#foreshadowing prompts

[youneedsomeprompts]

~ IN A VOID ~ FORESHADOWING DEPRESSION PROMPTS

requested by: @crochet-cafe request: How can I foreshadow or hint that my character has severe depression? I want to make the reveal a big deal when it happens and catch readers off guard

Feel free to use and reblog!

having other characters associate the person's mood with their character traits ("they're always grumpy")

masking their depression really well but being absolutely drained and a lot worse as soon as they're alone

appearing as a 'neutral' person, when their neutral mood actually indicates the emptiness they feel inside

their growing passivity makes them fade into the background

the more excited other people get the more downcast the person becomes (they get perceived as a killjoy)

they don't accept invitations anymore

they always say they're busy but can't answer the question what exactly they're doing

they show no emotional reaction in a fight

everyone says about the person that they have such a hard shell

they usually have been very caring and sensitive to everyone around them but suddenly they seem like they couldn't care less

for more inspiration/how to help: ~ SHOWING SUPPORT FOR SOMEONE WITH DEPRESSION ~ WRITING PROMPTS

note: If you or someone you know feels that way and really needs help, please seek professional help <3

[lyralit]

subtle ways to include foreshadowing

one character knowing something offhandedly that they shouldn't, isn't addressed until later

the crow rhyme

colours!! esp if like, blue is evil in your world and the mc's best friend is always noted to wear blue...betrayal?

write with the ending in mind

use patterns from tragic past events to warn of the future

keep the characters distracted! run it in the background until the grand reveal

WEATHER.

do some research into Chekhov's gun

mention something that the mc dismisses over and over

KEEP TRACK OF WHAT YOU PUT. don't leave things hanging.

unreliable characters giving information that turn out to be true

flowers and names with meanings

anything with meanings actually

metaphors. if one character describes another as "a real demon" and the other turns out to be the bad guy, you're kind of like...ohhh yeahhh

anyways add anything else in the tags

[nerdpoe]

Jason is a nice dude, really~

He's been cleaning up his act. He's been hanging out with the other Bats outside of patrol, reaching out and talking to Roy and Artemis, making amends with Tim, who keeps hiding from him for some reason.

He always cooks for more than one person, takes one of the Bats breaking into his apartment in stride, cursing less, being open and friendly more, and overall is trying to be better.

Meanwhile;

Inside his brain, Jason is fighting for control over his own body every day. He's been possessed, and because everyone likes the "nice" him better, no one's fucking doing anything about it.

Once he gets control again he is so kicking all of their asses.

[cravingforsweetsbooksandpurpose]

thinking of a au fic where, post-thriller bark Zoro was sent 10 years into the future where everyone's dreams were finally achieved. And he was sent exactly a day before Sanji & Pudding's wedding in all blue (They got together after they found the one piece & allblue). He was shocked but played it off as a joke, only Robin & Zoro knew the real reason why. And younger Zoro keeps staring at older Zoro like (" r u fr dude u're not doing anything") as the older just kept ignoring (pretending) like it was nothing. Because really it's nothing.

(plot twist; it was 40 y/o Sanji who sent him there.)

[unicyclehippo]

bg3 prompt: foreshadow

'You never liked my Lady Sh- my goddess,' she said that night, huddled close to the fire, hands almost pressing into the flame. There was a tremor to her fingers, a frightful hunch to her shoulders. Darkness swallowed up everything beyond the boundaries of their camp and Shadowheart alternated between staring out into it and deep into the heart of the fire.

Dante propped themself up on their bedroll, laid out near but not close to hers. Though it hadn't been a question, exactly, Dante knew that it was. Shadowheart did not ask for anything and it was not the prideful thing she made it seem; at a certain point, a child learned not to ask when the answer was a painful constant. Dante toyed idly with the knowledge that they would rip their beating heart from their own chest, if she were to ask for it. It painted a pretty red picture in their mind--hands blood-soaked, on their knees for her. They shook their head, banishing the thought and answering the question she didn't ask.

'I did not.' Dante kept their voice light. They wondered what a goddess's blood looked like, tasted like. If they were to present Shadowheart with the dark lady's heart, would that let her rest?

'From the beginning, you hated her. Don't try to lie to me - I know the truth,' she spat. Her anger wasn't for them, Dante didn't think, but maybe it was. 'Tell me why.'

Prying my secrets from me now? Dante wanted to tease. But it was a question, a request. In the cloak of a demand, certainly, but that was more than enough.

'She was cruel to you.'

'That's all?' Shadowheart laughed. Scratched at the back of her scarred hand.

