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 ✶ ELLE LOCKHART

hi, interbloggers. it's elle lockhart, otherwise known as santoelle. i've been an author for a while and it's time where i pursue my life as an author. currently, my targeted novellas are the voyeur and portrait. i'm eighteen, though i've written since i was ten. my books often circle around the same thematic formula in different ways, all just to mean the same things.

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THEMES, TROPES, AND NARRATIVES

Love disguised in Violence

Character-driven plots

Fictional disabilities as a metaphor for societal issues

Mundane life of troubled people

Religion and Blasphemy

Obsession and Detachment and, occasionally;

The act of being Queer

WIP BOOKS&MOVIES RECOMMENDATION

The Dreamers (2003) by Bernardo Bertolucci

The Wasp Factory (1984) by Iain Banks

Sinners (2025) by Ryan Coogler

Fight Club (1996) by Chuck Palahniuk

LAST UPDATED 19TH OF JUNE, 2025

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The god of life was dead.

The attending physician called it at 2.05am in the divine suite of the Hospital of Second Light.

Low Priest Vertigo had been standing vigil over the theurgery for hours, repeating the Prayer for Cellular Regeneration, chanting the Rite of Heartbeat, and singing The Seed That Sleeps in the Winter Dirt. Their throat was raw. Their head was throbbing. Their bones felt both heavy and hollow.

The priest and the physician (a theurgeon named Alacrity) walked in silence together to the hospital’s chapel to the god of death. It was little more than a cubicle, really, a little desk in the morgue screened off from the slabs and drawers.

But it was what they had and it was the only place where a death certificate could be notarised.

They each spilled a drop of blood into the coin slot and the little animatronic psychopomp (styled as a plague doctor in a crow mask) jerked into life. Its beady eyes glowed red and feral. Vertigo wondered if it was the death god behind those eyes, attending the ceremony in person to mark the passing of its sibling and enemy. Perhaps. Or perhaps it offered no special treatment and let whichever spirit who was on rotation perform the solemn duty.

The pair filled in the Cause of Death as ‘sudden massive spectral trauma’.

The psychopomp signed it with an unintelligible glyph in its usual stop-start motion.

As it did so, it suddenly changed. Its limbs (an automated shell to contain the divine) began to move more naturally. Its chest began to rise and fall as if breathing. But when it spoke, it became clear it was not breath, but laughter…

“What will you do, priest?” The words tumbled out amidst a vicious chuckle. “Now that life is dead, what is the point of you?”

“...the hells?” Alacrity murmured.

“Oh, I am nothing from the hells or the heavens.” The voice from the psychopomp was a rush of syllables, out of time with the beat of creation. “I am something before and after. I am that which never was and always will be. I am the faithkiller.”

The psychopomp marionette reached out with one stop-motion hand. It had grown claws.

The priest caught it, inches from the theurgeon’s throat.

“I know you,” said Vertigo, their eyes alight with nourishing sunlight, “I have heard you in the silence between prayers, in the beats between verses.”

“I am the full stop when praise has ended. I will not be denied.”

“Yet I deny you.”

“With what power, priest of nothing? With the last dribbles of belief in a space where a god once was?”

The priest reached out with their other hand and grasped the puppeted machine around the head. Around them, five shadows spread out to the edges of the morgue, cast by a light that could not be seen.

“Did you think that my faith was so fragile that it would fade, just because you killed the thing that I believed in?” The faithkiller tried to reply, but Vertigo’s hand was covering the psychopomp’s mouth, muffling whatever taunt or jibe it tried to emit. “If there is no god for me to nurture, no divinity for me to contemplate and unravel, then I will do as the god did and contemplate life. I will water its fields and try to answer its questions. Life contains more secrets still.”

The thing replied with more muffled eldritch twitterings.

“But your words are not one of the mysteries I will dwell on today.” A crunch as the priest crushed the being right out of the psychopomp’s circuits. “I am concerned not with the inevitable, but with potential.”

