i-can-even-burn-salad

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

So we all know that Tumblr is US-centric. But to what degree? (and can we skew the results of this poll by posting it at a time where they should be asleep?)

Reblog to increase sample size!

#polls

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

"How many times have I used this phrase?"

CTRL + F

OH NO

#LISTEN #writing woes #😭

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

It bothers me a lot how so much of how tumblr has decided is the “right way” to do disabled representation is so. Alien from actual disabled experiences. Your good disabled representation has to have a lightweight, low backed, sporty manual wheelchair. Dont think about the fact that many wheelchair users can’t self propel in a manual chair, or that most people can only afford the most basic standard hospital chair. Dont you know that’s bad representation! Your cane user OC shouldn’t be putting more than 20 percent of their weight on their cane because that’s Wrong, don’t worry about how canes are the most accessible mobility aid and be plenty of people who should actually be using crutches or a rollator are using cane out of necessity and will have to use them “incorrectly” that’s bad representation. They shouldn’t be embarrassed or ashamed of their medical devices, they should always wear their ostomy bag outside of their clothes, because that’s the way I can show my viewers that I care about representation! All feeding tubes go through the nose right? That way I can show off my representation! They can all help in their own way! Just because they’re disabled doesn’t mean they can’t lift heavy boxes, or join an adventuring party, or play sports, or be a punk rocker! They can’t be suicidal: that’s bad representation! They can be angry but only ever at the obviously evil ableist cardboard cutout villain. Never at their own limitations, or at the well meaning protagonist who doesn’t even have to be told how to make the setting 100% accessible. Everything less is Bad Representation!

#disabled characters

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

the audible damage to a whumpee's voice from the harm that's come to them... hoarse and quiet from being choked, or from screaming until their voice gives out, or from crying so hard for such a long time. the raspy way everything is forced out, the way their voice cracks and squeaks, the way they wince and cringe and swallow hard before trying again. it hurts to listen to them.

#whump prompt

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

okay tumblr’s exclusion from the twitter social media ban list is hilarious but genuinely we do not belong on there. if a real human person asks “where can i find you on social media” and your choice is a swift death or revealing your tumblr, most of us would simply expire. half of y’all change urls every week like you’re in witness protection. just imagine for one second attaching your wholeass government name to your latest two am clownposting and tell me that didn’t send a cold chill down your spine. the only place i ever want to see the words “connect with me on tumblr!” is on the ao3 profile of an author i’m actively stalking. anyone in the world can follow me except anyone i personally know. antisocial media.

#tumblr stuff

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

The Queen of Lies: Liar

Story Intro | Contents [Warnings] | Mood Board | Vibey Song Lyrics | Ao3

Y'all, this is straight whump. There is zero plot development here. It's all pain and fear. Have fun!

Contents: blood, injury, asphyxiation, illness, restraints, abusive law enforcement, guy whump

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Word count: 3900 || Approx reading time: 16 mins

Liar

Teaser: Hatchett’s foot swung backward but didn’t go to his face; rather, it rammed back into his stomach, and that was somehow worse, because the thief couldn’t catch his breath and he was coughing and it already hurt and how had things gone so wrong so fast and she’d been lying to him and Hatchett was there and—

The thief was fucked.

What were you thinking?

“What was she doing in here?”

Hatchett towered over him, one iron-studded boot mere inches away from the thief’s face. It had already collided with his stomach once. Twice? He couldn’t remember.

Why didn’t you tell her to get lost the moment you saw her?

“Nothing,” he choked. He should have, he fucking should have tried harder, tried harder to make sure she never came back, and now, well, see where they were. Where he was.

Or why didn’t you tell her to fuck off when she came back again?

Hatchett’s foot swung backward but didn’t go to his face; rather, it rammed back into his stomach, and that was somehow worse, because the thief couldn’t catch his breath and he was coughing and it already hurt and how the fuck had things gone so wrong so fast and she’d been lying to him and Hatchett was there and—

“What was my wife doing in your cell with you?”

