bodhranwriting

[bodhranwriting]

Arcane Skies is a wild ride.

#writing #writeblr #fantasy #steampunk #writer

[bodhranwriting]

One of my favourite descriptions of a character ever :)

Orion grinned and stuck his hands in his pockets, letting his coat fall open fully.

Isabel couldn’t contain her gasp.

The man was a walking chemical factory. Slung across his narrow chest was a bandolier overstuffed with flasks, test tubes, and little vials all filled to the brim with mysterious liquids of eye wateringly bright hues. On his belt hung a multitude of bulging leather pouches, a bag of black powder, what appeared to be a jar of dirt, and two pistols with worryingly large chambers.

In short, Isabel got the sense that, if he tripped, he was going to take out everything within a five-mile radius.

“What… did you say your nickname was again, Orion?”

Orion’s guileless beam grew wider.

“Oops,” he said.

“And... why’s that?”

“I’m bad at keeping secrets.”

#writing #writeblr #fantasy #steampunk

[bodhranwriting]

You know how your brain sometimes throws up a terrible idea?

Well, the short story I started about an elderly Royal Astronomer being abducted by a group of bandits for no apparent reason is trying to grow legs into a trilogy.

#writer #writing #spindlewynd mysteries #short stories #poll!

[bodhranwriting]

A Lament for the Beaches of My Childhood (The North is Where I Long to Go)

If I can’t find a stony beach, I’ll die.

Not golden sand, not beautiful waves

Just rocks

And stones

And driftwood

An inlet like a scar across the landscape

Jagged cliffs and screaming birds -

I’m sick of “beauty”, sick of “soft”

Give me grey and brown and black and cast down skies

Let it rain, that steady mournful stream.

I want to fall and cut my knee

And limp up scrubby dirt-green hills of heather

Gorse and marram grass

All sharp and salt-windswept -

Ugly places lie across my heart like a bruise

I miss them. I want them.

I want to hold the chipped and scratched-up stones against my lips

And kiss away the beatings of the ocean grey -

Where’s the granite? Where’s the slate?

Where’s the shale beneath my feet? I want

to cradle cracked and cast-off things

Forget the beauty and the picture-perfect golden grains

Give me back my wild-flung stones, my broken shells,

The dull, miscoloured-shapen pebbles shaken by high tides.

Give me rocky beaches or I shall surely die.

Bodhrán M

#poetry #poem #writing #scotland #scottish #writeblr

[bodhranwriting]

Hi so silly question maybe but what's your AO3? A cursory search on your blog doesn't yield any results, so I'm not sure if I missed it or if you just haven't shared it yet and I'm simply jumping the gun 😅 hope your day is a decent one and thanks for your time!

I’ve had a day, thank you for asking.

I don’t have an AO3 account yet because I do not want to be sharing the account which has the fanfiction I wrote when I was fifteen on it and I can’t post on there.

It might be a while.

#writeblr #writing

[bodhranwriting]

Releasing them a chapter at a time on my writing blog @bodhranwriting and AO3 and making little videos on Tiktok.

#deaf #queer #tiktok #video #actor #writer #writing #fantasy #mystery

[bodhranwriting]

I’d love to do a series of these short Spindlewynd Mysteries so a continuing narrator might be fun.

#deaf #queer #breaking the fourth wall #writing #writeblr #fantasy

[bodhranwriting]

I’ve seen other writers do this, but does anyone want to be on a tag list for my writing?

- The Spindlewynd Mysteries (Finn and the Arsonist/Starhill/Painting With Shadows/A Bitter Cup/A Sailor’s Guides to Riches in the Silverbones Lagoon)

These are a series of short mysteries (An arsonist/a kidnapping/a strange patron/a murder/an odd location) set in the same fantasy world.

- The Arcane Skies (Tocktick/The Drowned Rook/The Lanterns Fuelled By Falling Skies)

A steampunk found family trilogy set in a world where magic is a natural resource.

