#WORDtober day 2

[words-with-wren]

WORDtober Day Two - Various, Excited, Idiotic

Plus a bonus prompt: “You mean the thing we just set on fire?” Kinda bad, kinda rushed but I had fun! 

Words: about 500 

Fandom/Genre: Tangled the series. 

__

“I was away for two minutes!” Varian shouted, gripping the vial he had run to collect in one hand. Angry and Catalina exchanged a glance, Catalina at least having the grace to look a little sheepish. Angry just grinned.

             “And you should have thought about what leaving us alone would result in!” she said. Varian narrowed his eyes, surveying what was left of the lab. Ruddiger sat on the table in the centre, looking a little singed, giving a slightly apologetic chirp. There were various other burnt spots scattered through the lab, and both girls had ash in their hair.

             “You’d think I’d have learnt my lesson by now,” Varian muttered.

             “Hey, you’re always trying to experiment!” Angry said, skipping along behind him as he moved to what was left of the work bench.

             “Yeah, but at least I know what I’m doing!”

             “It’s not like you never make explosions,” Catalina pointed out, and Varian glared at her. Both girls snickered at his face and Varian sighed, a reluctant grin slipping across his face.

             “At least I don’t destroy the entire lab,” he muttered. Angry darted past him to sit on the edge of the table, kicking her dangling legs slightly.

             “Are you sure about that?” she asked. Varian glared at her and she stuck her tongue out. “Lighten up, V! We didn’t completely destroy everything.”

             “How were we to know that those two things would explode,” Catalina added. Varian put the vial down on the table – as far away from Angry as possible – and move to begin cleaning up.

             “You didn’t. That’s why you’re not supposed to touch anything,” he muttered.

             “That’s so boring,” Angry said. She reached out to ruffle Ruddiger’s fur and watched as Varian began to clean up the broken glass on the floor.

             “Catalina, hand me the prototype,” he said heavily, wanting to make sure it was still undamaged. A hesitant silence followed, then Catalina spoke up quietly.

             “You mean – that thing we just set on fire?” she asked. Varian looked up quickly, eyes narrowed. Sure enough, the prototype was charred – a tongue of flame still licking at its side.

             “You’re kidding me!” he cried, lunging forward to rescue it before Angry could pick it up.

             “In our defence, we didn’t see it?” she tried. Varian glared at her, realising with a sinking heart that it likely wasn’t salvageable.

             “Out,” he said shortly. “Out of my lab, come on – get out before you break anything else!” He shooed Angry off the table, herding them both out of the lab.

             “Love you too, V!” Angry called.

             “We are sorry,” Catalina added, and Varian rolled his eyes, shutting the door behind them.

             In reality, he wasn’t hugely upset – and he knew they knew it. He did enjoy the girls visiting his lab, and while it tended to result in his work being pushed back or stalled, it was worth it to spend time with them.

             But for now he wanted to recreate the prototype in peace.

[reyavie]

Wordtober, day 22,  Ghost.

xxxXXXxxx

By the lake, they say, by the lake you will find her.

He comes upon her at twilight. The rain has yet to come but she feels it in the clouds, heavy and grey upon the skies. The scent of the forest is strong, as if it is closing upon itself in defence of the future weather. The trees whisper of his arrival – unexpected and unwelcome in their eyes – and their warning flits onto her well before his steps sound upon the half-frozen ground.

“You are lost, my darling. This is not the place for you.”

His hair is dark, ringlets upon ringlets of black, eyes which were wide and thin and as dark as the depths of her lake. Short still, young still, like a little tree which has yet to reach for the skies. He feels newborn to her, who has seen so many like him through her years. Not like him, no, perhaps she cannot think that. None can be like him, a sunlight filled gem hiding beneath triviality.

“It is not like I chose to get lost, lady,” he grumbles uncomfortably, shuffling a little in his place, burrowing a bit more into his coat. “What’s the way back to the road?”

She smiles. With her smile, he relaxes, a little less lost, a little less bothered by the odd situation. His arms lower under the leather coat, stop reaching for a weapon to defend himself over no threat he can perceive as they should. This is her place, her feet are rooted and every trace of land her roots reach is hers and her. A gesture in his direction and war will cross upon the land once more. It is a promise she has fulfilled time and time (and) again.

“What is your name, my darling?” The Lady asks.

(He finds he cannot ask why she sits upon the lake, skin hovering over its misty waters. Why she is there when he is so lost? In the middle of this place he does not know and has no idea how he has come to. He was never of them after all, of the grey-skinned, of the silver-tongued.)

“You know, people warn about strangers asking to give names away around here,” he laughs. It feels like a joke, a mere little trick when it is the rules that govern the world. The poor boy. Such an innocent.

“My dear, I did not ask you to give me one,” she corrects him softly, fingers tempted; there is a strand of hair upon his forehead, threatening to find its way onto his vision with every passing moment. “It is fine. It is not needed. To see you alive and well is enough.”

The Lady can see the hesitation in his gaze. There is a little something inside of him speaking now, trust her, it is fine, it is her and how can you not trust her! It is hard to listen to it, she will agree, when his presence is due to her weakness. Years pass and, every now and then, she will wish to see him once more, alive and well, safe and happy. Of all of them who once wandered in between the walls of Camelot, who else would deserve it but its Father?

“Walk north,” she instructs. “Count to yourself, ten steps, then ten more and then walk further. You will find your road back.”

Tempted, tempted, it might be a century, three more, she is never quite sure when he will find her way to her. The Lady gives in, rising from the cold waters. Oh, how warm he is when she hugs him, a mass of humanity, of flesh, bones, blood, all of it living and breathing. He feels strong! Hale! A Stronghold of brittle bone and soft skin!

“Lady?”

The sound is confused, almost as confused as his arms, tight against her without his awareness.

“To the north, my darling,” she coaches once more, stepping back before she locks him inside, before she drags him to the water and shackles him to where he cannot walk away from her. That part of her is still stronger, it has always been ever since she was young but for him, always for him, she controls herself. She calls above the part that is human, that little remain her mother gave her. He does not deserve the cold waters. He would never feel happy here. “Don’t forget to count.”

