sheiyand

[sheiyand]

Trad Pub Church

Special thanks to my fellow nimrods at the Council of the Eternal Hiatus for workshopping this idiocy together with me. https://discord.gg/W4EHMmYCja

Deep in the heart of the Eternal Librarium, where roads are paved with the endless drafts of cover-art and the very buildings are made from discarded bookshelves, there is a church. It is the oldest standing structure in the Librarium, the only building made of stone when all else is papyrus, paper, and eldritch combinations of digital code. The stone building is squat, only one story, and it has no doors. The archway to enter leads you down, down, down into dusty halls made of increasingly unlikely materials, until you reach the heart of the Trad Pub Church. The very floors are no longer made of cover art, or even stone, but of beating, thumping, thudding hearts made of black ink. The room is lit with the eerie black light burning from the room's sole torch, the walls crawling with writhing, twitching text as it edits itself, rewriting reality at every thump and pulse of the hearts on the floor.

The truly awful thing, however, is the Deacon of this ancient, reviled, black church. It looks like a skeleton, on first glance. Yet, as you approach it, the smell of dusty tomes and fresh ink twists. You no longer smell anything close to books.

The skeleton thing smells like alcohol, like sweat, like panic and bad decisions and the wrung hands of greedy men with too many golden rings on their stubby sausage fingers. It looks out at the world, and only when you're too close to stop yourself do you notice it's not a skeleton at all.

It's a phylactery. A simulacrum forged from the last dying images of great writers, and the ancient lich is chained to its seat by the throat with chains that mock you for your weakness.

"All you had to do was sign the contract! HAHAHAHAHAHA! All you had to do... but we both knew what the price of success would be, under the agreement, didn't we? Go on, "great writer"... Revel in your success... Join the congregation, and take your seat."

[sheiyand]

Threads - part 2

Master Gundarr strode through the shop, his mismatched ossicones barely scraping along a low-hanging tapestry and into the shop proper. The old elk was further "blessed" by having humanoid legs, yet another oddity of the faun race. It was, thankfully, the last, though Taylor could not help but marvel at the strangeness of it. He himself bore the hooves native to his equine type, complete with fetlocks and that awkward, backwards "knee".

Those like Master Gundarr, with humanoid legs and feet, were prized members of the community, as far as the humans were concerned. It made them less uncomfortable to see Gundarr in his leather thong sandals, even with his coarse hair, than it did to see Taylor's awkward lace-up boots. The boots itched something fierce, as a matter of fact, but better to itch and apply cream later than to risk frightening someone's child.

The Master looked as if he were coming out of a trance, his eyes rolling slightly towards the back of his head as he felt his way half-blind around the work tables towards Taylor's workstation. It was a farce, of course. The old pretender just liked to seem as if he were deep in a trance, or having shortly left one. It would never do to point out the ruse, of course. Petty as he was, Master Gundarr would never allow such a thing to pass into memory and be left well alone.

His master's hands were not wrinkled, as their kind did not age in that way, but they still bore signs of his advanced age as they carefully, lovingly stroked over the spindle and spinning wheel. His well-worn robes were a symptom of his excessive frugality, and it was hard to ignore as they draped themselves about, barely covering the cervid himself. When a worn, tatty sleeve draped itself out in front of Master Gundarr, Taylor could actually see through it in parts, to the thoroughly abused machine being inspected.

Taylor could feel his Master's voice in his head, as much as in his ears. Gundarr had magic aplenty, even if he never followed his own advice and actually did the meditations that would strengthen and deepen his pool. As he lifted his head, performatively "catching himself" and allowing his eyes to roll back the right way, Master Gundarr's mystical voice seemed to fill every corner of the room at once. He was not loud, but neither was he soothing, or gentle.

"Apprentice mine, whatsoever hast thou done with my poor spinning wheel? It cries to me, deaf child! It says you work it too hard, that your clumsy, bestial fingers lack the grace and artistry to weave, let alone spin thread! Why do you torment my poor, dear equipment so, beast?"

