#hyrde snippet

[letterboxd-in]

AMYRRAN CHAPTER 1 SNEAK PEAK: TERRIBLE THINGS

Painted stones marked the place where the lies died. Their beautiful crime was etched into the earth, plainly written with the steel tongue of a shovel. An axe lay next to it, bathed in that most terrible thing.

What a terrible bloody moon above them! From whence it came? It was not of the earth below, and it was not at home in the sky above. There was no happy place for a moon like that, for it was merely a stone, void of purpose. Vapid and nothing. It would leave such a perilous mark on those children, so young and impressionable. Their impressions lay in what was beneath them, crawling at their feet. No, not crawling, not quite. Slithering. Coiling. As if it was human, once. The days rot. Statues become rubble become pebbles become nothing. The nothing-beast tried to breathe—oh, how it tried!—but only a raspy drawl escaped from lips stained by that most terrible thing.

Those poor children, they who bore witness to it. Well, perhaps everything happens for a reason. That forest, it existed on the outskirts between civility and incivility, home and the unhomely. And there were no painted stones before. Stones lined up in a circle or two; possibly three if one looked at it with new eyes. The fact of the matter is those stones didn’t live in the forest. They never did, and it is a rational fear to presume they should not live there. There was a living place for each living thing, the stones had been brought from one place to the next. Painted in all the colours of the rainbow—the rainbow that wept and contorted, spilling reprehensible hues onto the earth—the stones sat. Sadly, they did not have the patience to sit for long. They rolled along, lugging the jagged sides this way and that, smearing in the dirt, dulling the sides.

Would it be wrong to call them children now? Henceforth, they have changed. They are new. Not much older, and not much more mature, but changed nonetheless. They watched the nothing-beast with slack jaws. It held onto hate with more vigour than it did its own pulse. Ghosts of the past wrapped their fingers over the children’s shoulders. Cold, imposing, and absolute. Yet, who’s to care for the past when the present is crawling out of its very grave?

The children—two of them, and not yet teenagers, to adhere to the stained laws of accuracy—could not so much as move away as the nothing-beast clawed at the dirt. That poor feeble thing! Maggots skittered out of every orifice, eating it from the inside out… and still it could not stand. The taste of its flesh was long gone, not even the tang of death was felt on its skin. Frail is the flesh wrought by decay. Left alone, abandoned in the woods for a fate worse than death—the continuation of it. In the cradle of creation, and the millennia of gore left in its wake, the nothing-beast fought tooth and nail to become what it once was. Of course, it no longer had tooth nor nail, but who are we to kill hyperbole?

Though the nothing-beast lacked many earthly features—its face was far too rotted to even be considered a face—it played the part of human well enough, if not for the smell. If one sent a thousand pigs to the slaughter and left their bodies to be picked apart by strays, it would only begin to emulate the stench. Burning citrus, corroding clementines. All the smog it would take to fill one’s lungs so deeply they would never recover. Smog suffocates all in the presence of such a monster. And its body, oh, there was not much to say of it. Something between soot and dirt stuck to it in every place it could, and some places it couldn’t. Skin and fabric matted and tangled amongst one another, pieces of the nothing-beast peeled off as it slinked along. Flies swarmed above, crowding in search of meat. They coalesced upon the nothing-beast’s brow like a crown. The tattered remains of clothing hung off its sides, introducing an exposed ribcage with a heart inside, half-eaten and still-beating.

And yet, spinning pointless prose would do no good. There is seldom a line of poetry to describe the abhorrent creature that lay before those children. And lay it did. Fingers dug into the soil beneath as the nothing-beast tried to shift its hulking body into action. What weary soul festered within, how it ached to live! But one cannot revive what was lost so long ago, and lost so cruelly. Foul creature, it claimed it was better than itself merely by existing still.

“Fawn.”

One child spoke to another. The first, with tattered black hair that cascaded past his shoulders and clutching his cloak, addressed the other, one with skin soaked by dirt and freckles, wearing a humble dress.

“What?”

Both their voices were irreversibly tainted by the inexplicable fear of death. Death before them, in front of them, inside them. The inescapable truth laid right there, impossible not to witness. The intimate dance of life and death had perished along with their youth, for now there was only the dead.

“Do something,” the boy said.

“Do what?” A slurred mix of panic and unknowable anger poisoned her voice. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Anything,” he pleaded, “just do something.”

The young maiden, Fawn was her name, held her eyes tight on the nothing-beast, not yet ready to discover new action. Action, what a funny thing! It is, of course, the act, but it is too the stage, the role, the thought before. One could waste a whole life—perhaps even two—on the thought and the role and the stage, ne’er approaching the act itself. Though, was Fawn the type of girl to give in when the thought falters? When the mind betrays, who is left? What is the action? She swayed in the light, midnight breeze, like a sunflower with a snapped stem. For there was no sun to search for, and the shiver that cascaded along her frame was mighty enough to snap her in two.