The thief wheezed, trying to understand the words. Wife. Cell. You. Same question, then. Same answer.

Why didn’t you ever actually ask her for her name, you idiot?

She’d lied, she’d lied, she’d lied, she’d…

“Nothing!”

Breanna Hatchett. Breanna Fucking Hatchett.

Why didn’t you—

Her voice was in his head, too, along with the voices of so many others—Hatchett, his brother, his friends, the ghostly ringing of his parents…

“You lie. What do you want with her?”

He was so, so fucked.

“I don’t want any—”

Hatchett went for his nose then, cutting off his words. The thief’s eyes closed against the explosion of bright stars in his vision, of the sound of crunching and grinding, of blinding pain. Behind him, his shackled arms fluttered and shook. Useless.

“How did you even find out who she was?”

By accident, all of five minutes ago?

“I didn’t know!”

“Why was she here?”

Again, that question. The thief fucking wished he had something, anything, to say. Why had she come to him? Again and again? Three times she’d come to his cell, with no reason more than I wanted to see if you were all right and I’m just trying to be kind to you, which explained exactly fuck-all about why she’d chosen to see him in the first place and gave him exactly fuck-all to say to Constable Baden Hatchett as he demanded an answer.

“I don’t know, you crazy son of a bitch!” The cell tilted. Spun. He was on his feet. Hatchett’s face glaring into his.

He’d been so certain, for all of two goddamn minutes, that she’d been deceiving him all along. A pawn in the constabulary’s game, their secret weapon to secure a victory over IA. That she’d been nothing more than the cruellest plot the constables had come up with yet to rip their hard-won betrayal from his throat.

The thief looked up, his vision blurring. He spat forward hot, salty blood, staining Hatchett’s throat. “Why don’t you fucking know what your own goddamn wife is up to?”

He saw it happen: something splintered in Hatchett’s eyes. Grey glass shattering. Ice splitting and snapping beneath their feet.

“You—”

A flurry of limbs. Pain erupting along every inch of the thief’s body.

“Dare—”

The baton. Out. Cracking against stone, skin, bone, it was all the same.

“To—”

The cell swirled and pitched again. He’d really fucking done it now. Hatchett would actually kill him this time.

“Sir!”

And then the barrage ended; the army of blows fell back. Voices—roaring, shouting, insisting. Michaelson, Gysborne, countless other nameless fuckers who’d drifted so transiently through the corridors to snicker and smirk at the thief being questioned again and again and again. To help rip him apart little by little until there was nothing left but the choked-out words they were so fucking desperate to hear.

Bulwell’s tinny voice—it was there, too.

“You must control yourself,” he said. The thief blinked blood out of his eyes, or tried to; the world was cloaked in scarlet. “We’ll have the Commissioner down on our heads if you kill him over this.”

Commissioner. The big boss. Politics. Regulations. That—that—was, apparently, what would save the thief’s ass from being slaughtered by Baden Hatchett while he was shackled in his cell. His unexpected saviour, the one fragile weapon batting back the spectre of death, come to collect his sorry soul: paperwork.

“Go to your wife,” Bulwell ordered. “Come back tomorrow and we will deal with this accordingly.”

Noise in the corridor. Scuffling. Snarling that barely counted as words.

“You make me order you again!” The carillon of Bulwell’s voice, that weak and grating mockery of a clock tower’s knell, struck every surface and echoed. “Go home with your wife.” The sounds faded, and Bulwell added coldly, “And find out from her what in god’s name she was doing in there.”

The thief still couldn’t see well, but he felt then the gazes that turned toward him.

“Go home, Constable Hatchett,” Bulwell said yet again.

A low growl answered. “Leave the boy for me.”

“All right.” No trepidation shivered in Bulwell’s voice. He held no concern, it seemed, for any other parties who might take issue with Hatchett’s request, or indeed any consideration to whether granting it was wise. “I’ll start with Lenton. Get his statement of what happened.”

With a snarl, Hatchett seemed to depart.

