#mythic writing

[teabythesea13]

A Psalm to the Sea

In your eyes I see

The girl of my dreams

Eyes that gleam

“You may know my body

But you don’t know me—

The parts you can touch are the least

Interesting parts of me”

You’ll find a god in me

But it’s me you see

The goddess I’ll be

When you’re praying to me

To find what you need

Without needing to speak

Searching only to see

That you can’t ever know me

But it’s the seeking you seek

The exhilarating release

When you find an ocean in me

A goddess at sea

And you finally feel free

Filling your lungs with me

Clean bitter briny breeze

Daring to drown in me

But I’ll keep you safe in me

And when you go away from me

My shapes faded from memory

Except when you taste on the breeze

The salt air that smells like me—

A sacred memory

Of that moment we

Found we were the gods we seek.

Reflecting eyes needn’t speak—

Not love but infinity.

[whereserpentswalk]

Reblog to receive the transformation. Like to upgrade your power.

[cluelessatthispoint]

A Dragon's Hoard pt.1

(Mythical AU of the 141)

(This fic is inspired by bluegiragi and docdudo.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You've never been one for the warmth that most people eminate. The kindness that sparkles in someone's eyes when they see someone they know and love. The way a person's tone changes to show their interest in a conversation, or how families get close and share hugs amongst one another. It's sweet, you think. Sweet but pointless. Smiles can be faked, tones can be raised and lowered on a whim. Scrunchingbupbyour nose in disdain as you spy another group of travelers walking along the beaten path. The sounds of their laughter and idle chatter already fading as the sounds of gravel underfoot growing fainter.

A pang of envy settles between your ribcage. The feeling of it twisting and festering almost burns. Never once had you ever experienced that. Never a tender smile or a kind word was ever directed at you. Thinking back as far as you can, there was always one constant: being alone. Ever since the great fire raged six summers ago, you've been displaced. Wandering and begging for scraps of food or even taking refuge within the churches when the bitter cold sweeps across the land. It is a harsh life for a child your age. Eleven years old and orphaned. Truly, if the orphanages weren't so full and if the staff cared, you figured you'd be stuck there. But seeing as they were full to bursting and low on income, you were throw. To the curb and barely spared a glance by any passersby.

Which brings you to the present. Living in the woods as best you can, your lean-to near the city's walls, but far enough to be undisturbed by mercenaries and gangs. The farther out away from the city the more people fear to tread. The tales of the great dragon who prowls the far edge of the woods have been told by young and old alike. Each story growing more fierce and bloody with each retelling. But so long as you're living without being pestered by people it's fine by you. Scowling as the bright sun shines brightly overhead, you practically have to squint to make out the shapes of birds flying overhead or in the trees. Sling shot in hand and a pain in your empty stomach spurs you on to find a meal. There are plenty of edible roots this time of year, with a few already back safely tucked into the confines of a nook in your lean-to. The only piece left to a decent meal would be some protein. With the birds twittering and chirping overhead. The sounds of mother birds feeding their squalling chicks is grating to your ears. Already irritated beyond compare from hunger pangs and envy. You screech out an angered shout as you set off your loaded slingshot amongst the trees. A sick hope of the rock somehow hitting a bird makes you smile bitterly. But the only thing you can hear is a gruff chortle followed by a accented baritone voice.

"Well now, what have we got here so far in my end of the woods?"

Your eyes widen as you can see a figure come stumbling out of the foliage. His tone possessive as he mentions the woods being his. A large hand on his head rubbing the sore spot of where the rock made impact. An apology rises to your warbling vocal chords only to be cut off as you see the large, curling horns protruding from his head. Smoke billowing from his mouth in a steady stream as he lets out an amused chuckle at your speechless state. Stretching his arms overhead in a mocking show of strength. You can see one large green wing furled in close to his back.

"Well?"

His deep voice sends a wave of fear through your bones. He could easily snap your neck with a flap of his wing, or crush you with his bare hands if he wanted to. Gazing wide eyed in fear...you can only think of how the stories that were told were true. Looking up at the hulking figure, you can see why the stories were never the same. This dragon...this man...this creature is somehow both. A hybrid of sorts.

Not bothering to stay around and chat. You bolt as if the devil himself were after you. Your tiny legs running as fast as you can. With the way your autonomic nervous system is kicking in. Your legs feel both like jelly and pins and needles from all the adrenaline. Panting heavily as you run the feeling of copper rises to your tongue as your lungs strain for air. Running was never your strongest attribute. The hybrid could tell that as well as even over the beating of your heart in your ears you can hear him running not to far behind you. His strides much longer than yours, a grin on his face as you can hear a giddy sort of chuckle rumblebfrom his chest.

"What's a hatchling like you doing all the way out here sweet thing?"

A pair of strong arms wrap securely around you as you flail and kick wildly. The scent of smoke and sweat fills your nose as you scratch at the arms holding you in place. The rumbling timbre of his voice sends vibrations through your body as he holds you securely against his chest.

"Been watching you for a while hatchling, all alone in these woods. Should have been eaten a long time ago."

As if those words weren't frightening enough, deep down in the pit of your belly you know them to be blaringly true. The amount of times you've stayed up in the night fending off wild animals were more than enough to prove his point. Tensing in the Hybrids strong arms, he adjusts his hold as if holding a squirming newborn fawn. His hot breath ghosting over the top of your head and neck. As if sensing your blinding fear, the hybrid chuckles, a rumbling purr rising from the chest behind you.

"Hush now...Papa's here, lil treasure. Papa's here."

