memento-morri-writes

[memento-morri-writes]

8, 14, 18, 19. for anything you like!

- @akindofmagictoo

yay!!!! thank youuuu zoe!!

8. what are your favorite character dynamics? elaborate on why. what scenarios not followed through with in-story would you want to put each dynamic in most?

I mean, I think anyone who has known me for 30 days (less, honestly) would know that the Liars (Rook + Sigmar) is far and away my favorite character dynamic to ever exist. I have an (I kid you not) 10 page google doc talking about their relationship, and I call that the "primer". But really it boils down to the fact that they're the most horribly perfect mirrors to ever exist, and both of them are traumatized to hell and don't trust each other, but they do trust each other. And also I'm a sucker for "I may be one of the most evil people in the world, but I love you", particularly in a platonic way. It's just such a complicated and fucked up relationship, and I'm wholly and utterly obsessed with. As for scenarios that aren't canon, I would have loved to see what would have happened if Sigmar/Purity had been the one to rescue Rook from his second imprisonment aboard the Sea Snake. He once told the bard (before we knew his real identity) that if he was in Zara's position and Rook was taken, he would have killed Captain Wolf to get him back, or died trying. Seeing the BBEG of the entire campaign bring down his fury onto the villain of the 2nd arc would have been INSANE. (Also, the DM confessed that there was a worst-case scenario where that actually could have happened, had the party completely and utterly failed at getting him back.) Not to mention the state that Rook was in when they found him. (Barely alive.)

the rest are going under the cut bc I talk too much. (I am SO sorry. This post is approaching "color of the sky" lengths, so if you don't wanna scroll, I understand. But there are so EXTREMELY unhinged Morri texts and DMs at the bottom.)

14. what are the focal points of [project]? what does it revolve around emotionally?

I can actually answer this for all of my projects at once. The answer is love. Every single project I've ever written revolves in some way around love. (Though it's actually very rarely romantic love.) There's usually a tie-in between self-love and loving others, and how in order to do the latter you must first do the former, because apparently writing characters with (to quote the DM of Rook's game) "self-esteem debt" is a trademark of mine.

18. pick 1-5 songs which you believe define [something] and elaborate on why with attached lyric selections. (optionally: link a playlist)

I'm gonna do Cyra (she/they, fire genasi desert storm herald barb, butch lesbian with a toxic ex) for this one because she only has 6 songs on her playlist. I'll share the 5 FOB ones, because it's funnier that way, and they fit her the best. (I'm so sorry if you can't stand FOB's music. But it's just SO fitting for her. Also, yes, 3/5 of these are from Save Rock and Roll. It's very much Their Album.) The Phoenix - Fall Out Boy Hey, young blood, doesn't it feel Like our time is running out? I'm gonna change you like a remix Then I'll raise you like a phoenix This is her theme song. Not just because she literally could not possibly get more heavily fire-themed, but also it's just so HER. This part in particular is very fitting for her relationship with her shitty ex-gf, Talia. She was the daughter of the leader of a Mad Max-inspired cult of desert raiders who kidnapped Cyra as a child, and she was definitely more than a little bit manipulative with them. So yeah. Destroying Cyra and remaking her under fire. Champion - Fall Out Boy I'm just young enough to still believe, still believe But young enough not to know what to believe in Other than being a tad bit on the nose for a dnd character, this song is just so fitting for Cyra is many ways. She had her belief in Talia and the Brotherhood (the cult) destroyed, and now feels a little lost. She also gained a weird new ability and doesn't know what it means. (Specifically, the ability to summon a flaming metal quarterstaff out of her chest. (It did 1d12 damage though.) After the campaign was cancelled the DM told me that this was just the shaft of super-magic greataxe I was going to have been able to find other parts to over time. I mourn its loss every day.) Anyways, all in all, she's focused on SURVIVING, and figuring out anything else later. Thnks fr th Mmrs - Fall Out Boy Thanks for the memories, even though they weren't so great I don't even think I need to explain this one. The ultimate "I'm still not over my shitty ex" song, lmao. Miss Missing You - Fall Out Boy Maybe I'll burn a little brighter tonight Let the fire breathe me back to life ... Sometimes before it gets better, the darkness gets bigger The person that you'd take a bullet for is behind the trigger More fire metaphors (in this case could be considered literal fire in the form of her quarterstaff, which only appeared after she left the Brotherhood). Plus Cyra really did trust Talia up until the very end of their relationship. Until she had undeniable proof of the true Bad Shit the Brotherhood was up to and of Talia's extremely willing role in the whole thing, she was clinging to a very toxic relationship built Talia's manipulation. Finding out just how deeply complicit Talia was in what was going on felt like a betrayal. AND FINALLY: Death Valley - Fall Out Boy 'Cause we are alive, here in death valley But don't take love off the table yet 'Cause tonight, it's just fire alarms and losing you We love a lot, so we only lose a little But we are alive, we are alive, we are alive We're going to die, it's just a matter of time Hard times come, good times go I'm either gone in an instant Or here 'til the bitter end, I never know Look. I said the Brotherhood was inspired by Mad Max. I don't know what could possibly be more fitting for them than this song.

19. what text/message have you sent about [project] which is most unhinged or incomprehensible out of context?

YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE ME CHOOSE ONE???? I have HUNDREDS of unhinged DMs I've sent about my many, many OCs and projects. Have a sampling. (to be merciful, I'm not counting things I've said out loud during sessions. If I added those, this list would be twice as long.)

Rook's Game:

This one was supposed to say "unless" instead of "in case", but it's funny either way:

no context for this one, but it's from Rook's game (I still wanna do this):

Regarding my choice of emojis in my discord nickname:

Talking about my warlock's patron:

on my pathfinder character grave robbing:

Could have been any of them, idk, probably ATQH though:

In a convo about ATQH, but widely applicable:

And to wrap it up, the most horrifying text to receive from your daughter at almost 3am:

+ A couple of extra bonus ones from the DM of Rook's game and the DM of Carrion's game (who also happen to be two of my best friends in the world)

[memento-morri-writes]

writing ask game

🌻 — prompts

(1) share an excerpt you're proud of, and elaborate on why.

(2) share an excerpt of [character pairing] interacting, either selected from the work or written now.

(3) pick a branching universe you would enjoy writing from the canon of [project]— a character makes a different choice, the dice roll a different number, etc. describe what it would look like and/or write 100+ words in this universe.

(4) pick an alternate setting you would want to put either the main cast of your work or [specific characters] in— zombie apocalypse, medieval fantasy, regency era, office hijinks, etc. describe what it would look like and/or write 100+ words in this universe.