The Lady watches with a wide smile as the man steps back and moves away (from her), counts each step that will take him away to the living world. He will come back and visit sometime, she hears his thoughts, he will come back to speak to her of his life and his friends, maybe a wife, maybe children.

(He will not come. He will not find this lake every again in this life, this happy life without worries or a kingdom to rule. He cannot because he is human. Regretfully, happily human.)

“What a good boy,” Morgan whispers to no one. Maybe to the waters. They would take her words to their sisters wherever they were now, she is sure. “I am sure he will be a good man this time as well.”

There is a flash of light. The storm has come.

There is a flash of light upon the lake. None remains to see it.

Maybe none had been there to begin with.

(What do you believe?)

[poemsofthewolf]

Mindless

Click clack, ding, I’ll take your money please.

Yes, I take yelling and complaints if you have none please.

All I am doing is my job, which is to serve your every need.

In the back is where I rest, charging with no dreams.

Mindless actions with no thoughts,

Mindless actions is my expertise. 

A mindless robot is who I am meant to be. 

At least that is what you think,

At least that is what you want us to be.

We have dreams of our own,

Thoughts that fill our every moment.

We aren’t as mindless as you hope,

Not as mindless as you think.

We do our jobs so we can live.

So Click clack ding, I’ll take your money please.

I am tired of your yelling,

I am tired of your screams.

Click clack ding, get out if you’ll please,

This “mindless robot” is done with your needs.

[waterliz]

Royalty.

~Wordtober day 2~

I travel for days,

I've been called to the castle.

They want back their ruler,

They don't know the hassle.

They think just because

Their blood's tinted blue

I'll follow their orders.

They don't have a clue.

I answer to no one,

I bow to no title,

The efforts to hold me

Are no more than idle.

Don't care if you're royalty,

Sent by the Gods,

Or live by a river,

Or Master of Odds.

I make a decision,

There's no turning back.

Don't look for a reason,

I follow no track.

So don't act all mighty,

Get off you high horse.

You don't know who I am,

You have not seen my force.

[eleonorpiteira]

2.

Somewhere, someone plays an instrument that sounds like water.

Eyes closed as she listens, Aurora could swear she could see yellow sunlight glittering in gentle waves. She knows it’s an ocean, but she doesn’t know how.

There are no oceans in Galátea, and the sun shines pink.

.

[ trevus-themed wordtober ]

[journal-of-an-outlaw]

Wordtober - Ancient

Mary stared down at the letter resting in her lap, wondering how she would muster the strength to make the walk to the post office. Could one piece of paper and a ring really be so heavy?

She and Arthur were never meant to be, she could see that now. They weren’t the star crossed lovers separated by time and space. They were simply a man a woman who once had loved so strongly they thought to bond themselves together, but the foundation they chose was rocky and always meant to fall. 

Oftentimes Mary would sift through the memories of her and Arthur, and the palaces and castles they had built together. Everything was dusty and empty now but if she thought hard enough, the ghost of the man she knew was still there in the deep recesses of her mind. The only version of him she did, and would ever, own. He was young and handsome and full of charm; the perfect rebel any girl would dream of. The gang’s life on the run was so romantic Mary could have cried when they met. 

Now when they met, Arthur was guarded and had weights on his shoulders, nothing like the version she loved in her mind. Mary felt out of place and awkward asking for his help, but there was no one else she could turn to. Her husband had died, her father was barely coherent enough to string a few words together, Jamie was young and innocent and her friends had all but deserted her once she got married and left town. At the end of her rope, she knew she could still rely on Arthur Morgan. 

Even if she felt like what she asked took advantage of that good heart. 

Shaking her head she stood up and left for the post office, determined to shake the dust off her ancient memories once and for all. Going to that place wasn’t healthy for her, she needed to move on. Even if it was going to be the hardest thing she’s ever done, Mary had to leave the places she and Arthur had built for good. The rooms were no longer full of laughter and love and the lights had been off for years. The last thing she needed to do was turn the key, listen for the tumblers locking in place, and leave it for some poor soul to find and wonder what went wrong. 

Sometimes Mary wondered what went wrong. She spiraled down a path of what if’s and why nots. Why couldn’t Arthur leave behind his life of roaming for a warm and happy home? Wouldn’t he be happy raising children and sharing a life with Mary? Was she not good enough for an outlaw wanted for murder and a dozen other things to wake up and see that life was meant for more? It took a long time to get over that rejection. Mary knew she never truly would. 

The palace she mourned for the most was having a family. It never happened with her late husband, but if Arthur had left with her in Saint Denis she would have married him right then and there to begin building their legacy. She always wanted lots of children. He would be content with a few. But if they were together it didn’t matter. 

The clang of the bell above the door woke her up, and Mary approached the teller with shaky hands. 

“Just the one letter today, miss?” 

Taking a deep breath, she handed over the better portion of her life. “Yes sir. Time to move on from ancient things and look towards the future.”

[themorningtide]

Wordtober, day 17&18,  Freeform.

author’s note: this is a longer piece that I have been working on and trying to finish for wordtober. Link to part 1 in the end.

xxxXXXxxx

For the first hour, there is no path. Trees line up as far as the eye can see, leaves and branches continuously barring their way entwined in a gigantic web. He would feel a little silly, walking seemingly nowhere while holding hands with the two women like he is still a child. He would. If the night wasn’t that deep. If the trees didn’t seem to move with each step they give, opening a path in front of them and then embracing the space they have just vacated once they pass through. Fear steadily raises inside of him, especially when, out of the corner of his eye, he spies a furtive smile on Morgause’s face that she quickly hides. The way Elaine struggles to remain tied to him even though her feet which to draw her elsewhere.

What the Fae have, they wish to keep. It is quite obvious that this earth, this land they cross, considers his sisters very much its property.