- Nostos and the Filigree Lantern

A mythic journey to the underworld featuring a deaf protagonist.

- Flies in Amber

A 1920s style fantasy archeological horror set in a series of underground caves in search of magic

- Soul-Glass

A fantasy horror about an old disabled monster-researcher in search of her old crew whose bodies were stolen by a demon.

- The Way Through the Woods

An elderly immortal forester tries to guide a group of adventurers through a cursed woods while being hunted by a moss-witch,

#writeblr #writing #deaf #fantasy #queer

[bodhranwriting]

Ah, now we get to the heart of this after a few more ableist swears and use of the f-slur.

Nothing is special about women. Being a woman is not some divine gift in the same way being a man is not or being nonbinary is not or trans. You are not better or nicer or kinder or purer on the virtue of being a woman. That kind of thinking leads you down some very dark paths. It is unhelpful, it is - certainly in my opinion - dehumanising to women. It puts women on a pedestal where they are once again objects not fully realised people. It’s misogyny in action, I’m afraid.

If someone else experiencing womanhood in a different way to you completely destroys your sense of self then that’s your issue to work on. That’s your problem and you’re not secure in yourself at all. It’s also interesting how quickly you shift to attacking trans women when I am a trans man and this was about my experiences as a trans man and as a trans man who was closeted for longer than you’ve been alive, I have my own observations about what a woman is expected to be or is treated as.

Women can be cruel, abusive, awful people too. Them being a woman is not an excuse, it is not a virtue in anyway. The sooner you learn that men are not from Mars and women from Venus your life will be a lot richer I believe.

Additionally, in regards to your “illegal in 70 countries” “point”, child marriage is legal in 117 countries, including the United States. I think we’d both agree that is a reprehensible practise and that doesn’t make it right. The reasons why it is illegal is tied up with colonialism and religious extremism and bigotry which is far too long for me to write an essay about here since today I am celebrating Christmas a month early with my family and I have the fruits of my labour (a cooked breakfast) to enjoy.

I’m giving you a chance to rethink your comments, I’m not expecting you to apologise, just allow you to delete what you said. Otherwise, I will block and report because I don’t appreciate you trying to hurt other members of this thread.

Try to have a good day.

My 90yr old Irish Catholic grandpa doesn’t miss with my gender. He’s never gotten my name wrong, or my pronouns, never even faltered over it.

It’s all so natural too: son, big man, young man…

We’ve never talked about it. He’s the only one who hasn’t pushed for details. He just accepted it and carried on because it’s not a huge deal.

It’s so comforting.

#long post #transgender #trans #lgbtq community #lgbtq #deaf #trans masc

[bodhranwriting]

This is kinda an awkward question but on the poll you released recently the Sailor discovering the magical lagoon has not left the my mind and I was wondering if I could write it since it lost the poll? If I were to put it up anywhere it would be on Tumblr and I’d make sure to tag you.

I would prefer you didn’t since I’m writing all five of the options into an anthology. They’re all going to be written but in the order that they were voted for.

If I have an idea that I’m not gonna write (for example, my dnd adoption posts) then I’ll usually be pretty forward about that.

Sorry.

#writeblr #writing #deaf #fantasy

[bodhranwriting]

Putting it here too as my larger blog.

I’d really love to see which story appeals. It’s a good exercise for me to get over creative burn-out (and I’m so burnt out).

#writing #writeblr #polls #fantasy #wip #short stories

[bodhranwriting]

Since a few people have asked, a vintner is someone who makes wine. Someone's poisoned a victim using her unique stash.

Only a few more hours left, guys, I'd love your opinions :)

I’d really love to see which story appeals. It’s a good exercise for me to get over creative burn-out (and I’m so burnt out).

#writing #polls #fantasy #writeblr #deaf #queer

[bodhranwriting]

The Chosen Many

Destiny is a woman.