(5) describe what [project] would look like if it were bad. (alternatively: list out what hypothetical horrible interpretations of the work would look like. fake socmedia discourse emulator optional but encouraged.)

(6) describe the premise/plot of [project] from the perspective of each main cast member.

(7) if you were writing an individual project based on each main cast member in [project], what would they look like? what genre would each main cast member do best in?

🌺 — questions

(8) what are your favorite character dynamics from [project]? elaborate on why. what scenarios not followed through with in-story would you want to put each dynamic in most? (ex: truthserum-ed and locked in a room; roadtripping; coffeeshop au; etc)

(9) who are your favorite characters from [project]? what do you want most from them as characters: to have them heal and be content/happy, or to run them under a cheese grater? how does this compare to what they undergo in the story?

(10) which characters do you personally dislike most from [project]? elaborate on why, bonus points for how impassioned your answer is.

(11) is there is anything intangible or inanimate in [project] which qualifies as a character in its own right? (ex: a specific theme, setting, etc)

(12) which scene/plot beat is your favorite? elaborate on why.

(13) which aspects of worldbuilding are your favorites? (if not applicable: which parts of the setting interest you most?)

(14) what are the focal points of [project]? what does it revolve around emotionally?

(15) in what ways are you challenging yourself with [project], and is there anything specific you want to come out of the work having improved skills in? on the other hand, which aspects are fully in your comfort zone?

(16) what sparked [project]? what was the original premise or jumping-off point, and do you have any records of the first notes from its creation?

(17) do you have a specific structure or method of plotting for [project]? what does your drafting process look like?

(18) pick 1-5 songs which you believe define either [project] or [character (relationship)] and elaborate on why with attached lyric selections. (optionally: link a playlist)

(19) what text/message have you sent about [project] which is most unhinged or incomprehensible out of context?

(20) do you think there's anything about [project] which is predictable from your previous works/interests, or to anyone who knows you well enough? if the work was written by someone else, what would a recommendation designed to personally bait you look like?

[memento-morri-writes]

Note to anyone reading: don't let a zoology major who plans to get a master's in animal behavior write a parallel between a human and an animal. It will drive her insane. (in a good way.)

[memento-morri-writes]

Carrion Vignette #3 - Untitled

A direct continuation from this snippet (+ author commentary). pov: Carrion wordcount: 1.2k character(s): Carrion Vice (D&D), Arran (random backstory NPC) canon status: canon backstory vignette trigger warnings: (non-graphic) mentions of injury + illness, (non-graphic) mentions of violence, nightmares summary: Carrion has a conversation with his rescuer.

 “My name is Carrion.”

There was an awkward pause before the man laughed. “Alright, don’t wanna tell a stranger in the woods your name? Fair enough.” He handed Carrion another plate of food.

Carrion bristled, and a part of him wanted to insist that it was his name. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “And who are you? How did you find me?” His voice was even more gravelly than usual, his throat dry. 

His rescuer passed him a flask. Carefully, Carrion smelled it. Water. Taking a sip, he watched his rescuer expectantly. 

“My name is Arran. My real one, that is.” He shrugged. “I don’t see a point in hiding it. Besides, I don’t know that I’m clever enough to come up with another one.” He chuckled. “As for how I found you, I was walking up the road a few nights ago and saw something lying in the road. Thought you were an animal or something at first. A bear-kill, maybe.” He scratched his bearded chin idly. “But nope. A whole ass person. And beat to shit, too.” He gestured at Carrion with his free hand. “You were in a rough state. Wasn’t too sure you’d make it for a while. But I guess you’re as strong as you look.”

Carrion set aside his empty plate, licking the last of the rabbit’s flavor from his fingers. “How long was I… When did you find me?”

Arran hummed thoughtfully, playing with his beard. “It’s been about 3 days since I found you. But judging by the state you were in, you’d been out there for at least a couple more.”

Five days, then. That was a long time. Theodore and the rest of the Order would be nearly halfway back to the city by now. He shook his head. There was no way to catch up to them now. And besides, he was still healing, as his body was quick to remind him.

Arran glanced over at him, setting aside his own plate. “Er, if you don’t mind me asking… What happened? You look like someone used you as a pincushion.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Carrion’s body tensed, his wounds twinging in pain as he remembered the paladins falling on him, stabbing him over and over again. He shook his head. “I was attacked. Left for dead.” 

Arran nodded. “Bandits, I’d bet. Nasty fuckers.” He took a drink from his flask. “There’s loads of them in these hills. Don’t usually come this far up, but it’s not unheard of.” He looked Carrion in the face. Still casual, he asked, “So what was a member of the Silver Order doing up here all alone?”

Shit. Of course he had noticed. Carrion had been wearing a tunic with the Order’s symbol. His mind churned. He had to say something. “It was uh… personal business. There’s a healer, the solitary sort, who lives further up the mountain.” It wasn’t technically a lie.

“Oof. Tough luck. Get one ailment cured and you’re nearly cut down again right after.” He didn’t seem suspicious in the slightest, but Carrion was still wary.

He nodded. Let Arran assume whatever he wanted. Anything was better than him asking more questions. Especially questions that might lead too close to the truth. 

Arran laughed. “You must be cursed or something.”

He had to stop himself from flinching. Cursed. That was certainly one word for it. Cursed. Corrupted. There was no pretty way to describe what had happened to him. What he was now. He remembered Beren’s words. That thing isn’t Reverence anymore. 

He shook his former friend out of his mind and looked up at Arran. “What are you doing up here? Not many people go wandering alone in the mountains if they have any other option.”

Arran smiled. “Not many. But I’m a hunter. Going off into the wilderness is kinda my job.” He patted something behind him, and for the first time Carrion noticed a longbow and quiver propper up against a tree.

That explained a lot of things: His weathered appearance, the numerous weapons scattered around the camp, why he was alone, his knowledge of field medicine. It made sense. It seemed that he really was just a lonely huntsman. Still, Carrion knew he wouldn’t quite be able to relax any time soon. 

But even as he thought it, he was increasingly aware of the tiredness tugging at his mind. He hadn’t been awake long, but given the extent of his injuries, it wasn’t entirely surprising. Healing was tiring work, especially without the aid of magic. He fought back a yawn.

“Tired, are you?” Carrion nodded. “Well, I haven’t slept yet, so it seems that both of us need some rest.”

Carrion shuffled back to the pelt he’d been lying on earlier. Arran dampened the fire – it wasn’t cold enough yet to truly need it for warmth – before making his way to his own bedroll. 