Arthur does not agree. The further they walk, the closer he draws them to himself, making sure he remembers the land where they live. The long muddy roads, the tall castles, stone and iron, everything which is stable. There is a tile at the edge of his childhood room which has never been replaced. He and Elaine broke it while playing, with the poker from the fireplace. He remembers being scared momentarily before Morgan had appeared from virtually nowhere, prodding the shattered material with a dirty nail. No one would notice it, don’t worry, she had said and there it was, a tile at the corner, broken in half and then half again that no servant had ever touched. He remembers its jangled edges, the little piece at the side which kept moving but never strayed, he remembers the color and Morgan laughing at their anxiousness before she fixed the situation. He remembers the exact pattern and shape. Every time he does so, the lights above his head shine more faintly and the world is now crossing into feels more real and less magical.

Arthur enters the clearing as himself, King Arthur, not a puppet of the fae and that, more than anything, gives him the confidence to barge his way through the small crowd of amused onlookers.

The clearing they arrive to is not especially large. Tall, yes, the moment they have entered it is as if the trees have grown, have invaded the skies and formed a dome, a Cathedral tall as he has ever seen. The half moon of flooring is paved with large stone slabs, polished up to a fine shine by a careful hand, chairs and tables are placed on its outside, heavy food and drink he has never tasted. Lights, little orbs of starlight hang in the middle of the air here and there like the most beautiful of rains.

And at the top, lays a single throne. Bronze has been melded and carved into tree roots, entwining over and over until there is a chair and there is a crowned woman upon it.

“We have visitors, my court.”

Arthur will be hard pressed to describe the Queen at a later date. If pressed, he will say she was short. Appeared to be – though at times she seemed taller than the trees above them. The same white hair and grey skin of her court, rail thin to the point where one would deem her sickly, her chin rests on an impossibly delicate hand, shimmering in the dark like made of starlight. With each movement, the surface of what he would call skin, ripples, it becomes solid before shifting once more into liquid. The creature – whoever it is – might guise herself into the form of a human, head, shoulders, arms, legs, a dark dress which is as fine as any he has seen in his court but it is not a human. That simile of a woman is a courtesy. One given by creatures which usually do not bother.

“Our cousins have returned! Welcome home!”

The creature stands from her bronze throne, opening her arms slowly in an expansive welcome. Each step she takes, Arthur wishes to draw back, draw them back behind him before reaching for a weapon he does not have. “You are to drink and feast with us this night? What a wonderful idea! What a wonderful night!”

He is nothing in this conversation. None spares him a glance. All their eyes are on Morgause and Elaine, both of which are now standing straight, waving with their free hand to one creature or another all the while fielding the attention of the queen.

“Let us dance, my court! Let us feast and dance until the sun decides to break our reverie!”

There are no instruments, no musicians or singers. But the music comes from somewhere (all around) and Arthur flinches with every note as if physically struck. Oh. Oh, no. It is real. It is the hand in his right one, Morgause’s, clenching so hard he feels his bones grinding against each other. He breathes deeper for a moment before that sister moves forward, shielding him from the Queen’s amusement.

“We are here for Morgan.”

The amusement of the court falters. The music stutters for a moment. Some exchange glances, some actually look worried. If Morgause pays them any mind, Arthur cannot read it in her countenance. Just in that hand, tightening, more and more because she is afraid, his wonderful strong sister. She is afraid.

The Queen sits once more, reclining forward while biting a nail delicately with razor sharp teeth. Her eyes are narrow, pupils dilated like a cat which has found its prey. “Morgan is mine, my dear,” she explains gently, as if her visitor is rather daft. “She wishes to be with her people. It is her birthright.” Like a wolf who will not share what belongs to it.

Her birthright is to be Princess. It is in His Court, His Castle, His Kingdom.

“Morgan is ours, Queen,” Elaine rebuts. “She should be with her family. We who are hers.”

“She has come to us.”

No, that is wrong. She was taken away. She was a child and they lied to her, he’s sure of it.

“You have stolen her from us when she was weaker! I know she is stronger! I know she can make a different choice if given the chance.”

Speak. Speak. Speak, damn you!

“She will return with us.”

Each word literally hurts as he speaks it. Acid drips down his throat, bile rises and threatens to be spat through his lips, burning every trace of flesh in between.

The Queen smiles at him (at him finally, at him solely, in a manner that makes him wish to throw up).

“Then find her then, human. Search for whomever you wish, for how long you wish. And when you fail, feel free to dance or die.”

The gentle lights that had, until that moment, done little more than hover over their heads, shine brighter, shine more strongly until he has to turn his eyes away. It is daylight in the clearing, shaking that odd world into awareness.

“Search, Boy,” the Queen says, waving at the gathered crowd. “You have little precious time, you humans.”

Arthur doesn’t acknowledge the challenge. Or the prank, he can see it from a mile away. No, he has precious little time and Morgan to find. Without waiting, he turns to the audience, releasing the hands in his with a sharp movement. They are strong. They are all strong. They can do this.

Where is she? Where?

(He was a boy when she was taken away, just a boy, a mess of reedy limbs and awkward movements, watching as his sister is taken away. She didn’t cry. He didn’t cry. Morgause and Elaine stood silent and quiet, their hands joined in the middle of them as the remaining kept on his shoulders and he can only remember those tears, not the features, not the traces).

The small crowd smiles at their discomfort, grey eyes and white hair. Short, tall, willowy, broad, plays on dark, grey, white skin. They are a crowd leached of color and given everything else. He sees fur, he sees long limbs of plant-like material, branches instead of arms, claws and teeth sharp as sin. Damn you, he curses inwardly, damn you all to all hells, damn you to the seven, damn you, damn you, damn you, may the gods take you.

“You are too kind, young King,” the Queen declares, tapping at the arm of her chair. Her amused smile makes his skin crawl and every time she moves, the little bells woven in her white hair tingle unpleasantly in the cold air. Every time, he shivers. “I think you will make a welcome addition to our court. And you, of course, our lovely cousins. We miss your father dearly.”

He wants to kill this being. He wants to wrap his hands around its pale neck and squeeze until its bones break under his strength.

“All who knew him do, Lady.”

He wants to run through the hall (run her through with a blade he does not carry) and make her confess. Where is his sister? Within whom of these faceless beings is she hiding?