There’s nothing much important about that particular aspect of Her. It wouldn’t make much difference to the world if the sparks that make up the goddess of human fate had decided that Her avatar should be male or genderless. After all, personality is more important than genitalia when you can shape them yourself and She would have been just as a much as an arsehole if She’d been a He.

The important part is that She made Herself a humanoid body and, with humanoid bodies, come humanoid thoughts.

Thoughts like, ‘I’m bored’ and ‘You know what might be fun?’

Gods aren’t worshipped here. They turn up too often and overstay their welcome: rather like that one friend at a party who didn’t bring any alcohol and is suddenly very insistent on trying out a watery interpretation of socialism. At best, the more conscientious ones get thank-you gifts. At worst, it’s a toxic relationship for whomever has caught their attention.

Priests tend to get friendly with the bottom of a glass by their third year in service.

Destiny doesn’t have priests. Contrary to popular belief, She doesn’t have much interest in everyday people either. If you were to be honest – preferably in the temple of another god She’d recently annoyed – Destiny’s plans are faint pencil sketches for most. Often, She gets bored and, apart from one or two big events, most people have blameless, simple lives.

But sometimes, She likes to leave a massive metaphorical rake across the lifespans of a significant number of people.

This is one of these times.

And here we meet Sandford Candles – Sand – riding towards the village of Westbank, blissfully unaware that it is going to be obliterated by the hand of fate before he has time to finish his residency.

He was a skinny, suntanned youth, old enough to grow a beard but so far completely unable to. His hair was the colour of wet straw and cut in the style of Not Able to Afford a Proper Barber. Stray tufts stuck up at irregular intervals and occasionally he attempted to flatten them with his hand, but since he had three out of five fingers, it was less successful than he obviously intended. He was clad in the junior uniform of the Royal College of Medicine – maroon breeches, cream tunic, sky-blue jerkin – which had never looked good on anyone who wasn’t colourblind and therefore did not look good on him.

It certainly didn’t look good after a few hours of being rained on, but it was telling that that hadn’t upset him. Sand moved through the world with the good humour of someone who has never yet had anything bad happen to him.

Besides, the last rays of the setting sun were shining down on him through the autumnal leaves, the birds were singing, and he could see signs of civilisation that suggested his destination wasn’t too much further. He was taking his first steps – or rather, Arta, his horse was carrying him – into the next chapter of his life and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to make the best of it.

His enthusiasm wasn’t even dampened as he rode into what certain, snootier classmates would term a ‘bend in the road’. A cluster of cottages huddled around a square of green, gradually fanning out into lonely farmhouses and huts ranged along the lakeside. Shepherds were herding their sheep and chickens back into their barns, fishers tying up their boats at the slick-wood docks, and small shopkeepers shutting up. Flies buzzed over the water, black swarms coiling unpleasantly.

Most of them stopped as Sand rode in, watching him in polite silence, their stares raking him from head-to-toe.

He coughed nervously. “Um, hello?”

One of the fishers – a tall, dark woman– sighed heavily and jerked her thumb back the way he came. “If you’re looking for Mother Nylund, back to the red oak, take a left, and don’t get eaten.”

Sand blinked, wetting his suddenly dry lips. “I – “

“She’s a scary one, our Nylund. Last apprentice ran away crying.” The fisher grinned unpleasantly. “You look like one for crying.”

“Uh…” Sand scanned the faces of the crowd. To his slight relief, several of them were shaking their heads at the speaker, a few turning back to work. One of them – a stout, ragged old man in a multicoloured shirt – caught his eye and gave him a wink and a sly thumbs-up. The effect was slightly spoiled by him immediately taking a long drag from a bottle in his hand and spilling it on his collar.

“Are you deaf?”

Dragging his attention away from the ensuing scuffle as a shopkeeper stepped in to disarm the man of his alcohol, Sand said, “No. Thank you for the directions.”

