the-raven-writes

[the-raven-writes]

Drowning

A thing I wrote while inspired at like...midnight while very sleepy. This is just me embellishing an actual event from a session wherein we return to the local tavern to relax after some dungeon crawling. Our DM had the innkeep and all the staff play a trick on us where they disguised a broomstick as a person wearing a coat of similar fashion style to my character’s, and my DM has no idea he just enabled me to write possibly the edgiest thing I’ve ever written lol. I also wrote this in light of some revelations our DM made about my character’s Warlock patron. All the angst. All of it. 

Does this count as fanfiction? If my friend’s characters are in it briefly? Friend-fiction maybe lol.

Louise is drowning. Has been for a year now.

That practical joke by the local bartender is tasteless, in her opinion. In a world of pretension, silver tongues and large words, the chaos of a clever prank is a joy she would have enjoyed…a year ago. The figure’s coat has her enraptured in memory. The dark fabric, adorned with buttons and buckles, reminds her of strolls in the park near the winter solstice. Snow catching in his dark hair, a scarf pulled up to his nose, coat buttoned up to his neck.  

Louise has always had a sharp, logical mind, but the several pints she’s  already downed made common sense fade into a bubbly haze. She watches her companions poke and prod at the figure while his name hangs on her lips, a desperate impossibility.

The figure slumps over. A broomstick in a classical trench coat. The bartender bends over in wheezing laughter. The server with a whip-like tail roars.

Louise frowns. Orders another ale. The fourth? Or fifth? She lost count and frankly, by now she doesn’t care. She drowns herself in a mug of ale. Pale gold, bubbling, bitter foam against her lips, the vague hint of citrus?  The numbness spreads through her limbs. She feels heavy, emotionless. It's better this way, to be numb. She hopes her new friends never see her sober. Soberness is when the flood comes. She’d rather drown in crappy ale than her own regrets.

She looks at her reflection in the surface. A black-shrouded eye pokes out the top of the mug, staring back at her. Wispy tendrils creep out of the foam and wrap around the glass rim. Somewhere in her head, she feels pressure and hears dripping water.

“Go away. You can bother me whenever you wish, but leave my booze alone,” she hisses to the eye. The language is rough on her tongue, all hard, near impossible consonants. It blinks and sinks beneath the surface. The foam ripples.

The bartender turns. “You say something, miss?”

Louise shakes her head. “No. Must’ve been that bard over there.” She waves her hand lazily towards Carmina. The tiefling’s tail flops back and forth as she ogles Rutherford. Her face is flush with girlish enthusiasm. Louise rolls her eyes and wonders if she was that ridiculous when…

No. Another drink to stop thinking about the past.

It doesn’t work. Once the thought comes, it pours in. What would he think to see her now, like this? She wasn’t a mage then. Or an alcoholic. Or having vivid hallucinations. She hasn’t picked up a book in a while. She left the house abandoned. She hasn’t spoken to her family in over a year. Or their friends. Their lab has probably fallen apart. All they researched, their life's work, destroyed. Or so she assumes.

Louise can’t stop thinking about how her life is falling apart at the seams. How difficult it is to wake up in the morning, and not just because of the hangovers (which, one would think she’d be used to by now). She feels a tear slide down her cheek. It slips into her mug, now a little more than half empty.

She could keep going. Her tolerance is quite high. Louise tends to drink until her mind is blank and she can barely walk. She hasn’t been too bad with her new friends yet. They haven’t had to pick her up off the floor at least. Drown herself more and more until there’s nothing left.

Instead, she lets out a dejected sigh. Her breath smells of pungent hops. She wipes the tear away before anyone notices her show any emotion that’s not callous judgement, selfish apathy, or petty sarcasm.

“You guys have fun, I’m going to bed,” she announces to no one in particular. Rutherford continues being ostentatious and Carmina devours every second of it. Meana stares on looking reasonably annoyed and Jaune is as stone-faced as ever, as though she is babysitting a group of children (which, admittedly, she might as well be). The elf whose name they’ve all forgotten and subsequently refer to as only “The Dude” is nowhere to be seen. Probably out fishing. 

Louise’s bed here at the inn is comfortable. She strips off her coat, her trousers, unbuttons her shirt to her smallclothes and slides between the sheets. The room is cold. It reminds her of the deep sea. Moonlight streams through her window. In the shadows between the beams, she sees writhing things of amorphous shape that reach out for her. Inviting. A companion. The others wouldn’t understand. She’s afraid to tell of the moon and the sounds of water in her skull, sloshing about this way and that. The already think she’s a bit out of sorts. What will they do when they learn she’s fucking insane?

She frowns, reaches out for the moonlight with a hand. The shadows wrap around it, cold and viscous. “Can’t you just let me forget tonight? Please.”

The tendrils squeeze between her fingers. The moonlight is cold and warm at the same time. Guiding as it always has. She trusts it to lead her back to him.

Louise finds herself holding her hand out into thin air. The moonlight is gone. The curtains block all view of the outside. The air in here is cold and she shivers. She buries herself in blankets, sinks into the mattress, waits for the intoxicated dizziness to subside as she falls...

A loud splash echoes in her ears all around her. She is underwater. Above her, moonlight beams against the rippling water’s surface. Below, is the fathomless depths, dark and abyssal. Her blonde hair flails about around her in the water like a cloud. She is clad in her smallclothes still. The water is freezing.

She hears an echoing whisper call her name. Louder and louder. Unbelievable agony.  Screams from somewhere in the depths.

She struggles against the waves, trying to swim forward. She sees a light in the distance, glowing and pale. A figure floats in a familiar vest, slightly unbuttoned at the top, hair disheveled. Large tentacles wrap around him like chains keeping him imprisoned beneath the waves while the moon face looks on, uncaring, unfeeling. Instinctively, she reaches to her side for her pistol. Her fingers flail about instead at the elastic of her underwear, bare, exposed. She fires off a spell of force against the tentacles that have him imprisoned. The water pulses around her and the spell dies out before it can reach.

