladder and grab my poor, little Mruczek. I can’t do much on the ladder anymore with the shape my back is in,” Mr. Kaczmarek announced with such pride, clapping his hands together.

Set up just under the obstinate cat was a well-used and splinter-filled wooden ladder propped up against the wall. So, fortified with the thought of a delicious, gooey dumpling lunch, Cara climbed up a step on the ladder. Mruczek took a half step backwards and resettled himself. Then Cara took another up and another. Until she teetered-tottered on the second to the highest rung; an instant regret fermented in her stomach. Despite having short arms, legs, and, just in general, even for her age, Cara reached as far as she could. All the while, the cat scooted as far back as possible, pressed himself against the wall and the ceiling. Which left him just out of reach.

Without a hiss, spit, or even a growl, Mruczek sat there and watched Cara. If it felt bemusement, it did so right now as it sat rather indifferently despite its position. It cast at her a judgmental gaze as he stared at her.

“Come on, don’t be such a pain,” Cara uttered as she reached out for the cat; which caused a brief fear fluttering in the back of her mind.

That’s when, as quick as a flash, an event flashed before her mind’s eye. Of her falling headfirst into the tub, cat latched onto her with all its claws, and a fall that ended up with her crumbled up like a balled-up napkin. That she would forever be stuck in a wheelchair, or worse, dead in her Polish neighbor’s apartment.

****

@fablesandfragments @seastarblue @vesanal @theink-stainedfolk @leahnardo-da-veggie

@aalinaaaaaa @an-indecisive-nerd @write-with-will @the-ellia-west @carb0n-m0n0xide

@inadequatecowboy @kitkins13 @watermeezer @shepardstales @dyrewrites

@i-do-anything-but-write

Want to join my tag list? Click here and interact with the post. Send me a message, or even just reply to any of my posts asking!

[kitty-is-writing]

writecamp day 18

thanks to @agirlandherquill for the amazing prompts :) you can find them here if you want to join in!

today is another little snippet of Theresa's story, many years on, with a new face and name that some of you might recognise (*^‿^*)

I picked two prompts today:

A sharp seat

"I've never known someone as reckless as you are. Do you want to die?”

The young man near the back of the line was far too familiar. Those delicate features, the burnt honey colour of his hair, the knowing gleam in his eyes. They were a nondescript grey, but Philippa could tell that was a lie. She would bet the entire contents of the Royal Treasury that beneath the illusion, the boy's eyes were the same pure, sparkling gold as hers.

Beside her, upon the gilded throne of the King, her husband Robert showed little interest in those who had come to seek audience with the Crown. The prominent bust of one of the serving girls had drawn his gaze, and the wealthy merchant currently pleading his case for a royal patronage was growing more obviously frustrated by the second.

Despite her attempts to at least give the man some attention, even if she had no power to grant what he sought, the boy at the back of the line continued to distract her. Her own seat, still elaborate but far less grand than the King's, felt more uncomfortable than ever. The velvet cushions chafed, the carved wood seemed to stab at her. Why had that boy come here, now, from the hidden safety she had left him in?

Perhaps sensing the distraction of both King and Queen, the Chancellor called for a short break in proceedings. Though the frustrated merchant complained, the room was cleared, and Robert left without a backward glance.

She also left her seat, glad to escape the damn thing for a moment. Over the last few months, it had grown sharp and unwelcoming. Though a throne was meant to be the literal seat of luxury, hers was a weight that bound her with barbed chains. No matter how often she reminded herself this was a necessary deed, that her own suffering now would prevent much greater evil in the future, it did not help her in the moment.

“My Queen,” came a playful voice from the shadows. “Might I have an audience?”

She should have expected this from the moment she saw him. “David, you foolish boy. I would never have thought you this mad. Did your father not explain why I left you?” As she spoke, she led him into a small sidechamber, away from prying eyes.

“He did. I didn’t believe that was the whole truth.” The boy let go of his illusion, revealing the golden eyes she had known were hidden behind it. “Mothers don’t abandon their children just to seek power. Especially not from a man like that King of yours.”

“Then you have come for something I cannot give you. Even I do not know the whole truth of this matter. I am acting out the part I have been given, trusting in one I have no choice but to follow. You were safe in the village, you should have stayed there. If Robert finds out about you he will have both of us on the gallows, and likely ride to destroy the rest of them afterwards.”

David crossed his arms, sticking out his chin in a defiant pose that reminded her of his father. “I’m not afraid of some bully wearing a tacky crown. I came here to spend time with my mother, and I’m not leaving until I do. Dad always said you knew magic beyond anything the rest of them could do, and I want to learn. Nobody else in Dragon’s Teeth has a clue about this.” He allowed a soft golden mist to gather around him, before making it fade. “I need you, Mum. Please.”