“You!” Bulwell barked. “Boy. Thief.” The thief squinted at Bulwell, trying to at least make out the shape of him. “Make a sound. Any movement. Any attempt to sway anyone while we investigate—and you will find yourself back at the whipping post before you can even blink, and thirty lashes will feel like a distant mercy. Do you understand?”

Nodding, the thief kept quiet, unsure if Bulwell wanted the verbal response he’d requested and forbidden in the same breath. It seemed, though, the nod was enough, and he was grateful; all he could taste was blood, and he did not know if he could form coherent words, anyway.

Voices. Fading. Footsteps. Drifting. Moving away.

A clang. A click.

He blinked more rapidly, struggling to move his screaming limbs and trying to bring his cell back into focus. He—he was delirious, had to be. They hadn’t just left him. Had they? They hadn’t just walked away after Constable Hatchett’s wife had fallen over like a newborn calf in his cell when she wasn’t supposed to be there, and everyone seemed to think he’d tried to kill her or something, and now he was bleeding in more places than not and still shackled and they’d just walked away?

A low chuckle rose from somewhere—outside the cell, thank fucking god, but that was about the only good thing, because he recognized that hollow laugh.

“Well. You’re in for it tomorrow, thief.”

Michaelson.

His pig face, as far as the thief could tell with blood still flowing freely into one eye, didn’t appear angry. Or, even, all that shocked. He watched, sneering, as the thief strained to pull himself upright.

“Knew you were a stupid bastard,” he said. Smug motherfucker. “Didn’t know you were that stupid.”

The thief didn’t answer as Michaelson stalked away, still couldn’t force his tongue to move. There was little to say, anyway. He hadn’t believed he could be so stupid, either.

His wife. Baden Hatchett’s wife. All along.

He tried to recall the times her husband had come up. For a while there, he’d believed it was Lenton, but she’d never said it. Had she? Don’t be absurd, she’d said earlier. But—no, he’d said it once before, too, and she hadn’t corrected him.

So. She’d lied. She’d lied, or she’d hidden it from him, and as far as he was concerned, those were the same goddamn thing.

Why?

Why?

It was nauseating to realize he and Constable Baden Hatchett had something in common: Why? was the only question that he really wanted to know the answer to. The rest—what the fuck was Hatchett going to do to him when he came back, and how the fuck was the thief going to convince him he hadn’t laid a goddamn finger on his wife—while important, weren’t the ones that battered at his brain, bruising deep, drawing blood. He would find out soon enough, anyway.

Why did she pick him?

***

The voices of the inner circle came and went.

Way too late for regrets now. It’s done. It happened. Tell the truth, and maybe he’ll be merciful.

She was the smartest person he’d ever met, in almost everything. He wished he could tell her, though, that actually, he did not intend to do anything other than tell the damn truth, and that for the first time ever, he knew better than she did about something: there was no chance in hell or anywhere else of Baden Hatchett being merciful.

Stay strong.

 Quiet words, and few—a rare gift. Free to be interpreted however the thief pleased. And largely, in this case, useless.

Stay alive. Please. Please, hold on.

The last voice.

He wanted to ask his brother, Hold on to what?

They were gone, long gone. They had to be. If they had any sense, which all of them did, in far greater supply than he ever had, they’d already skipped town. So what, exactly, was he to cling to? The hope that he might see them again? Fickle, frail, cruel.

The hope that he might make it out of this place to search for them? Ridiculous. Hardly worth the thought.

The hope that Breanna Hatchett might speak for him and convince her rabid husband, at the very least, that he never touched her?

Her scream echoed in his ears. Hatchett had hurled her out of the cell, thrown her the way he might shove around an inmate. Shaken her and flung her into the wall.

The thief had watched with dazed eyes as she hit the floor.

She lied.

She had lied to him, but she had lied to her husband, too.

Why?

Unless Hatchett was bringing with him the full explanation from her very lips, the thief knew he would never have the chance to find out.