Yet Elaine is there, steady, her voice wrapping around him and shackling him onto the ground. She searches still, her smile just barely there, like a disguise as strong as metal armor. How can she smile like that as the different beings dance around her, playing with her hair while hanging lights in the empty air? All the while, Morgause stands tall in the front of the Queen, look at me, he hears her breathe as she protects their search, always look at me, voice soft, smooth and cutting in gentle accusations.

“It is such a shame that care did not save him.”

“That does happen when wanders from home.”

There is a woman by the corner. She isn’t smiling or laughing like the others. She doesn’t show herself or gives into the game of fooling him. The woman stands alone. Silent. Her bloodless eyes move from one mortal to the other in absent curiosity but that is all she does. While the others dance and make a mockery of their despair, it is like watching the sole sane person in a ball of children.

That is why Arthur looks at her. It is why he comes closer.

“A family does not break due to distance,” Morgause continues behind him. “It does not break with dishonor. It breaks once you chose yourself over it and turn your back to which you promised to defend. And Father always did right by us.”

“Your Queen is more family than that woman who bore you, my dear.”

Her eyes are wide and thin; a clear blue that is a touch darker to be the morning sky, just a smidge away from river water. He sees the color underneath the white irises, coming and going as the waves of the sea. Taller than Elaine, he realizes, as he walks closer to her, almost as much as Morgause. There is a little brown spot marring her pale skin right underneath her right eye, isn’t there?

There are two beings in his way to her. Arthur doesn’t notice. He just pushes them aside. He pushes more, waves through the creatures like struggling through the morning tide.

Her hair is white as snow. That is not right. Her hair was black, pure deep black, curling around her ears and down her back. Her jaw is Morgause’s. Arthur doesn’t know how he missed it. He sees Elaine in the ridge of her nose and the wide of her mouth. There is something else, of course, someone else, a thousand someones he does not know hiding in her features and there is him, in the turn of her lips and the sharp finish of her eyes.

Arthur asks for no permission to grip her elbow and tug her close enough for their noses to touch. The eyes are large and round, exactly like his. Same shape, same color, same structure. She looks like Morgan was, disposed of her humanity and taken over by the fae.

But she is Morgan. She is; he is so very certain.

The King feels like crying.

“Sister!”

Her body is warm against his as he hugs her close, exhaling lowly into her white hair, closing his arms tight around her form. Oh, oh, this is relief. This is peace. True peace, not the imaginary he had felt at the entrance, not any moment passed in his father’s Castle. Her arms hang lost by her sides. He swears he can hear her gasp but it might be just his wishful thinking because, when he looks down, her tone-shifting eyes are bland and uninterested, her expression akin to a painting forever frozen in time.

“Have you found her?”

Morgan is ripped from his hold and transferred into Morgause’s and any complaint he might have is silenced because Morgause – his strong, amazing, capable sister - looks fragile. Broken. Disbelieving. Her hands – always strong, always assured and so very talented – shake on the other woman’s face, fingers trailing down the ageless skin again and again as if she wishes to memorize it with each passing.

“Oh, my Morgan.”

There are tears in her voice. Tears in her eyes. Tears sliding down her cheeks and ignored.

“Morgause, do not hog!”

The confusion is still on fae woman’s face as she finds herself hounded by three bodies. In the moment Morgause is near, the moment Elaine slips in, their embrace is a tiny group of four children, four lost souls tied together once more. They are whole! Four rivers connected, strong and fierce, they are fortresses, they are high and tall and powerful and no one can face them.

(More than that, they are iron and steel! There is little else Fae hate as much. Why do you think they steal just one? One child! One man! One woman!)

“We have missed you, little sister.” Their words bundle together, spoken by three voices and rhyming into this unending litany. I love you, I missed you, I needed you, I need, I want, you are here, alive, well, with us. It is a confession without end, woven by male and female voices that seems to encompass all the words which should have been spoken throughout the years.

With this moment alone, they have won.

Part 1.

[lymlibros]

Vida

Estaba pensando qué escribir con esa palabra mientras observaba mis pies moverse y meterse en el agua de la bañera. Oía Seven Days Walking - Day 2 de Ludovico y sumergía la cabeza conteniendo la respiración. Entonces la música se oía lejana, pero en cambio escuchaba otras cosas, como lo que ocurría fuera del baño. Es extraño como funciona el sonido estando debajo del agua. Y pensé: ¿No será eso la vida? Aquello que nos perdemos mientras tenemos los oídos tapados por el agua, aquello que sumergidos en una capa líquida nos concentramos en cosas lejanas y no en lo que tenemos a nuestro alrededor. ¿Por qué me perdía la música? ¿Por qué no me permitía disfrutarla? ¿Porqué en lugar de vivir sólo me quedo pensando en qué es vivir? Lo comprendí. La vida es eso que nos perdemos mientras nos preguntamos qué es.

[joyous-art]

Wordtober Day 2: Divided

A brief history:

The world had been divided for roughly two millennia; split between the realm of the Mer (or Merpeople) and that of the Fae. The borders of the two were simple: the Mer held all water that, ultimately, lead to the ocean and the Fae ruled the visible land. Islands and beaches, however, were admitted grey areas, shared by the two; although begrudgingly. There are limited exceptions but, when are there not in such cases.

This division was caused by… well, it was caused by me; or more precisely, to prevent those like me. 

You see, those of us born of both land and water are powerful creatures. The ability to walk on land and breathe air but, also, swim effortlessly is seemingly terrifying to most Mer and Fae. Basically, if they can’t understand it they try to eliminate it.   

The dividing of realms happened when I was still young; around my three-hundredth birthday if I recall correctly. The subsequent split tore apart my family, and many like it; leaving my father in the realm of the Mer and mother with the Fae. As for me; both the councils ensured that there was no place for those two-world children in the new divided order.

My people are the Shifts; those who ‘shift’ between worlds. Now, although the division took place to prevent Shifts, there were already so many of us that the councils had to reach a compromise. In other words, our numbers were too strong to simply kill off. We were given the islands and beaches; places where the land meets the water in some form or another. The restrictions placed upon us, prevented us from entering the realms we had grown up in; devastating to everyone. From the surface of the water, we had fifty kilometers from the nearest beach or island and up to twenty feet down; just enough to see the outline of glimmering Mer cities in the distant depths. On land, we held thirty kilometers from the nearest beach (islands being the exception where we had free reign). Islands were once completely off limits to Fae and remained so for quite some time. I was fortunate enough to be transported to an island that had a beach within its fifty-mile water range; the one place my family could be together. The existence of my younger brother is owed to that beach; he was conceived just under two hundred years after the divide when my parents met for their anniversary night. Thus the original dividing proved virtually useless.