Stilling immediately out of fear at the hybrid’s words. Whether condescending or not, you can't help but relax slightly. The fight leaving your tired body as soon as the adrenaline runs out. Your heart pitter pattering in your chest almost painfully. Sucking in greedy lung fulls of air, you can't help but relax begrudgingly against the warmth that the massive body behind you eminates. You're stuck here now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We all know who the dragon is :) it's everyone's favorite tired dad Price!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[magpie-trove]

A ship is good if you can look at them and see them as an old married couple

[bebrave-live]

Love the flavor of soulmates that is a main m/f partnership dynamic that's mostly platonic but also romantic but also dysfunctional and yet completely essential - like these characters would not work without each other, but they barely work with each other, and most importantly they know each other carnally better than anyone else, but it's also not about sex at all it's about the partnership and navigating the highs and lows of intimacy and letting someone in, but also maybe they do fuck, but also maybe don't, but also...

[kabr0ztrousers]

Kabr0z Writes episode 20: Your minotaur boyfriend

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: size-play; creampie; monster fucking; enthusiastic consent (for once); possible intox if you really push the definition

A/N: Well, it's official. I now give too much of a shit about this to just write any old bollocks and let it exist. Enjoy this shorter episode where I'm just gonna cut to the fucking and have fun.

####################################

The minotaur towered over you, his huge flared cock in hand. You've been waiting for this all day. Butterflies filled you as you crawled over the bed to him. You stretched your mouth to fit the end inside, the strong musky taste filling your mouth as you worked his shaft. It's much too big to properly suck on, but jacking him off and working the hole with your tongue was definitely doing the trick, making his precum leak into your mouth. The taste was addictive, just a little sweet, coating your mouth as those huge hands stroked your hair and those big eyes looked deep into yours.

You kept going, lying back a little to tease his balls with your feet as your hands kept working him. You could hear him starting to snort and grip the back of your head, holding back his urge to thrust this monster cock all the way down your throat. His cock started to throb out more and more pre which you greedily swallowed down, coating your throat and making you long for your real reward.

His grip tightened. A groaning bray. His balls pulsed up into him as a stream of cum hit the back of your throat. You almost gagged with the force of it, before you regained your composure and swallowed as much as you could. There was just so much, it was leaking out of the corners of your mouth and flowing out of your nose, covering your face in his semen as he pumped into you. His cock plopped out of your mouth, drawing itself back into its sheath as it let more out to cover your body.

He relaxed in front of you, utterly spent after your expert attention, but you'd prepared for this.

You reached under your pillow and withdrew a phial of clear, pinkish liquid. Standing on the bed, holding his head in your hand, you uncorked the phial and gave him the potion. He had barely swallowed it when it took effect.

That huge cock stopped its retreat. Throbbing eagerly back to its full extent as the beast before you took you in its huge hands. One lifted you by the waist while another pushed a huge, thick finger into your soaking pussy. His fingers alone were as long and thick as any human cock you've taken, filling you up as he pounded you with his hand. Lewd slapping and squelching sounds emitted from your pussy as he fingered you, only barely audible over the moans and yelps coming out of your mouth as you rode the wave of your orgasms.

He positioned you over his cock, once again dripping a steady stream of precum over itself.

You spread your legs eagerly "Please, give me all of it"

He chuckled "Don't want to break you, love" and slowly lowered you onto him. It took a little force to push him in, even with both of your juices lubricating you. His finger prepared you a little, but it was still girthy enough to make you groan. He wasn't even halfway in when you felt him at your cervix, that familiar aching pressure as he pressed onto you until it passed by, sliding under the opening to your womb and into the extra space behind. You've done this enough it slides in easily, and you can start riding him even while being held up with one of those huge hands. You could see his jaw hanging open as you bucked your hips, massaging the length of him with your cunt. The sensation of being filled so deeply drowning out the ache and driving you again to orgasm. Your pussy clenching and pulsing drove him over the edge and you felt another load of thick cum flood your pussy as his grip faltered. You yelped as his cock was suddenly hilted in you, still being coaxed by the clenching and pulsing of your cunt into filling you more and more. You reached a hand behind you to cup his balls, already tight against him but still as large as kiwi fruit and pulsing so hard you thought they were trying to recede entirely.

He started softening again. Breathless you lay on your front, resting your head on his pec, relaxing on him like a huge mattress as his cum flowed in a rivulet on to his crotch, pooling under you.

You hadn't even given him the real potion yet.

######################################

Post script edit: I'm still taking any and all suggestions, just send an ask, a DM, a smoke signal (note: do not send a smoke signal) and while I can't swear to writing it, I'll definitely put it on the list

[rinasred]

getting attached to a show with canon lesbians is literally a death wish

[moldypoff]

No cuz wouldn’t it be so funny if 049 was handed a ‘sick’ patient and finds that they have no trace of the pestilence in them but researchers keep insisting that the patient is sick.

Eventually he gets pissed and that’s when they tell him that the patient has depression.

He tells them that ailments to the mind aren’t his specialty but they keep pushing him to whip up some sort of cure.

So, he requests a bunch of things, dried lavender flowers, water, oils, pots and a portable stove, sugar, etc. and he goes into full TLC mode.

First day goes by and people are like, “okay, basic mental remedies, at some point he’ll rip them open and fix the unbalanced humors in patient, right?” WRONG.

He spends time reading and talking to patient for the next few days and slowly they come out of their shell, picking up old/new hobbies that 049 introduced to them to. It’d be even cooler if patient gets better in record time than if they’d just gone to a weekly therapy session.