He was roused from half-consciousness—it couldn’t sincerely be called sleep, because terror and pain kept going round his head, asking the same questions over and over—by someone unlocking the cell door.

“You stupid boy,” said a vaguely familiar voice. “You didn’t heed my advice at all.”

The thief blinked up at the plump, white-capped form of Mrs. Bristow, who approached with slow but sure-footed strides. “You just told me not to get flogged again.”

Please help me, was what he wanted to say. He only watched her get closer.

“Don’t be impertinent. You’re not in any position for it. Sit up.”

He obeyed, and his muscles wept. “I didn’t—”

“Quiet.” The nurse cut him off. “I’m not supposed to be here, not really, and I am doing you a kindness by unlocking these.” The shackles holding his arms behind him came open. “Whatever foolishness you’ve gotten yourself into, I can’t help you.”

Whatever foolishness. So no one had told her? “I didn’t hurt her,” he said in a rush, because Bulwell wasn’t around to tell him to shut up, “I didn’t touch her, I didn’t—”

She pressed something into his hands, cool and damp. A cloth. “Hold your tongue and wipe your face.” She craned her neck to peer into the corridor. “And hurry.”

Someone must have let her through, he thought dizzily, and they had to realize where she’d gone. To whose cell she was paying a visit.

Wincing as he wiped dried blood from his face, he mumbled, “Are you going to be in trouble?”

“Truth be told, I’m less concerned about my trouble. I can handle myself.”

He blinked, something burning behind his eyes. “Thank…thank you.”

She didn’t answer, merely patted his arm when his hands fell limply back into his lap. “You ought to consider carefully what you say to that constable, boy. I’m not sure what happened, but that’s a man full of spite and anger if I’ve ever seen one.”

As if he didn’t already know.

“I’m fucked anyway,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

He heard her swallow, and in the moments that followed, silence engulfed them both.

She handed him a canteen, opening it for him when he fumbled with the cap. “Drink up, and then I have to go.”

“Thank you,” he said again, not sure what else there was to say.

He didn’t ask why she was being nice, why she had undone the shackles, why she was giving him water. He didn’t want to know how pathetic and in need of rescue he seemed to her eyes.

And when the canteen was empty, and she slipped away, leaving him with his hands free and his face as clean as it could be but his future as doomed as it was before, he didn’t beg her to stay or come back or speak on his behalf. He closed his eyes and waited for what came next.

***

Hatchett stepped into the cell calmly and silently, all traces of wrath and redness scrubbed from his countenance. But his gaze burned: flaming silver ice, sweeping over the iron and stone, almost as if he did not see the thief against the wall, twitching.

“Get him up.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The thief had lain awake all night, or what he assumed was the night, preparing for a Baden Hatchett who was seething mad and swinging. This—the calm, winter-cold command, the way he barely looked at the thief and his bruise-painted skin—was not what he expected.

Michaelson hauled the thief to his feet.

“Told you,” went a gleeful hiss in his ear.

The thief decided to forego a comment about whether Michaelson would be fetching mettle by the end of whatever was about to happen, although the temptation to replace the all-too-ominous delight on the junior constable’s face with indignant fury was almost strong enough to be worth the risk.

“There,” Hatchett said, pointing.

The thief’s breath tried to surge out in gasps. He clamped his teeth together, determined not to show how fucking terrified he was, even if it meant he cleaved his tongue in two.

His back slammed against iron bars.

“I—”

“Silence.” The back of Hatchett’s hand burned so swiftly across his cheek, the thief wondered if he had imagined it entirely. “You will wait.”

Wait? Wait for what? “Like hell I—”

Another blow.

He could see them—all of them, regarding him with horror. Not that his brother would ever just stand there and watch—of that, the thief was certain. But as the woeful hallucinations of a clearly unravelling mind, they had no choice but to be still as the scene unfolded.

She spoke first: Good start.

Not helping, he would say sourly.

You’re not helping yourself.