When Shifts were torn from their families, the eldest of us was just seven hundred; we were children. I remember the youngest Shift, on record, at the time was just barely five. Their gender choosing at the age of thirteen would be the first of many in what would become the realm of the Shifts. It was something we learned to celebrate; something that eased the pain of it all.

The greatest rebellion we could make in the face of the division was to survive. We built villages, hunted and fished, held gatherings and created stories; we thrived. We built a realm of our own from scratch, free of the judgment and oppression that had previously haunted us. We were a family scattered across islands and beaches, but a close one nonetheless; we still are.

All three realms were thrown into disarray, sometime in my late six hundreds, when a fourth realm contender appeared virtually out of the blue. Depending on who you ask, those of this fourth realm have different names. To the Mer they’re landwalkers; the Fae: strangelings; and the Shifts: others. If you were to ask one of them they’d call themselves human; an unusual word for an unusual creature. Fae and Shifts were forced to move away from these newcomers; escaping to secluded places where few ‘humans’ had ever set foot; if any. Mer rarely come to the surface unless it’s to visit a secluded Shift island. This new threat dissolved the division and our three realms became a united people once more.

Around that time, my father took a second partner (as Mermen tend to do), with my mother's permission. Her name was Talise; one of his fellow Mer. Talise and my mother grew to love each other over time and my father loved them both very deeply. He still does. Centuries later my brother and I would gain a half-sibling; but I'll save that for another time.

If there’s one thing Mer, Fae and Shifts can all agree on it’s that most humans are awful beings. Fae and Shifts are lucky, for we are invisible to the human eye but Mer must exercise all caution; especially nowadays with the humans stretching their boundaries. There is no hesitation to kill if a human manages to find their way into a territory and begin dividing it for themselves. Our offense occasionally takes the form of woodland or ocean creatures but usually, a poison-tipped arrow is the preferred method. Humans may know of our existence but they do not know of our culture and, as a collective, we intend to keep it that way.

There has only been one human, in my two thousand some-odd years, that I have ever cared for in any way. I suppose she was also the only person I ever loved, in the way one finds themself unable to speak. She was one of three humans I knew of that could see the Shifts and Fae and was unafraid to venture with us. She stole my heart (and I stole hers), and we would meet at the border of the human and mythical realms nearly every day. I suppose, you could say, that I am also the one responsible for her untimely death but… that’s a story in itself, now isn’t it?

[kae-karo]

5 works tag game

Rules: Choose your 5 favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works! 

i was tagged by the loveliest @vincentvanugh​ 🥺🥺 tysm dear!!!

1. the king of disaster series (x) (i knew you were fire, love i’m given, part 3 coming this weekend) i first wrote down notes for the concept for this fic on jan 3 of this year, and it has all but consumed me since then. i do not exaggerate when i say that i have poured my entire soul into this world and story and that i have loved every minute of it. i’d say without a doubt that it ranks as the fic i am most proud of perhaps in my entire writing career thus far

2. kintsugi (x) which found time to consume me among the few breaks king of disaster provided. it was fun to play within the bounds of canon-compliance to make a fic that gave me all the stuff i want to see that will likely never happen in actual canon, and i didn’t even expect it to be as long as it turned out when i started lmao there was just so much to explore

3. into the dark (x) was something i worked on for the wordtober prompt-a-day thing i did recently but i ended up kind of falling in love with the idea?? i want so badly to return to it at some point and expand on the universe...perhaps soon/after another little project i’m working on,,,,i adore it so much 🥺🥺

4. to the stars that burn (x) oh,,,,,,my god,,,,,i don’t often take it upon myself to write stuff that breaks my heart and doesn’t leave a happy ending, but this idea was taking up space in my brain and demanded to be written, and it is so poignantly heartbreaking that i really just love it even as it hurts me

5. dancing after death (x) i remember laying awake in the middle of the night, researching the temperature of blue fire vs cremation fire and just...bashing out the first part of this in a haze because it was all i could think about. and the rest flowed from there, but god this fic will stick with me for an eternity

i was going to tag bellamy @prince-liest​ but i saw they were the one to tag indra so slfjkjklsdfljksdf nevermind - tagging @snack-thief-keith​ @alienjack​ @the-final-sif​ and @natigail​ and anyone else who sees this and wants to do it!! be sure to tag me so i can see the lovely things you’ve done 💜💜

[momo-de-avis]

Wordtober Day 3: Bait

.

The Wunderwelt Tribune -- Daily News and Special Events.

Paranormal, the Weird and Unexplained News Column.

Excerpts recovered from a series of unpublished articles.

Latest Topic: Body of Lighthouse Keeper, Asim Rawlings, 43, found mauled in his bed.

Keep Reading?

Thursday, August 23rd, 2019

On August 20th, body of Lighthouse Keeper Asim Rawlings was found in his bed in St. Bartholomew Island. His body appeared to have been mauled, and his death has been placed shortly around the time the body was found. The lighthouse was still in full operation when the body was discovered by a local postman at 7:45 AM, and his every belonging in place, as though nothing had been moved nor touched. Investigators claim some claw marks found on the headboard and wooden walls of Rawling’s home strongly indicate the attack was made by a wild animal, possibly a wolf. Rawling’s body was slashed across the abdomen and stomach, and there were bite marks on his legs. One arm was also cut off, apparently bitten by large fangs.

Investigators have not divulged on the details, but residents of St. Bartholomew are shocked by this event. Most claim to have never seen a wolf on the island, and such an event has never happened.

An ongoing investigation is being led.

Continue reading?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Tuesday, August 27th, 2019. 