She tries to swim forward in frantic movements against the tide.

Help me! She hears. Anyone! Someone! It is so dark, so cold.

She tries to cry back, I’m here! I’m coming for you! You’re safe. The cries continue, unceasing. He is in so much pain, the way he screams. It breaks her heart, her tears mingle with the water. Her arms flail out to reach him but she hasn’t the strength and she’s running out of air…

She chokes and clutches her throat as if her arcane tricks could provide more oxygen. Salty ocean water fills her lungs, makes color cloud her vision, and for a moment, she glimpses the moon face as a massive eye with a thousand pupils of impossible colors and shapes, and it is filled delight? Passion? Something altogether unknowable that makes her feel a fleeting glimpse of pure, unadulterated terror. And hatred. Give him back! Louise yells as she drowns beneath the waves. You promised! You filthy, lying thing!

She wakes up in her bed, gasping for air, drenched in sweat. It has soaked through her undershirt and left the bedsheets smelling of salty perspiration. Louise coughs, gasping and choking in the cold night air around her. She feels water bubble up from her chest, yet when she gags, nothing comes out. Another illusion. She sets her head in her hands and stays there for a moment, feeling a migraine coming on. Her chest heaves as she takes in massive gulps of air, wishing that she could turn over on her side and nestle against his shoulder. 

But the bed beside her is empty, leaving her to drown again, as every night before.

[the-raven-writes]

I’ve gotten around to posting the backstory for my D&D character, Louise. For context, she’s a human Warlock that made a pact with the Great Old One and also is kind of a walking Bloodborne reference. I enjoy playing as a Warlock for the storytelling potential making a pact with some otherworldly being has. I tried to mimic Lovecraft’s style in my own way. 

It is true that I stabbed my husband thrice - if I am to be blunt - but I am no murderer. Above all things, all people, I loved Gilbert with a deeper passion than I thought myself capable. The squelching, amorphous abomination that oozed its way into the library that night was not my Gilbert. It was something else trapping him in that grotesque body which caused me, in my panic for self-defense, to grab the letter opener from my desk and plunge it into his shoulder.

He still lives.

I was reluctant to cause serious harm, and my improvised weapon proved insignificant to his murky flesh; all it did was aid in my escape from our estate, out into the moonlit night, wherein I found my other great love.

As you can imagine, I was in quite the sorry state. Blood thickened the front of my nightshirt, the white silken fabric forever stained a permanent dark crimson. A few wounds, inflicted by the horrible thing Gilbert had become, sizzled against my flesh in unpleasant ways. I felt myself retching with every inch I ran down the moonlit road. My knees buckled. I collapsed into the mud. A cough bubbled in the back of my throat and warm liquid spewed into my shaking hands. My heart tripled its pace when I recognized the metallic taste on my lips and saw a few thick sanguine droplets sliding down my palms. Intermingled with the red were strange black splotches, twisting ominously around my wrists. In desperation, my wretched voice cried for help at the full moon.

I admit, I was never pious. At that moment, however, I was ready to give my body wholly to anything that would grant its mercy to me.

I have often ruminated on the illustrious moon that graces our midnight skies. I'd often found myself staring at the ocean tides pulled by its gravity from our balcony while safe in Gilbert's gentle embrace. What overwhelming fascination struck me when I stared at its face! I stared up at it that night, pleading with such ardent devotion as my sickly body would allow. The moon, in her grace, answered me in the hum of the wind and the rush of the tide. My mind was awash with thoughts not my own. I felt naked as a babe before her; she could see to my very essence. I had never felt so small, so insignificant, yet so prideful as to say the moon shed her gaze on me.

I could see entire galaxies and stars bending around the moon, my moon. Her ethereal glow, so coolly luminescent , wrapped about my person and I perceived for the first time that a veil had been covering my eyes. I could see the shifting forces wrapping round the trees, wrenching the tide, lifting the winds in swirling motions. With a touch, I knew,the moon could spare myself and Gilbert if I gave my body and soul to her in full; the power was right at the tip of my fingers. I saw pieces of myself reach up towards her face while her radiant arms embraced me.

This epiphany, an enlightenment that I'd never known before in my days as a scholar - I felt it touch the edges of my consciousness!

It lasted mere moments, yet felt like a lifetime. In a snap, I awoke in the mud of the dirty road in my blood-soaked nightshirt,shivering in the chill air and saturated with cold dew that clung to my skin. The moon-face, I noted, was gone from the sky. Most rational minds would conclude that in my distressed frenzy, I had given way to some feverish delirium, yet, no - I could feel something there, touching the edges of my consciousness like a lover's soft caress. The black marks on my wrist were gone, my lungs felt clear, and my body strong as ever. In fact, the world felt sharper, more in focus, as though I were seeing with fresh eyes. I arose from the mud and began to head toward town.

I now have the promise she made me, you see, of undoing what had been done.

[the-raven-writes]

Cristine always had an irrational fear of cats. Fear was a strong word. A word that implied she wanted to flee at the sight of one. As if she would let some little furry animal affect her so. What a foolish thought. Cristine was no coward. In fact, a part of her identified with them. Their independent nature so mirrored her own, a trait she found respectable. Not to mention their faces were endearing. But every time she saw one, it made her stand on edge.

Because cats knew.

[the-raven-writes]

First Sentence Writing Prompts

Send me characters/pairings (and setting or anything else you want to see) and the number to one of the following first lines:

“I know you’re afraid but we can’t hide in this closet forever.”

“Nope, I absolutely refuse to touch that.”

“How exactly did you manage to get stuck in there?”

“Why is it suddenly purple?”

“Pass me the sledgehammer.”

“Explain it to me again - why do we need to pretend to be married?”

“In my defense, I thought this would go a lot more smoothly.”

“I don’t know how you get yourself into these situations.”

“Careful, don’t drop – “

“And that’s how I ended up standing naked on the Brooklyn Bridge on Christmas Eve.”

“It’s sticky.”