Dante took it, covering the mark with their own hand to stop her fevered work. They moved closer, sitting up with a wriggle. It wasn't necessary--if they wished, their every motion could be graceful and powerful and direct...but they liked the way she looked at them when they were odd, awkward. To be a strange creature in her eyes was vastly preferable to monster.

'It isn't all. It's what I...disliked the most.'

'Because you care for me.'

'Immensely. Beyond darkness.'

'There is nothing beyond the darkness.'

Dante hummed. Bent over her hand and lifted it to their lips, pressing a warm kiss to the scar. 'Then I shall make something. A light, a refuge. A world,' Dante insisted, as her despair began to lift, a flustered sort of fondness taking its place. 'I'll sing a whole world into existence. It will be the most beautiful place in all the realms and the when the sun sets, there is no darkness because the moon fills the whole sky, and every flower knows a different joke--'

'Absolutely not. The flowers don't talk.'

Dante sighed, long-suffering. 'Very well. What do they do?'

'Nothing! Why must a flower do anything? Can it not simply be beautiful?' Shadowheart scolded through a smile.

'They are beautiful, then,' Dante agreed. 'Each one trying their best to match your beauty and falling short. Even so, we shall be surrounded by incandescent beauty.'

'Oh you are a charmer.'

Dante kissed her hand again, brushing their lips across her knuckles before they lowered her hand, though they did not let her go. Their thumb took up that gentle touch instead, stroking along the same path.

'I have no love for any god,' they told her quietly, and mourned the ease of her smile as it faded. 'But the more you told me of that dark lady, and the more I saw you do with and without her favour, and when she punished you,' Dante snarled before stilling, closing their eyes and hands. Would the goddess bleed midnight black? That most royal colour tinged with the purple of her servants vestments? Did they drape themselves in her blood as Dante now dearly wanted to?

A hand, against their heart. A warmth like a flower unfurling. Dante held Shadowheart's hand in place.

'Forgive me--'

'Yes,' she said, without hesitation.

Dante opened one eye a crack and, seeing neither hatred nor fear, opened the other. 'There were aspects of the dark lady I admired. To walk unafraid under the cloak of night. To have secrets and fears and sorrows and entrust them to her. But I watched as you trusted her, and gave everything to her...and I watched her take more and give nothing back.'

There was an adamantine glint in her eyes, stubborn and strong. 'She gave me great power.'

'You earned that. You earned more than what she gave you. I've never seen devotion like yours--deep and earnest, unwavering--'

'I wavered,' Shadowheart said. Her fingers curled into a fist, still resting against their chest. The fabric of their nightshirt in her hand. They would give it to her. They would give her the shirt off their back, the skin off their back. 'You may not have seen it but she did. Every - every kind deed you did, every nonsense you dragged us into without demanding payment or power or even for the weak to grovel at your feet when you spared them, helped them... I admired you for it, adored you. And she saw it. I would like to say it took time but in truth, my thoughts have been split from the moment I laid eyes on you in that damned pod.'

Dante forgot. She had asked for their help, once. Had it been the first time her prayers had not gone unnoticed?

'You know, I considered once, asking you to join me in my faith.' A deep sorrow crossed her face when her words made Dante flinch. 'An idle thought, long ago.'

'It's alright.'

Shadowheart paused. Then, carefully, she said, 'I thought you only hated her but. You fear her too.'

'Of course,' they agreed, with an almost lazy shrug. 'I would be a fool not to.' She did not buy their ease. Dante did not flinch easily. Guilt churned in their stomach. She deserved a true answer, not bravado. 'It would be...the end of me. If I served her. I don't know what happened to me before the ship and the tadpole but...there is nothing inside of my head but darkness. The only time I feel I am a person is when I sink a blade into someone,' they confessed. If the dark lady were Shadowheart, perhaps Dante could be persuaded to faith. How terrifying it was, though, to put faith in another being. It felt like they were tearing themselves open for her appraisal and Dante was certain that now she would see the rotten heart of them. 'When I fight and kill, my mind is awash in red and after endless black, it is everything. If I served the dark lady, she would take it from me. She would take everything, drain my skull even of the dregs it has now. I would be nothing.'

Shadowheart was pale but not with disgust. Empathy, writ clear in her eyes.

Dante summoned a smile. It was an act, but what wasn't? They were the architect of their own life--joy, pain, faith, love--and tonight they chose to smile.

'That's not to say that you're wrong. I am faithful. I have faith. Just,' they shrugged, 'not in the gods.'

'Oh? Very well, I'll bite. What is it you believe in?'

With a flicker of a thought, Dante pulled their lute from where it lay by their pack--too far to move, they never wanted to move from Shadowheart's side, never--and plucked it from the air with reverent hands. Shadowheart pulled her own away so that Dante could settle the instrument in their lap and her eyes focused, keenly, on graceful hands that roamed its belly and neck and trembling strings.