Police has recently released new information regarding Mr. Rawling’s death, claiming a person was sighted at the lighthouse minutes before his body was found, possibly a woman. Postman Toby Acevedo claimed a figure in ragged jeans and oversized blue sweater stood at the doorway just minutes before he went inside. Mr. Acevedo, who paid no attention to the figure, leaned over to the passenger’s seat, where his bag with mail rested, but turning his head back, he claimed the figure was not there anymore. According to Mr. Acevedo, the figure had ‘long, black hair and a curvy body I’d say resembles more a woman than a man’, but police remain unsure on the identity of this person.

No further evidence has been found. Mr. Rawling’s belongings were untouched, his house clean, and there were no signs of forced entry.

Continue reading?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Saturday, August 30th, 2019.

Further examination on Mr. Rawling’s body brings forth new evidence. Police claim there was saliva found on his wound and hair was collected from his torn clothes, but have added no further comment on the matter.

Rumours, however, have begun to surface regarding these findings. Locals believe the saliva is not animal, but human, and the hair found on Mr. Rawling’s clothes does not belong to a wolf, but rather a single strand of long black hair resembling that of possibly a woman’s.

Residents of St. Bartholomew Island refuse to further comment on the situation, but remain bent on one thing: that the attack was led by a human and not an animal, something the police has thoroughly dismissed.

Continue reading?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Monday, September 2nd, 2019.

Last Saturday, Police released a sketch of a possible suspect, according to Mr. Acevedo’s account on the woman found at Mr. Asim’s doorstep shortly before finding his body. Sketch shows a woman with long black hairs and an oversized blue sweater, and... and... there were eyes, weren’t there? I think there were. I remember seeing eyes. 

Residents of St. Bartholomew Island, however, have claimed the sketch is false. They say the mouth is not quite like that, because it is missing its fangs.

Continue reading?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Tuesday, September 10th, 2019.

She had eyed. She had eyes, once. But none of us can remember the eyes. They aired the image on TV and we all saw it, but the screen flickered and it just vanished from all our minds. We published the sketch, but now it’s all blurry and fuzzy, and all there is to her sockets is just... two engulfing black holes.

But she must have had eyes.

Can you see the eyes? Can you see her eyes?

All we can remember is... the mouth.

Continue reading?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Sunday, September 14th, 2019.

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖊𝖗’𝖘 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖆 𝖜𝖆𝖑𝖐 𝖇𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖆

𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖚𝖕 𝖔𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖈𝖐 𝖆 𝖒𝖆𝖓 𝖘𝖍𝖊 𝖉𝖎𝖉 𝖘𝖊𝖊

𝕾𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖕𝖕𝖊𝖉 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖋𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖐𝖓𝖊𝖊

𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖊𝖗 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖋𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖇𝖊?

𝕳𝖎𝖘 𝖊𝖞𝖊𝖘 𝖜𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖉𝖆𝖗𝖐 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝖆𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙,

𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖈𝖆𝖚𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖆 𝖋𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙

𝕾𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖆𝖑𝖐𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖘𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖗𝖞 𝖆 𝖘𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙---

𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖜𝖊𝖉𝖉𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙?

𝕳𝖎𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖚��𝖍 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖆𝖌𝖆𝖕𝖊, 𝖍𝖎𝖘 ��𝖊𝖊𝖙𝖍 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖗𝖊𝖉

𝕬𝖓𝖉 𝖎𝖓 𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖇𝖚𝖙 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖞𝖆𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓 𝖇𝖑𝖊𝖉

𝖂𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖑𝖎𝖕𝖘, 𝕵𝖊𝖟𝖊𝖇𝖊𝖑 𝖘𝖆𝖎𝖉:

𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖑𝖎𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖒𝖞 𝖍𝖚𝖘𝖇𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖎𝖓 𝖇𝖊𝖉?

ᶜᵒⁿᵗⁱⁿᵘᵉ ʳᵉᵃᵈⁱⁿᵍ?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Tuesday, September 17th, 2019.

In recent developments regarding the case of Mr. Rawling’s death, Toby Acevedo was recently arrested on accounts of cannibalism. The postman was seen wandering the island of St. Bartholomew with bloodied clothes and jaw, and a piece of torn skin held in his hand, until he seemingly stopped at a gas station where witness Anaya Haines called the police. Mr. Acevedo was apprehended shortly after.

Ms Haines, as well as other eyewitnesses, claims Mr. Acevedo appeared to be in ‘a catatonic state’ and unable to properly convey a cohesive phrase. In fact, for the fifteen minutes between the call and the arrival of the police, all Mr. Acevedo muttered was a strange rhyme belonging to the island’s folklore. None of the eyewitnesses were willing to comment on it.

Strangest of all, according to lead investigators, every time Mr. Acevedo spoke the rhyme, those around him covered their ears or screamed in order not to listen to his words. One bystander claimed ‘Do not listen, that is how the angler’s wife will get you.’ Police has dismissed this as superstition.

A search conducted in Mr. Acevedo’s home within the same night revealed the mauled body of Mr. Acevedo’s wife. Her left arm had been chopped off below the elbow, and her left leg as well below the knee. There was no evidence of an attempt at cooking the meat, but rather, that Mr. Acevedo ate his wife’s flesh raw.

Stranger still is the fact that Mr. Acevedo had set the table for two.

None of us still remember the eyes, however. Or what she looked like at all.

Continue reading?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Sunday, September 21st, 2019.

Blood tests on Mr. Acevedo’s wife have revealed she was not drugged or incapacitated in any form. In fact, coroner’s examination seems to lead to the belief that Mrs. Acevedo was alive when her limbs were cut off, however there seems to be no evidence of a fight or any signs of resistance. It appears Mrs. Acevedo willingly allowed her husband to eat her flesh while alive. She died of bloodloss. 

Police has questioned Mr. Acevedo, but the postman remains in a catatonic state. What little sanity there is to Mr. Acevedo, as well as what little he has revealed, comes in the form of the strange rhyme muttered by him on the night of the killing, as well as something else:

ᴵᵗ'ˢ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉʸᵉˢ, ⁱᵗ'ˢ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵒᵘᵗʰ

No further evidence has been released.

...

Do you feel that? Do you feel that... itch beneath your skin? Do you feel that soft tingle beneath the fingernail? Like someone is poking a needle.