“You need to stop.”

“Well that’s the single most impressive thing I’ve ever seen someone do.”

“What’s with the pigtails?”

“How have you made it this long without someone throwing you out an airlock or something?”

“Ow, what was that for?”

“Ugh, why did I eat that?”

“In my defense, it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.”

“Run!”

“Come on, give me one good reason not to jump in the lake.”

“We’re going to be late if we don’t leave like 5 minutes ago.”

“What do you mean by leaving?”

“I’m trying very hard not to see all this as a metaphor for my life.”

“Please tell me you know how to defuse a bomb.”

“Where have you been, I was ready to call the police!”

“No, the house is definitely not haunted, why do you ask?”

“Get over here now and bring a tarp.”

“I don’t care that it’s 2:00 am, we need pie.”

“I’ve got everything under control.”

“At this point, what else could possibly go wrong?”

[the-raven-writes]

There was a time I wrote a modern-day coffee shop AU of my characters for creative writing. I won’t be doing it again. 

There was something about the world just before dawn that Cristine enjoyed. Maybe it was the stillness, the way nothing seemed to move as if even the trees and cars and animals were all asleep. A picture, frozen in time. The only sound to be heard was the light tap of her boots against the sidewalk. Here, she was the only one alive, alone with no witnesses. Maybe this was why she truly loved the atmosphere at 5 AM. There was no one to notice her when she came and went, wiping the blood from her hands as she slithered back into shadow.

 Very soon, the world would wake up. The city skyscrapers towered above her as she snuck through alleyways and side streets. In the reflective windows, she could already see the beginnings of life, lights flicking on as their inhabitants awoke. Dawn was breaking, painting the sky with faint colors as the sun barely poked its head over the horizon. Somewhere, a car engine roared to life.

 Cristine cut through the rear lot of a store, climbing over a fence and weaving through an array of dumpsters. A fluffy dog with pretty blue eyes barked at her. A heart shaped charm hung from its collar. Its owner, eyes still heavy with sleep, stood silhouetted on the doorstep, yelling at it to stop making such a racket at seemingly nothing.

 Puffs of her breath swirled in the cool December air. Her hands remained in the pockets of her leather coat in an effort to keep warm. Even the soft black gloves covering her fingers weren’t enough to keep them from the chill. The weatherman on last night’s broadcast had said fifty degrees this morning. Somehow, she felt betrayed.  

 A loud, piercing wail shrieked through the empty streets. Beneath her red scarf, her mouth downturned into a frown, and she quickly backed into an alleyway. Her back pressed up against a building. A sewer grate beside her wafted up the foul smell of rotten eggs, making her grateful to have a scarf to cover her nose. She peeked out to see a few police cars, red and blue lights spinning frantically, speed down the street. Looks like they had found her handiwork already. It was a new record for them.

 With the danger cleared, she continued walking. She needed some warmth before heading back to her shitty apartment in the slums. The faded sign of the café on the street corner was a welcome sight. She would welcome a warm mug of coffee and a pastry for breakfast.

 Bells on the door jingled as she walked into the café. The hearty aroma of fresh brewed coffee greeted her as she walked in. There were few people here at this hour. A woman with circles under her eyes stared into her mug as if deep in thought. Another large man sat at the counter reading a newspaper, a headline about a large protest on the front. A disgustingly cheerful barista gave her the usual welcome spiel and inquired as to what she wanted.

 Cristine slid into a chair beside the man and ordered her drink and a bagel. While she waited, her pocket buzzed. With a disgruntled sigh, she slid her phone out of her pocket. A single message waited for her to respond.

 Heard you finished the job. I expect a lack of evidence.

 Cristine rolled her eyes. Her boss was never one for praise. I’m always thorough. I better have my pay by this afternoon.

 I’ll have your pay and your next assignment waiting for you at HQ.

 No rest for the wicked, it seemed. Victor liked to skimp on the payments, especially when he thought he found a slip up in her work. She would go as soon as possible before he subtracted money for tardiness. But the rumbling in her stomach took priority.

 The man beside her lowered his newspaper to stare at her with a hint of amusement. “Having a rough day, this early?”

 She watched him suspiciously. “Huh. I’m already done with my boss.”

 There was nothing particularly remarkable about his features, other than his size reminded her of a smaller, less green Hulk. He had a familiar air about him, though she was sure she hadn’t met this man before.

 “Welcome to the club, little bird. The boss is a good man, but far too reckless for my liking.”

 “Who you callin’ little?” She grumbled. The barista placed a mug of piping hot coffee in front of her, along with a bagel and a packet of cream cheese.

 He chuckled. “Simply stating the facts.”

 “Well, I’m surprised you can hold anything with those hands.”

 She could tell by the gleam in his eyes and the low rumbling laugh that he was enjoying this. Regardless of the effect, she let her jab settle in while she slathered up a bagel in cream cheese and took a bite. Her empty stomach rejoiced.

 “You’d be surprised how many newspapers I can read.”

 Cristine shrugged. “They’re all the same. Protests, police arresting people left and right, and no one does a damn thing about it. The world sucks, and then you die. I don’t need a newspaper to tell me that.”

 “I used to know someone, a long time ago, who said that fairly often. It’s a good thing there’s some people willing to do something about it.”

 Cristine stared at him, bewildered for a moment, before taking a sip of coffee. It was still hot, burning her tongue. “Some old guy I knew a while ago, he used to say that so much it might as well be his catchphrase.”

 Images of a grouchy old man and a beat up old radio flashed through her head. She fell silent for a moment, remembering the homeless old guy who looked after her when no one else would. She’d come a long way since then.

 The man beside her looked nostalgic for a moment. “Mom used to scold him for saying things like that around me. He would say, ‘I ain’t gonna apologize for the truth.’”

 Cristine raised an eyebrow. “What’s your name?”

 “Getting friendly already, little bird?”

 “I asked your name, not your life story.”

 A few people in the café stuck their heads up to stare at them when his laugh bellowed through the mostly quiet dining area. “I go by Theo,” he answered.