---

Like my stories? Consider supporting me on Ko-Fi https://ko-fi.com/strangelittlestories

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boredom is a crime

yo wassup call me blue

the name comes from the character from The Raven Cycle

any pronouns are okie dokie artichokie

20 years old

starting a new wip after 5 years of burnout

will def post snippets of my work here, full chapters will prob go on neocities or something and i'll link it. idk havent thought about it yet.

probs neurodivergent idk too tired too think about it

my favourite part of writing is purple prose <3

uh i think my least favourite thing ablut writing is naming, naming places, characters etc

updates will be sporadic but thats normalized in this community tbh

genres / subgenres covered:

young adult + adult

slice of life + queernormative romance

soft post-apocalyptic

magical realism

themes / tropes my works feature:

different types of love: romantic, sexual, platonic, etc etc

community > hyperindividualism

bittersweet hope in dystopia

no plot just vibes (at some points)

genrebending like nobodies business

light hearted plots that have darker subtext embedded

my wips:

[name tbd]

romance wlm / slice of life / post - apocalyptic / dystopian [name tbd 1] : masc!fem bisexual protagonist and her young son flee from her home city of sky-high glass and hearts hollowed by slaving away under post-collapse corpocracy after murdering her abuser. after a perilous journey out into the waste zones, she finds a repurposed railroad of old cargo trains stopped in time. a villageful of people who were chewed up and spit out by the post-collapse capitalism beast took these rusty machines of days bygone and made them into imperfect perfect little homes and mutant livestock farms. she begs for work, no matter how low her back must stoop to feed her son and herself. a former aircraft mechanic humbled by putting together sputtering farming machinery. just for a few months she thought. or not. a giant soft spoken welder on the same team who can't stop his heart fluttering when he sees her certainly thinks not.

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I don't think any of us expected that the most interesting thing to change after the vampires took over would be the *currency*.

I am writing this as I sit in a donation van (a considerably more fortified kind of vehicle since The Change, and given a definitively Gothic feel by the crucifix hubcaps). I am bleeding into a surgical tube. Literally hemorrhaging money.

Once this process is completed and the daily contributions (far less than they once were) are taken to the Daylight Hospital, I will be substantially poorer than I was before.

It's considered an odd thing to do by some, who would much rather take their vital fluids to the nearest pawn shop and put their lifeblood in hock for a crisp Five Hundred Mil note.

In some places, things aren't even that civilised. I'm sure rumours of playground bullies running 'donation' rackets are exaggerated, but it still provides a chilling reminder that this is a new kind of world we find ourselves in.

(And don't even get me started on how the markets fluctuate every time a blood-bourne disease is discovered or cured...)

But hospitals still need blood, so here I am. (Although, admittedly, they don't need as much, when most life-threatening conditions can be cured with a very simple (irreversible) treatment).

It's not that I'm a generous person. I'm not doing this for the warm fuzzies.

I just don't like being a commodity.

And the most efficient 'screw you' I've found is to give it away for free...

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RKMORIYAMA's WRITEBLR INTRODUCTION

An introduction to me, my writing, and a select few of my projects

Hi, Hello! My name's Alex. My pronouns are she/her or they/them; it doesn't really matter to me. I am in my early 30s. I have a long history of writing and coming up with stories, and a large part of my youth was spent writing short stories or roleplaying with online friends. My stories fall into the categories of fantasy, sci-fi, horror, and thriller, and most, if not all, of my stories contain something supernatural.

MY WORKS IN PROGRESS

a selection of projects I am working on, these are the ones I'm focusing on currently.

IN THE DARKENED SKY dark fantasy | english

In In the Darkened Sky, we follow Senka, a daughter of none, raised in an isolated valley by Sylvain Astavau, a retired captain of the King's Army, and later also the dragon Nithe, who hatched while in their possession. But their idyllic, slow life is promptly interrupted by the arrival of soldiers and the message they carry. Sylvain Astavau has been called back to serve, and Akresia is going to war. 

Senka and Nithe are thrust into a structured, military life, forced to follow rules they don't always agree with, and are tossed into a conflict they have no experience with.