Continue reading?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Wednesday, September 25th, 2019.

‘ℑ𝔱’𝔰 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞 𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔢’ 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔢𝔯’𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔡 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔥 𝔰𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔚𝔥𝔬 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔢𝔯’𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔡?

𝔍𝔢𝔷𝔢𝔟𝔢𝔩’𝔰 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰 𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔫𝔬 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 ℌ𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔬𝔠𝔨𝔢𝔱𝔰 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔴 𝔣𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔴 𝔰𝔞𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔰𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔢𝔣𝔱 𝔞 𝔪𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔚𝔥𝔬 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔯𝔢

...do you smell that? What sweet, consuming smell that is. Bubbling red and deliciously sweet, though you think: it is supposed to be salty. But it’s sweet. Oh, how sweet. Can you feel it? Can you see her eyes?

Continue reading?

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Monday, September 30th, 2019

Ｔｈｅ ａｎｇｌｅｒ’ｓ ｗｉｆｅ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅ ａｎｇｌｅｒ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｄ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅ ｒｈｙｍｅ ａｎｄ ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ， ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ. ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ. ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ. ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ. ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ. ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ. ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ. ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ. 

ｄｋｄｄｄｄｄｍｄｍｄｍｃｍｃｃｃ ｃ ｄｊｓｋｓｋ... ｓｈｅ ｗｈｉｓｐｅｒｅｄ ...ａｎｄ ｓａｎｇ... ａｎｄ ｏｕｒ ｅａｒｓ ｂｌｅｄ. ａｎｄ ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ. ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓ. ｔｈｅ ｆｌｅｓｈ ｔａｓｔｅｄ ｏｆ ｐｏｒｋ ａｎｄ ｏｆ ｍｅａｔ ｌｏａｆ， ｄｅｌｉｃｉｏｕｓ ａｓ ｓｈｅ ｐｒｏｍｉｓｅｄ ｏｈ ａｈ ｏｈ ａｈ

𝔻𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣?

𝔻𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣?

There is a knock on your door.

Be careful, reader.

She was not married to the angler, but to the fish with the sharp teeth.

Are you sure you want to keep reading?

Well, you’ve already heard read her siren’s song. 

Keep.

Keep.

Keep.

Knock knock.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Thursday, October 3rd, 2019.

‘Knock knock’, she says. You can’t but invite her inside. You cannot see her eyes, they are not there, they were never there, just two black holes waiting to be filled. ‘I was once an angler,’ she says, ‘and his wife, and his fish, and his son, and his flesh, and his voice.’

Look at your arm. It has gone missing. Your stomach is growing and growling. How hungry you are. See the bulbing flesh beneath your skin and the pulsating red slithering down the white bone and the yellowish marrow---are you hungry?

Oh, she is.

ʜᴇʟʟᴏ, ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ.

ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴɢʟᴇʀ’ꜱ ᴡɪꜰᴇ.

.

.

___

Past challenges:

Wordtober Day 1: Ring

Wordtober Day 2: Mindless

[alliseaisfandom]

Wordtober DAY 2

Mindless

Rain pours, but the man doesn’t move. His jacket is soaked through. He keeps reading his newspaper, even though it is barely more than a clump of mushy paper, the ink slowly dripping from the pages, washed away by the water.

Not far from him a small girl plays. She brushes the hair of a small plastic doll, though there is no doll in her hands.

Her mother does not call her home, The rain pours, and it is almost night but the woman stands on one foot, reaching forward to the street, calling cab that is already by her side.

Inside sits a middle aged man, halfway through cleaning his glasses, rubbing the fabric of his shirt on the lenses in slow circles, again, and again, and again.

It’s a good thing he stopped where he did, for inches away is a family. Tourists, on their first trip to the city. The two small boys hold their phones pointed at the front of an old building, their fingers frozen on the screen, making videos that are just now hitting the two hour mark.

Their parents are lost in a map, the streets in the map are now swirls of color, mixing and blending the dozens of alleys and city blocks in one massive web.

In every one of those alleys, people continue. They breathe, if that’s what they were doing before, and if not, they were the only ones to achieve the unplanned when their bodies collapsed on the floor.

The city is not silent, however. A woman plays the fiddle in front of an open case, the violin strings already turning red, even with the rain washing away the blood from the woman’s hands.

She plays the same notes in  rapid successions, the ones she was playing before. It is rhythmic and repetitive, and it is not the only sound. There is laughter.

They're laughing. If anyone heard them, they might call it a manic laugh, but around them, nobody can hear, and even if they can, they can’t think enough to form the word in their brains.

Because of them. They, who laugh, who stopped an entire city. They, who rendered thousands of people mindless. Who left the coming night in almost complete silence, but for the painful high notes of bloody strings and a laugh, mindless in itself.

[elveny]

Trivia Tuesday

I was tagged by @pikapeppa and @midnightprelude, thank you so much!! ❤️ I love reading the trivia on your works, it’s so cool to see what’s going on “behind the scenes” so to speak :D And yeah, timezones and all, so it’s a day late but who cares ;)

Tagging forth @captainderyn @curiousthimble @thevikingwoman (maybe tell us about your Wordtober project?) and @greyias 💖

Okay, so five trivia facts about my and @kunstpause’s DA2 project The Hands of Fate Are Your Own

1) This whole thing started as a result of our @lettersfromthedas project, where we accompanied our canon Dragon Age runthrough with letters from our respective OCs to each other; with our Wardens being cousins (Surana and Tabris) and our Lavellans being from the same clan, of course. For DA2, we didn’t really have an idea how to connect them, so eventually we came up with the thought “what would happen if they were sisters and both in Kirkwall”. It went downhill from there.

2) In the first version, Cassia was not at all involved with Cullen. The C2 ship, as we call it, took sail (apologies for the bad analogy) with an unprompted throwaway line by me, where Adriene noticed that Cullen had a crush on Cassia. In that version, Cassia was with Anders. In general, the C2 relationship was the thing that changed the most over time. From “not being a thing” over “there was an infatuation” to “they reluctantly fell in love and in Act 3 finally admitted it” to the now included basically “love at first sight” thing. (Which, in hindsight, was also prompted by a throwaway comment...) But honestly, each version took us further and was better, because they each came with its own challenging set of problems. Let’s just say, our Cullen now has a much earlier realization what’s actually going on. (yes, he does have an actual redemption arc.)