 The humorless laugh that escaped her lips surprised both her and Theo. God had some sense of humor.

[the-raven-writes]

Super detailed questions about your OCs

1. What’s their full name? Why was that chosen? Does it mean anything? 2. Do they have any titles? How did they get them? 3. Did they have a good childhood? What are fond memories they have of it? What’s a bad memory? 4. What is their relationship with their parents? What’s a good and bad memory with them? Did they know both parents? 5. Do they have any siblings? What’s their names? What is their relationship with them? Has their relationship changed since they were kids to adults? 6. What were they like at school? Did they enjoy it? Did they finish? What level of higher education did they reach? What subjects did they enjoy? Which did they hate? 7. Did they have lots of friends as a child? Did they keep any of their childhood friends into adulthood? 8. Did they have pets as a child? Do they have pets as an adult? Do they like animals? 9. Do animals like them? Do they get on well with animals? 10. Do they like children? Do children like them? Do they have or want any children? What would they be like as a parent? Or as a godparent/babysitter/ect? 11. Do they have any special diet requirements? Are they a vegetarian? Vegan? Have any allergies? 12. What is their favourite food? 13. What is their least favourite food? 14. Do they have any specific memories of food/a restaurant/meal? 15. Are they good at cooking? Do they enjoy it? What do others think of their cooking? 16. Do they collect anything? What do they do with it? Where do they keep it? 17. Do they like to take photos? What do they like to take photos of? Selfies? What do they do with their photos? 18. What’s their favourite genre of: books, music, tv shows, films, video games and anything else 19. What’s their least favourite genres? 20. Do they like musicals? Music in general? What do they do when they’re favourite song comes? 21. Do they have a temper? Are they patient? What are they like when they do lose their temper? 22. What are their favourite insults to use? What do they insult people for? Or do they prefer to bitch behind someone’s back? 23. Do they have a good memory? Short term or long term? Are they good with names? Or faces? 24. What is their sleeping pattern like? Do they snore? What do they like to sleep on? A soft or hard mattress? 25. What do they find funny? Do they have a good sense of humour? Are they funny themselves? 26. How do they act when they’re happy? Do they sing? Dance? Hum? Or do they hide their emotions? 27. What makes them sad? Do they cry regularly? Do they cry openly or hide it? What are they like they are sad? 28. What is their biggest fear? What in general scares them? How do they act when they’re scared? 29. What do they do when they find out someone else’s fear? Do they tease them? Or get very over protective? 30. Do they exercise? Regularly? Or only when forced? What do they act like pre-work out and post-work out? 31. Do they drink? What are they like drunk? What are they like hungover? How do they act when other people are drunk or hungover? Kind or teasing? 32. What do they dress like? What sorta shops do they buy clothes from? Do they wear the fashion that they like? What do they wear to sleep? Do they wear makeup? What’s their hair like? 33. What underwear do they wear? Boxers or briefs? Lacey? Comfy granny panties? 34. What is their body type? How tall are they? Do they like their body? 35. What’s their guilty pleasure? What is their totally unguilty pleasure? 36. What are they good at? What hobbies do they like? Can they sing? 37. Do they like to read? Are they a fast or slow reader? Do they like poetry? Fictional or non fiction? 38. What do they admire in others? What talents do they wish they had? 39. Do they like letters? Or prefer emails/messaging? 40. Do they like energy drinks? Coffee? Sugary food? Or can they naturally stay awake and alert? 41. What’s their sexuality? What do they find attractive? Physically and mentally? What do they like/need in a relationship? 42. What are their goals? What would they sacrifice anything for? What is their secret ambition? 43. Are they religious? What do they think of religion? What do they think of religious people? What do they think of non religious people? 44. What is their favourite season? Type of weather? Are they good in the cold or the heat? What weather do they complain in the most? 45. How do other people see them? Is it similar to how they see themselves? 46. Do they make a good first impression? Does their first impression reflect them accurately? How do they introduce themselves? 47. How do they act in a formal occasion? What do they think of black tie wear? Do they enjoy fancy parties and love to chit chat or loathe the whole event? 48. Do they enjoy any parties? If so what kind? Do they organise the party or just turn up? How do they act? What if they didn’t want to go but were dragged along by a friend? 49. What is their most valued object? Are they sentimental? Is there something they have to take everywhere with them? 50. If they could only take one bag of stuff somewhere with them: what would they pack? What do they consider their essentials?

[the-raven-writes]

A dream remains

Inspired by the ending of Trespasser, I decided to write a thing. Because I totally needed to feel more sad about it. Can also be read on ao3 if you feel so inclined~

One blink, and Lavellan was lost in a place dark and unknown.

Dense fog hung over the ground like a shroud, clouds fallen from the sky now floating just inches above the untrodden soil. Trees, wide and towering, were abundant in this forest. Overhead, the canopy of leaves and branches blocked out the full moon, allowing only the smallest beams of light to shine through. The air smelled of peat after the rains, thick with moisture. Large spires of thorny felandaris twisted this way and that, reaching, stretching for something unseen. Nothing could be seen for miles other than the shadows of ancient trees, hidden behind walls of fog.

One boot sunk into moist, muddy soil, letting droplets of water fly this way and that. Aryll tugged her cloak closer about her person in an attempt to chase away the chill that crept up her spine. This place was unfamiliar, heavy with a feeling of deep melancholy, so far different than the woodlands of her youth. There was nothing to suggest anyone had been here other than her. The ground before her lay clean of footprints, man and beast alike, untouched for millennia.

Her limbs felt heavy in the stagnant air as she walked. Wet twigs snapped beneath her boots, the only sound. Not even the chirping of crickets or the fluttering of nocturnal birds could be heard. Had she stumbled upon a lost world, frozen, free of the ravages of time? With her hand, she reached up and touched the bark of a tree, feeling the rough texture beneath her glove. The branches were so high up, there was no reaching them. With a frown, she regarded what remained of her left arm, a constant reminder that she could no longer climb as she used to.