But she’d stare off to the side, around the room, at the ceiling, twirling a thick, dark curl around her finger as if it would convince anyone she wasn’t forcing back tears. Damn her, though, if she didn’t always glance over a minute later with eyes dry as summer heat, and as searing hot, too.

“I swear—”

Hatchett swung again.

Ain’t doing much good, that.

Thank you. I fucking noticed. He’d glare over, have to tilt his head upward to meet the solemn gaze boring into him that wouldn’t be cowed in the slightest no matter how much he scowled.

Michaelson was doing something behind him. Locking his arms back into shackles, Mrs. Bristow’s kindness gone and wasted. When the thief tried to jerk away from the bars, metal links held him fast. “What the fuck?”

That one he hadn’t intended to say, but it slipped out anyway, and Hatchett cracked him across the face again.

Something slithered around his neck, and the thief went cold.

Fear—brittle, pernicious, plain as day, scraping at his insides, far stronger than any pain Baden Hatchett had dealt so far.

No fucking hiding it now.

“What are you—” Rope. Rope around his neck, loose for the moment but biting into his skin with stinging, scratchy fibres.

“I will ask the questions,” said Hatchett. “You will answer them.”

Fuck no, fuck no—

“What is your name?” Hatchett did not break his manic, piercing glare, the end of the rope clutched in his fist.

What the fuck is going on?

Why...

“Your name, boy.”

Wrong—all wrong—not what he’d expected—

“He declines to answer. Make a note.”

Make a note? What the fuck was Hatchett playing at?

“What are the names,” asked Hatchett quietly, “of the other members of Iustitia aecum’s inner circle?”

He stared. I don’t understand.

“The thief refuses to cooperate again,” said Hatchett. “Tell me, boy, what was the next job you were planning?”

Fucking fuck, what was going on? His breathing growing even more shallow, the thief spilled out the thoughts as they came, too quickly to hold back. “What the fuck are we doing here? Yesterday you were all pissed off about—”

The slightest hint of a smile curled Baden Hatchett’s mouth. “Another refusal. Make a note.” He lifted his hand slowly, with a motion that on someone else might have appeared graceful—slow, languorous, as if he relished the moment. The end of the rope snaked around his fist. “What is the location of Iustitia aecum’s headquarters?”

The thief shook his head. Hatchett tugged on the rope again, pulling it tighter now. The thief fought to keep his breathing even.

“What are your parents’ names?”

“Go fuck yourself,” the thief whispered.

We’ll have the Commissioner down on our heads…

If their favourite officer beat a thief to death in a murderous rage—well, that would certainly be bad for the constabulary and its spotless reputation.

“Go fuck yourself,” he repeated. Fuck them and their rules and their paperwork and their sneaky fucking methods of making sure the law didn’t fall down on them for his suffering. Fuck Hatchett and his insincere interrogation. Days ago, he’d have given everything he owned—not much, but still—to have the constables ask questions about IA and not give a shit about the answers. Today, it seemed to be only a portent of far worse things to come.

The rope pulled taut.

The thief cast his eyes upwards, wondering if he would prefer the cat-o’-nine-tails to this.

“Siblings?” The thief shook his head. Tug. “Grandparents?” Again. Tighter. “How many stinking little gutter rats do you employ to pick pockets for you?”

The thief forced out a laugh, listening to it morph into a hacking cough as if he were observing someone else. How would he know the exact number? No one let him get close to the runners. Too reckless. Too irresponsible.

Tighter.

“A shame,” Hatchett said to Michaelson, “but hardly a surprise. The thief has refused to give up his friends.” Another coil of rope circled Hatchett’s arm.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

The thief tried to twist away from Hatchett as he drew closer, to no avail.

“How did you discover who my wife was?” Hatchett’s throat bobbed. The thief gasped as the rope tightened.

“Answer me.” Without releasing his hold on the rope, Hatchett swung his other arm. The thief felt a cut on his cheek split.

“I. Fucking. Didn’t. Know.”

But Hatchett curled his lips. Disgusted. Disbelieving. “How did you dupe her into visiting you?”