'Stories.'

'Stories?'

Dante nodded. Half closed their eyes, head cocked, and listened to the music as they began to play. A mournful, solitary tune that Dante heard in their mind whenever they recounted the ship. The emptiness of being--of being alone, of being awake when life had been a thoughtless march, of being--interrupted, interwoven, with two sharper tunes, a march sharp-silver and a lament so similar to that early dirge that it met and matched it before it slipped away once more. Dante played on.

'I woke up and there was a worm in my head, thoughts in my head that weren't mine. I didn't know myself except that I was not that.' Anger snapped against the strings, red. 'And when I tried to recall who I was, I could only think of more people I wasn't. Ithramier who wove a cloak of pure flames. Pharon who called on the blessing of their angelic king to fight the undead hordes for three days unceasing, who held the Chasm of the Kings against evil, and as they slew the last foe drew their own final breath. Lor, witch of the seven barrowhills, who struck down Lashlord Emgaraoch and sent it back to its hellish plane.' With each brief tale, Dante introduced them to the song as well. They had only days of practise, as far as they knew, but whomever owned these hands before them had known their way around a lute and there was such an overwhelming need for Shadowheart--and all their companions--to understand that Dante played as they never had before. Not to distract or charm or frighten. Merely to pluck truth from their soul, what meagre scraps remained of it, and play it into life. 'Whatever stripped me of my memories did not take it all, and I knew what people were, and,'

Dante dared to look up then. Their companions had left their tents, each and every one of them; even Withers lingered just beyond the bright firelight. Wyll sat close, shaking his head at the troubled noble dance they chose for him, foot tapping to it. Karlach sat beside him--perhaps because she could lean against him, or any of them, and not fear to burn them. Dante could not tell if it was a compliment when the fire in her chest roared to life as they strung her lines into play, a blazing rousing tune that could not shake off an iron weight. Astarion lounged with a profound disinterest betrayed by the longing in his eyes. Dante's fingers tripped across his strain again, a song that struggled and pushed and yearned to soar. Astarion stared at them, a loathed vulnerability writ clear across his face, and looked away. Lae'zel knelt across the way with a look of concentration; her march plucked through the night as Dante wondered if she expected to be tested on it in the morrow. Gale closed his eyes as his prideful tune fell, and smiled when Dante called it up again.

'I knew what people could be.'

'But the stories aren't real,' Astarion bit out with a sneer.

The song began to unwind, thread by thread. Each had a moment to shine and be heard on its own.

Dante spoke. 'Maybe not. But aren't they true enough?' they asked, wistful. 'Don't they sing to you? Don't they show you what could be real? Don't they make you dream of the world where someone is as noble as the great heroes, as brave, as kind?' Astarion said nothing to that. Dante played his tune again and, this time, let it soar. Free and golden as the sun. In answer came Dante's mournful, empty dirge plucked through with rage. They closed their eyes and dredged their heart again--what they would not give to a goddess, they would offer freely to their friends. Blood and pain and a hollow aching that nestled in their chest and Dante began to fill it--music became thought and magic, became the grit of dirt beneath their nails and the glint of gold in their palm, became leaves trembling on branches and bitter between their teeth, became wonderment, became bubbling mixtures and the chop of knives not for dismembering but for cooking and campfires and alchemy, became laughter, became meals, became the simple joy of plodding a forest path, became the fierce pain of being embraced, welcomed, the dusty press of moss and mushroom, became every small and wondrous thing Dante had known in a week of life. And the hollow in their chest was not so big. Did not have so many teeth.

The music stopped. Dante did not know how to end it yet, so they simply let their hands fall away from the strings. Their hands and fingers ached with the effort and they stretched them open wide, pressing back against the hurt like a bruise.

Wyll let out his held breath, his tone admiring as he spoke.

'I have caroused and wept in my fathers hall to many talented bards, my friend. You have put them all to shame. I don't know whether to be pleased or not, to know all future musicians shall not live up to this standard.'

Dante grinned. 'You're just happy because it was about you. Somewhat.'

Wyll laughed. He didn't correct them, but Dante could see he fought the urge. They expected he would mention it again, before long.

'I'll give you this,' Astarion said, in that arch way of his, 'you can certainly spin a good tale.' He paused, then flicked a gold Dante's way.

Lae'zel growled at him. 'A single gold is not payment enough.'

'Darling, you aren't exactly the expert on bartering here. Do you even know the worth of a gold piece?'

'The song is priceless,' she told him, voice firm. 'And the wisdom... It is something to consider.'