“Wait, shouldn’t someone keep watch?” Carrion didn’t want to encounter any actual bandits, or any large animals.

Arran shook his head. “Don’t worry. It’s safe. The camp is well-hidden, and there shouldn’t be anything dangerous around. The bandits that attacked you have moved on by now. Besides, I’m a light sleeper.”

“Alright, if you’re sure…” 

Despite his wariness, and his fears that Arran might try to attack him in the dark, sleep quickly overtook Carrion, dragging him down into the dark.

In his dreams, he found himself running blindly through a dark forest, pushing branches out of his way. He could hear something behind him, the brush rustling and the panting breaths of another creature.  Trees and bushes tore at his skin as he plowed onwards. He wasn’t sure why he was running, but he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that if he stopped he would die. 

Eventually, he burst into a clearing and staggered to a stop. He spun around, searching the tree line for whatever had been chasing him. Every movement in the shadows made him flinch, certain that something would charge out of the forest and attack him. But nothing came. 

He could still hear the bushes rustling, though, and he knew he was not alone. Occasionally he thought he saw something moving, or the reflection of eyes peering out at him from the brush. Whatever was chasing him, it was out there, watching, waiting. 

Then, without warning, something grabbed his shoulder. He whirled around, and– 

Carrion bolted upright, fist flying towards the creature kneeling over him. The strike landed, and it toppled backwards, crying out in pain. 

“Ow! What the hell?” the creature exclaimed in a decidedly human voice.

Carrion blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. Arran lay flat on his back on the dirt, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

He lowered his fist. “Uh, sorry,” he muttered. “I thought you were a bandit or something.”

Arran sat up, rubbing his jaw. “It’s alright.” He winced slightly as his fingers found a tender spot. “You certainly pack quite a punch.”

“I’ve had some training.” Theodore’s face rose unbidden to his mind, standing beside a leather-padded sack they used as a punching bag. Shrugging off the memory, he asked, “Why’d you wake me?”

“You cried out. I was worried the fever had returned.”

Carrion shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Clearly.” Arran brushed himself off as he got to his feet. “Well, now that we’re both awake, how about some breakfast?” Carrion’s stomach growled in response, and Arran laughed. “I guess that answers that question.”

[memento-morri-writes]

another fun hint for the content of "Fear & Hunger / Human Nature":

HUMANS ARE JUST ANIMALS. WE ARE WEAK TO FEAR AND HUNGER.

~ me, via discord

Also, very curious if anyone can guess both of the things that I'm referencing with that title. One of them is fairly obvious, but the other is marginally more obscure. Although this is tumblr, so I'm betting someone will get it sooner rather than later.

there's another Carrion snippet coming tomorrow (aka later today), and the one I wrote tonight will also get shared eventually. I just gotta let it marinate for a little bit. Come back to it the next couple of days and find all of the typos and weird phrasing that needs to get fixed, hahahaha.

The one going up tomorrow/today is currently untitled (which is fine, since it's a direct continuation of A Crisis of Faith), but the one I wrote tonight is titled "Fear & Hunger / Human Nature".

[memento-morri-writes]

Hmm. Considering maybe publishing the Carrion backstory on AO3 or something so it's all in one place and easier to read... how would you guys feel about that?

Since I did accidentally end up writing a pretty coherent and directly connected 4-part backstory for him.

[memento-morri-writes]

Carrion Vignette #3 - Untitled

A direct continuation from this snippet (+ author commentary). pov: Carrion wordcount: 1.2k character(s): Carrion Vice (D&D), Arran (random backstory NPC) canon status: canon backstory vignette trigger warnings: (non-graphic) mentions of injury + illness, (non-graphic) mentions of violence, nightmares summary: Carrion has a conversation with his rescuer.

 “My name is Carrion.”

There was an awkward pause before the man laughed. “Alright, don’t wanna tell a stranger in the woods your name? Fair enough.” He handed Carrion another plate of food.

Carrion bristled, and a part of him wanted to insist that it was his name. But he didn’t. Instead he said, “And who are you? How did you find me?” His voice was even more gravelly than usual, his throat dry. 

His rescuer passed him a flask. Carefully, Carrion smelled it. Water. Taking a sip, he watched his rescuer expectantly. 

“My name is Arran. My real one, that is.” He shrugged. “I don’t see a point in hiding it. Besides, I don’t know that I’m clever enough to come up with another one.” He chuckled. “As for how I found you, I was walking up the road a few nights ago and saw something lying in the road. Thought you were an animal or something at first. A bear-kill, maybe.” He scratched his bearded chin idly. “But nope. A whole ass person. And beat to shit, too.” He gestured at Carrion with his free hand. “You were in a rough state. Wasn’t too sure you’d make it for a while. But I guess you’re as strong as you look.”

Carrion set aside his empty plate, licking the last of the rabbit’s flavor from his fingers. “How long was I… When did you find me?”

Arran hummed thoughtfully, playing with his beard. “It’s been about 3 days since I found you. But judging by the state you were in, you’d been out there for at least a couple more.”

Five days, then. That was a long time. Theodore and the rest of the Order would be nearly halfway back to the city by now. He shook his head. There was no way to catch up to them now. And besides, he was still healing, as his body was quick to remind him.

Arran glanced over at him, setting aside his own plate. “Er, if you don’t mind me asking… What happened? You look like someone used you as a pincushion.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Carrion’s body tensed, his wounds twinging in pain as he remembered the paladins falling on him, stabbing him over and over again. He shook his head. “I was attacked. Left for dead.” 

Arran nodded. “Bandits, I’d bet. Nasty fuckers.” He took a drink from his flask. “There’s loads of them in these hills. Don’t usually come this far up, but it’s not unheard of.” He looked Carrion in the face. Still casual, he asked, “So what was a member of the Silver Order doing up here all alone?”

Shit. Of course he had noticed. Carrion had been wearing a tunic with the Order’s symbol. His mind churned. He had to say something. “It was uh… personal business. There’s a healer, the solitary sort, who lives further up the mountain.” It wasn’t technically a lie.

“Oof. Tough luck. Get one ailment cured and you’re nearly cut down again right after.” He didn’t seem suspicious in the slightest, but Carrion was still wary.

He nodded. Let Arran assume whatever he wanted. Anything was better than him asking more questions. Especially questions that might lead too close to the truth. 

Arran laughed. “You must be cursed or something.”

He had to stop himself from flinching. Cursed. That was certainly one word for it. Cursed. Corrupted. There was no pretty way to describe what had happened to him. What he was now. He remembered Beren’s words. That thing isn’t Reverence anymore. 