“Don’t do that in here!” She frantically waved away the last wisps of mist, hoping with all her heart that nobody was spying on this room right now. “I've never known someone as reckless as you are. Do you want to die?”

“No. That’s why I need you to teach me.” He looked away, a slight shine giving away the gathering tears. “You don’t have to tell anyone I’m your son. I can disguise myself with illusions, pretend to be a servant boy or something, and you can sneak me off for lessons.”

She wanted to help him, but there were so many potential dangers… “If I’m sneaking off with a servant boy I’ll be accused of infidelity within a month.”

“A servant girl, then. I don’t think your pet idiot would consider the possibility of infidelity if he thinks you’re spending time with a girl.”

“Believe me, David, you do not want to disguise yourself as a servant girl in this palace.” She suppressed a shudder at the thought of it. “You can stay for a year, and I’ll teach you what I can. Only for a year, mind. Any longer and you’ll be at risk. There are things planned here that I don’t want you caught up in. Now, make yourself look like a visitor from Nakata. I’ll fabricate something about you being one of the Emperor’s cousins, here as an emissary. Robert has little interest in that side of things and usually hands it off to me. If anyone asks I can say I’m helping to teach you our language.”

The boy blinked, and within seconds wore the guise of an old, wrinkled Nakatan man. “Will this do? I went old and ugly so there’s less suspicion.”

“That’s fine. Just remember what you look like, I don’t want to be explaining why your face keeps changing. Go join the rest of the court visitors, I’ll make sure the Chancellor knows to introduce you near the end of the day.” She turned to leave the room, finally permitting herself a small smile. Among all her worries, she was glad to see the son she had been forced to leave behind again.

~~~

tagging some writer moots: @write-with-will @leahnardo-da-veggie @eli-t-spoon @bloodmoonloveletter @trench-foot

@keeping-writing-frosty @oh-no-another-idea @mysticstarlightduck @aalinaaaaaa @vesanal

[kitty-is-writing]

writecamp day 17!

thanks to @agirlandherquill for these fantastic prompts ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ I can't believe we're over halfway through already!

we're back with Luke and Theresa today, at an earlier point in their story, before they were separated and led to believe each other lost. if you want to know more about them you can find some other parts of their story on my blog, tagged 'luke and theresa', and I'll be updating their masterpost at the end of the month

the prompt I picked today was:

"We don't need to run anymore. We're safe now."

The ten strongest among them had been chosen. Seven to form the outer ring, three for the inner. The foundation stone, a huge white boulder, had been carried to the centre of the valley by the Weyr Mother herself. It was large enough that she could comfortably sit atop the thing, looking down on the surrounding humans.

“The preparations are complete. All that remains is your contribution to the shield,” she said, her eyes moving over the two wide circles. “On my word, each of you will pour your old magic into the stone. When it is done, you will feel the new magic join with you, granting you the strength and power you need.”

Luke glanced sideways, to where Theresa stood, her determined gaze fixed on the dragon. They had argued only yesterday, his reluctance to surrender control to the dragons one of the few sticking points they had been unable to reach a compromise on. He suspected she was no more enthusiastic about this exchange of magics than he was, but with Bennett constantly haranguing her about protection and Mark dragging her into his planned revenge, she was inclined to go along with the ritual.

The Weyr Mother gave the signal, and the inner circle - Paul, Bennett and Mark - began sending their magic into the stone. At the dragon’s second command, the rest of them in the outer circle did so as well, a rainbow of energies rushing towards the focal point of the ritual.

His own magic was little more than a show, conjured smoke made to look like his shadows, while they hid deep within him, ready to cast aside the invading magic that would soon be sent back through this link. Their part could not be fully known to him, not until far later, when this was over, for if the new magic could sense trickery in his mind this would not work.

Steadily, as the flow of magic into the stone increased, it started to shine with a white light. It flickered and pulsed, threads of it shooting towards each member of the circles. Luke remained steady, trusting that his shadows could repel whatever that light brought, focused on keeping his own mind clear of any hints of deception. He thought instead of Theresa. The way her eyes seemed to sparkle with gold light whenever she was excited. The sound of her singing while he played his lyre. The curve of her lips when she smiled.

He hoped that she would not turn her back on him after this.

When the first pulse of light struck him, he expected it to burn, or pierce, or freeze. Instead, it only left a faint tingle behind, fading into nothing as it reached him. He did not dare to wonder if it was the work of his shadows, and continued to keep his mind on other things. Later, they would be holding a celebration. He would ask her to dance, to forget all of the troubles and woes. One final, carefree night.

The great white rock grew brighter, glowing with an intense light that seared itself into his eyes. When he could no longer stand to look, he turned away, only looking back when the light grew hazy.

The boulder was gone, replaced by a fine, glowing mist that swirled and danced around the white dragon. She directed it upwards and out, letting it spread across the entire valley until it was barely visible. When only a faint gleam could be seen, it began to move back down at the outer edges, flashing white where it connected with the distant ground.

As they watched the shimmering magic form a vast dome over the valley, little Astrid was the first to speak. “We don’t need to run anymore. We’re safe now, forever and ever.”

“Quite right, little one. You are protected from all outside dangers,” said the dragon. “This shield created from your old magic will keep you safe, while you learn to adapt to your new magic. We will guide and teach you, until you are ready.”

Ready? For what? This was the first Luke had heard of any limit to this offer of protection. None of the others seemed surprised, though. One more thing being kept from him, it seemed. He held his tongue, unwilling to draw attention to his disconnection from the others. It would have to wait until he could ask Theresa quietly, away from the rest.