'High praise, Lae'zel. Thank you.'

'It is not as straightforward as the ten thousand decrees.' She sounded frustrated and, pushing to her feet, she turned back to her own tent with a brusque, 'I will think on this.'

One by one, Dante's companions scattered until it was as it had been, only Shadowheart at their side and the fire. Dante set the lute down carefully.

'Would you believe me if I said I hadn't meant for that to be such a big deal?'

She laughed quietly. She wasn't ready to hear it yet, but she had a laugh like the sweetest moonbells.

'I would, actually.' Shadowheart shook her head in wonder. 'You inspire all of us, and yet you seem not to understand it.' She paused, then added, 'I wondered, for a time, if you truly cared for me. You spoke so highly of everyone, and took time I did not think we could spare to help them, and it made me think...I wasn't special. I wasn't the only one you cared for.'

'Shadowheart...'

'It was a selfish thought, a long time ago.' Another laugh. 'Not so long, I suppose, but it feels a lifetime past. It doesn't upset me now. What we have is even more than that, isn't it?'

Dante nodded. They almost felt like that was the more selfish thought, when it came from them. That they would fight and kill for the others but they would die for her. They said as much and Shadowheart sucked in a breath, expression mercurial, unsettled between a powerful pleasure and a look they could not pinpoint. It was not concern, exactly. Conviction?

'I will never ask that of you,' she said. 'Do you know that? You have promised me yourself forever at my side. I intend to lay claim to it.'

Dante closed their eyes. A strange urge filled their mind--its red was not of that blood-soaked kind, but fire-bright. They reached for their lute again, but Shadowheart took their hand in hers before they could.

'You could speak it, you know. How you feel. Instead of playing it for all to hear. I may not be her servant anymore but there are some things that perhaps require...privacy, if not secrecy,' she teased. 'You always let me lead the way. Why is that?'

Dante's eyes flickered to the night, the dark beyond. 'Because she did not let you choose. Because the rest of your life was orders and punishment. Because everything has been taken from you and I will not take anything more.'

'And what of what was taken from you?'

It scratched something deep inside, that question. Clawed open something that had begun to heal, or at least to close over without Dante poking and prodding at it, well-ignored.

'I think...' (A vast, blank canvas was their mind. Soaked in red paint. No thoughts had ever marred its surface. Not chisels or brushes as their tool but knives and wicked tearing things.) 'I - ' (Fields of rolling hills, the sweet-sick stench of iron. The hills are soft underfoot. They are bodies piled high and your body aches in satisfaction, a job well done.) 'I don't think it is the same. As wicked a thing as it is, I cannot help but think it may have been deserved. That I am more wicked still.'

It was a thought for the night, and one they could not yet answer. Shadowheart lifted their hand and kissed it, their veins burning red as she did. Dante moved their bedroll a fraction closer and tangled their fingers with her as the firelight dimmed and the night drew in closer.

Perhaps that's why I could never be a cleric,' they mused. 'If your dark lady couldn't love you, there is no god who could love me.'

[hereticglory]

i'm having fun with ffxivwrite. i want more prompts to give me an excuse to write about violence though

[sapphire363]

I don't have any characters I could use this for at the moment but I thought the idea was interesting.

Using a tie on a character who wouldn't normally wear one as foreshadowing that that character is going to die.

Like whatever situation that causes them to start wearing the tie is what's slowly killing them, or as an indicator that the situation is becoming harder and harder to escape.

Every time the character is feeling under pressure/anxious/nervous they adjust (tighten) their tie, acting as a metaphor for a noose tightening around their neck

[prodijedi]

“   Fear makes men more dangerous than the Force ever could. ” from T'ra!!

── ⠀⠀@strcngered

⠀⠀[ ⠀⠀ FROM Darkness Haunts Your Narrative⠀⠀]

THE YOUNG INITIATE DIDN’T KNOW what to make of this ancient Jedi Master, but he nevertheless tilted his head, INTRIGUED by her words. For a boy of only fifteen, he is already surprisingly well-acquainted with fear. Then, he glanced back down at his hands, frowning.

⠀⠀“I feel fear a lot.” Dooku admitted, biting his lip. Anxiety slithered into his soul, capturing him within its ironclad grasp. If he felt fear as frequently as he does, was there something wrong with him? “I talked to Master Yoda about it, and he told me that fear is perfectly human so long as I don’t let mine ever consume me — but I guess that’s what I find so scary.” He fidgeted with his hands, cheeks reddening in embarrassed shame. “I’m scared that one day, my fear will consume me, and I’ll become dangerous. I don’t wanna become dangerous, because that means hurting people, but I’m scared I will.”