Taylor could actually feel his pulse rising and his crest beginning to stiffen, his tail rising ever so slightly and his ears pricking forward in response to this provocation. Mistreating his "dear equipment", indeed! The old miser hadn't oiled or polished that spinning wheel or its seat for almost twenty years! Taylor hadn't been able to even begin his projects on it without thoroughly sanding it down, generous application of rapeseed, and no small helping of beeswax. Still, he must remain calm, or he'd surely end up in another argument with his Master.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Master Gundarr. My fingers may bear the taint of my bestial nature, but my hooves have little and less to do with this matter. The crystal is well-cracked, and should be replaced! I'm sure it would have detonated on me, if I'd not taken such time as I had to let it cool down between attempts."

It was true, those with bestial legs and feet often had their nature reflected in their hands, though the hands were always humanoid, or as close to it as one gets. Taylor was lucky, as far as he was concerned. Many times over, he'd saved himself a nasty stick with a sewing needle or spindle by his thick, horny hoof-nails on the ends of his fingers. Master Gundarr seemed envious of this, given his own callouses from his entirely humanoid hands being pricked, stabbed, and smashed over the years of his craft.

Just as his Master turned his head to the right, to get a better look at his apprentice and begin their one-sided argument in earnest, the pleasant chime of a bell sounded through the workshop. Customers, at least regular ones, rarely came so early. Had their clientele made a more earnest habit of insisting on opening hours, Master Gundarr, the Weaver of Wonders, would have scarcely made such a habit of sleeping in. The two faun glared at one another, their growing enmity easy to see on their faces and in their posture.

"Thine cheek shall get thee no hearty thanks from thy Master, boy. Go now, get thee thither from my shop and return only whence you have procured us another parcel of crystals. Your betters will deal in matters of trade, in thine blessed absence."

Part one! https://www.tumblr.com/sheiyand/772134657004388352?source=share

Much thanks to @maddilynmuse and @fishinferangels for their helpful feedback!

[sheiyand]

saw your writing on the blaze! Very interesting setup and world-building there. Haven’t seen fauns recently in my corner of the internet. (however I think ossicones might have been the wrong word to use? Everything else is nice though.)

These are fauns of my own design, as a matter of fact! I rather enjoy their structure. What do you mean about using the wrong word?

[sheiyand]

I call him Sauron the Fat, Lord of Fools. I call his second in command Sarumon the Faithless, Sarumon the Spy, of many faces and fair few friends.

I so name them the second rise of a great and terrible darkness. Though they serve no masters, their hearts are black and twisted, much in the same way of the great enemy they now mock with their imitation.

I name them the enemy of men and women and root and branch and sea and sky. I name them false light, for though they bear before them a dim torch of wickering strength, they hold behind their backs a wicked cudgel, with which to club any who do not willingly embrace their false promises of light and warmth.

[sheiyand]

Not taking any damn chances

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[sheiyand]

Vice

Taking a long hit off this cigarette

I look up in the night sky, city foggy like my mind

Gotta think back, makes a punk like me

I feel nostalgic, thinkin' about better days

Thinkin' bout back when cigarettes were my vice

But nah, I had to be hard

Puff on this, swig on that

Motha fuckas gon' swing on me

Lick on this, snort up that

Life sure felt like it was free

Clouds roll around, makin' me think of that very first time

Her name was Mary, had a sister named Jane

No lie, they had the best grass and the best carpet I'd ever tasted

I can still remember the way them girls laughed, before they updated and upgraded

Mary went off to make movies, made sure we could always see her face

Shame she went an got signed up to that Weinstein lookin' fella

Puff on this, swig on that

Motha fuckas gon' swing on me

Lick on this, snort up that

Life sure felt like it was free

That ol' cigarette got restless, so now he's got a friend or four

Friends like Jack and Henny, buds like Sid and Coca

It just makes me look back and think, think bout back when life was free

Jane never was the same, Mary came back broke and broke

The funeral weren't too far to wait, Jane ain't stopped crying yet

Held her the whole time, she sleeps it off in my bed yet

She likes all my friends now, too, but they don't like her

Sure, they don't like me much neither

Puff on this, swig on that

Motha fuckas gon' swing on me

Lick on this, snort up that

Life sure felt like it was free

Life sure felt like it was free

Life used to be free...