As he urged Arta to turn, he heard the woman called, “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the flies!”

The laughter, hopefully, wasn’t all aimed at him.

A few minutes and a stomach-churning second of believing he was lost later, Sand urged Arta towards a squat stone cottage overrun with ivy. A half-circle of a fence enclosed it in a front plot of tamped-down dirt with a chicken run and pen lurking by the edge, but by the smell wafting in the breeze, there had to be a massive herb garden around the back.

Dust boiled up over his feet as he slid lightly off her back and he steeled himself as he strode towards the front door. He raised his fist to knock –

And nearly fell into the hallway as someone yanked it open with considerable force. That same someone grabbed him by the collar and snapped, “Have you ever had a baby?”

“I – no – I’ve been sent from the College –“

“I know you’re from the College, man! Have you delivered a baby?”

Sand gaped. “Not yet, I’m –“

“Well, there’s a first time for everything and lucky you, it’s breech. Take this and get on your horse!”

#writeblr #writing #fantasy

[bodhranwriting]

A Living Sky - Tocktick Extract by Bodh M.

“Are we going up into... that?”

Sixsmith threw him a wry look. “Why, you scared, Mr Katsaros?”

Talas’ face twisted and he shifted on his crutches. “I am not - I just... what is he doing?”

Emmett was standing at the prow of *The Iris*, eyes closed and hands outstretched.

Talas couldn’t help but think of a Solist at the end of a pilgrimage, hands outstretched to catch the sacred rays.

Nonsense.

“Ah.” Sixsmith leant forwards. “He’s feelin’ the sky.”

“Feeling it?”

“Yeah. The currents, the pressure. You hired him ‘cause he flew the Seven Day Storm, right?”

“Yes...?”

“Well,” Sixsmith sniffed dismissively, “he’s got his books an’ equipment an’ all those maps but those aren’t no good if you can’t feel it. Can’t see it. You learn what it sounds like before the storm drops ‘cause when you’re up there? When you’re behind the wheel? You dun’t have time to check. You have to sense it. Live in it.”

Talas blinked.

Sixsmith smiled and spun the wheel absently. “The sky’s alive, Mr Katsaros.”

“I thought,” Talas said through gritted teeth, “I was hiring a fellow man of science. That sounds more like a religion.” He scratched his ear. “And an insipid one at that.”

Something dark flashed through Sixsmith’s eyes. “Well, each to their own. But you’re in our house now, Katsaros. So get used to it.”

#writeblr #writing #deaf #queer #fantasy #arcane skies #i’m writing a book #steampunk

[bodhranwriting]

“I suppose this is a ‘sins of the father’ situation and there isn’t anything I could say or offer for you to let the kid go?”

“I’m afraid not, you know how these things work. A father’s got some weight behind it, but a child… bird in the hand and all that.”

“I guessed as much.”

“If it makes it any easier, I’ll do my best to keep the child ignorant until required.”

“Swear it.”

“Would that mean anything?”

“I knew you once. She called you her sister. You wouldn’t…”

“And now? After all these years? Would it mean anything?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Your daughter’s right about me in most cases, sir, save one. She might have forced my hand, but I am not that much of a monster.”

#writeblr #writing #deaf #queer #fantasy

[bodhranwriting]

I’m writing a book and is this kind of lazy and contrived? Yeah, sorta, but also it’s a cool, sad little scene where Sixsmith gives up his chance to escape to make sure his grandchild gets away even if she doesn’t remember who he is.

(Don’t worry, Emmett comes to the rescue later)

#writeblr #writing #deaf #queer #fantasy #arcane skies #i’m writing a book #steampunk #writer

[bodhranwriting]

Tocktick - Our Introduction to Our Villain

Norris sat seething in the corner of the Branded Crow, his third pint untouched and a stolen newspaper spread across the table.