She continued to explore this strange forest, ducking below felandaris spines and stepping over puddles of standing water. It was unwise to walk alone through the wilds at night. At least, that was what her hunter’s sense told her. For whatever reason, Aryll could not remember why she had come here, let alone without a companion or two at her side. A part of her longed to hear bickering from behind; perhaps a complaint about the cold or a snide remark on someone’s appearance. It was an ache that left her feeling empty, perhaps as empty as this forest.

As she rounded a corner, resolute on finding civilization or at least a decent camping spot, she heard the lightest touch of some creature’s feet against the damp soil. Her eyes scanned the area, dimly lit by the faint moonlight. At first, she saw nothing, and began to wonder if she had imagined it out of her own loneliness. But then, just barely, she saw the silhouette of something in the distance standing, watching her. It was large, covered in a coat of fur. A wolf, perhaps, or some other kind of canine.

She eyed it warily, meeting its stony gaze. “Oh, hello,” Aryll greeted. Her voice felt muted by the heavy air. “Are you alone too?”

For a moment, Aryll feared her words wouldn’t reach it. Only the twitch of one pointed ear told her that it heard. There was something familiar in its eyes.  Warm, gentle, and yet, sorrowful; it made her lonely heart ache even more.

“This place is so odd. Maybe we could travel together?” Her words were muffled as though she were speaking through a wall. She knew it was simply a wild animal, nothing more. Even if it heard, it would not understand. Still, she would welcome the companionship. She glanced up at the sky, visible only through the tree branches. Where the moon once hung low, the sky began to lighten from black to golden yellow.

The wolf watched her, sunken as if burdened by some terrible weight. Aryll thought she saw a brief flicker of relief in its eyes at her words. It blinked twice and took two hesitant steps forward. She afforded it a soft, welcoming smile, hope rising with the sun. But the dark still clung to its pelt, a weight refusing to be lifted. Its sides heaved with a great, heavy sigh and it raised its head to shout a mournful howl to the heavens. Then, with one final, sad glance, it turned and ran off into the night.

Aryll reached out with her hand and cried, “Wait! It doesn’t have to be this way!”

Water splashed around her boots as she ran in the direction it left, stumbling and cursing her lack of balance. It felt as if she were running without truly going anywhere. She passed the same trees, along the same paths, with no end in sight. The shadows covered the tracks of the wolf and the thick fog ensured that it all but vanished. The thorns grazed the cloth of her cloak, catching and tearing. “Please!” she cried into the abyss, “Come back!”

A few wet tears slid down her face, sliding down her neck as she ran. Her pleading words caught in her throat. Her chest heaved with each laborious breath. Her knees slammed on the ground as she fell, sobbing and suffocating.

Aryll flew up in her bed, gasping for air. Cool night air filled her lungs, flowing in from an open window. Never quite accustomed to sleeping indoors, she always left the windows open, allowing a breeze (and occasionally a bird) to blow into her bedchamber. A full moon sat in the black, starry sky, shining light into her room and casting long shadows on the floor.

She sat up in her bed, trying to control her breathing and her pounding heartbeat. A dream. It was just a dream, nothing more. The mark had made her dreams so vivid, so real. It was gone now, but the dreams remained to haunt her. The cool, wintery air from outside made her feel a wet chill on her face. With her one hand, she reached up and brushed the remains of tears from beneath her eyes. It had been a dream, but…

Her green eyes stared out at the moon, and beneath it, the wide expanse of the snowy mountaintops. Her lips formed the words from her dream, a silent plea, a prayer, even if he couldn’t hear it. Please, come back.

[the-raven-writes]

Where she began

I’m feeling braver than usual and decided to throw one of my original stories into my hoard here. I wrote it for creative writing class a few months ago. It serves as world-building for a larger work that’s been my precious child for nearly 3 years now. I’ve been having trouble writing anything of worth lately, but I’m pretty proud of this.

If one glanced inside for just a moment, they would think nothing was there in that lonely cave.  But something slept within, growing stronger and stronger with each second that passed. The cavern thrummed with an overbearing sense of hunger, until it had amassed enough power to awaken.

Her gasping breath echoed through the silence, disturbing the eerie stillness that had lingered in this empty space for so long. When she woke, her eyes blinked open to find stalactites pointing down at her like knives poised to strike, dripping water onto her cold skin.

Her stomach writhed and her throat crackled with dull pain, as empty as the cave her limp body inhabited. This desperate wanting her body felt was foreign to her. This skin lined with goosebumps at the cold air of the cave felt as much a cage as the rocky walls that now held her. She couldn’t recall ever feeling so weak, so defeated. But for the life of her, there was no memory to tell her why. Her mind was blank.

She lay there on in the dank darkness for moments beyond counting, watching the droplets splatter onto her chest with a quiet plop.

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Drop.

The droplets moistened the dusty, tattered cloth covering her person, leaving a growing dark splotch. The ache in her throat deepened at the sight. Wa…ter. A vague thought accompanied the pain. Then another. Thir…sty.

Her body trembled as she struggled to raise herself up. Both hands pressed into the harsh stone beneath and pushed as she lifted her slight form into a sitting position. One arm gave under the weight, causing her to fall sideways. The rocks dug into her arm, leaving bloody scrapes on her skin. She stared at the sight for several moments, watching the small beads of red emerge from the cracks in her flesh.

Water. A sharp thought broke her fixation, and once more she attempted to sit up. The cool air of the cave rushed against her back, sending a chill down her spine. The breeze brought with it the faint scent of smoke. Water dripped onto her lap. Slowly, she cupped her hands and captured the water in her palms, watching as it formed a small pool between her closed fingers. When it was full, she gulped it down.

The cracks in her throat vanished as the cool water slid down it.

A rumble echoed from her stomach. Hungry.

There was nothing there to eat. She was alone with the rocks and the rusted gears and scrap metal. She glanced around, turning her head right and left. In the direction the breeze came from, there was the faintest light. Outside.