VARGABLOT contemporary, swedish folklore | swedish

In Vargavik, the most important tradition isn't Easter, Midsummer, or even Christmas; it's Vargablotet. Mid-September each year, shortly after the start of the school year, the town of Vargavik assembles in a field just outside of town to offer food or riches in a fire to appease the folkloric creatures roaming about in the ancient forest around Vargavik. But when staff and students of private school Bergenstråhle start going missing and the police can find no clues, it becomes clear that this year, Vargablotet didn't work.

Four local teens take to investigating the disappearances themselves when the police fumble for a reasonable solution and find a still-operating secret society that's planning for a second Vargablot, one made with human sacrifices.

UR ASKANS MINNEN contemporary magical realism | swedish

Signe's gap year is coming to an end, and she and her friends have nothing planned for their last summer before starting university. Something that doesn't sit well with Signe. A surprise phone call from Signe's uncle Magnus opens up an opportunity for the girls to work with horses all summer long. How could three horse-interested girls say no to that? Come June, they arrive in the deep forests of the middle of Sweden and the manor Angermanns gård. Here, they will help out during the summer's riding camps and tour riding. However, as they settle into a comfortable routine, strange things start happening on the manor grounds. Come July, the past walks the manor grounds again, reliving their last summer one more time.

... and a dozen more exist that have been put on hold for the time being.

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sometimes you've just gotta write about creatures

(tenax / womb-bed / it holds her in the palm of one hand)

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Do something worthy enough and they'll give you the key to the City of Edinburgh. Do something that actually impresses them and they'll tell you what it opens.

You'll be taken to a door set into the cliff face of Castle Rock. The door is discrete, plain, and very very thick.

A gesture from an accompanying flunky will prompt you to use your ornate ceremonial key. It turns smoothly in the massive lock.

The door swings open to reveal a claustrophobic tunnel bored directly into the raw granite of the Rock. Mercifully, this corridor is short and ends at another door. This one is padded, but no less solid.

Again, a gesture to use your key. As soon as you hear the heavy CLUNK of the lock disengaging, you are aware of the beat. A sound so low that it bypasses your ears and is perceived through the rattling of your teeth and a dull throb in your bones.

THUD, THUD... THUD, THUD... THUD, THUD

Down and down, the corridor winding and lined with padding and sound baffles. Now the sound has dropped to a pitch that you cannot hear at all - instead your vision shakes and sparks as your eyeballs undulate within your head.

Out into an enormous space, a cavern large enough to hold St Giles Cathedral. In the centre hangs the heart of the city.

Collosal ventricles of copper and steel expand and contract. Great arcs of electricity spark and writhe across its pitted surface. Disappearing into the ceiling you can see the aorta and veins, carrying the life blood of the city up and out into the world.

With every collosal contraction you are aware of cars moving, pedestrians surging, money and goods flowing in and out of the capital. The urge to touch the surface is so powerful that you have taken a few steps forward without noticing. A polite hand on your elbow stops you in your tracks.

An indefinable period of time passes. Eventually you let yourself be led back out into the world. Evening has fallen, a dull drizzle cloaks the city and there is a golden light in the west.

You walk all the way back to your flat. With every step you are aware of the city's heart beat, both driven by and driving you onwards.

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when comes the dawn monthly update {5.31.2025}

THE STATISTICS

the draft -> ~39,419 words words written this month -> 2,399 words* average word count per session -> 343 words* words written this year -> 21,290 words

* physically, I wrote more than that, but since I'm still focused on compiling my drafts into proper chapters and folders, I took the opportunity to do some light revisions and then only counted the new words in my tracker.