Ain't nobody to blame now, 'cept me

I just hope I don't make any new friends, this house starting to feel crowded

[sheiyand]

FOR ANY WRITERS OR THOSE WHO LIKE GOTHIC LITERATURE

I found this. It's basically a huge list of how to write in a gothic horror-like style. It gives you words to use, and what types of adjectives to put down, and it explains them rather than just giving you a list too. I hope someone beyond myself finds this useful because holy shit am I going to use this tool

[sheiyand]

Had a dream there was a new six hour long HBomberGuy video that starts with him tryingnto debunk Daniel Molloys novel "Interview With The Vampire" as a fun short video. After thirty minutes in and pulling a "so obviously vampires arent real" thing he launches into a three hour tangent bringing up all the weird historical details that are completely accurate when you accounted for stuff like Louis saying the wrong cemetary or church name

Four hours in he breaks down and says "okay so, this would all point to actual pop rock artist Lestat De Lioncourt being a real vampire, and Kate pointed out he was playing in my town a couple weeks from when we were covering all this. So I called and asked him for an interview to see if I couldnt get a better feel for what was going on"

He then proceeded to take out colored contact lenses and remove the gloves hed been wearing the whole video to reveal he was a vampire and the title card just popped up saying "GUESS WHAT FUCKING HAPPENED" and I woke up before the next two hours of video could play

[sheiyand]

Rock n Roll

Gift art for a friend

[sheiyand]

Petra doin some morning stretches.

[sheiyand]

You get kidnapped by the big scary evil villain. The hero bursts in to save you but sees the villain absolutely railing you while you scream their name in pleasure.

The hero slowly backs out.

You and the villain don’t notice.

[sheiyand]

If you’re having writers block…READ!!!! CONSUME MEDIA

I feel like I don’t hear that given enough as advice for writers block..just read? Watch tv? Movies? Find inspiration in media.

Writers block is a lack of inspiration, so go collect more.

[sheiyand]

Threads

Taylor hissed as he jerked his fingers back, yet another failed thread sparking and jerking on his spinning wheel. The thread had barely begun to wrap around his cone before it had begun to misbehave, and he thanked his lucky stars that the process was designed to fail early. He could only imagine the headache of an entire spool of thread evaporating itself only after spinning up half of it. The stinging tingle of his mana still numbed his fingers, his horns aching from all the hard effort he’d wasted. Perhaps a break would do him some good… Four failed attempts in a row would have taxed even his Master, even if the old, imperious grouch would never admit it. Master Gundarr’s shop was a well-stocked wonder to the non-magical eyes of most, but the clientele that actually had need of it had such a habit of looking down their nose at others that they’d often overlook things. The care and precision with which all of the materials were both stored and displayed, the colors and textures coordinated in a way that drew the eye from garment, to test cloth, to magic crystals and goo-gaws strung all over the place, all of these things were designed to make the imagination run wild. The equine faun’s efforts were thoroughly wasted on such displays of skill and wonder, as far as he and most of the clientele were concerned. Another low-mana twinge made his horns ache as the equine sat down on a stool, slowly massaging his temples and waiting for his stores to recharge. He could meditate, of course. If he was of a mind, he could clear his thoughts and guide himself through the process manually, deepening his overall reserves and bolstering his regeneration rate. Normally, he’d have done so immediately, but going from a full reserve to almost dry left his furred head full of cotton and his eyes heavy. If he closed them now, he’d simply fall asleep, and catch an absolute bollocking from Master Gundarr. Forgoing any kind of true rest, his mind drifted as he tried to relax. He still needed those thrice-damned spools of thread, but they’d do him no good at all if he got himself injured or blew up the spinning wheel from overuse, and then he’d really be in trouble. Aside from his Master likely throwing him out and disgracing him publicly for his failings, he’d have a difficult time trying to find any other work. Fauns like him were tainted by magic, unable to master and control it like the mages who made use of their services. Necessary though their talents were, the fauns themselves were considered dirty, filthy things. It likely didn’t help matters that fauns were all some sort of beast hybrid or demon. The sorcerers looked entirely human, and the warlocks occasionally had weird eyes or tattoos, but fauns? Inhuman. Monstrous. The country was barely a hundred years into legally recognizing his kind as people, as “fauns” instead of “abominations”, “monsters” and other such hysterical prattle. At least the previous generation had made enough progress to allow him and his kind to own property… with a “generous” donation to the state church and a sponsor who has no magic of any kind.