He shook his former friend out of his mind and looked up at Arran. “What are you doing up here? Not many people go wandering alone in the mountains if they have any other option.”

Arran smiled. “Not many. But I’m a hunter. Going off into the wilderness is kinda my job.” He patted something behind him, and for the first time Carrion noticed a longbow and quiver propper up against a tree.

That explained a lot of things: His weathered appearance, the numerous weapons scattered around the camp, why he was alone, his knowledge of field medicine. It made sense. It seemed that he really was just a lonely huntsman. Still, Carrion knew he wouldn’t quite be able to relax any time soon. 

But even as he thought it, he was increasingly aware of the tiredness tugging at his mind. He hadn’t been awake long, but given the extent of his injuries, it wasn’t entirely surprising. Healing was tiring work, especially without the aid of magic. He fought back a yawn.

“Tired, are you?” Carrion nodded. “Well, I haven’t slept yet, so it seems that both of us need some rest.”

Carrion shuffled back to the pelt he’d been lying on earlier. Arran dampened the fire – it wasn’t cold enough yet to truly need it for warmth – before making his way to his own bedroll. 

“Wait, shouldn’t someone keep watch?” Carrion didn’t want to encounter any actual bandits, or any large animals.

Arran shook his head. “Don’t worry. It’s safe. The camp is well-hidden, and there shouldn’t be anything dangerous around. The bandits that attacked you have moved on by now. Besides, I’m a light sleeper.”

“Alright, if you’re sure…” 

Despite his wariness, and his fears that Arran might try to attack him in the dark, sleep quickly overtook Carrion, dragging him down into the dark.

In his dreams, he found himself running blindly through a dark forest, pushing branches out of his way. He could hear something behind him, the brush rustling and the panting breaths of another creature.  Trees and bushes tore at his skin as he plowed onwards. He wasn’t sure why he was running, but he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that if he stopped he would die. 

Eventually, he burst into a clearing and staggered to a stop. He spun around, searching the tree line for whatever had been chasing him. Every movement in the shadows made him flinch, certain that something would charge out of the forest and attack him. But nothing came. 

He could still hear the bushes rustling, though, and he knew he was not alone. Occasionally he thought he saw something moving, or the reflection of eyes peering out at him from the brush. Whatever was chasing him, it was out there, watching, waiting. 

Then, without warning, something grabbed his shoulder. He whirled around, and– 

Carrion bolted upright, fist flying towards the creature kneeling over him. The strike landed, and it toppled backwards, crying out in pain. 

“Ow! What the hell?” the creature exclaimed in a decidedly human voice.

Carrion blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. Arran lay flat on his back on the dirt, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

He lowered his fist. “Uh, sorry,” he muttered. “I thought you were a bandit or something.”

Arran sat up, rubbing his jaw. “It’s alright.” He winced slightly as his fingers found a tender spot. “You certainly pack quite a punch.”

“I’ve had some training.” Theodore’s face rose unbidden to his mind, standing beside a leather-padded sack they used as a punching bag. Shrugging off the memory, he asked, “Why’d you wake me?”

“You cried out. I was worried the fever had returned.”

Carrion shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Clearly.” Arran brushed himself off as he got to his feet. “Well, now that we’re both awake, how about some breakfast?” Carrion’s stomach growled in response, and Arran laughed. “I guess that answers that question.”

[memento-morri-writes]

manuscript search tag game

I was tagged by @akindofmagictoo. Thank you, Zoe!! My words were deliver, remember, high, and write.

deliver* (from Pawns)

The doctor turned towards Deadringer and handed him the envelope. “Alistair’s men will be here to pick us up shortly, now-” As he spoke, rattling off directions for Deadringer to deliver the envelope, he picked up the recording device. The view shifted as it was passed off to Deadringer. Deadringer took the proffered items but hesitated. “Won’t you hand this off to him yourself?” The doctor shook his head emphatically. “No, no. I won’t go to Svarga. I cannot put myself – or Alena – in danger.”

(*technically this part is just me turning the DM's description of something we saw into prose. But it's a fun little snippet so you can have it anyways.)

remember (from A Conversation Between Captains)

 “Thank you, Captain. I don’t think I would have survived much longer in that cell.” He doesn’t know how right he is. They smiled. “I’m glad that I could save at least one person from her.” Rook opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so, he started to shiver. Val remembered what Dr. Orchid had said. I was able to buy him more time, but only a little. We need to get him to a better infirmary. They got to their feet and returned the chair to its position by the desk. “I think that’s enough for one day. I’ll send Dr. Orchid back in.” They moved towards the door, but paused, hand on the knob, and turned back to look at the young man on the bed. “You’d make a good captain someday, Rook.” His jaw dropped open in surprise as they turned away and stepped out onto the deck.

(this one is canon to the campaign timeline, but it happened offscreen bc I didn't want to talk to myself for 10 minutes, lmao.)

high (from RHVBNGW** #2)

Rook plunged the tip of his rapier into Sister Celestia’s stomach. A raspy gasp escaped her lips. He slowly, firmly pushed the blade higher and higher. Celestia’s face turned from shock to fear as it cut through her innards. Blood was pouring from the wound, coating both Rook and the floor. When he reached her sternum he stopped. Staring Celestia dead in the face, he spoke. “Have fun in hell, bitch.”

**stands for "Rook's Horrible, Very Bad, No-Good Weekend". He's had two of them. Technically this is from the first one. (this is actually the opening of this snippet, hahaha. We start off with a bang and it only gets worse from there.)

write (from Snakebite)

Zara made her way to Rook’s side. He was shivering again. She pulled back the blanket to look at the bite wound on his arm. Was she imagining things or had the black creeping up his veins receded slightly? Shaking her head, she tucked the blanket back around him. It had hardly been five minutes. She needed to wait. But waiting was hard when someone’s life hung in the balance. She sat down at her desk, intending to write a report of the night’s events in her captain’s log, but after a few moments of staring at the blank page, she stood up again. She resisted the urge to check Rook’s wound again, knowing that not much would have changed.

(weirdly enough the only time I've used the word "write" in my entire 45k word doc of Rook snippets. "Written" has been used twice, and "writing" once (actually, that one was also in the Snakebite snippet). I'm kind of surprised, tbh. I guess Rook is more of a "stab my problems with a sword" kind of guy, hahaha.)

Because I've done a TON of tag games today and idk who does or doesn't want to be tagged, I'm going to make this an OPEN TAG. Your words are scream, sigh, burden, and burn.