Her legs buckled under her weight as she tried to lift herself upward and she landed on the ground with a thud. After several attempts, she stood, legs shaking. The world around her felt as if it were spinning this way and that. Beneath her, where she had lain, an indent in the shape of her slight form where around her, thick piles of dirt and dust had collected. The bits of metal seemed to form a wide circle around the area where she had awoken. What purpose they served was unknown.

With trembling feet, she took several cautious steps forward. Her shoulders hunched, arms hanging limply at her sides as she stumbled through the rocky corridor. A rock bumped against her bare toe. The pain that shot up her foot gave her pause, though her face remained without expression. She kept walking towards the faint light, watching it grow larger and larger. Her shaky legs made her stumble at times, slamming her side against the wall and threatening to make her collapse.

Finally, the hard stone beneath her feet became softer, scratchier. Blades of crunchy, dead grass poked up from between her toes. The cave opened to a wide plain. Fields stretched for miles past the horizon. Gnarled black trees stood alone, twisted limbs reaching for something unknown. Grey clouds loomed in the sky, only allowing faint beams of sunlight to stream through. Her eyes burned at the sudden light. She blinked and tried to wipe away the water that formed at the base of her eyes. Hundreds of bright splotches clouded her vision and then, she could see. In the distance she could see the hunched forms of crumbling buildings.

It was not far. This was where she would go.

Somehow, her weak legs carried her through the barren wasteland. Despite all that blocked it, the sun felt hot on her shoulders. The wind blew against her skin. The brown sack cloth of her tattered dress flapped against her legs. Her breaths came in heaving gasps as she struggled to walk to the city line. One step after the other.

The ground became dirt, half-turned to mud. It took increasing effort to carry her body through the narrow streets. The first person she saw, bundled in clothes that had been patched up numerous times, shrank back at her approach. Others soon followed, staring at her with wide eyes.

Her foot splashed in a puddle, sending muddy droplets up her leg. Turning her gaze downward, she saw the image of a cadaverous woman. She looked malnourished. There was no expression in her icy grey eyes, and long black curls shadowed her face. A ghost, perhaps. Some haunting creature come to stalk the streets of this city.

This is…me. One trembling hand reached out to touch her reflection in the puddle, curious. Her whole body went with it. The ground smashed against her face, and the world went dark.

~

When her eyes blinked open again, the first thing she saw was a bright orange flame burning a few feet away from her. Waves of heat rolled off of it, making her eyes feel heavy. Beneath her, the ground pressed against her back. But something soft protected her from feeling the harsh stone against her skin. A scratchy blanket with several holes in it covered her. From somewhere nearby, she heard a slow ballad playing through a speaker. The notes skipped a few times until the same note repeated over and over.

“Oh, this damn thing,” someone said, followed by the sound of a fist against metal. Upon impact, the song resumed obediently.

She flicked her gaze in the direction of the sound. Her eyes landed on a man with a wrinkled face fiddling with a square-shaped machine. His brow was furrowed as he opened a flap in the back and replaced something within it. Beneath his red knitted cap, strands of grey hair poked out. He too wore tattered clothes, layered over each other for warmth. She watched him try to fix the metal box, listening to the music stop and start. He muttered a curse under his breath and eventually gave up. The notes crackled, off-key but somehow attractive to her ears.

The old man’s bleary eyes found hers, watching him with blank eyes, as if she were truly not there at all. His shoulders bounced in surprise and he pressed a hand against his chest. “Goodness, you near scared the daylights out of me.”

One blink. Her stare never left his face.

“Well, you’re awake. That’s a good start. I think.” He mumbled the last sentence.

There was nothing to indicate that she understood him. The man muttered something about being touched in the head and moved to fiddle with something inside a patched up backpack. He pulled out a pouch, and from that, some kind of dried meat. Her stomach growled in complaint. She slowly sat up. Once again, the world twisted and turned.

The corner of his mouth turned up into a faint smile. “Ah, you know food when you see it.” He handed a few strips to her. Her hands trembled as she accepted the meager meal. The old man watched her, almost as if judging her, while she slowly eased a strip into her mouth and chewed. It was crunchy in her mouth and tasted salty.

He sat an old crate, joints cracking as he did so. “You got a name?” The question made her pause mid-chew. Nothing came to mind. The words felt familiar but somehow she couldn’t comprehend what he was asking.

“Can you speak at all?”

Silence.

The man rubbed his head with one hand and let out a heavy sigh. “Figures,” he muttered. “Always end up with the weird ones.”

Deciding that communicating with her was a lost cause, he returned to whatever he had been doing before. Beside him was a small block of wood stained with some unknown substance. He picked up and took out a slightly rusted knife. She watched him carve lines into the wood, shaping it, rounding it out. Every so often, he glanced up at her.

“You can stay as long as you like. World’s not safe for someone like you. Just don’t get yourself into trouble. One look at you and the big guys will cart you off without a second thought.”

They sat in relative silence. The off-key music from the box played a tune into the night, accompanied by the sound of the old man’s knife against the wood. She finished eating her meal, all while staring at his hands as they worked.

The melody from the box was pleasing. Gentle yet lilting, having a memorable quality to it. After hearing it repeat several times, the man frowned and shot an angry glare at the device. With one hand, he reached over and hit a button on its top. The music silenced.

Missing the pleasant tune, she began to hum. It was quiet and equally as off-key as the music itself, but it filled the void the silence left. The old man stopped fiddling with his crafting project and watched her, suspicious.

“You like that?” He said, setting the wood down onto his lap and reaching to press the button again.

Her humming intensified to keep up with the crackling music. When it ended, she continued. A chuckle from the old man accompanied her. “That’s an old song you’re singin’ there. From way before.” A sorrowful expression crossed his face for a brief moment, but then it passed as quick as the wind.