“I—”

“To compel her to help you?”

“I never asked—”

“To stir up that pity…” Hatchett leaned close, too close, to his face. “…To which you have no claim?”

Kick him, said the wicked voice in his head, forgetting, apparently, that his ankles wore chains, too.

“I never fucking asked her for anything,” the thief spat. “And I don’t know why she started showing up.”

“How many times did she visit you?”

Fucking fuck, why hadn’t Mrs. Breanna Hatchett or Junior Constable Stick-Up-His-Ass told him how many times? What was he supposed to say? Count all three? Or just the times Lenton had been there?

The thief closed his eyes.

“Look at me.”

No. A cough built in his throat—choking him before the rope tightened even more.

“I said, look at me.”

But the thief, in his mind, saw the inner circle—silent now, for what could they know of all this? None of them would have any better advice on how to answer these questions than the thief did himself.

“Bloody coward,” Hatchett snarled. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Before Hatchett landed another blow, before his eyes flew open, the thief saw her.

The girl from the corridor, the girl who’d offered him kindness and asked for nothing for herself except for him to keep her secret. The girl who’d lied to him—for him.

“Two,” he said. His voice was strained, his throat squeezed and aching. “Two times.”

“And why?” Hatchett hissed. “What were you trying to learn?”

“Nothing.”

“You miserable liar. What did you tell her? What filth did you whisper in her ear so she would return?”

“Nothing.”

“What were you trying to take from her?”

“Nothing, for fuck’s sake.”

“What did you want with her?”

“I fucking told you! Nothing!” The thief began to panic. Breathe—he couldn’t breathe—

The rope didn’t loosen.

Please, he wanted to say. Please let go. Please stop.

He would have said it.

He was about to.

The rope slackened.

The thief sucked in as much breath as he could gather, coughing, relishing the taste, foul as it was, of the prison’s stale, poisonous air. “Fuck’s sake, I didn’t—I never—”

“Why did you attack her?” No respite—the rope grew tight again, accompanied now by Baden Hatchett’s hand on his chin. “Tried to take what wasn’t yours, and when she was rightfully repulsed by you, you thought you’d get to me another way instead?”

“You’re fucking crazy,” the thief gasped. “I didn’t touch her. I didn’t fucking touch her. What the fuck do you want me to say?”

Whatever he planned to say next faded into oblivion—as Michaelson’s laugh grew distant, as the rope squeezed impossibly tight, as black spots teased at his vision, as fog ravaged his other senses.

Right before the world seemed about to disappear entirely, Hatchett let go.

“If I learn, fox-thief,” he said softly, as the thief heaved and gasped and coughed, “that you laid a single finger on my wife, at any moment, trying to take what is not yours when you thought Officer Lenton was not looking, I will find out, and I will make you suffer dearly.”

“I didn’t,” the thief choked. “I didn’t.”

Constable Baden Hatchett’s face was impassive, his eyes travelling over the length of rope that began in his fingers and ended around the thief’s neck. “I think you’re a liar, boy.” He coiled the rope over his fist once more. “But this is not over. I’ll find out soon enough.” He gave a tight, pitiless smile, first to Michaelson and then to the thief. “Again.”

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Taglist:

@starlit-hopes-and-dreams

@clairelsonao3

@gala1981

@pleasestaywithmedarling

✨

#salad-reblog #*presses queue from under my desk* #“Why don’t you fucking know what your own goddamn wife is up to?” #Wise things to say for 100

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Me: I have so much to do to get this ready in time.

My brain: What if you did something else?? What then??

#salad-txt

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Hi verdance

I'm hugging you! Which of your blorbos needs a hug the most, and will you give it to them?

Hi Sleepy💜

Ianim, my precious anxious cinnamon roll always needs a hug. Objectively, he doesn't have it as bad as the others, but anxiety doesn't exactly make people objective. And yes, he'll accept any and all hugs. He considers the fact that hugs are often inappropriate one of the major drawbacks of being a prince.