[memento-morri-writes]

there's another Carrion snippet coming tomorrow (aka later today), and the one I wrote tonight will also get shared eventually. I just gotta let it marinate for a little bit. Come back to it the next couple of days and find all of the typos and weird phrasing that needs to get fixed, hahahaha.

The one going up tomorrow/today is currently untitled (which is fine, since it's a direct continuation of A Crisis of Faith), but the one I wrote tonight is titled "Fear & Hunger / Human Nature".

[memento-morri-writes]

I'm writing another Carrion vignette and the dichotomy between my writing for him and my writing for Rook is very interesting to me.

My (non-campaign) Rook stuff is very much self-indulgent and most of it doesn't actually have much of a "point", aside from me hurting Rook. Meanwhile, my (non-campaign) Carrion stuff is (at least relatively) fucking LOADED with symbology and hidden details, to the point where I can write mini essays about it.

I think it boils down to the fact that the Rook stuff is definitely much more of a "I'm writing a fantasy / daydream" kind of thing, and the Carrion stuff is more of the "this is why he is Like That". Which, tbf, a lot of Why Is He Like That for Rook IS explored in-campaign, which isn't so much the case for Carrion, at least not yet.

[memento-morri-writes]

Sunday Snippet

A little piece from the 2nd part to my most recent Carrion vignette. Apparently Carrion punching people who try to wake him up is a tradition that dates back 5 years.

[Carrion] could still hear the bushes rustling, though, and he knew he was not alone. Occasionally he thought he saw something moving, or the reflection of eyes peering out at him from the brush. Whatever was chasing him, it was out there, watching, waiting.  Then, without warning, something grabbed his shoulder. He whirled around, and–  Carrion bolted upright, fist flying towards the creature kneeling over him. The strike landed, and it toppled backwards, crying out in pain.  “Ow! What the hell?” the creature exclaimed, in a decidedly human voice. Carrion blinked, trying to process what he was seeing. Arran lay flat on his back on the dirt, looking up at him with wide eyes.  He lowered his fist. “Uh, sorry,” he muttered. “I thought you were a bandit or something.” Arran sat up, rubbing his jaw. “It’s alright.” He winced slightly. “You certainly pack quite a punch.” “I’ve had some training.” Theodore’s face rose unbidden to his mind, standing beside a leather-padded sack they used as a punching bag. Shrugging off the memory, he asked, “Why’d you wake me?” “You cried out. I was worried the fever had returned.” Carrion shook his head. “I’m fine.” “Clearly.” Arran brushed himself off as he got to his feet. “Well, now that we’re both awake, how about some breakfast?” Carrion’s stomach growled in response, and Arran laughed. “I guess that answers that question.”

[memento-morri-writes]

Okay, the tags I left on my latest tag game made me realize that it wound be fun to do a little sneak-peak / analysis of this snippet the way I did for the previous one, because I did some kind of fun stuff here.

Author commentary under the cut.

Okay, first off, I feel like to get the most out of this one, you have to know a few things about the way the religion works in the Drakkenheim setting. There aren't really *gods* per se, but there is faith-based magic. The dominant religion (really the only one, aside from a few scattered worshipers of old gods) is the Sacred Flame. But the Flame isn't a person or even an entity. It's more of a concept. (There's also a heretical schism that happened recently, but that's more detail than you need to know.)

Up until the previous snippet (linked above), Carrion was a member of the Silver Order, which is the military wing of the church of the Sacred Flame. He actually did mechanically-speaking have level(s) in paladin.

Okay, with that out of the way, we can talk about analysis.

Mechanically, Carrion (or rather, Reverence at the time) was knocked to 0hp during the last snippet. He was stabilized (whether by luck or by the actions of Theodore, who knows), but is still currently hanging out around 1hp. Or, in non-dnd terms, he's really really fucked up. (The paladins basically used him as a pincushion, hahahah.)

So he's kind of drifting in and out of consciousness, partly due to his injuries and partly because there's not much else to do on this little ledge of rock. He's pretty much given up ("closed his eyes and waited to die."), as he doesn't see a point to life outside of the Silver Order. (They were the first real family he had since his parents were killed when the meteor fell.)

By the time we get to the third block of text ("Time slipped away..."), his wounds have started to get infected. He's been there for hours, maybe close to a day or even a day and a half at this point, with his injuries completely untreated and exposed.

He has some pretty weird fever dreams, about the paladins using the sacred flame (of which there is one in every temple) to roast him alive.

Around this point he kind of starts to come to the conclusion that the paladins and the Sacred Flame never really cared about him at all. That he was a tool in their hands. That he was a vulnerable fool who was suckered in by their promises of faith and hope.

He's still kind of in the "I want to die" part of his coping arc, but he does follow those thoughts to see where they take him. ("reached for the flames" here is both semi-suicidal and a search for a reason as to why the people he had looked to as friends and family abandoned him. I guess this is the move from maybe depression to bargaining, hahaha.)

In the next block of text, he relives some memories. He's convincing himself that they didn't really care. That they were just zealots trying to rope him in. It's easier that way, isn't it?

Then he sees more recent memories. Memories of the events leading up to his current situation. And this time, instead of hearing Beren calling for his death, he hears the Sacred Flame itself. Or at least, what his feverish mind imagines the voice of a holy concept might sound like. Shortly thereafter, Beren's argument for mercy is replaced with the Flame itself (a personification of Theodore's faith, if you will) persuading Theodore to abandon Reverence.

NOW THIS IS WHERE THINGS GET INTERESTING!!!! If you read the two snippets carefully, you notice that Theodore's dialogue here is exactly the same except for one detail: the capitalization of the word Carrion. This is the moment where the-man-who-used-to-be-Reverence finds a new identity. A name that fits how he sees himself in this situation: disgusting and unsettling, unwanted and left to rot.

The final line of this block ("Reverence burned away") is twofold. Not only is the person (or at least the identity of) Reverence being destroyed here, but so is his faith in the Sacred Flame as a whole! This is the tipping point. The resolution of this crisis of faith.

After that, he wakes up, feverish and frightened, fresh from the mental image (and accompanying imaginary sensation) of himself being burned alive. Delirious and terrified, he accidentally transforms into the monstrous / rage form. (This is also the beginning of his path towards being a barbarian, and allowing his anger and desire for revenge to drive him forwards.)

Because of Theodore removing the extra chains in the previous snippet, the change in his physical size allows him to break free, and in an adrenaline-fueled haze, he climbs the cliff face.