~

In the days to come, she followed the old man wherever he went as a dog would. The market, or so it was called, was a hub for the other poor and downtrodden to trade the things they salvaged. A place he often frequented, and now he needed to find some things to accommodate his new companion if she was going to stick around. He gave no indication that he wanted her to leave, but neither did he ask for her to stay. And yet, one would think he saw her as his responsibility, with how often he pulled her out of danger.

It didn’t take long for the old man to learn that she had no sense of this sorry world they inhabited. The first day he took her with him to market, she nearly got her hand cut off by a machine with the words “DO NOT TOUCH” boldly written on it in red paint. No one knew what it did, but the old man was beginning to venture a guess. Thankfully, it only grazed her before he yanked her away from it.

He stopped to trade with a middle-aged woman for some supplies, all while trying to keep an eye on her. She stuck by him, as usual. She felt safe by him. Some part of her knew that he would protect her, however small. While he spoke with the woman, negotiating, she dipped her foot in a puddle, watching the tiny waves ripple across the surface.

As she watched the droplets roll across her feet, something else darted skimmed the water’s surface. She froze, for the first time feeling…something. A familiarity and perhaps, a slight hunger. Dancing over the puddle was a few wisps of what looked like smoke, but made of shadow. Dark, black, the smoky tendrils wrapped around her foot. It felt cold and then warm, welcome. In her head, she heard whispers in an unintelligible language, yet somehow she understood its meaning.

Filled with a sudden vigor, she stared in the direction they had come from and started walking. The old man hastened to finish his transaction, and then tried to follow after her. His voice asked where she was going, what she thought she was doing.

She pointed where the smoke wanted her to go. He tried to get her to turn back with him, but she would not allow it. She was desperate now to see where it led.

Finally, they came upon a dead end. It smelled foul, of sewage and rotten fish, and something far worse. The smoke was thicker here, congregation in large puffs and waves, all converging at a single point. Slumped against a brick wall, surrounded by trash and abandoned junk, was the corpse of a young woman. Blood had poured from a wound in her stomach, staining the ground beneath her. Her black hair shadowed the frozen horror on her face. She couldn’t have been dead long.

The old man covered his nose with one sleeve and motioned as if to waft the stench away. “We have no business here,” he insisted, motioning to grab her arm and lead her away. To his surprise, she denied it, moving her arm away from his grasp. He could not see what she could.

She knelt before the corpse, holding out her hand to the smoke that surrounded it. It wrapped around her skin, whispering to her, greeting her as if it was something she had known her whole life.

Cristine… Her name was Cristine… Small, sickly, tenacious. Orphaned, alone, a child of the streets.

Cristine.

“Cristine,” she whispered. “I am…”

“What?” The old man replied, eyes wide. “Did you just…?”

Fragments of memories flooded her mind, overwhelming her. She saw an old house, crumbling under its own weight. A man and a woman looking at her with pity, shaking their heads with tears in their eyes. A stranger in black with a knife pointed at her chest, cornering her against the wall of a dead end… She grasped her head as white-hot pain seared through it. The old man could hear the footsteps of Enforcers coming down the street, see the flashes of blue amongst the tattered clothing of passerby.

Not wanting to linger any longer, the old man had to take her aside in a dark alley to avoid their sight. She watched him point at the tall men in dark blue coats, pacing through the junk heap of a city with scowls etched on their faces.

“You can’t do shit like that, do you understand? Those guys there, they’ll think you’re touched by that…whatever it is. They’ll take you away and you won’t be heard from again.” His tone was insistent, angry.

The words came easily. Her mind felt muddled. When had they been anything less? She raised an eyebrow at him. “What are you talking about, Gramps?”

His mouth hung open, completely baffled. “Y-you did speak, back there. You’re talking to me now.” He rubbed his temples, pacing around in a small circle. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“I think the Enforcers might need to come get you, the way you’re acting. Are we done hiding or are we gonna finish getting what we need?”

~

That night, they sat around the fire, eating dinner. The old man tried to glean information from her with increasingly suspicious glances from Cristine, or so she insisted her name was. According to her, she’d been with him ever since she collapsed from exhaustion, cursing her own stupidity for not preparing more while exploring the city slums. But they remembered their time together quite differently.

Unsettled by this development, the old man was quieter than usual. He ate without saying a word, trying and failing to make sense of what happened to her. It had something to do with that dead woman lying in the street, but that was all he could understand. After he finished his meal, he started whittling away at the block of wood again.

Cristine had seen him run his knife over that piece of wood every night since she had joined him. Before, it was a block of old wood, now it was starting to have feathered wings and talons. Some kind of bird.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said, not looking up at him when she spoke. “You’ve been acting weird ever since we got back from the market.”

The old man stopped his carving. “Can’t a man enjoy some peace and quiet?”

Cristine’s mouth upturned into a faint smile. “Of course. You just seem a little…shaken.”

“Must be the weather.”

“Right, and I lead the Enforcers. It was the dead girl.”

He tried to remain unfazed, but Cristine could see the way his hands shook. “You didn’t think it was strange?”

“People die and the world sucks. What’s new?” she said, shaking her head and shrugging.

The old man spit into the fire. “Yeah. I thought that lesson would take a long time to get into your head.”

Cristine ate the last bite of her dinner. “So, Gramps, you…do that a lot?” She gestured at the wood in his hands.

He shook his head. “Not so much anymore. Used to do it a lot when my Theo was a boy.”

The old man chipped off bits of wood with renewed vigor, the knife digging in a bit more than he intended. Wood shavings flew from his hands onto the ground below. “Had a son once. Loved these little carvings I’d make him. Big fan of the old music too. When it worked,” he said with a pointed glance at the old radio.

“Where is he now?”

“Gone, like the rest of ‘em. Got carted off one day, and that was the last time I saw him. That was some time ago.”

Cristine fiddled with her thumbs, suddenly not wanting to look the man in the eye. “I’m…sorry.”

“I’ve done my share of grieving. You said it yourself. The world sucks.”

She laughed, though it was lacking in humor. “That it does.”

The old man smiled down at his project, enjoying how the beak and head were turning out. “You’re alright, kid.”