Sunflowers, how shy they are in the night. Fawn fell to that mind, stolen by the crimson moonlight. When the world exists for one to be safe in, that world becomes all they’ve known. Fawn was safest in the day, in the presence of humble, stunning sunflowers. The night? It was unfamiliar. Her eyes were too open.

‘Do not mourn it,’ the boy told himself as he watched Fawn shake herself out of stagnation, ‘it doesn’t deserve that.’ His heart could seldom make space for the monster before him.

The cardinal feasts on seeds because that is its lot. One must not refuse the cardinal its seeds. Similarly, one must not refuse a child their empathy. Apathetic children give way to heartless adults, heartless leaders, and other ne’er-do-wells. However, there is no folly in turning one’s heart away from monsters. Boys who regard monsters as they are find solace in the truth it reveals. As such, he did not flinch as Fawn wrenched the axe from the soil.

“What—” she began— “what do I do?”

He glanced to her, with a look somewhere between sympathy and impatience. “You picked up the axe.”

She did not have to explain her fear.

“Jericho—”

“Use it.”

Fawn’s breath trembled. The nothing-beast, perhaps jealous that it had to be in the presence of those who still could breathe, swiped with a mangled claw. It raked the dirt, scarring it with that most terrible thing. The most terrible thing that clustered under the nothing-beast’s nails—or what remained in their place—smeared along its entire body, turning white bone red. Jericho and Fawn staggered back, narrowly avoiding its attack. Something snapped as it moved. Twig or bone, none could be certain.

Then it lurched closer. A newfound, feverish desire to live overtook senses that burnt away years ago. It longed to live, and to live, it had to kill. A guttural screech smothered the air, sending baby birds careening from their nests high above.

“Fawn! Kill it, please!”

“How?!”

The axe, heavy in her hands, pulled her back as the nothing-beast lunged. It could not cover much distance, but that did nothing to stop the screams. It cried for a life it no longer had, and would never see again. If it could cry, tears would flood what used to be its face. Shrill whines pierced the children’s ears, borne of a creature with no voice. Its hands prised at the earth in a feeble attempt to pull itself up, or maybe dig its second grave. Though, it would be unwise to call them ‘hands;’ what the nothing-beast used were claws. And, with claws outstretched, it swung again.

“Stay away!” She cried.

The forest’s foliage ran thick like veins. Each tree root burst from the earth, coursing through the land, weaving a web of half-sunken flora. Lost to time, the forest waited on the fringes of reality, finding consolation in the hope that it would never be disturbed again. That idea seems so foolish now.

[letterboxd-in]

The stories bound betwixt these pages of yore are not of wholly love. Love, yes, in its multitudes are so bound to these pages, but it is not solely that. For within the borders of homely Aestelwic, love comes costly, intertwined with loss in a web weaved so carefully, nary the world’s best spinner could unravel it. I call this entangled fabric of a tale Hyrde; a word unfamiliar to mine ears and yours alike, yet I find the people of Aestelwic know it to be somewhat common, if not a true word to them. Their words hold meaning, much meaning, yes, as if each little phrase was somehow a key, or a water droplet to a garden untamed, who would grow and grow and grow! Oh, what a beautiful idea! Harken, you of wearied-mind, of well-worn paces! I hold stories upon my shoulders, and I’d love nothing more than to regale a wandered soul.

[letterboxd-in]

okay, let's talk about hyrde!

hello all! so, hyrde! i've been working on it in private for a bit now, so i figure it's high time i actually introduce it!

Come forth and a hearty welcome, outcasts! Wanderers, heretics, disdained souls – nought loved by Aestelwic or it’s inhabitants, but hate does us no good. Within the walls of Aestelwic, peace comes as naturally as the air, lo, that kind breath! The outside, however, is home only to savages; monsters, beasts, and truths none are quite ready to face in all their bloodied beauty.

the basics

hyrde is a story about a small world expanded by its own history, its secrets becoming its undoing. the village of aestelwic was always made to be small, quiet and contained; tight-knit and iron-ruled. however, across the town, seeds of doubt are breaking soil. you can call hyrde a speculative horror; this is a simple historical world with traces of magic, and folk + body + psychological horror.

an important theme of this story is about the children of a society. when you have a society, you must raise the next generation of that society, or it won't continue. hyrde's children are raised thusly; obedient and kind-hearted. they don't question the world that raised them, for it's the only world they know.

but when there is a cycle of pain, secrets, and suffering, and the next generation is raised to follow that without question, the society will never change for the better. that idea is central to hyrde.