STORY NOTES

Still working on putting my scenes into proper chapters and also bridging the gaps between them

Added another sheet to my word count tracker where I can keep track of the actual draft word count and have it separate from my general words written. It's also what I use to keep track of my chapter details (chapter titles, parts, number of scenes/words, POV)

Speaking of: I've decided to start adding chapter titles! My favorite ones so far are The Sorrow-Bringer's Gift and The Mother of Many

Did some revisions on Nike's flashback of Isandros to try and hint at how strained the brothers' relationship was becoming because of the war

Unfortunately, I did have to delete Nike's very iconic "I'd cheat on Fenice to get back at her if I could but I know she won't actually care so I won't" lines :( It's not gone for good though! I'm hoping to add it back in a later chapter

Revised the beginning of The Mother of Many (previously referred to as "the god feast" scene to incorporate the fact that Fenice sees ghosts

Currently in the process of writing The Hunt, where Fenice is attempting to prove herself a useful ally to Illysandre

EXCERPT

And that was the heart of the matter, was it not? What could Fenice offer that neither Illysandre nor Charles had? Charles was already disgustingly perfect as a son and heir; powerful, dutiful, and skilled in equal measure. Illysandre was the daughter of House vi Soresi, one of the eight evgenii that first swore alleigance to the First Emperor, bringing political power and prestige that Fenice's own maternal background could not match. The blood of Eliskander-konig might flow through Fenice, but there was little the Iskavaarian warlord would be willing to do for a grandaughter he'd never met. Fenice had no friends or connections that would prove useful to Charles' cause, nor riches that House vi Soresi could not already provide. Truly, she had nothing to give. Nothing except herself. What a pitiful deal this was.

BLOG STUFF

I wanna do a post over some of the imperial/court titles used but I'm still stumped on what to do for a graphic for it

TAG LIST (ask to be +/-)

@bloomingwrites @writinglyra @zmwrites @trapped-inadystopianovel @inky-duchess @aalinaaaaaa @seasteading @kaatiba @lazulis-stuff @serpentarii @sourrcandy @charlesjosephwrites @forever-and-almost-always @halcionic @caninemotiff @socialmediasocrates @zorya-km @smolandweirdwriter @floweryprosegarden

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As the paladin walked down the street, feeling the paving stones sing beneath her thin souls, the street lights began to flicker out.

One by one, they flared and spluttered and died. As they did, the road's song faded. The electric grid ceased its constant background whispers. The city god’s thousand thousand signs and signals quieted.

The assassin emerged from the shadows.

“You're a tricky woman to corner, city-speaker.”

“Who are you?” The paladin reached out for her god's brick-built hand and found nothing. “And what have you done?”

“A blackout.” The assassin stalked towards her. “A divine power cut.”

“That's not possible.”

“Prayer surges at five points surrounding us. The celestial breakers all tripped.” A blade of charred wood appeared in his hand. “They'll flip the switch back soon, but for the next five minutes this is a dead zone. And you'll just be dead.”

“You haven't killed me yet.”

“Shouldn't be hard. No god to back you up. No oath to empower you.”

The assassin was suddenly right next to the paladin, the burnt dagger an inch from her heart.

“Oh sweetheart, you've made a mistake,” the paladin said as wrapped her fingers around the assassin’s soul, “The oath is not what made me powerful. The oath was duty and rules and a promise to be good. It's what gave me *limits*.”

The paladin made a fist. She squeezed. The assassin's blade cluttered to the ground.

“Stop…” choked the assassin.

“Would you have stopped?” asked the paladin. “If I'd asked? If I'd begged? In the pursuit of your duty, have you ever faltered and tripped over mercy?”

“Please. No…”

“I didn't think so,” she twisted the soul between her fingers, “but don't worry. I'm not going to crush it. I'm not going to kill it. I'll just rearrange it a little.”

“Wha-”

“Consider it a return to factory settings. A fresh start.”

The assassin screamed.

“Yeah,” said the paladin, “Change is hard.”

---

Enjoy my stories? Consider supporting my live show! https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/poor-life-choices-at-the-edinburgh-fringe/x/8175219#/

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What Is Real?

Here I am...

Looking at the mirror

Again

This smiling person—

Who is this?

I can't remember anymore.

You think I'm fine

That I live so carefree

But I'm tired

Just hide it better.

I'm still alive, though

Still breathing

And that has to matter.

.