[prayers-to-hyliarceus]

🖊️

Hrrgh... I get these headaches sometimes. It started about half a year ago, way before I fell into the Pokémon world.

It may just be... phantom sensation, I think it was called. I don't know why exactly it manifests at my head, but sometimes I feel like something's there even though there's nothing. That thing feels like it's... bleeding. I don't know. It shouldn't be possible.

[12-toads-in-a-trench-coat]

Soulmate au where you feel your soulmate's sickness and they feel yours, and one is a clean freak(avoids sickness at all costs) and the other believes they are invincible

[ghoul-haunted]

oh OH I forgot I already fixed this crunchy plot point about crasso and pompeyo running on a mayoral ticket together by having them share the same home province, it's just that pompeyo's family had Debt When He Was Very Young and Left For The City (what's this? foreshadowing? in THIS economy? it's more likely than you think)

[the-chickenshit-oddity]

Merlin prompt

Massive spoilers for all of it, i guess

The end kind of implies that Merlin has waited this entire time and still is waiting for Arthur's return, but what if Arthur kept coming back again and again? Okay so mostly I really want to see those two in basically every era there ever has been in between the show's time and now. Please?

[lyralit]

ive seen the addition to your foreshadowing post where you added the crow rhyme, but... how is useful in foreshadowing...? are you saying to change the words to make it relevant somehow? the rhyme itself doesnt use foreshadowing that i see, so I'm just confused how you mean?

I'd think of it more as adding the appropriate number of crows in the background. if the crows are mentioned enough, the reader will keep them at the back of their mind and maybe you could add the rhyme somewhere.

this probably isn't foreshadowing enough, but it's a great way to make the ending result, the revealing, a little more "oh I should've caught that"

[hirokiyuu]

besk/instance 29 <:)

29. Before everything changed

"Don't be a spoilsport, Tan. It's good for morale--"

"I'm sorry," Instance cuts in, dragging her eyes away from the drunken raucous mess before them and already feeling her lip curl back, "but what did you just call me?"

"Tan," says Besk, utterly unrepentant with a little smile lingering on her face. Her eyes slide over and as her eyes meet Instance's, her grin widens, a pleased little curl that suits her face far too well for Instance's comfort. "The rest of us all have nicknames, why not you?"

Back on Earth, whenever Instance tilted her head back and sneered as she is now, everyone went running for the hills. Besk doesn't even flinch. "Nicknames are a ridiculous and childish practice that I want absolutely no part of."

"Come on, live a little."

Instance gives her another look to show Besk exactly what she thinks of that sentiment, but again Besk is unphased. Or--no, her smile does shift, just a little. Softer, a little less smug. "I mean it," says Besk, gently. "You shut yourself up in Engineering every single day, and when you come out for meals you've always got that scowl on your face. We only just barely managed to drag you out for Flulu's birthday party--"

Of all the fucking things in the galaxy; Instance snorts just hearing the words. Somehow that rallies Besk, who reaches out and touches a hand to Instance's elbow, and she's not smiling anymore but her face is still earnest. "I mean it," she repeats, and Instance is somehow deathly aware of the warmth of her hand pressed against her own arm. "What you're doing isn't healthy in the long-term, and we still have the better part of twenty years ahead of us. You cannot be pushing yourself so hard, or psychologically speaking you will not survive. And you, of all people, are someone we cannot afford to lose, Chief Engineer."

Against her will Instance is still, staring down at this girl before her. "Tan," says Besk, and her grip tightens minutely. "Instance, whatever you'd like me to call you. You have to be happy, if you're going to survive this. If all you do is work and work and work, you're going to drive yourself to an early grave, do you understand me? You are not the only person on this ship whose job it is to keep everyone alive."

Instance's tongue is glued to the top of her mouth as Besk stares up at her, bright and open and arresting. And it isn't as if she hasn't looked at Besk before, but up close like this the details all jump out: the faintest hint of freckles on her cheeks, the mole hiding nearly on her hairline, the way light bounces purple off her dark eyes. "It doesn't have to be much," says Besk. "Coffee with the Captain, sometimes. Or visiting hydroponics to see the plants. Anything at all. Whatever you want. Just as long as you aren't working yourself to death in your lab, alright?"

No one's ever, not once, told Instance to put her work down and relax, in a way that would ever make her do so. At least, not until now. "...Alright," says Instance, slowly. "I... do see your point."

And somehow, just that small concession is enough to put that awful smile back on Besk's face--the smaller one, still a little smug but warmer more than anything else. "Good," she says, and releases Instance. The space where her hand had been feels cold, a simple study in contrasts and thermal reactions that nevertheless Instance's mind finds itself lingering on. "And if I find out you haven't been leaving, I'll come drag you out myself."