3) The story we’re publishing now is the at least third version that we’ve written. SO MUCH has been scrapped and changed. Adriene was an alcoholic at one point and Bethany in the Circle. It’s amazing to think about what themes we originally had and what is there now.

4) A whole lot of ideas came from “You know we could make this worse...” - “NO! .... tell me more.” conversations, often accompanied by our “writing drink” Buffalo grass vodka and apple juice (it’s delicious, I promise!) or red wine. I’m pretty sure you all know what kind of conversations I’m talking about ;)

5) For the longest time, I didn’t have a faceclaim for Adriene, but then Good Omens came out and I found the PERFECT faceclaim: Adria Arjona

[mavriarchwriting]

Wordtober: Build (Day 5)

Let's do something quick and fall asleep, she said. Right...

Not reviewed. I thought of the concept of building a friendship, and then grabbed the story from the first 2 days. If you see the #Garthia Project tag on a story, this is the story.

---___---___---___---___---___---___---

Both of them sat in awkward silence under the stars. Iris prayed someone would wake up and join them on the balcony, snap the tense thread that connected them and make it vanish. That, or come up with something to say.

She looked back up at the sky, and tried to search for the few constellations she could recognize, only to realize, after a few minutes, that none existed. It confused her for a while until she remembered: Garthia is *actually a different planet, on a different part of the universe*.

She had been told this many times, but only now did the true height of it fall on her shoulders.

"Oh..."

It was barely a whisper, but it was enough to break the silence. She felt Prometheus move and could sense his eyes on her, curious about her exclamation. She looked at her lap, hair falling like a heavy curtain, hiding her pain from the world.

"What's wrong?" Iris jumped, not expecting Prometheus to speak, much less show any hint of concern, genuine or not.

"I just..." She tried to come up with a easy way to say it without spilling her heart to him. "...I can't see any of the constellations I'm used to here."

"Yeah, you're on a different part of the universe, what were you expecting?" Prometheus replied, tone as unmoving as ever. Iris felt her heart clench, not happy with the harsh reminder. She curled onto herself. A sigh broke the (now even more awkward) silence.

"... That was rude of me..."

Iris looked at the prince, eyes wide as saucers. Even if his face seemed as emotionless as usual, Iris could see a tiny hint of bashfulness, as if he actually regretted his choice of words. Seeing him admit to it was... Uncanny.

"It's okay... I think..."

If awkwardness had weight, it would make their beings collapse into themselves and create 2 dark holes to take over the universe. Honestly, disappear into one was perhaps preferable to living through this moment. Hoping for a way out, Iris got up from her chair and headed back inside, hoping to join the rest of the group and sleep, for once.

"I can show you some."

She stopped right outside the balcony windows. Prometheus was looking back to the sky when she turned to him again.

"What?"

Prometheus turns his head, just enough to see her from the corner of his eye.

"I can show you the constellations here." He turned back into the night sky again. "Searching for them is always relaxing. Helps a lot when I can't sleep."

Iris had no words. Prince Prometheus, the same that had been nothing but rude and snarky since Iris had fallen into Garthia was being... Nice?

She looked back inside. Everyone was in a deep sleep, none could witness this... Whatever it was.

She has no idea how long she stood on the same spot, considering the offer, but it must have been a while because she had broken out of the thoughts by a "Are you gonna stand there all night?" from the prince.

"No." She answered. Iris walked back to her seat by Prometheus and started at him in silence until he finally looked back at her.l

"Please, show me."

And for her surprise, he actually smiled. Not a smirk, an actual, genuine (even if small) smile.

They spent the next couple of hours together under the stars, Iris mostly in silence, while Prometheus pointed out, one by one, the most interesting and his favorite constellations including legends and stories connected to some.

As interesting as it was, the best part was the atmosphere between the two. It wasn't awkward or hostile. For once, Iris felt a connection to the prince, instead of annoyance.

For good or for worst, this was the beginning of a new friendship between them.

[cottoncandywoof]

My New Creation: Wordtober!

Where writers can have their very own Inktober!

Rules:

There are three words for every day of the month. These are the writing prompts.

What you have to do is pick two or more words and write a story with them.

Some words make a lot of sense together... others, not so much.

The story doesn't need to include famous characters, this is not Fictober, but that doesn't mean it can't include them.

You can create your own characters with your own stories or simply take them from something you like.

You can take the words at your own interpretention. They might sound weird at first.

The words don’t need to be mentioned in the stories necessarily.

Have fun writing!

Prompts:

Day 1: financial valley flower Day 2: desire grudge finished Day 3: trend delivery crackpot Day 4: defendant straw stool Day 5: carry flower dignity Day 6: gift haunt mature Day 7: modernize list coffee Day 8: fossil pigeon sigh Day 9: guideline addicted conglomerate Day 10: save reader sand Day 11: closed prince guarantee Day 12: permanent bark regulation Day 13: wear out elapse image Day 14: confine fork disappear Day 15: nail lump poetry Day 16: realize due trolley Day 17: prevent make uncle Day 18: spokesperson tasty bubble Day 19: pest definition berry Day 20: aware force surround Day 21: feather inject plain Day 22: brother stall visual Day 23: notebook color expose Day 24: whole model overwhelm Day 25: cutting mass parameter Day 26: residence wedding reign Day 27: chicken mayor revolutionary Day 28: horoscope carpet promotion Day 29: reign hill liver Day 30: nut possession welfare Day 31: afterlife cat otherworldly

Tag!

I've noticed that the best way to make stories that don't require a fandom is Wattpad, so I'll be uploading there! Anyone who wants to participate too can create either there and tag me (@InuyashaTT) or here on Tumblr (also @InuyashaTT)! Also tag with #Wordtober. That’ll be fun.

[eleonorpiteira]

7.

The world is dying.

The waters stole the sun from them. Stole the planet from them. The ground. The very earth.

The air will be their last theft, and at last, the ocean will swallow the world.

.

[ trevus-themed wordtober ]