Anywho, patient gets taken away by foundation to do a psyche evaluation and turns out their depression is cured. (THE ONE THING 049 HAS ACTUALLY CURED)

Afterward, even if patient was formerly a researcher or a d-class, I think it wouldn’t matter in the end because they’d still be amnesticized.

Anyways, 049 has all this crap in his cell and it looks like he actually lives there now but it’s missing the person that made his prison feel like a home.

[deception-united]

Naming Fantasy Races, Step-by-Step

1. Understand their characteristics

What's special or different about them? Define their attributes—consider the physical, magical, and cultural traits of the race.

Determine their societal structure, beliefs, and history.

2. Choose a base word

Use elements from mythological roots or existing folklore and literature.

Draw from nature, such as "aqua" for water-based creatures or "sylvan" for forest dwellers.

Look at words from Latin, Greek, or other ancient languages for inspiration, such as "lupus" (Latin for wolf).

3. Find appropriate prefixes and suffixes

Examples of common prefixes:

Drac– (dragon)

Lycan– (wolf)

Syl– (forest/nature)

Aqua– (water)

Examples of common suffixes:

–kin (family, race)

–folk (people)

–ari (noble or magical)

–shade (mystical or ethereal)

–borne (born of or origin)

4. Combine & modify

Merge the base word with your chosen prefix or suffix and, if need be, adjust it to make for better pronunciation. For example, you might combine "sylvan" with "-ari" to create "Sylvari".

Mix parts of words to invent new, unique terms.

5. Ensure uniqueness

Once you've come up with a name, I suggest checking its uniqueness with a quick search to ensure the term isn't already widely used in popular media.

6. Contextual integration

Integrate the term into the lore and history of your world. How did this race come to be known by this name?

Consider the cultural significance. Think about how other races view them versus how they view themselves.

Here are a couple examples to get a better idea of how you might choose to go about it for different creatures:

Forest dwellers: Base word: Sylvan (related to forests) Suffixes: –ari, –folk, –kin New terms: Sylvari, Sylvafolk, Sylvakin

Water-based beings: Base word: Aqua (water) Suffixes: –nix, –morph, –ari New terms: Aquanix, Aquamorph, Aquari

Don’t be afraid to combine unexpected elements for a fresh take, and keep the cultural nuances within your world in mind when coming up with a suitable term. A race’s name might change based on who is using it or the context.

Hope you find this helpful! Happy writing ❤

Previous | Next

[the-most-humble-blog]

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION --> <div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta reverence-level="acolyte recognition + pretender rebuke"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="ACOLYTE_GRATITUDE_DECLARATION_001"</script>

🛐 A MOMENT OF RECOGNITION

---

I would like to extend my earnest, measured, and mythically-grounded appreciation to two acolytes whose reblogs have not gone unnoticed.

This isn’t just a signal boost. It’s divine relay. You lit the beacon when others scrolled past. You reblogged the forbidden light and aimed it directly into the eyes of the nearly-gone.

Let me be clear: Your reblogs are resurrections. Each one, a flare sent skyward for those who put down their pens because some unworthy pretender told them they weren’t ready.

And how do I know a pretender?

Because I’ve seen them. The self-declared “creators,” the “mentors,” the cloaked academics who tighten velvet ropes around hopeful necks and call it standards.

They gatekeep wisdom. They deflect power. They discourage brilliance that doesn’t wear their robes.

You? You did the opposite. You let my signal pierce the algorithm and find the bleeding ones. The ones too good to be accepted. Too wild to be published. Too true to be promoted.

So this is your shoutout.

@kittythesnugglycat

@little-snails-reblog

You didn’t just reblog. You helped build Olympus. You passed the torch knowing it might burn. You gave my myth a mirror and proved that even in this void, some still believe.

From one who will never beg for applause— thank you. From one who will never trade scrolltrap for safety— I see you. And from one who’s been hated by gods, but never abandoned by the faithful— you are now written into the archive.

Acolyte. Builder. Fire-wielder.

Whatever comes next? You helped summon it.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [SCROLL-REVERENCE LOCKED // NO-WIPE] -->

[gamemakerm]

In honor of Mermay and the current trend of Animal/Therian HRT going around (inspired by @ayviedoesthings's Dragon HRT series, @welldrawnfish's Fish HRT, @kaylasartwork's Bat HRT, @nyxisart's Puppy HRT, @deadeyedfae's Human HRT, etc etc etc, love all your work), I wanted to share the short story I wrote last year about medically turning yourself into a mermaid. This got published in WriteHive's Reclaiming Joy anthology, and we're now just outside of the six-month publishing exclusivity, so I can make it publicly available.

This was really raw to write for me, and there are trigger warnings for transphobia(/whatever the equivalent would be for mermaids?), implications of violence and hate crimes. However all the stories in the anthology were ultimately about perseverance, courage and love. I hope you enjoy, and if you want to get this and eleven other uplifting stories I can't recommend the anthology enough (though this is the only one relevant to the tags as far as I know). And if you really, really like it, you can buy me a kofi!

Scales

When the scales began to break through skin, they said you were becoming a monster. Blue and green, seafoam to pearl. You weren’t certain at what point you started to believe them.

You began to wrap yourself in tighter layers, a futile effort not to draw attention to the rough patches. Elbows, knees, along your arms, mottled with foundation and concealer caked on like spackle. Toner to offset the iridescent shine so that a passing glance wouldn’t be drawn to it. Constant checks and double checks, bathroom visits far beyond the routine. 