The headline was, of course, sensationalist and mildly confusing – DEVITT DOMINATES with a byline admitting, NEW ENGINE CATAPULTS CREW TO NEXT ROUND – while the article penned underneath was a more restrained summary of that day’s leg of the Throgmorton race and the author’s tentative predictions on this new piece of technology. He glared at the third lumograph down, ignoring the image of a triumphant Devitt lifting the flag and the one showing the Elmstone siblings fixing their sails, seeing a shot of Talas, Maia, and Emmett standing by the engine. Emmett looked uncomfortable, his face-half turned away and blurred.

No need for that, Norris thought scornfully. I don’t have any proof.

He knocked back his pint, slamming it on the table with enough force that a few of the drunks slumped against the bar looked around. Dark hells, twenty years wasn’t enough to forget the face which had gotten him fired – Emmett Askren was Juan St Ciel, he was sure of it.

It was odd. He hadn’t thought of the youth beyond occasional night-time self-pitying sessions for nigh on a decade and a half now. But one look at his face and it had all come rushing back. The glow of triumph at getting to kill two birds with one stone was enough to excite him into action – stop Katsaros from putting a dent in Gorge’s considerable profits and bring down an elusive past ghost.

Then he remembered that he had no papers, no people who still recalled the man in question. His old bosses were long-dead, the institution in question abandoned and across two oceans. No one cared.

Except him, of course.

His hands were itching. He wanted to hit something, someone for just looking at him funny. He scowled at the other patrons, wondering who would last longest in a fight. None of them looked promising; slug-like middle-aged dockworkers, a few chirpy and withered grandmothers, youths with brittle limbs and prematurely lined faces.

By the Sunlight God’s arse, he hated this place. All the fight had been beaten out of it years ago. A kind of grey inevitability reigned over the inhabitants. The crime consisted of drug-addicts and smugglers rather than any firebrand riots. Barfights here and there, attacks on native and Empire-imported inhabitants by the opposing sides, but there was no real spark to it. It was like the islands permanently had developed low-grade tension headaches. It wasn’t fun.

The tavern door swung open. The entire room’s – including Norris’ – attention flickered towards it. They all stayed there. Norris frowned slightly.

The man who strode inside was tall, about seventy or so years of age, with a neatly trimmed white moustache, beard and swept-back hair. He carried a black cane, but he moved like a dancer, perfectly aware of where he was in the space. The smoke and dirt had settled deeply into his jacket – it had probably been an ivory sort of colour once, but it was now an unpleasant shade of brown. His boots were high-quality and foreign; Eastern by Norris’ guess.

He was also maddeningly familiar.

Either ignoring or oblivious to the stares, the man strode straight up to the bar and flashed a smile at the barkeep. Dipping a hand into his pocket, he spoke in a voice too low for Norris to hear and then produced a rectangular lumograph card. He slid it across the bar – paying no attention to the man next to him peering over his shoulder.

The barkeep made a show of looking it over, but Norris knew that he would disavow all knowledge of the image’s subject. There was a reason that the Helionites’ luminary of protection was also the guardian of those behind the bar.

Not that it was religiously motivated here, he thought scornfully, self-preservation was the saying of the day.

The barkeep shook his head and silently gestured to the taps. The hand held up in response was white and too fine-boned for his frame; if this man had ever done manual labour it had been a lifetime ago.

Then he lifted his cane and rapped it carefully but firmly on the wood of the bar.

It was completely unnecessary. He was the most fascinating thing in the building. The gazes only became open.

Norris sat back in his chair, fingers flat on the table, waiting.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the voice was velvet and ridiculously affable, “I request merely a few minutes of your time to assist me with a most important matter.”

A speech like that should have gotten a bottle smashed over his head immediately, but the situation was so unusual, so odd that the tavern was held back in their chairs and captivated. It probably helped that his accent was Eddorian – another small country swallowed by the Empire years before – and therefore not the voice of their brutish overlords, but the sound of another subjugated ally seeking assistance. In the hierarchy of the oppressed, Eddor was not high on the list having surrendered quickly and been permitted to keep much of their culture due to it being so similar to the Empire. But it was still a colony and that meant a form of trust among the Islanders.