Hey, I'm back with new poem! I hope today's been kind to you — because being alive has to matter.

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My story "See Now the Misfortune of the Thinking Tenax" is in this month's issue of Lightspeed!

Beast, monster, destroyer—the tenax has been mysteriously granted sapience, and on its quest for knowledge, it seeks out a cult of surgeon-priests.

You can read it now by purchasing the ebook, or wait until 6/19 to read it for free online.

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June woke up in a dark room. She did not remember how she got there.

It was dark as a mine. Dark as empty space. Dark as deep sea trenches. A darkness that was solid, suffocating and ego-annihilating.

June flexed her fingers. She wriggled her toes. She took a deep breath of stale air. It was already getting hard to tell where she ended and the black began.

It was really fricking dark, okay?

June began to feel her way around the room, carefully placing her feet to ensure the floor was even, and reaching out with her arms to try and find a wall. Her the first few minutes, she found nothing but space; it was like she was swimming in a void.

But eventually she found an edge. It was cool and smooth. She ran her hands down it, searching for a light switch or the seam of a door.

[I wouldn't bother, honestly.]

“Hello?” June dropped immediately into a fighting stance. “Who's there?”

[No-one. There's no-one. And nothing. Don't even get worked up about it. Just chill.]

It wasn't exactly a voice. The air around June still felt placid and drowning-pool deep. The words were like a fact. Like a dream you know is true. Like, well… like narration.

“I've never been good at chill.” June rocked back on her heels, her fists still up in a guard around her head.

[Now's a great time to learn. Nothing but time, here. Perfect time to practice calm. Get good a giving up, y'know?]

No footsteps. No movement. No itching sense of ill intent. June relaxed her guard a little and started edging along the wall again.

“Giving up is also not a talent of mine. I'm more a ‘rage against the dying of the light’ kinda girl.”

[The light died a long time ago. Not much use raging against history. Hard to punch the past. Ooh, you could have a good complain though? Like, really give the endless night a good talking to?]

“This can't be endless.” She inched her way down the wall. It kept going. “And no way to know if it's night. I've just got to find a light, or maybe make one…”

[What's so great about light, anyhow? Answer me a question: how many people does it take to change a lightbulb?]

Against her better judgement, June answered, “How many?”

[Why bother? Light isn't even a thing. Oh, what? It's a particle but it's also a wave? Make up your mind! You can only ever be one thing and you're that forever. That's science, that is.]

June stopped.

“Oh, I get it.”

[You do? Great. Let's just sit here together and yell bitterly about the empty black void of existence. We can put marshmallows on sticks and then eat them cold off the sticks, because fire doesn't exist any more and never will again.]

“No. Not that.”

[Disappointing. What do you get, then?]

“You're full of it.”

[... rude.]

June patted herself down. She was still wearing her frayed cargo pants. And in one of the pockets… perfect.

“You're scared. You want me to give up, so you won't be alone here. You'll say anything to make me stay and be as sad as you.”

[I'm not even here. I'm abstract as heck. I'm the voice of creation. The voice that announces the heat death of the universe.]

“Nah, I think you're here. And if you're here, I can punch you.”

[Gonna be hard to punch what you can't see.]

“Well, you know what they say,” June took the lighter out of her pocket and flicked it open. “Better to fight a liar than curse the darkness.”

June's smile looked truly wicked in the flickering firelight.

---

Like my stories? Join me on Tuesday 3 June for a live stream to celebrate the end of my live show crowdfunder!

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When I was little - before I ever considered my life might contain quests and courage and comrades - I learned these lessons from the world.

It is normal to be afraid when you are very small and everyone else is very big.

It is normal too, when every figure you see is a giant made of cutting talons and bruising words, to puff yourself up and try to cast a shadow as tall as them.

It is normal to grow your teeth. It is normal to hide poison under your tongue. It is normal to snap every threat with killing force. If they do not know you are a predator, they will treat you as prey.

It is normal to be afraid of yourself. After all, you have spent years turning yourself into the scariest thing in any given room. It would be weird not to fear yourself, knowing what you are capable of.