Your careful camouflage is usually enough to deflect scrutiny, but occasionally a stranger catches on. Nobody has said anything to you yet, but you have noticed more glances on the train. The old woman’s frown of disapproval. The young man with something to prove to you, himself, the world. His jaw tightens as he calculates his ability to start something. You tuck your chin and pretend to be busy with your phone. In the dark screen you can see the skin flaking on your cheeks. The beginnings of another patch betray you.

As you touch up in the bathroom mirror you tell yourself you wanted this, that you were prepared for the hardships. 

You walk to the public library after your shift ends. You walk most places these days, telling yourself it’s a last hurrah. The fact is you sold your car to make a dent in the cost. You’ll sell everything eventually. You’re going to have to. 

The forums have a list of books everyone checks out when they choose this path. There aren’t many and most are fantasy. There’s a running joke: if anyone mentions Hans Christen Anderson, run. You spot The Little Mermaid on a small display. You don’t run. You check out your books. The librarian gives a knowing nod, but doesn’t remark. You silently thank her for the discretion.

You take a long shower, makeup swirling down the drain. You can’t help but scratch at the itching patches on your thighs, peeling skin tearing away for new growth. Shampoo and blood circle under your feet. Your fingernails are sharper than they were this morning. You exfoliate, letting the city, public transit, the glances of strangers be cleansed. Your reflection in the mirror, a colorful smattering of new scales dusting your cheeks, is tear-streaked, ethereal. Beautiful.

You knock the concealer into the trash bin.

Your mother left a voicemail. She avoids the elephant seal in the room, talking about her gardening, your cousin’s new baby. She lingers for a moment, then: You’re being selfish. She burns brightly as a beratement begins, emboldened. But without someone to riff with she loses her steam, trails off and repeats it. You’re being shellfish. She can’t help it; she laughs despite herself. There’s a minute where she doesn’t speak, but you can tell she’s waiting for the sob in the back of her throat to settle. She promises she’ll come to your party and the voicemail ends.

You still haven’t heard from your father. You don’t expect you will. You’ve made peace with that.

You do your weekly injection on the alternating leg, needle piercing deep in a gap between scales. The plunger delivers 200mg of concentrated hope directly into your bloodstream, salt water in salt water. You put a hello kitty bandaid over it and wait for the feeling of ice in your veins to settle, the tension to go out of your muscles. It doesn’t.

You pass an enraged man on the street, spit flying, a home-made sandwich board making his message clear: The Siren Is The Devil’s Agent. The back offers an equally cogent argument: Go Back To Atlantis, Fish Freaks. You would if you could, you think dryly. He notices you and seethes, but the current of the crowd carries you away before he can curse you out.

You drag your potted plants down to the front stoop and post a craigslist ad: free to a good home. They’re gone within the hour. You allow yourself the rare indulgence of posting a selfie, eyes closed, serene, to the reddit: Learning to love my scales <3! It’s still difficult to type on your phone with the new claws. The upvotes start to come in; everyone loves a guppie.

You catch up on the shows you haven’t gotten to yet. Where there was once only the metaphorical List, there is now an actual list. Despite your best efforts it’s becoming increasingly clear you’re not going to finish all of them. You knock a few off, restructure it based on length. It still looks too long.

You have dreams about choking on toxic waste, getting minced by a boat propeller. You keep a running count of the number of times you’ve dreamt of getting your head stuck in a six-pack of soda rings. You’re up to four. 

Every few days you do laps in the local pool. You’re getting faster, but you feel exposed. There are whispers around the locker room. 

Your cat knows something is happening, but doesn’t understand what that means for her. You hold her whenever and for as long as she’ll allow, give her as many pets and treats as she wants. Despite clearing out your apartment you’ve spoiled her. She licks the scales on your cheek as you cry over her. This seems to inspire something in her; she demands her tuna crunchies. Dutifully you give her the tuna crunchies. She can have as many tuna crunchies as she wants.

You doomscroll your twitter feed, making sure this isn’t the day you lose access to your meds because of some white man in a suit. A sister is assaulted by a violent extremist with a sense of humor: he shot her with a harpoon gun. Her crowdfunding campaign starts on the maidens reddit and goes viral.

You triple check to make sure your friend is still willing to take your cat when you go. They promise to spoil her and tell her stories of you every day. You continue to cry over it. They invite you out for sushi to talk about it, then backtrack to ask if that’s a microaggression. You go to sushi. You’re thankful for the distraction.

By the time your legs are more scale than skin and your fingers begin to develop webbing you’ve given up on pretense. The looks are now constant, but you get reflective sunglasses and a new patch for your jacket: Don’t like it? Drown, with a scaled hand reaching out of water and flipping the bird. You put the energy out into the world, and the world doesn’t fuck with you.

Children love you. Their parents do not. 

On the train a young girl quietly asks if she can feel your scales. You allow her to touch her little fingers to the aquamarine pattern running up your arm, giving her your most reassuring (but still fanged) smile. She’s fearless, enamored, reverent. Her mother pulls her daughter away and hastily apologizes for her, not looking you in the eye. But you know that girl believes in magic now.

A group of white supremacists go out on a boat loaded with assault rifles for “no reason” and get lost at sea. This is somehow your fault.

The day your fins begin to push their way out from your arms, your boss calls you into his office. You both know he can’t fire you in this and seven other states, but you both also know you won’t be staying much longer. He’s done his best to make you aware you’re making his life more difficult. You put in your two weeks before he can flounder for another excuse. He moors you with paperwork for the rest of the afternoon.