...She really would, wouldn't she? Against her will Instance feels the corner of her mouth twitch. "Though of course," says Besk, "if you want to see me, you can just come find me yourself. My door is always open, after all."

"Maybe," Instance allows, grudgingly, and there's that cat-that-got-the-cream smile again spreading over Besk's face. "It would beat dealing with anything like that, at least."

She nods her head out at the spectacle before them, at Tirah and her latest boyfriend spinning each other around wildly, at Hal dozing by the refreshments with an empty glass in his hand, at Flulu and Rhett in the midst of some inane drinking contest, supervised by Eudicot, of all people. Ugh. She came out of her lab for this.

Besk only laughs. "If I'm being honest," she says, before nudging Instance with her elbow, "I did want to talk to you about all of that, but I wanted some space too." Instance raises an eyebrow; Besk smiles angelically back. "Two birds, one stone?"

This time when Instance feels the smile tug at her lips, she doesn't smother it fully, and in return Besk's smile shrinks into something a little more genuine before she resettles against the wall and returns to watching the party with Instance, so close their arms nearly touch.

It isn't the worst way to spend an evening, Instance thinks. She could do without the ruckus around them, but... it isn't unpleasant. Spending time with Besk.

[idanwyn-et-al]

(XIV||22-29): Fuse.

(Continued from here.) (♪ - I highly recommend listening to this one for reading!)

Despite her best efforts, that flame of bravery quailed as she was guided to the crowded steps of the Tribunal. Her seeking eyes picked them out of the assembled; her immediate family, dressed in somber finery as befitted the occasion. Raphael Bale, her father, his salt-and-pepper hair combed neatly back from his worried face. Her mother, Mathilde, similarly-frightened with a spark of indignant anger in her pinched expression; taller than her husband by six ilms or so, a gift from her Durendaire grandmother, as was her umber skin. Mathilde’s sister, Elodie de Centurio, had her sword arm looped through Mathilde’s; she cut an impressive, elegant figure as always, with her blazing-red hair and its streak of white tamed into short curls, her sturdy adventurer’s body immaculate in a tailcoat and dress trousers. Anne-Sophie’s elder brother Felix, heir to the House, kept his face schooled into a perfect courtly mien that gave nothing away; it was only when his eyes caught hers that he offered her a wink, which stirred that flame of hope within her breast. It burned brighter as she saw Noémie, hand-in-hand with her wife, Aurienne de Courcellain; the astrologian and the pacifist mouthing ‘go get ‘em’ and ‘we’ve got you, Annie,’ respectively.

Rallying herself with their support, she stood up as straight as she could, managing to look much taller than her five-fulm-two-ilm frame would seemingly allow. They had come, after all. They would stand by her to the end.

---Previously, in the Gyshal’s Greens:---

I’ve always enjoyed rain. Even now, as it patters against the shingles of my hideaway, it brings back memories of watching droplets streak like serpentine comets against the lead-glass panes of our summer home. For all that we Bales are a hardy folk, favoring strength of body as a means to carry a clever mind, we didn't much care for outdoor excursions when it rained.

Everything within that western manor took on a festive air during summer thunderstorms. Stewards that had served since Father and Uncle Alberic were babes at the breast pressed their noses to the windows, gasping with delight as levin threaded wild ribbons between the clouds. Father would break out the good port and overindulge, playing cards and dice in the cellars with the kitchen staff. Mother and Aunt Elodie would gather us children in the conservatory facing the gardens, then throw the doors wide and race us to the stables and back, laughing and shrieking with each heart-rattling boom of thunder. “Warm up, wet moppets,” Mother would say each time we returned indoors, all of us stripping down to our smallclothes and seeking out the baths in the eastern wing.

Later, Felix would help the maids with the washing, while Noémie and I curled up with books and board games in the library, letting the warm fire dry our combed hair. As the cloudy skies grew darker, Mother would draw Father to bed, which we children all pretended not to notice, especially because it meant we could stay up late. Felix used to join us half the time, pretending he was too old and too important for our silliness, but inevitably succumbing to our childhood flights of fancy.

I wonder how many times Aunt Elodie carried each of our overtired bodies to bed in her strong swordswoman’s arms, giving us a gentle kiss on our foreheads before retiring for the night herself. Safe. We were all safe during those storms; the mountains around our estate were much taller than its highest gables, and the dragons did not often attack when levinbolts fused blinding pathways in the skies, seeking the tallest targets.