But rage only lasts for 1 minute, and as soon as he's escaped, it fades. Not used to the physical stress of the transformation, and still BADLY hurt, he collapses. But interestingly enough, he does try one last time to reach out to the Sacred Flame!!! Remember those mechanical levels in paladin I mentioned? Yeah. That means Lay on Hands, and (potentially) Cure Wounds.

And one other key thing about the worldbuilding in this world is that since there's only one dominant religion and it doesn't worship an entity, the way you lose your faith-based powers (as opposed to going against the wishes and creed of your god) is to have a crisis of faith. Any kind of faith counts, it doesn't even technically have to be faith in anything religious at all. Just anything that means a lot to you. And so because of his crisis of faith, Carrion officially lost his paladin abilities, and is unable to heal himself.

(Also, on an extremely nerdy and "you're overthinking this, Morri" level, this mechanically explains why Carrion was "starting over" as a level 1 barbarian for the beginning of the campaign. If you want to get extremely weird and nit-picky about it, he kept his STR and CON scores, but lost his CHA due to his newfound mistrust of people and spending 5-ish years almost entirely alone.)

(Fun side note: Carrion doesn't know this, but Theodore actually regrets leaving Reverence behind so badly that he also lost his divine powers for YEARS. Now that will be a fun reveal.)

I do very much like the next section, too, because I think it gives a decent picture of what's going on, without Carrion having to be well and truly awake for it.

Basically, Arran (a lone hunter) was coming up the road and saw Carrion lying in the middle of it. He calls out to him, but Carrion doesn't answer. So he goes over to check if Carrion is alive. He touches Carrion's shoulder to roll him over (causing that burst of pain), and realizes "oh fuck This guy is alive, but he might not stay that way if I don't do something."

Arran cleans and bandages Carrion's wounds, and when he's conscious enough for it, gives him water.

From there, well, Carrion's POV after he wakes up is pretty accurate. He's wary, but he knows that he owes his life to this guy, and if the guy wanted him dead, he would be. Not to mention that Carrion didn't have anything of value on his person, so being robbed isn't a concern here.

(He does not, however, trust Arran enough to tell him the truth. I'm working on another snippet right now that picks up where this one left off.)

And then of course, the name. He truly and genuinely didn't know what he was going to say until he said it (since he doesn't really remember the fever dreams very well). But as soon as he did, he knew it was perfect.

OH AND I FORGOT TO SAY: The fact that this takes place under a new moon is intentional!!! All of my dnd characters get assigned a major arcana tarot card, and Carrion's is The Moon. The reversed version represents his monstrous side. And what better way to represent the reversed moon than the new moon!! The lack of moon! It's also a very fun inversion of werewolf symbolism where it's the full moon that heralds danger.

Also, silly bonus, if you are so inclined, you may image Reverence, delirious and chained up on the rock ledge, singing a horrible (and horribly off-key) rendition of "Losing My Religion" by REM.

🎶That's me on the cliff face That's me on the rock ledge, Losing my religion. 🎶

carrion vignette - a crisis of faith

a sequel to this short story (+ read this). Part 2 coming eventually. pov: Carrion wordcount: 1.8k character(s): Carrion Vice (D&D) canon status: canon backstory vignette trigger warnings: hallucinations, injury, violence, mentions of death summary: after being left for dead by his paladin order, Reverence undergoes a crisis of faith.

Reverence lay on his back, staring up at the moon. In the hours since he had been left here, it had sunk lower in the sky, and now it hung just above the rim of the ravine. The tiny waning crescent reminded him of the edge of a knife. 

A knife like how the rocks cut into his skin if he even tried to move. A knife like the wounds all over his body. A knife like the one that had cut him out of the tapestry of the Silver Order. A knife like the one that had stabbed his heart when Orion fell. 

He shook his head. He was thinking in metaphors. That wasn’t good. Maybe he had lost too much blood. Maybe he would die soon. 

He wondered what death felt like. It had to feel better than this.

Reverence closed his eyes and waited to die. 

Unfortunately, it seemed the Flame had other plans for him. 

He woke to the sun beating down on him, its bright light prying at the edges of his sleep. Slowly, his eyes cracked open. It was daylight now, and the sun was visible over the ravine. That meant that half a day had passed since he’d been left here.

Carefully, he tried to move, get a sense of his body. Immediately, pain shot through him, causing him to cry out. So he was still injured. And badly, it seemed. The paladins – his friends – had nearly killed him. 

If only they had finished the job. 

He closed his eyes and hoped to die.

Time slipped away from him after that. Hours passed without him registering them. He slept fitfully, waking every time he so much as twitched a muscle. His mouth grew dry, and he wished desperately for rain. 

Rain would also help with the heat. It was fall now, and yet he was sweltering. The rocks beneath him absorbed the heat. He was roasting here, like a rabbit over a fire. 

A fire. The Sacred Flame. 

An image danced on the back of his eyelids: His own body, speared on a ceremonial spear, and suspended over the temple’s Flame as though on a spit. The air was thick with smoke, obscuring the temple beyond the first two rows of the pews. 

Seated on those pews were the paladins. His paladins. The people he had traveled with and fought with and laughed with. They were laughing now, but this time it was not with him. They jeered, banging their metal travel bowls together in anticipation of a meal. 

He understood, then: This was what the Flame wanted. It wanted him to burn. He had taken in its light, and carried it, like a lamp lighting the way. But his wick had expired, his use had run out. And now there was nothing left to do but burn. Burn until there was nothing left. 

If it wanted him to burn, then he would burn.

He closed his eyes and reached for the flames.

Hours slipped by as he waded through the fire. In its dancing flames, he saw memories. He saw himself training alongside the other paladins. He saw Theodore instructing him, correcting his stance. He saw Beren laughing, a mug of ale in his hand. 

And in every memory, he saw it. Saw the fire that burned behind their eyes. The fire of devotion. Of loyalty. 

He walked onwards, through the fire. 

Ahead of him, he saw Theodore, arguing with Beren. Arguing about him. About whether or not to kill him. A fire burned at their feet, much larger than the distant campfire that had been there the first time he had seen these events. 

Theodore’s voice boomed, unnaturally loud, coming from all sides. “I will not kill one of my men!”

Beren opened his mouth to reply. But what emerged was not Beren’s voice. It was the roar of flames, almost deafening in volume, somehow shaped into words. “THEN LET HIM BURN.”

The flames flickered and the pair vanished. 

When the flames settled, they were there again, this time leaning out over the ravine, just like in his memory. But this time, Theodore carried a burning torch in one hand. Beren spoke again, but instead of protest, it was the Flame-voice again. “LET HIM BURN.” 