~~~

tagging some writer moots: @leahnardo-da-veggie @charlesjosephwrites @eli-t-spoon @trench-foot @keeping-writing-frosty

@mysticstarlightduck @oh-no-another-idea @ryns-ramblings @aalinaaaaaa @vesanal

[kitty-is-writing]

THAT BOOK EXISTS.

count my books among the non-romance fantasy (°∀°)b

also do check out Elisabeth Wheatley because she's awesome :D

[kitty-is-writing]

writecamp day 16

thanks again to @agirlandherquill for running writecamp (^‿^) today's prompts are here if you want to join in!

since it's pride month and I haven't done anything for that yet, this story is about a much younger Ustin and a previous relationship he had before the events of the books (~˘▾˘)~🏳️‍🌈

** minor warnings for mentioned self-harm and homophobia **

I used an extra prompt from day 5's list as well, since it grabbed my attention at the time (see if you can spot it!) From today's prompts I picked:

"You whisper when you should be shouting."

The door slammed into the wall, making a jagged hole in the plaster. Two young men stormed through, mid argument. One was tall, pale and thin, a cloud of black hair surrounding a carefully blank face. The other was shorter, softer in both face and body, waves of sandy blond falling just past his shoulders, glaring in mingled fury and concern.

“I can’t believe you! What the hell were you thinking, Ustin?”

“I was thinking of your scars, and your sadness. I will not allow them to inflict any more pain on you, if it is within my power to prevent it.”

“I keep telling you, it’s not your problem to handle! You put two of them in the hospital! One of them is probably going to have permanent brain damage after this, if he pulls through at all. You did all of this because they called me some names?”

“Myron, they have spent the last eight years tormenting you into misery. The scars on your wrist may have been made by your own hand, but they were caused by those cruel words. The times I have found you weeping over a bloody knife with yet another fresh wound gave me more than enough cause to take revenge on those who hurt you.”

“So they should suffer in turn? What about their injuries and tears? Should their loved ones seek revenge for them?”

“If you care so much for the wellbeing of bigots, you would do well not to let them speak to you in that way. Believe it or not, this was me showing restraint. I would do far worse to them, if you’d let me.”

Myron exhaled sharply, a lungful of air almost spat towards the ceiling. “Oh, I believe you. I’ve seen what you’re capable of, remember?”

Ustin looked away, that wary blankness splintering into sorrow and shame. “I do.”

“Then you remember what I told you the last time you did this?”

There was a beat of silence, heavy and thick, that neither man wanted to break.

“I will gather my things, then. I am sorry for what trouble I have caused you, but I will not apologise for giving those vile men what they deserved.”

It only took Ustin a few minutes to pack the few things he owned into a small bag. When he returned to the main room, Myron had fallen into one of the armchairs.

“Why are you like this?” he whispered, almost too soft to hear. “Why must you be so… so fierce, so reactive? Why can’t you take a gentler path, turn away from people like them?”

“Because ignoring their cruelty only ever gives them the courage to be worse in the future. Standing up and fighting back when it’s ‘only’ words keeps them from doing more.” Ustin closed up his bag, hefted it onto his shoulder. “And you? Why are you so meek and silent with them? You whisper when you should be shouting. You let them hold power over you, and accept their ill treatment as though it’s a gift. I can appreciate that not everyone wants to leap headfirst into a fight, but there comes a point when you have to stand up, or lose everything.”

Myron shook his head, hands buried in his hair. “I just want to have a quiet, peaceful life. I don’t want to fight to exist.”

“Peace is not something you can find by sitting around and letting everyone else have their own way. People like those fools I went after would gladly see you and I cease to exist, and the moment we stop fighting is the moment they get their wish.” Ustin turned to the still open door, and left his key on the table beside it. “I hope that you find the peace you want, Myron. Just don’t give up who you are to get it.”

As he pulled the door shut behind him, he allowed himself a moment to break, before heading back out into the world alone.

~~~

tagging some writer moots: @eli-t-spoon @theeccentricraven @mysticstarlightduck @bloodmoonloveletter @keeping-writing-frosty

@write-with-will @trench-foot @desastreus @vesanal @leahnardo-da-veggie