Norris was rather proud of himself for the observation, but not so much that he didn’t listen intently to the man’s next words.

“I am buying the next round,” the proclamation was met with owlish silence, “And as you collect your drinks, I will show you a lumograph. I request that you look it over most carefully. And if you know anything about the man – anything at all from having glimpsed him in the street to him being your missus’ lodger – I bid that you tell me. I will pay a sixpence for each truthful piece of information you give.”

The edge to truthful was the flash of a hound’s fang before it growled.

No one moved. A sixpence to Norris was a measly sum – to an Islander it was a good week’s labour, but their pride would not allow them to take payment for informing on someone who (for all they knew) was an enemy of the Empire.

The man regarded the crowd carefully, hand curling tightly about the cane. For a heartbeat, his expression was of frustrated bemusement before the warm smile crept back.

He laid his free hand on his heart and said, “I have come upon my own accord and no one else’s. This a matter of personal import. I am not – and never have been – affiliated with this nation’s government.”

There was some half-hearted shuffling of the patrons once they had figured out the word affiliated. They formed a dense queue, each person staring down at the lumograph before indicating an answer to the man’s question. Once the brief conversations were done, a mug was pressed into their hands, generously filled with beer.  

Norris didn’t move from his seat, attention locked on the stranger’s face. He kept his friendly mask fixed firmly in place, but his stance became tenser as the line grew shorter.

He was evidently not getting the answers he was seeking.

As the last patron turned away to enjoy their reward, the man’s gaze fell on Norris. He pushed off the bar and strode over, made invisible by his gift of alcohol.

Norris made a show of studying the newspaper as the man sat down at his table. He heard the whisper of card as it was pushed across the wood.

“Take a look, please.”

Norris did not look up. “Are you going to increase the price?” he asked, “How much is this man worth to you?”

“A lot.” The voice was low, and he heard a discordant note in it. It wasn’t anger, but he had the man’s attention; whether he was willing to play Norris’ surly game was a different matter altogether.

“Hm.” He stared unseeingly down at the paper, waiting to see what the man would do.

“But I wouldn’t insult you by offering more money,” the man continued quietly, “However, I would ask that you look.”

Sighing heavily, Norris did. The image showed a male – maybe in his late sixties, early seventies – sat easily in a chair half-smirking at the lumeretta. He had a compact build, not-quite round face with wide-set eyes, and a mane of hair too long for a fashion-conscious Empire man. The lumograph had the usual muddy shade to it, so he couldn’t make out what kind or colour the shirt was save that it was not dark.

He was ready to turn away and disavow all knowledge when he realised that he did recognise the man in question. There was something about the mouth, the insolent smile struck a shard into his memory.

But he couldn’t grasp it from the mire. Norris sucked his teeth and then stopped, realising that the stranger was reading him like a book.

“You know him.” It wasn’t a question. The fangs were extending again.

Norris drummed his fingers on the table and decided to be truthful. “There’s something I recognise,” he began, “But I cannot recall what it is. But I have seen him. And recently.”

The swirl of emotions in the man’s eyes was gone too quickly for him to read. Norris leant back in his chair, interlocking his hands. He gazed coolly upwards.

“Do I get a sixpence?” he asked.

The man smiled. He fished inside his jacket and brought out a small, embossed card. “Better,” he replied, “Here. If you do recall anything of note, please either come or write to this address. You’ll receive more than just a sixpence.”

“A whole crown, perhaps?” He did not keep the sarcasm from his tone.

The man inclined his head, acknowledging him. “Perhaps.”

#please #tell me if he's threatening #i’m writing a book #writeblr #writing #deaf #queer #fantasy #arcane skies #steampunk