~

Cristine found herself enjoying the days with the old man, whom she affectionately referred to as “Gramps”, to his annoyance. She remembered spending many days alone as a scavenger, digging through the junk, finding ways to survive. There were days when she sat huddled in the cold and the dampness, struggling with hunger and fighting disease from her already weak body. He filled a void she didn’t know existed in her lonely heart. He had a wisdom that, despite his gruff exterior, revealed itself in the survival tips he gave her.

There were times when she noticed him watching her, perhaps as a scientist observes a wild animal to learn its behavior. Always, there was suspicion in his eyes, as if he expected her to turn on him. She never mentioned it, content to enjoy the silent evenings they spent together. She would eat her dinner and then take up a project of her own, be it sewing clothing for the harsh winter months or repairing tools. Meanwhile, he would chip away at that block of wood. The radio droned off-key instrumental music into the night, sometimes upbeat, sometimes slow and heavy.

This life became routine to them, almost like a father and his daughter eking out a living in the harsh wastes. Until that routine was broken.

It began with Gramps coughing, getting worse and worse until he could no longer stand. Cristine would wander alone through the market, for the first time in months, in search of items that could ease his pain.

“Let it be,” he told her, lying there on his bedroll. Coughing fits racked his body every few minutes. “I’m old. I gotta go sometime,” he said with a quiet laugh.

Cristine was reluctant to oblige. “It’s not like you to just lay down and give up.”

“We all gotta go someday, Cristine.” He glanced over at something lying beside him. With a shaking hand, he reached over and grabbed the finished carving he had spent so much time on.

“My son used to love these. But he’s been gone over a decade. It seems whatever powers that be gave me you in his stead. So I want you to have this.”

She held the carving in her hands, gingerly, as if it would break in her grasp. It was a bird, perhaps a raven or a crow, etched into the wood in loving detail. Gramps was talented, having included feathers on its wings and the detail in its impassive, watchful eyes.

He sucked in a wheezing breath. “They say that when that old one came, it had wings, like a bird.  I look at you and I see that it’s touched you in some way or another. And perhaps, I will be the only one to know. Don’t let the Enforcers take you.”

Resolute, she responded, “I won’t.”

Eventually, he grew cold. His eyes glazed over and his breath stilled. All that remained was a dried out husk of what used to be a guardian and a friend. Cristine woke one morning to find all life gone from his eyes and above him, floating, coalescing, a large puff of black smoke.

“No!” She found herself shouting, her cries disturbing birds that had flocked onto the rafters of buildings towering above them. She shook him several times, shaking her head as the smoke pressed against her skin and built itself into her flesh. She wanted to reject it, she felt disgusted as the essence of what was absorbed itself into her very being. She felt his memories, saw Theo’s young face, small hands wrapped in his. And then, what was left of the man she only knew as “Gramps” vanished.

There was nothing there. Not anymore. Nothing but remains, metal, and broken bits of machinery. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she collected what little belongings she had. A wood carving of a bird. An old radio that barely worked. Her own name. Once, she too had been nothing, but with all thanks to an old man, she would be more.

[the-raven-writes]

Alone with the stars

Short little thing I wrote from a prompt in my large prompt hoard. Really short piece about my character, Cristine. Kind of an exercise to play around with description. 1 AM. There was something ethereal about the deepest parts of nighttime. The moon’s shining face cast an eerie glow upon all that beheld it. The world sat in silent reverence, broken only by the nocturnal creatures conquering the streets. Cristine was one of them, wandering the empty roads like some stray lost with nowhere to go. The air was so cold that wisps of air puffed from her lips, partially hidden behind a red scarf. She would be invisible if not for that scarf, so vibrantly crimson it stood out like a beacon against her dark clothing.

Her worn boots barely made a sound against the cracked pavement. With hands in her pockets, she ambled through the empty streets. Her right foot kicked a broken bottle, startling an emaciated feline digging through the trash for scraps. Beneath her scarf, she frowned as it watched her with its big, round eyes. Cristine always had an irrational fear of cats, because they were far wiser than any human. They knew. And it made her uncomfortable.

The broken neon sign adorning the shambled entrance to Rusty’s Bar had gone out an hour ago. It’s proprietor had closed up and went to sleep with the rest of the world, so afraid of the night, of the dark. Hidden away in their ramshackle homes where it couldn’t touch them.

Cristine climbed through the broken window at its rear. No one ever bothered fixing it. But no one ever really bothered trying to steal anything anyway. The bar was so oddly quiet. Bar stools lined up without a drunk to sit on them. For a moment, she thought to sneak a drink from one of the bottles on the shelf. But the owner, whose name was not Rusty, would know it was her and not let her forget it.

In the back room, there was a shoddy ladder leading to the roof. Cristine climbed the metal rungs, one by one, until she reached the top. The hatch squealed when she opened it, hinges rusty from misuse. A large, panoramic view of the silent city greeted her. A graveyard of sagging buildings stretched as far as the eye could see. The great full moon hovered before her, accompanied by thousands of twinkling stars.

With a contented sigh, she walked over to the edge and took a seat, letting her legs dangle in the open air. This was a world that suited her. A place of stillness, of silence. Of peace. Here, she sat perched as a bird would. Watching, always watching, and waiting for when she would next take flight. There was no death, no war, no voracious hunger, nothing but herself and the empty, sleeping silence.

She let her eyes wander to the stars up above, connecting them and making shapes in her mind. She imagined angels gathered on the moon, a raven perched on a windowsill, an old-timey radio, and a pair of lovers dancing. At first, it didn’t seem like it, but this world was a paradise. In that moment, she decided she would be its guardian. As long as she could sit here, on the roof of an old bar at night, looking at the stars.

[the-raven-writes]

Obligatory introduction post

I’ve been wanting to do this for ages! Finally got around to creating a shiny new blog for all my writing needs. 

I will be posting my writing here, which in all honesty will be about many things. I am now accepting prompts as well!