hyrde is separated into many stories about the youth of aestelwic whose paths intertwine when such a thing is called for. the amyrran saga, the wræcca saga, the fyr saga, the sarig saga, the dyre saga, the casere saga, the offrian saga, and the hælan saga. these parts are all interconnected within the whole story of hyrde.

the music

here is a playlist dedicated to hyrde if you want a musical feel for the story:

i am also considering making some of my own tracks relevant to certain characters or locations as well, will update when that occurs!

the progress

as for how much i've got done, a fairly good bit! hyrde is sitting strong with almost 15,000 words, but the massively purple prose does tend to make that number raise faster. the amyrran saga has the most done, about 4 chapters, and the debuts for the rest are being written!

i think that's all i have to say about hyrde! i'm very passionate about this one and really proud of how far it's gone already! with that, i bid you goodbye!

"folyn kadel ruathir faudaig taithaig kainbir."

('i leave to you uncountable fortune and excellent travelling.' => aestelwic's language)

taglist bc its been way too long since i updated with actual writing stuff:

@an-indecisive-nerd, @autism-purgatory, @cherrychiplip, @arality, @corinneglass,

@drchenquill, @gioiaalbanoart, @glassfrogforest, @hetaeraofhephestus, @honeybewrites,

@illarian-rambling, @inseasofgreen, @introchasingstars, @justsomeunmemorablewords, @kind-lion,

@leahnardo-da-veggie, @lesbianmessiah, @melpomene-grey, @millipede333, @moltenwrites,

@mysticstarlightduck, @noxxytocin, @oliolioxenfreewrites, @ominous-faechild, @paeliae-occasionally,

@pheonix358, @pluppsauthor, @rumeysawrites, @ri-toast167, @storyteller-kara,

@tc-doherty, @thecomfywriter, @thecrazyalchemist, @the-golden-comet, @thesaddersalad,

@theink-stainedfolk, @verdant-mainframe, @world-of-iridensia, @wyked-ao3

bonus snippet!

Painted stones marked the place where the lies died. Their beautiful crime was etched into the earth, plainly written with the steel tongue of a shovel. An axe lay next to it, bathed in that most terrible thing. What a terrible bloody moon above them! From whence it came? It was not of the earth below, and it was not at home in the sky above. There was no happy place for a moon like that, for it was merely a stone, void of purpose. Vapid and nothing. It would leave such a perilous mark on those children, so young and impressionable. Their impressions lay in what was beneath them, crawling at their feet.

[letterboxd-in]

𓇢𓆸 the hyrde masterpost

the official navigation portal for current and upcoming hyrde content!

𓅪 visit this post for the introduction to hyrde! 𓅪

☾ 𓃦⋆⁺₊ tag navigation guide ☾ 𓃦⋆⁺₊

(will be updated as more content is released!)

#hyrde: all hyrde content!

#hyrde characters: character specific things (usually "#hyrde character [character name]")

#hyrde snippets: excerpts from the story!

#hyrde lore: extra info, lore, and fun facts!

#hyrde spoilers: spolier content!

and each saga has a unique tag, #amyrran (𓅪), #wræcca (𓃹), #fyr (🕯), #sarig (⚚), #dyre (𓁺), #casere (𐦍), #offrian (☘︎), and #hælan (♬)! view masterposts through links on pictures!

𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓋼𓍊 links to character profiles 𓋼𓍊 𓆏 𓋼𓍊

the children: jericho, fawn, wren, kit, jester, jackal, birdie, seren, staniša, sigrid, willow, frej, heath, amaryllis, picket, doe, eira, alistair, theophania.

the council members: the seamstress, the spinner, the weaver, the marionette, the artisan, the sculptor, the crafter, she without title.

the townsfolk: rayaan, vera, arthur, raijin, anwen, isobell, rook, nixie.

@an-indecisive-nerd, @autism-purgatory, @failingghost, @arality, @corinneglass,

@drchenquill, @gioiaalbanoart, @glassfrogforest, @hetaeraofhephestus, @honeybewrites,

@illarian-rambling, @inseasofgreen, @introchasingstars, @justsomeunmemorablewords, @kind-lion,

@leahnardo-da-veggie, @lesbianmessiah, @melpomene-grey, @millipede333, @moltenwrites,

@mysticstarlightduck, @noxxytocin, @oliolioxenfreewrites, @ominous-faechild, @paeliae-occasionally,

@lshark-cs, @pluppsauthor, @rumeysawrites, @ri-toast167, @storyteller-kara,

@tc-doherty, @thecomfywriter, @thecrazyalchemist, @the-golden-comet, @thesaddersalad,

@theink-stainedfolk, @world-of-iridensia, @wyked-rebellion, @jacquessayshello, @tryingtimi