Mundane people were fine, honestly. He faced less discrimination from them than he did the mages. Whether they were sorcerer, born into their magical inheritance, or a warlock making bargains of every shade, mages were the kings and queens of the magical world. fauns were only there to enchant, inscribe, and make potions. Necessary services, to be sure, and their much larger stores of magical power made it an even bargain, but it was also bastard hard. Without Taylor’s massive store of energy, even successfully making a single spool of thread would be an all day adventure, let alone the catastrophe he was fighting with today. Truth be told, the spinning wheel and spindle in his Master’s shop was ancient. Perhaps he could finally convince Master Gundarr to order the new parts they’d been avoiding for months, maybe even get him to replace the magic crystal core that allowed them to power the stupid thing. Heaving a sigh, Taylor closed his eyes and rested his horns on the table in front of him. No, of course the Master wouldn’t requisition the replacement parts. That stubborn old elk would probably scold him for not treating his tools with the “appropriate care” and break out the old foot pedal conversion kit. Sure, it made the spinning wheel take four times as long to do any job at all, let alone that bastard sewing machine, but it would conveniently allow the Master to prolong buying any new parts while he painstakingly repaired the power crystal. The Master’s stinting priggishness was a matter of professional pride, as far as the old elk was concerned. Taylor’s nose crinkled in disgust at the mere thought of it. “The Master”… He hated calling his teacher that, but even thinking of him in any other way came with the risk of referring to Master Gundarr as something else, and that would come with dire consequences. Sure, Gundarr was the master, and he the apprentice, but the elk had been around for who knew how long. Some instinct in the back of Taylor’s mind told him that his master might have been old enough to have lived through the slavery and abuse of centuries past. He certainly spoke like he was centuries old, and with fauns one could never tell.

Speaking of the irascible, ancient cervine, Taylor snapped fully to attention, his head leaping up from the table he was resting on as the downstairs wards hummed to life. Master Gundarr rose up from his basement apartment, head high, snout pointed almost into the air as his threadbare robes billowed behind him. The elk’s ossicones were a point of further arrogance and pride, naturally. They stored his magic, looked sleek and elegant, and did not cause him to snag and catch on anything around him. Watching his master elegantly stride up from the basement and sweep his skilled hands over the banister, Taylor was struck with the oddness of their kind. Mundane elk, the four-legged kind, had impressive, powerful antlers and lovely velvet, and horses had… well, no horns of any kind. He was sure that the mages knew why some fauns had horns and some had antlers, but if they did, they kept it firmly to themselves.

[sheiyand]

Playing Host

Thorne growled low in his throat, pouring his concentration into the spell-form he’d been working at for nearly seventeen hours. He could feel the thrum, the pulse and shudder of the magical field between his outstretched hands, even as the beginnings of magical backlash began to wind their way through his veins. He’d overdone it, and the disturbingly pleasant siren’s call of a failing spell form coaxed at his mind. The magic wanted to be free, and his aching body could no longer handle the strain of keeping this enigmatic force at bay. With a roar born of frustration as much as a final, desperate push at success, Thorne pushed his hands down, almost clamping them down onto the solidifying magical field. The vague scent of persimmon invaded his mind, the ghostly touch of fingers tracing little lines up his forearms. He was so close… if only- There was a knock at the basement door, a threat to his concentration that would promise a truly unpleasant end if he didn’t close this spell out. The candles flickered in his work room, flames guttering almost out as he felt what he’d been working at all that time finally buckle and give in to his desires. The spell-form settled itself, shifting and coaxing its long, wending body down into a shape that resembled a glass marble. With only one final shudder, his spell completed its transformation. There, on a soft pillow about the size of his torso, was a spell crystal, not attuned to any of the elements or planes.