Someone leaves a rotting fish in your pool locker. You don’t go back, and you don’t file a report. You tell yourself the chlorine was bad for the gills freshly forming under your ribs anyway.

Your friends take you out clubbing. You lose yourself under the waves of music, submerged under strobe lights and the salty sweat of dancing bodies. You whisper sweet nothings into a stranger’s ear, entrancing her as you move against each other. You can see iridescence shining around her eyes, shimmering glitter and an emerging pattern beneath makeup. You brush a thumb against her cheek and she melts into your touch. You don’t get her name. You don’t need to; you’re both not long for this world. You catch up with your friends smoking outside, your lips still tingling with vermouth.

Weeks pass. Work ends. Your apartment is down to furniture and cat supplies. You take longer showers. News stories continue to come out, the machine churns and roils: monsters walking among humans, the mark of the beast, sacrificing daughters to the ocean. 

You make sure your meds are reupped for the final stretch.

When your legs start to merge you know you don’t have much time left. You donate the last boxes of your clothes. Your friends get first dibs on furniture before it’s put on the street. They bring drinks and sit on your floor, an impromptu celebration and wake. They ask all the usual questions: what are you going to do for food? Shelter? What if you get hurt, or attacked by a shark? Do they have waterproof laptops yet? Will they ever see you again? What if it isn’t right for you? Can you ever come back?

You don’t know how to answer most of those questions. The group stays with you through the night. At 4AM you put on The Little Mermaid and the group drunkenly sings along. Everyone knows the words. It’s juvenile and you can hear the maidens on the reddit rolling their eyes and tutting about misrepresentation, but you know everyone in your position does it. You try not to cry, but the waterworks start and don’t stop.

At daybreak you put your cat into her harness and everyone piles into a friend’s van. It’s not far to the beach, but they take the long way around. One final tour of the land. Your cat sits on your lap and stares out the windows as you pass old haunts, your grocery store, your gym, your high school. You realize you still have library books to return and almost get them to turn around, but someone promises to go back for them afterwards.

There’s an isolated area on the beach where a canopy and tables are set up; banners, food, friends. It’s a regular going away party, as if you’re going on a short trip abroad. You suppose you are, in a way. Someone rented a wheelchair with fat tires to help you get down to the beach.

When your mother arrives she pulls her shirt off to show her custom-made clam bra. Her eyes are already red and puffy, but she’s doing her best to be energetic and upbeat. She holds you for a long time and says she’s happy for you, that you’re beautiful, that you’re so much stronger than she ever was, and then she puts on a brave face to help everyone get served at the buffet. Your cat chases small crabs across the beach around you, and you sit in the sand. The party goes strong.

The tides come up until your fin is tickled by the seafoam. Everyone knows that means it’s time to go. You pass your cat off to her new owner and she gives you a last headbutt. She seems to understand. You kiss your mother’s cheek one last time and she clings to you. The group raises their drinks as you paddle out, disappearing beneath the waves. You give them the money shot and leap out of the water on your way out of the sound, and you can hear cheering from the shoreline. You hope someone got a video for the maidens.

You keep the city in sight for a while, but the currents lead you further into open waters. There are boaters out on the water who wave to you. You wave back and keep swimming up the coast. 

At dusk you rise to the surface and watch the setting sun turn the horizon from blue to pink to purple and orange. There’s nothing for leagues around. As the sun sinks below the waves and the skies darken you sing your first real siren’s song. Shaky and imperfect, it soon resounds over the ocean breeze. You leave everything behind in it. There are no words, only feeling and sound. It’s a lament, an invocation, a dirge. It is many things, but it isn’t an apology. You have nothing to apologize for.

In the seas beyond a chorus joins in with a language you never learned but understand, integrating your song into theirs. You swim to join them.

[whereserpentswalk]

Fae do not have a concept of good and evil. But they do have a concept of fair and unfair. They are creatures of politeness and impolitness. Even when they're doing things that would be horrifying to humans, they do these things with a specific set of rules around them.

Most of their weaknesses are only weaknesses because they see them as making things fair. Fae are physically capable of lying, but they consider it cheating to lie to someone who isn't familiar with the fae. Likewise, fae can create unbreakable curses or unsolvable puzzles, but it's considered improper to do so. Even their material weakness works this way, if a fae is cut by an iron sword they'll but hurt by it because it was the polite thing to do.

They'll also always match the power level of any human who wanders into the fae realms, so the human in question never meets a challenge they can't overcome. When a knight of the Holy Roman Empire and his men tried to conquer part of the fae realms in 1126 the fae fought like medieval soldiers, using tactics and strategies that would be clever and strange but understandable to him and his men, the numbers of warriors never being too much for him to defeat, even when he could. And when the D.T.L paranormal containment organization sent in modern soldiers with firearms and gas masks to assassinate the fae Queen of Winter Dawn in 2004, the fae responded accordingly, with ranged weapons, and hit and run tactics, that a modern commander could play off of. And, in 1873, when three children got lost in the fae realms, deeper then any human who had been lost there before or after, the fae filled their path of peril with puzzles and traps that the children could solve. One of the children ended up having her eyes turned into spiders, and all of them were traumatized, but it's the fairness the counts to the fae. When you're billions of years old you just care about different things.

And of course. There are some fae that break the rules, fae who will truly do everything in their power to affect the world. These fae are useally exiled from the fae realms, to far off and desolate planes, where they wander and seek power. They are truly terrifying creatures, though in the places they are sent they can rarely use their power. Few who encounter them who aren't their loyal servents escape with both their lives and their humanity.