It is normal to distrust kindness. Receiving it is showing your belly. Giving it is lowering your hackles. And so many gentle words hide knives inside them.

It is normal to relish conflict. This is how you find out if you have made yourself big enough, sharp enough. This is how you find out who and what still dwarfs you and (should you survive) where you must tear with your teeth to bring them down to your size.

It is normal to chase your fears. That is how you learn where the biggest and most interesting prey can be found.

All these things, I learned, are normal.

It was abnormal, then, when the curse settled on me. When it crawled inside my skin and curled around my eyes and my tongue. When it made my lips drip with honey, so my words were sweet sin to those who heard them. It was a horror story to find people listening to me. A blasphemy to know I could sing them to their doom.

It felt … dishonest.

I was used to scaring myself because I was a monster. It was terrible to scare myself because I was a person.

Worst of all? I am not alone on this thorn-framed path. For while it led me to the curse, it also led me to my pack. They are as frightening as me, but they do not know it yet. For some reason, I hope they never have to find out.

This, too, does not feel normal.

So now I must be so, so careful. Because they will follow me if I ask them to, with my curse-candied tongue.

And at the end of this trail is a mouth, wide as the sky. And what if it is mine?

---

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“So how did you capture the demon?”

The wizard unholstered her tablet, a battered android covered in cheap stickers of arcane sigils.

“I drew a binding circle on Canva, popped the grimoire on kindle, then had it read the incantation via text-to-speech.” She flicked on the lock screen and a furious demon face appeared, screaming silently. “It's stuck here for now. I just have to remember to keep the WiFi off so it can't get out.”

“Clever.” The librarian flicked a switch and a bookcase swung open to reveal the torch-lit cavern of the restricted section. “But we'll need to find a more permanent prison.”

“We could stick it on a SIM and transfer it to another device.”

“It’d need to be something reliable.”

“Yeah, something that'll run forever. If the power dies or the software borks, the wards will fail.”

“And it'd need to be durable.”

“Damn near indestructible.”

“I’ve got an old Nokia 3310 in the archives, I think.”

“Perfect.” The wizard grinned. “Plus, it'll be able to play Snake.”

“Should keep it occupied for a century or two, yeah.”

---

Enjoy my stories? Consider supporting my live show! https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/poor-life-choices-at-the-edinburgh-fringe

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We were 24 hours out of the pit and 36 hours from Armageddon when we ran out of gas.

“Fudge.” I muttered, steering the stalling vehicle to the side of the smouldering tarmac.

“Fudge?” Ritva quirked an eyebrow at me.

“We only barely got out of hell, I'm not tempting fate by cussing.”

We trundled to a halt. The sky of Elsewhere stretched over us, a livid open wound of a lightshow.

“So, what now?” Ritva hopped the passenger door and walked round to the trunk. “You got fuel in here? Or we walking to the end of days?”

“Nah,” I leaned back in my seat and let the many sunsets bleed onto my face. “I had to ditch the spare can back in Vegas. I was being chased by slot machine demons and needed a quick working.”

“Why do you need gasoline for a spell?”

“A fireball is just a Molotov cocktail with pretensions, you know?”

Ritva laughed as she rummaged through the trunk of the Dodge, digging past a sleeping bag, the skull of a gargoyle, and two empty bottles of chard.

“Okay. I can't find anything in here we can alchemise into fuel or use to portal topside. What do you wanna do?”

“Look again. We can portal.”

“You kidding? We've got no keystone prepped, we're mana-challenged if not fully screwed, and we've got no map.”

“We've got no map to the endgame, but I have a fairy key taped inside the exhaust.”

“You have a fairy key?”

“Yeah, I bought a cottage in a mushroom ring a few years back. It's made of cobwebs and morning mist, but I let a redcap live in the spare room and he keeps me in stylish hats.”

Ritva hummed a few notes from Into The Woods and the key shot out of the exhaust and into her hand. It was a twisted many-pronged thing made out of bone, with a thistle growing through the middle.