Theodore reached out his hand, and dropped the torch. It fell, tumbling down towards where Reverence lay on the ledge. Despite it being a barren shelf of rock, the flames caught. He could feel their heat. Feel the way his chains warmed until they were burning his skin. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. 

Above him, Theodore turned away. “Put him out of your mind. Soon he will be nothing but Carrion.”

The flames engulfed him, obscuring Theodore from view.

Reverence burned away.

He woke, thrashing against the chains. It hurt, the pain almost blinding, but that didn’t matter. If he did not break free, he was going to die. And, he realized for the first time, he did not want to die. He wanted to escape, and to get out of this ravine. To hunt down Theodore and destroy his life as Theodore had done to him. He wanted revenge. He wanted to live.

The world took on a purple tint, growing hazy and distant. His muscles screamed in agony. The chains were too tight, cutting into his flesh. He bellowed in pain. They were choke him. Squeeze the life from his body. He was going to burst, or implode.

And then he was free.

The pressure on his body vanished as the chains broke and  fell away, clattering into the depths of the ravine. Euphoric, forgetting about his wounds, he leapt, scrabbling for a handhold on the rocky cliff. His long, knife-like claws dug into cracks in the rock. Slowly, every muscle burning, he ascended. 

Reaching the top of the cliff he staggered forwards, away from the edge. As he stumbled, the world grew in size around him as his body shrank. The pain that he had been trying his best to ignore slammed into him with its full force. 

His legs buckled under its weight and he fell to his knees.

He was dying, he was sure of it. He couldn’t die, not now. Not now that he was free, now that he understood! Desperately he reached out, searching for the golden-orange light of his magic. There was nothing but the cold and the dark. 

Of course. The flames had burned him. They would never heal him now.

BItter laughter bubbled to his lips, harsh and dry. He fell sideways, ignoring the distant pain from the impact. With great effort, he rolled onto his back. Above him, the sky was dark. The moon had vanished. He found himself falling again, but this time falling up, into the welcoming dark. 

He closed his eyes and waited for impact.

Time became a river again, with him borne along by the current, blissfully unaware. Every so often the world became real again, awareness surfacing like an island. 

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

A burst of pain in his shoulder. 

“Oh, fuck.”

A gentle touch.

Stinging pain.

A groan, from somewhere inside himself, more animal than human.

“I know, I know. It hurts. Just try to relax.”

The crackling of a fire. 

Cool water on his lips.

“Drink.”

Before he saw anything, he could hear. He took in the sounds of the world. The crackle of a fire. A rhythmic zing sound, over and over again. Zing, zing, zing. And underneath it, someone humming. He was not alone.

Extending his awareness to the rest of his body, he checked what he could feel. He lay on his back on something soft. A bedroll, maybe? No, too hairy. A pelt of some kind, then. He didn’t hurt, at least not much. There was a soreness that permeated every inch of his body, but it was nothing compared to the agony from before. Wiggling his fingers and toes, flexing the muscles in his arms and legs, he checked his range of motion. He could move. That was good. Maybe even fight if he needed to, though he didn’t want to test that theory.

He cracked open his eyes. Above him, he saw the branches of pine trees. Beyond that, the night sky, and the thin line of a waxing crescent moon. Slowly lifting his head, he looked around. A fire lit a small campsite, tucked amongst the trees. No tents, only his pelt and an empty bedroll. A rabbit roasted on a spit over the fire.

Beyond the fire hunched a figure, bent over some task. They appeared to be the source of the humming as well as the other noise. They didn’t seem to have noticed that he was awake yet. 

Carefully, as quietly as possible, he sat up. Glancing down, he saw he was shirtless and barefoot, though he still wore his pants from the Order, ripped in several places and stained with blood and dirt. He looked around for a weapon. 

There, by the other bedroll. A sheathed sword. 

He inched towards it, stepping as lightly as he could manage. But he was still sore, and clumsy. 

The humming stopped.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

He looked up and saw that the hunched figure on the other side belonged to a rugged-looking human man with weathered skin and a tangled mop of black hair. There was a wide grin on his face. In his hand gleamed a knife, which he was sharpening with a whetstone held in his other hand. Zing, zing, zing.

He must have seen the fear on his guest’s face, because he laughed and raised his hands. “I don’t mean you any harm. It would be a waste of all the time I spent dragging you back from the brink of death.”

He gestured to the rabbit on the spit. “I imagine you must be hungry. Come, sit.” Taking the knife, he sliced off a perfectly roasted slice of meat, letting it fall onto the plate. He held it out in the direction of his guest who still crouched near the bedroll. 

The sword was so close. But if this man had saved him… The smell of the roasted meat hit his nose and his stomach growled. He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d eaten but he knew it was days. 

Warily, he inched closer. When the other man made no move to attack, he snatched the plate of meat from his hand. Not bothering to wait for utensils, he picked it up and began to eat. It was the most glorious thing he had ever tasted. It was gone in seconds. 

He looked up and saw his rescuer holding another plate. “Do you want more?” 

He nodded vigorously. “Yes,” he rasped. Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

His rescuer nodded. “Of course. But first, tell me: Who are you?”

He wasn’t sure what was going to come out of his mouth until it did, but once it was out he knew it was the truth. “My name is Carrion.”

[memento-morri-writes]

specified lines tag

Jumping on an open tag from @avrablake.

a line about something hard (from "Carrion")

Beren’s distant voice pulled [Reverence] back to the present. He glanced up to see two figures looking down on him, silhouetted by the faint moonlight. “Sir… are you certain you want to do this? Death from thirst or starvation is not a quick one. Wouldn’t you rather be certain that he di–” “Enough, Beren. What’s done is done. Try your best to put Reverence out of your mind. Before long, he’ll be nothing but carrion.” The figures disappeared from view, one after another, and before long the horses’ footsteps and the sound of the wagon’s wheels faded into the distance. Reverence was alone.

a line where someone is hurt (from "Carrion")

[Reverence] tried to pull back, change the course of the blow, but it was too late. His fist met flesh and Orion crumpled to the ground. Something barreled into him, knocking him to the ground. He thrashed, trying to get to his feet. He had to see what had happened to Orion. He struggled to his knees, but pain seared as a blade cut into his leg and he fell to the ground.  “Orion!” He tried to shove the paladins out of the way, but there were too many of them. For every blow he shrugged off, another landed. He was distantly aware that he was wounded, that he’d taken enough hits to bring most men down, but it didn’t matter. He needed to see Orion. 

a line where someone is cared for (from "Liars Will Be Shot")

Wyn led [Zara] into a separate room, the doorway blocked by a tapestry depicting the sea. Inside was a bed, much more comfortable-looking than the table in the clinic, with plush pillows and an ocean-blue blanket.  Tucked under the blanket was Rook. His eyes were closed, but unlike on the ship, his face was relaxed. The tension had vanished from his brow, and he seemed to be resting peacefully. Zara sat down in a large green chair next to the bed. She gently brushed a hand over Rook’s forehead. To her relief, his skin had mostly cooled, no longer feverishly hot. On top of that, the color had begun to return to his skin.

a line you think is beautiful (from "A Crisis of Faith")

He understood, then: This was what the Flame wanted. It wanted him to burn. He had taken in its light, and carried it, like a lamp lighting the way. But his wick had expired, his use had run out. And now there was nothing left to do but burn. Burn until there was nothing left.  If it wanted him to burn, then he would burn. He closed his eyes and reached for the flames.