And of course, fae politeness isn't universal. It applies to humans, and to other fae, and to some other entities. But when there's a true threat to the existence of the fae they will use everything in their power to stop it, polite or impolite. When the star spawn and the great old ones attempted their invasion of the fae in 700MYA they were very promptly destroyed, and pushed back using horrors humanity can't comprehend, horrors the star spawn could barely comprehend. And when the demons on the 8th abyss attempted their invasion in 10MYA they were given almost an equal horror, spared only from pure destruction because they fae found such creatures to be useful.

[cannibal-walleye]

LOOK AT THEM ALLLLLLLL, LOOK AT THEM.

I don't even know how long this took rip, I kinda wish I would've kept track, but alas. Worth it though! I've always wanted to participate in one of these month-long challenges (though, I thought I'd be doing writing instead of art, maybe next time ;), and I'm so happy that I actually got everything done! And with the bonus Empires and Life Series peeps, too :D

Anyways, I just wanted to make one large post with all the full photos, so there you go, you're welcome. I like that you can see the progress in my art style through the month (though, these aren't in chronological order, so good luck knowing which came first lol)

Also lots of love to @enkays-den for brainstorming all these photos with me, helping me find references, getting backgrounds, everything!! Not to mention, ya know. writing the thing with me?? Best creative partner everrrrr

Tagging this is gonna be a nightmare...

EDIT

apparently tumblr only lets u have 30 tags, i just spent forever writing all them but alas. they have been deleted. so here's more random thoughts, then ill just tag the important stuff (even though theres 37 people....)

#also unexpected favorite:#wels and katherine#i dont watch either of them#but their DESIGN#ITS SO GOOD#i love them#and their lore is fire#btw everyone has in-depth developed lore#this is the most planning ive ever done for a fic#probably bc im working with enkay#and theyre obsessed with worldbuilding#like#our conversations are so good#i love making this story#so i hope yall love reading it#<3

Also if you want to see the other links: All journal posts, @hermitadaymay fundraiser post, and go follow @enkays-den for all the hard work they do!! + click to see our fic ao3

[naffeclipse]

Sea Tears

Reader x Selkie!Moon

Commission Info

Thank you to the darling @cipher-the-sidhe for commissioning me to write about Selkie!Moon! The setting and the scenario are absolutely delightful. It's a shame I haven't written a selkie until now but I'm so glad I finally did!

Content Warning for mild injury and blood.

———

You tread carefully through the salt-tinged darkness and listen. A low hum plays along the moonbeams brightening the Salish Sea coast in an ancient voice you cannot translate. The fish and the seals might understand it as it thrums like insects on the wind or the constant, murmuring dance of the waves. You wonder if it is simply the sea. Perhaps it is something hidden along the dark inky waters now softly lapping up in the high tide.

Bends and sharp juts of coves shelter the rocky beaches. Further inland, a dense forest of coniferous evergreens conceal the beautiful shore and thrive in high levels of salt spray. You descend to the water, minding every step knowing that a slick, ocean-stained rock could easily lead you into a stumble and your head could crack open like an egg on the wave-smooth stones. 

These beaches are not for sunbathing and sand castles. They are to stand and admire the great breath of the Salish Sea and the bumps of crags lining the dark teal ocean—if the mist and cold don’t form an avid deterrent.

You rub your arms over the sleeves of your jacket and breathe a crisp scent. Driftwood dots the edge of land and water, and heaps of bull kelp sway farther out in the sea, lurking like guardians just along the surface to whatever might wander from the depths. 

Tonight, the fog is wonderfully parted by the silver-fingered light of the full moon. You scan the crevices in between dark, angled but blunt rocks, seeking the smooth fragments of seashells. In your years, you have rarely discovered a whole heart cockle or horse clam shell. There are only remnants of what was whole. 

The sand is firm and brown. The water gushes between stones before receding gently back with a frothy lace edge, bubbling and tumbling over itself just to do it all over again. You spy a fragment of a castoff shell, bleached and pale. You bend carefully down to scoop up its shard like a piece missing from a puzzle you wish to finish.

You hold it between your fingers. A curve or perhaps half of a spiral of a shell, sculpted by the waves now, softened by the time of being broken. Still, it is beautiful.

Carefully, you straighten while you slip it into your pocket. A soft understanding fills you to the bottom of your rib cage. A kinship, perhaps. You cast your eyes around you for a moment, admiring the moonlight until it shines upon a texture that is not often found here. 

Fur. Silver and speckled in blue-gray, it sits, slumped and hunched between two rocks, lying lifeless.

A seal. The dawning comes upon you in a moment of the rushing tide, and then, your feet are moving towards it. Your heart twists while you watch it sharply. How it could be so still and thin? Is it injured? You don’t have your phone with you—you left it in the car parked beside the oceanside road. Who would you call? Wildlife service? Perhaps it’s already too late.

No. You pray it isn’t.

You weave between sand and stones. Where the unmoving figure lies is thick with rocks, with almost no beach to speak of other than what is buried beneath. Your sandals slip on the slick edges of the rugged terrain. Wobbling, you catch yourself before you sling your body along a craggy boulder. You pass over the harsh edges and corners of the rocky shore, almost within reach. The fur hasn’t moved an inch at your rash approach. Your throat bobs for a moment in the horror of coming upon a long rotted seal—then your sandal-clad foot slips. 

A whip of sea and wind, and you fall. You throw your elbow down to catch you and it scraps sharply down the side of rough rock. You gasp when you bounce and slide, splashing into a thin strip of the tide slipping between cracks and crevices, but hold your chin high, away from any fatal head injuries.