Reaching out gently with his shaking hand, Thorne lifted his creation up, inspecting it in the light. He barely even registered the door creaking open as firelight danced and twirled inside the glass-like sphere between his thumb and forefinger. The sorcerer was so absorbed in the fruits of his labor that he almost jumped completely out of his skin when a soft, gentle hand laid on his shoulder. “Thorne, I know you like to keep to yourself when you’re working, but if you keep that racket up I won’t be able to hide you down here.” Turning to face his interloping guest, he was greeted by the blushing, concerned face of Alyce, the woman who’d agreed to host his workshop in her basement. Her soft, dusky skin was only achievable thanks to rigorous washing with that strange, gritty soap she seemed to like so much. Ah… persimmon. Now it was Thorne’s turn to blush, as he recalled the scent that had come to him during his ritual, and the meaning of it’s source. Sure, the sensation had been hallucinogenic, a ploy by the magical forces under his command to release them, but they wouldn’t have reached for the scent if they didn’t think it would prove a sufficient distraction. Sufficient was certainly a word for it, yes… Clearing his throat, and his bucking hindbrain, with a short cough, Thorne waved a hand and backed up a couple of steps, giving his younger hostess her space. Oh, who was he kidding? She was only five years his junior… calling her “younger” was rude, even by his standards. “Ah… yes, quite. Sorry about that, Alyce, I… thought it wouldn’t be quite so loud. I can start adding sound wards to the basement, if you’d like.”

Alyce’s lips turned from a concerned pout to a disappointed scowl. Her eyes danced, slowly tracing up and down Thorne’s naked body with something close to admiration. At least now she would enjoy a look for herself, instead of blushing and running out of the room with her hands over her face. Those days had been awkward and embarrassing for the both of them, though for different reasons. Her brown hair, streaked with white highlights was tied behind her head in a bun today, different to her usual preference of side buns or her favorite, the high pony tail that must have taken her hours to braid by herself. “You know, Thorne… I’ve been wondering about your magic nonsense. The travelling pricks that go through the pub never seem to need to strip to their skins to entertain with their little light shows… so why is it that every time I come down to my basement, you’re on full display?” That dusky girl stepped forward, her face unreadable as she closed the distance. Thorne had stepped back up two steps, but she’d taken three, bringing her almost close enough for him to wrap his hands around her shapely hips. Those… wide hips… He couldn’t back up any further, his thighs pressing against a chest of drawers that kept him where she wanted. The horns on the side of his head, signs of his magical corruption that were impossible to fully disguise, rattled against the hanging bundles of herbs, animal bones, and other rare ingredients he’d taken to preparing for himself. This girl was dangerous, and he wasn’t sure if she knew how. His nudity was normally an excellent way to dissuade his temporary landlords from investigating his magical workspaces, set up wherever he could manage. Alyce, though? This fearless woman was so close to him she was almost grinding against his body, the soft brush of fabric against his rising manhood a stark reminder of her brazenness. She was shorter than him! He had no reason to feel intimidated, and yet the uncompromising gaze of this woman had him wrapped around her finger. Perhaps she didn’t know? Hah, if only… “Er… Yes, well… The conjurers who perform at taverns and town squares for tips are doing simple magic, usually. Glamours, illusions, little tricks. What I’m doing is… a bit more involved. It requires concentration, and clothing has a tendency to catch fire, tug on your senses, that kind of thing. I can’t risk any interference, when I’m creating spell crystals or enchanting items. Ah… could… could you step back, please? You’re… awfully close.” Her expression morphed slowly from unreadable to distinct, almost predatory. The smile she gave him was sincere, but tinged by desire. Oh… “Thorne… if you push me away like that, even when I’m all but planting myself on you… a girl might start to take offense. Now… bring that stupid face down here, so I can grab at those ugly handles you sprouted from the side of your head.” The bright flush that rocketed up Thorne’s neck almost literally heated him up from the inside, his eyes dropping to look down Alyce’s ruffled top at her modest bust. Her body seemed so… tempting. He couldn’t resist, with her giving him that sultry, seductive smile… so he didn’t. Leaning down just as she requested, Thorne gave Alyce access to his ram’s horns, almost putting his face down into her bust as he did. Alyce hesitated for just a moment, when Thorne pushed his head down at her. It almost looked like she wasn’t sure what to do, her eyes tracing the plane of her guest’s jaw as delicate hands traced the rough hew of his horns. Well… she had called them handles. Perhaps, then, it wasn’t so surprising that when she leaned in to press her lips against Thorne’s, she gripped tightly at his horns for stability and support.