Perhaps that is why I enjoy this cabin, called the Gyshal’s Greens, so much. It feels safe, too; hidden and remote. A summer estate for the Knights Errant; humble for an estate, to be sure, but with its own vault beneath its weathered boards. Its own thriving gardens, too, and a nearby spring-fed brook. No stewards---at least, not yet---but we all like it that way. It means there is always good work to be done; the sort that leaves you exhausted but fulfilled as you enjoy a filling supper that you grew much of with your own hands.

I had plans to start a dodo hatchery in the spring, for meat and eggs. Perhaps a pen of aldgoats in the blackberry brambles out back, too, if we could keep them from destroying our crops. I say “had”, because my future is uncertain now. This may be my last night in the Greens, and I am here alone; Miovont off to Ala Mhigo with his sailing crew, and Trineaux with his adoptive parents in Empyreum. Though I miss their company, in truth I am glad for this moment of solitude. Miovont’s lighthearted jokes might fall flat for me tonight; a shame, since he tells such jokes as a way to stubbornly defy the early death that crawls through his veins. Trineaux would be keeping his hands busy, either cooking or cleaning or separating out the mending for me to do; though born to nobility, he was raised in the Brume, and his family performs day-to-day tasks with fervency that nearly seems religious in nature. Strange how that particular trait is never seen as heretical.

No, I should not let my thoughts turn to bitterness. I must have faith. Ishgard is changing, and, when I am honest with myself, the actions that I took to get myself to the First were rather reckless. Now that I have travelled more, both in that other world and in mine own, I understand that the rite I performed could leave any nation vulnerable. It is my dearest hope that the Holy See knows my contrition on this matter, while still allowing that the practicing of such magicks cannot and should not be anathema any longer.

I have already prepared for tomorrow. A suit of my dress armor sits polished on its wooden form, my Glass at the ready by its side; not the same dress armor I favored when I travelled to the First, but similar enough. I know the Temple Knights will strip me of it straight away, but it is important to me to come correct, as they say.

I will enjoy the fire in the hearth and the rain against the windows until they lull me to sleep. When I awake, I will muster my courage and head to Whitebrim Front to turn myself in. I wonder if I can collect the bounty on myself and donate it to some venerable cause; the Fury knows I have put any number of smallfolk at risk simply by accepting their bread and board. Perhaps someone will catch me on the road tomorrow and take the reward; given how Nymeia has been spinning my threads of late, it would suit.

When at last Anne-Sophie dozes off in the oversized chair, she dreams of an upturned ewer, pouring a gentle stream over the Gyshal’s Greens. Atop these waters are illuminated pages that float like water lilies, surrounding the Mystic Knight with a sense of peace that she has not known in moons.

(Continued and concluded here!)

[nonbinaryeye]

Artifacts to be examined

Written for @lonelyeyesweek

Day 3 - Artifact

The Usher Foundation obtains quite strange artifacts. They barely manage to write down their strange history before Magnus Institute starts making the claims for them.

Read on AO3

…

Charlie is thrilled about their promotion. They were working in the Research department of the Usher Foundation for quite a while and most of the time they were just sorting documents and doing background checks of items from the comfort of their office. Nothing they would call real research. Nothing that would allow them to come in contact with the supernatural and cursed-… They stop themselves in their mind. No, these are not the appropriate terms as their boss would say. ‘The objects with suspicion of unnatural occurrence’ is what they are expected to call them. Or something like that.

But who cares. Charlie has always been fascinated by occult and unexplainable stuff and they will finally get their chance to learn more about it. They will get to lead their own project researching their own item with a history of ‘unnatural occurrences.’ Last few days they have been studying all the information so far, they prepared possible suggestions for experimentations and they’ve signed all the necessary documentation regarding safety measurements with handling it. And today, today they can finally start the real work-

“What do you mean ‘the item not found’? Check again!” Charlie leans over to see at the screen of the artifact storage curator because she surely must have put it wrongly in the system. The curator gives them an annoyed look and turns the screen away from Charlie.

“I have just added in the code you said,” she shrugs, “It says the items are no longer in care of Usher Foundation as project #0110207 ‘Wedding Rings’ was canceled-“

“What? My research project was canceled?” Charlie interrupts her because… what the fuck? No one told them anything! This surely is not possible. It must be some mistake. The curator still looks very unbothered. 

“I am just reading what is on the screen. Ask the boss of your department, not me.”

“I will…” without any other word Charlie turns around. They are angry because what is the meaning of this? They came today at work ready to start their research and the items they are supposed to be experimenting on are now just… gone?

The project work name ‘Wedding Rings’ is quite self-explanatory as the artifacts tied to it are two simple gold wedding rings that appear quite ordinary. As so many other items in Artifact storage do after all. But the story behind them – at least the parts that were known to Charlie – is one of the more intriguing ones.