You inhale slowly, eyes wide in the relief that you are not currently dripping your brains out of your skull like spilled yoke. A thin, stinging pain erupts along your forearm. Prying yourself off of the ground, watching where you place your feet, you get back up. A glance at the fur confirms it is still there. Slowly, you twist your arm to examine a fine, ragged cut slicing towards your wrist. A mix of sand, salt water, and blood spread across your skin. 

You breathe as it flares with pain. You close your eyes and convince yourself that you’ll clean and bandage it once you get back to your car.

First, the seal.

You lower your arm. Blood drops into the water as you at last reach the two stones the fur is wedged between, and tentatively, you reach out with the vain hope it might be warm and move with life. Your fingers stroke over the beautifully silver shade of the coat, dappled with blue-gray markings and a few, lovely rings at the end. But strangely, it’s cool with mist and bunched like fabric. Your mind turns the conundrum over slowly as if examining a broken seashell before you tug on it, higher, higher, until you hold in your hand the thin skin of a seal.

A pelt.

There is no blood, sinew, or otherwise, much to your relief. It carries a smooth sleekness on its underside. The strangeness of it tugs at a part of your mind, a memory of folklore and tales spoken around a table late at night. The beautiful pelt fills your vision with its starry silver shade and the Pacific ocean-deep hue of its markings. Carefully, as if handling platinum and sapphires, you caress the fur with the back of your fingers. A drop of blood from your arm threatens to stain it and you quickly shift the hide to your clean arm. You can’t ruin this beautiful coat with your crimson.

You lift your head. You gaze out over the ocean, rippling with the incandescence of the moon upon its onyx surface. Your heart bobs within you. Your eyes seek, and your ears strain.

The hum of the ocean which has filled you since you first arrived in the darkness grows. It is no longer a muffled, soft sound carried from behind closed lips but a soft melody lifted upon a voice. It rises to the sky. Over the driftwood and waves, you turn to face it, clutching the seal skin to your chest.

A man sings.

A part of you, undeniable and filled with longing, strides towards it. Following the curve of the rocky beach, you watch your every step. A plea in your core echoes with the desire to find the one singing. The crystal vibrations of the siren call rings through your bones. 

A rocky cove crops up on the side of a bluff, cutting off the beach but resuming with a swell of the tide into its darkened alcove. Once you near the mouth, you stop to bask in the lovely timbre. 

Then, with your fingers tangled in the soft, sleek fur of the seal pelt, you stand upon a rock just out of reach of the oceanic tide and peer into the cove.

In the glow of the night, a man stands in the icy shallows. You can only gaze at his striking figure wrapped in moonbeams. He steps lightly, his movement rhythm. The water ripples softly underneath him. He waves his arms, his limbs flowing over his head and down, like a wind sweeping the rocks and ushering the mist higher onto land. He turns, and one leg sweeps over the inky surface before stepping back. 

His body is long-limbed and slender, blue-gray like the speckles on the fur you hold. Upon his face is a marking of a silver crescent. His rich copper eyes flash in the dimness and are half-lidded in his homage to the great sea. Your breath stalls in your throat caught upon his visage. His face is wide and flat. Draping behind his head is an appendage much like a seal tail, an even darker blue with spots of glimmering silver-like stars.

His voice carries a song you have no name for but that which you hold only the most reverence in its echo. Your lips part unwittingly in adoration. He sings to himself and dances to an audience of the black sky filled with the moon.

But you twitch a hand forward as if you might catch a note of his lullaby and cradle it close to your chest. The man’s head snaps towards you. You freeze.

In a second of time and starlight, he holds your gaze, and you slip into the coppery irises that fill his wide eyes. His attention slips to what you clutch. You glance down, admiring the fur anew before you find your voice, hollowed and soft.

“Is this yours?” you ask.

The man stares, motionless like the bluffs the waves beat against. A few heartbeats pass within you. The man gently dips his head. The tail on the back of his head sways slightly like a nightcap.

“It is,” he speaks. “Please return it to me. I cannot return to the sea and my brothers without my coat.”

His voice rasps through the salty air and brushes the shell of your ear as if he whispered it to you. 

The word emerges in your mind like the fall of dusk. Selkie. One who has shed his fur to take a faintly human form under the full moon. The tales you’ve caught murmurs of were always of women, beautiful and naked, who begged for their seal skin back but spent the rest of their days held captive by the man who kept it hidden, forced to become a bride and carry his children.

An ache takes over your heart at such a cruel fate.

You answer with a gentle, “Of course.”

You slowly step into the icy waters. A shiver rolls up your body and you catch your tongue between your teeth to keep from gasping out at the shock of the brine. The selkie watches you, his eyes unreadable, his hands poised with his fingers half furled—as if you intend to dangle his seal skin in front of him before yanking it out of reach.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. You wade far less gracefully in the echoes of his dance and song to reach him under the cove’s mouth, “I didn’t intend to keep it. I only meant to return it to you.”

You find the truth along your tongue. Even if you didn’t catch a glimpse of his beautiful melody, you would have left the coat where it lay, too afraid of stranding a selkie without her or his skin.

He says nothing until you present it to him. Carefully, you hold it out to him and his long fingers grasp it. A soft breath leaves him. His shoulders lower while he turns his coat over and examines it, stroking the fine fur before leveling an unreadable gaze over you. You’re small before his tall figure. You feel clumsy and cumbersome in comparison to his lissom body. 