I'm going to tag @space-writes and @akindofmagictoo and anyone else who wants to do this! Your lines are: a line about pain, a line about healing, a line about music, and a line that makes you laugh.

[memento-morri-writes]

The Power of Silence in Dialogue

We often think of dialogue as something that’s just about what characters say, but let’s talk about what they don’t say. Silence can be one of the most powerful tools in your writing toolbox. Here’s why:

1. The Unspoken Tension

When characters leave things unsaid, it adds layers to their interactions. Silence can create a tension that’s so thick you could cut it with a knife. It shows things are happening beneath the surface—the real conversation is happening in what’s left unspoken.

Example:

“So, you’re leaving, huh?” He didn’t look up from the table, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, slow and deliberate. “Yeah.” “Guess I should’ve expected this.” (Silence.) “You’re not mad?” “I’m not mad,” she said, but the way her voice broke was louder than anything she'd said all night.

2. Building Anticipation or Drama

Sometimes silence can heighten the drama, creating a pause where the reader feels like something big is about to happen. You don’t always need words to convey that sense of dread or anticipation.

Example:

They stood there, side by side, staring at the door that had just closed behind him. “You should’ve stopped him.” She didn’t answer. “You should’ve said something.” The room felt colder. “I couldn’t.” (Silence.)

3. Creating Emotional Impact

Sometimes, saying nothing can have the biggest emotional punch. Silence gives the reader a chance to interpret the scene, to sit with the feelings that aren’t being voiced.

Example:

He opened the letter and read it. And then, without saying a word, he folded it back up and placed it in the drawer. His fingers lingered on the wood for a long time before he closed it slowly, too slowly. “Are you okay?” He didn’t answer.

TL;DR

Silence isn’t just a pause between dialogue—it’s a powerful tool for deepening emotional tension, building anticipation, and revealing character. Next time you write a scene, ask yourself: what isn’t being said? And how can that silence say more than the words ever could?

[memento-morri-writes]

hi guys i drew a background for the first time in seven hundred million years. click for higher quality if you so desire :) arthur alexei failyaoi nation ASSEMBLE!

[memento-morri-writes]

Concept: cursed blade rehabilitation center. Destroying a sentient weapon is expensive and highly unethical, so adventurers bring them to the center where highly trained staff can care for them and eventually find them forever homes. It turns out most cursed weapons are products of trauma and are not strictly evil themselves. Some blades turn out to be fiercely protective companions. Others don't even want to be weapons at all, finding joy in simple work like blacksmithing or farming. Most blades just need to be loved.

[memento-morri-writes]

manuscript search tag game

I was tagged by @akindofmagictoo. Thank you, Zoe!! My words were deliver, remember, high, and write.

deliver* (from Pawns)

The doctor turned towards Deadringer and handed him the envelope. “Alistair’s men will be here to pick us up shortly, now-” As he spoke, rattling off directions for Deadringer to deliver the envelope, he picked up the recording device. The view shifted as it was passed off to Deadringer. Deadringer took the proffered items but hesitated. “Won’t you hand this off to him yourself?” The doctor shook his head emphatically. “No, no. I won’t go to Svarga. I cannot put myself – or Alena – in danger.”

(*technically this part is just me turning the DM's description of something we saw into prose. But it's a fun little snippet so you can have it anyways.)

remember (from A Conversation Between Captains)

 “Thank you, Captain. I don’t think I would have survived much longer in that cell.” He doesn’t know how right he is. They smiled. “I’m glad that I could save at least one person from her.” Rook opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so, he started to shiver. Val remembered what Dr. Orchid had said. I was able to buy him more time, but only a little. We need to get him to a better infirmary. They got to their feet and returned the chair to its position by the desk. “I think that’s enough for one day. I’ll send Dr. Orchid back in.” They moved towards the door, but paused, hand on the knob, and turned back to look at the young man on the bed. “You’d make a good captain someday, Rook.” His jaw dropped open in surprise as they turned away and stepped out onto the deck.

(this one is canon to the campaign timeline, but it happened offscreen bc I didn't want to talk to myself for 10 minutes, lmao.)

high (from RHVBNGW** #2)

Rook plunged the tip of his rapier into Sister Celestia’s stomach. A raspy gasp escaped her lips. He slowly, firmly pushed the blade higher and higher. Celestia’s face turned from shock to fear as it cut through her innards. Blood was pouring from the wound, coating both Rook and the floor. When he reached her sternum he stopped. Staring Celestia dead in the face, he spoke. “Have fun in hell, bitch.”

**stands for "Rook's Horrible, Very Bad, No-Good Weekend". He's had two of them. Technically this is from the first one. (this is actually the opening of this snippet, hahaha. We start off with a bang and it only gets worse from there.)

write (from Snakebite)

Zara made her way to Rook’s side. He was shivering again. She pulled back the blanket to look at the bite wound on his arm. Was she imagining things or had the black creeping up his veins receded slightly? Shaking her head, she tucked the blanket back around him. It had hardly been five minutes. She needed to wait. But waiting was hard when someone’s life hung in the balance. She sat down at her desk, intending to write a report of the night’s events in her captain’s log, but after a few moments of staring at the blank page, she stood up again. She resisted the urge to check Rook’s wound again, knowing that not much would have changed.

(weirdly enough the only time I've used the word "write" in my entire 45k word doc of Rook snippets. "Written" has been used twice, and "writing" once (actually, that one was also in the Snakebite snippet). I'm kind of surprised, tbh. I guess Rook is more of a "stab my problems with a sword" kind of guy, hahaha.)

Because I've done a TON of tag games today and idk who does or doesn't want to be tagged, I'm going to make this an OPEN TAG. Your words are scream, sigh, burden, and burn.