A couple apparently bought it second hand suspiciously cheap, so it is likely they were stolen or obtained in some other not completely legal matter. But they were from real gold and so said couple did not mind the questionable origin as they were saving for a new place to stay and  they were happy to get to save some money on their wedding expenses. So far that would be a tale similar to tons and tons of other artifacts here. The strange and fascinating thing here is that even though those rings are clearly from the same set they both showed signs of completely different kinds of unordinary character.

 It seems that not so long after their wedding the woman who was wearing the smaller of the two rings started to have hallucinations. At first it was just voices telling her about the worst fears people around her were afraid of. Surprisingly accurate actually. In time the voices turn to vivid images of horrible nightmare scenarios. No medication seemed to be helping to stop her horrible vision. She tried to commit suicide but she survived and ended up hospitalized.

Her husband on the other hand… He started to be reclusive. Avoiding people as much as he could. Some people blamed the madness of his wife on signs of depression he started to show. But it is not like he was showing any concern for her at all. Anyway if Charlie remembers correctly the husband one day simply just disappeared leaving behind only his ring.

Charlie doesn't remember the last details of how the rings got to the Usher foundation, if some relative of theirs decided to blame the rings and give them to their organization or if someone in the research department got intrigued by the case because of some article in the newspapers and seeked details. That is not important. What, however, is important, where are they now and why is it not in Charlie’s care.

They arrive at the door of the head of the entire research division, Emilia. They still have enough manners to bother to give a few quick knocks on them before they barge in.

“Hello, Charlie, what do you-”

“Why was my project canceled?” Charlie starts before Emilia even manages to finish her greetings. She is sipping from a fresh mug of coffee looking even more tired than usual.

“The claim for the objects were made by one of our sister organizations,” she yawns and takes a sip from her beverage, “Our director himself is sorting it out. I think that… what was his name… Mr. Bouchard from Magnus institute was the one. He apparently described their exact measurements to the inch correct. I have no idea how he even found out we did not even put them into the database…” Of fucking course it was fucking Magnus Institute. It would not be the first time that they tried to ‘borrowed’ some of their more interesting artifacts. Charlie is even more aggravated now… but also they are still intrigued. Since Bouchard is straight out making claims… Does he know more about those rings?

“Did he say anything about their-... unusual aspects?”

“Actually… I think that not? He sounded a bit surprised by that part and he requested the documentation…” Never mind then. Why the hell would he even want them that badly then? Their curiosity is once again buried under their anger.

“What documentation my research did not even start.”

“Well the statements-”

“Why are we giving them up so easily? This is simply not fair!” When will those British pricks stop treating their organization as if it were just their branch. True, they strongly helped establish it as it is just something over fifty years since the Usher Foundation was founded but that gives them no rights to undermine them like that.

Emilia frowns and puts her mug down. She is well known for her bottomless patience but she is starting to look mildly annoyed with Charlie. Which is not fair as she should not be annoyed with them but with that entitled British asshole as well.

“Listen Charlie, I know you’ve been excited ‘bout this but the director sounded quite distressed and insistent after his call with Bouchard.”

“But-”

“If you have any other complaints, take it to the director. I am just a middleman here. Don’t worry we will find you some other occupation. Just let me finish my coffee now…” Emilia waves her away and takes a sip from her mug again. She starts going through papers on her table but it feels like she is doing it just to look busy.

“So, I am supposed to return back to my old department till then or what?” Charlie is upset over losing this project but the idea they would be put back to their old division till something else appears in the unforeseeable future is even worse. They want to make a difference! Interact with the real supernatural artifacts no matter how dangerous.

“No, it is fine I am sure there was something…” Emilia is about to give her more lies but then she stops and puts her mug back down again. Something on one of the documents on her table must have caught her attention. Charlie steps closer hoping to catch a glance. “Oh, actually – how would you mind a little business trip?”

“Business trip?” Just working with a real artifact requiring authorization was exciting. But being able to interact with some outside the facilities of the Foundation? That sounds too good to be true.

“We have some reports about activity in Blue Ridge, Virginia and we need someone to investigate it.

“I’m in!” Charlie knows they should probably ask for more information and maybe not show so much excitement especially after how disrespectful they were about just suddenly ending their last project but does the saying not go ‘when life closes you a door it opens you a window’?

“Excellent,” Emilia smiles and Charlie struggles not to smile themselves as well. I will send you all the details then and… say, have you ever been hunting?”

“I went shooting a few times with my dad? Why will it be dangerous.”

“Oh no, I’m sure it won’t. You’ll do just fine…”