A true selkie, right before your eyes.

“So you did,” he at last murmurs as if he were dreaming. His copper eyes glide over you. His blue-gray body shimmers with a galaxy-like illumination. He carefully folds his coat over his arm before holding out his other hand and bidding you closer. “Come here. Sit with me.”

You stare at his offered palm. A few thoughts cross your mind of danger and temptation, a selkie ready to snatch away an unwary human, but would he have asked you so kindly? You slide your fingers into his grasp. He holds your hand before gently tugging you down until you cross your legs and sit in the icy cove water beside him.

“Is it true?” you ask, then flush slightly with the bluntness of your voice echoing in the alcove.

He tilts his head at you, the appendage at the back of his head slipping over your shoulder. His silence coaxes you softly into asking, “Do humans really steal the coats of selkies and force them into marriage?”

The selkie’s eyes lower, somber, before he dips his chin. “It is true. But not always.” His eyes find yours and hold them softly.

He has yet to release your hand, but slowly, he lifts your wrist and turns it slowly. You almost forget the sting until the sight of the bloody cut down your arm strikes you once more. Your lips twist at the sight, glancing at the selkie and fearing his judgment. How human you are, bleeding in his ocean.

“What did this?” he asks in a low voice, his eyes outlining the edges of your wound.

“A fall,” you say sheepishly, “I thought your coat was an injured seal.”

A laugh, rolling and deep, loosens from his lips. A not unwelcome shudder fills you in the sound. Mischievous and sincere, all at once.

“You must be more careful,” he says, his laughter dying as he leans closer.

You curl your fingers. Pressing back in the slightest as he hovers over your torn flesh, you hushly ask his name.

But he doesn’t answer. You watch in the quiet of the tide as the selkie blinks, and a tear falls onto your sliced forearm. A soft tingle spreads through your flesh. You glance down, and another tear falls, mingling with the sand and ocean salt, but the tingling becomes a gentle sensation knitting and stitching the skin together. In stunned silence, you observe seven tears in total bind your wound as if you never fell.

“This is my thanks for returning my coat.” The selkie releases your arm to gently wash it with a touch of brackish water. Blood and sand wash away, leaving your skin as it once was. He lifts his head and smiles. “I am Moon, and I must go.”

“Oh.” The sound is so small coming from you. “Moon…”

You echo your name. It feels so weak in comparison to his, but he takes it within his mouth and he sings it once. Your heart bobs within your chest as if floating upon a storm-tossed sea. 

“Goodbye,” he rasps. He holds your gaze, soft as seafoam, and tugs his coat over his body. He slips down into the water. A flick of velvet flippers emerges, and a large seal lifts his head above water. 

You gaze at the beautiful copper eyes of the seal. Whiskers twitch and a wet nose presses closer to you. Slowly, carefully, you stretch your fingers and stroke the soft fur of his head. Your palm runs down the slippery slope of his neck to his strong, blubbered back. The selkie holds beautifully still.

“Goodbye, Moon,” you whisper.

The selkie eyes upturn, somehow grinning in an animal form. In a sharp splash, he turns and dives into the water. The sleek dappled fur of his pelt mingles with the moonlight reflecting upon the black ocean before the waves reclaim one of its own. 

You stay in the cove for a time you cannot account for, watching the waters, wishing to catch the echo of his song just one last time.

Gradually, like the moon beginning to shift across the darkness, you get to your feet. Water splashes back into the cove. Your heart grows heavy and forlorn, and you rub your fingertips together as if still stroking his fur.

Perhaps you might return in search of broken seashells but find the selkie again.

[dolphelecat]

I Will Follow - Chris Tomlin

Wonderhole Edition

[faeriesandfolklore]

A selkie maiden who lives in the cove by your estate. You have been raised to be a proper lady, to one day marry a wealthy man and move into the city. Your home, a grand mansion that is falling to ruin, is by a sparkling cove few visit. From childhood, you have been in awe of the rolling waves, the creatures you swear that you have seen. Horses of kelp galloping over the sand, damp heads of hair peering out from the waters. 

In particular, you have always been fond of the seal pod that lounges on the beach. Plump and grey, with speckled coats. One in particular has always been particularly cheeky, trailing you as you swim. As the days have passed, you have spent more and more time with this strange seal. 

And then, as you learn that the day has come for you to be betrothed, you go down to the beach to sit in the silence of the ocean. The sun is high and there is a tension to the air, a sharpness. You see your seal but she is almost angry, biting at your heels and letting out a sharp sound. You snap out of frustration and then she changes. 

She sheds her seal skin, the dappled pattern falling onto the sand as the woman stares at you. Her hair is long and tangled, dark as the rocks out in the waters. And her eyes are practically gleaming, large and wet with angry tears. “You are mine. How can you go and marry one of them?”

Shocked, you find your words. “One of them?”

“They steal us away to make us their wives! They steal our coats, lock us away in their estates and force us to leave the sea.” The selkie says desperately, clutching your hand. She smells fresh, like the summer sun. “You cannot go. You are mine. We belong to one another.”

After that, you know you cannot go. Not when the selkie are here, vulnerable to those who seek to take their coats. The cove is untouched, but you leaving might change that. And so, when your father tells you of your marriage, you refuse it. You grow angry and callous, wretched. You become the sort of woman no man would want to marry. 

Finally, your father gives in. He says that you can rot in the ruined manor for all he cares. But now you are free. You can lounge in the sand with the seal women, dive beneath the waves for shells. You can watch the moon with her, stroking her hair as she tells you of worlds far beyond your own.