“So how does getting to Faerie help us? Can we hopscotch from there?”

“Nope. Too dangerous.” I took a little nubbin of chalk and crushed it in my hand. I let the dust fall on took hold of a passing breeze and used it to paint the shape of a door in the air. “Too much of a risk you'll try to skip through a Court and put your foot down on an unseelie you now owe a favour to.”

“So what're we doing there?”

Ritva put the key in the chalk door and twisted. It gave out a little scream, then a little sigh, then it clicked. It began to swing open and she caught it while it was still just an outline of summer.

“We can buy gas.”

“The fair folk have gas stations?”

“Yeah, they'll sell pretty much anything that desperate people need.”

“So why didn't we go there earlier? We're desperate people…”

“Two reasons, apprentice.” I took her hand off the door and let it swing open. The scent of sweet lavender wafted across the highway, overpowering the traces of brimstone and ozone. “First, the gas follows fairy gold rules. It'll vanish in a day. Thankfully, there's less than a day on the clock.”

“And second?”

I took a stick of tiger balm out of the glove compartment and applied it liberally beneath both nostrils. It should stave off the worst of the pollen enchantments.

“They know how bad we need it. We'll have to make a deal.”

“We just came out of hell. You literally just got the better of a deal with the devil.”

“Yeah. But *he* learned how to haggle from the fae. And trust me, he was a B minus student at best…”

I handed Ritva the tiger balm and we walked through the door into Faerie with no idea how much of us would walk back out again…

---

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Khasar Şahin is one of my main characters and is probably my favorite to write so far. She and her brother, Nergui, are from the Black Crags which is a mountainous mining area. Not many of those from the Crags are known to venture too far from those towns and villages nearest the mountains but we meet Khasar all the way on the opposite of the country nearer the port city of Kival. Like many of the women in the mountains, Khasar is a falconer and has had her falcon since she was old enough to walk. Many mountain tribes believe that the falcons who arrive at the birth of a girl is an ancestral spirit guide and so women with them are thought to share thoughts, emotions, or even vision with their birds. Khasar is the catalyst for our novel and very much an unwitting harbinger of the Second Breaking. ( template. )

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hello friends and fiends of wordsmithing, my name's Banksy and im starting my first writeblr-esque blog. ive been writing fanfiction for years on ao3, you might have read some of my old orphaned workㅤ ( the promise of pomegranates, strange hungers, and i had a marauders fanfiction i had every intention or rewriting to repost but haven’t gotten around to that yet either… ) but haven't tried anything fully focused on my personal writing or original work, not to this extent.... ANYWAY, ive never had a writeblr or anything so please bear with me on how this works (:

The Knell of the White Raven is an adult fantasy epic featuring an ㅤethnically diverse group of main characters, themes of war, loss, family, loyalty, corruption, and faith. genres includeㅤ fantasy, horror, and adventure mainly and i take a lot of inspiration from other fantasy authors such as Tolkien, Robert Jordan, and even young adult fiction like the Grishaverse by Leigh Bardugo and a lot of different myths and folklore.

for now the working summary is:

There is not a blade of grass unfed by the centuries of spilled blood. Nor an empire unsupported by cornerstones of cracking ivory bones. A world grown, nurtured, and sustained by the continuous sacrificial bloodletting and greedy men. Sword and arrow aren't the only tools we have learned to use against one another. War is not our only excuse to hurt and kill and annihilate one another. Time moves forward unchanging and steady as a spinning wheel; never backward always forward, never rushed and never diverting, and so the past will come again. Maybe tomorrow we will fight upon the bones of who we were Ages ago. Maybe today we will burn upon pyres lit beneath those damned by the New Gods. And maybe tomorrow will be the day that wheel of time finally breaks.

i will also be sharing a lot of my favorite fan work for various fandoms as well as writing resources for all different types of writers so anyone's welcome, writers, readers, or creators of all kinds. drop a dm or a like if ya feel inclined and if ya stop by the blog, hope ya enjoy! — ㅤBanksy. ( 30+ she/her )