I also want to give Lissan a hug before @i-can-even-burn-salad bites my head off for the dark, whumpy AU I put him through, which they've read. It's an alternative ending to Gifts of Fate, about 40k words, where a character making a different decision sends the plot tumbling in a very different direction.

#biting you biting you BITING YOU

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Find the word tag game

Thanks @kaylinalexanderbooks for the tag!

My words are: rib, write, expect, spin, person

Rib: (fair warning this is kinda gory) From my short story Lich-Queen

With my magic, I kept him alive beyond the bounds of humanity. As I hacked out his ribs, pulling the first hunk of meat and placing it on a plate, I was struck by the beauty of his face. Even weeping, eyes bulging, nails ripped off from clawing at wood, there was a noble gallance to him. I smiled, and tenderly tore out another rib.

Write: From my completed short story Honeycake!

Ah, crap. I knew learning to write would haunt me someday. My mother had, in fact, been Rose-the-baker, and she had brought me to Ako's temple to learn to write. The priestesses there watched as I drew squiggles in the dirt, learning from Ako's Word. They taught me other things too. Like how to pick locks, how to lie through your teeth, and how to steal without getting caught. Great people, Ako's priestesses were. But then the gov'nor of Jannik decided they made too much trouble, and burnt their temple down, and hunted all their followers.

Expect: From my WIP novella Chase

I took it from her by its dull leather hilt. The dagger was plain, unadorned but well polished. "What exactly do you expect me to do with this?" My voice came out a smidgen squeaky with shock. Was she truly expecting me to murder him in cold blood? "Surely…" I trailed off and bit my lip.

Spin: (the closest I could find was spinning) From my completed short story A Thousand Lives (it's one of my first posts on Tumblr)

Hence he had taken up arms against the King, spinning a tale of injustice, of gold for the poor and bread on everyone's tables. He had led a revolution, overthrowing the order of the country. There was blood, and turmoil, and for a moment he had feared defeat, but the revolution prevailed. The people had placed him on the throne, and he had given freely to them, distributing land as evenly as he could. It was a hard and thankless job, for the bread was never enough, and other countries reared their ugly heads upon smelling weakness. He had been beheaded by an angry mob for a sin so small as feeding a duck a piece of bread that they claimed belonged to the people. Though he would go down in history as King Sonder the Kind, the country that he sacrificed everything for had reviled him. It embittered his soul, and he found himself wishing that he had not been so openhearted.

Person: From my miniseries Wanderer! (Part 1 here)

It seemed that I was the only person for miles around. Nothing stirred in the red-brown meadow, not even buzzing flies laying eggs in putrefied flesh. Nothing breathed in the flesh-rotted air, not even carrion-vultures feasting on the dead. Nothing lived in the hellscape that I wandered, not even the crawling maggots that should have lurked in the rotten meat. I hummed to distract myself from the uneasiness of being all alone.

I'll tag @bodoramzap, @beloveddawn-blog, @oh-no-another-idea, @memento-morri-writes, @sharktopusnadozilla and open tag for anyone else who wants to have a go!!!

Your words are: life, loved, luck, learn

#holy. fucking. shit. #:)

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Sweet Themed Ask Game!

(tagging a few friends just in case, no pressure tho ^-^)

@echowritesstuff @illarian-rambling @kaylinalexanderbooks (LMAO i went to go ping my writer friends and magically forgot all the people i know smh)

Feel free to reblog to get some asks, or send me these asks :D This is the first game i've made lol so i apologize if the questions are bleh

🍦Ice Cream ~ What is your OC's deepest, darkest secret?

🥧Pie ~ Explain one of your OC's in 5-10 ~3 word bullet points.

🍧Shave Ice ~ What is one significant location in your WIP?

🍨Sundae ~ Which of your OCs do you connect with most and why?

🍩Donut ~ So far, what has been the most difficult thing to write in your WIP (s)?

🍪Cookie ~ How long have you been working on your WIPs?

🎂Cake ~ What is one of your favorite tropes you've used in your WIPs?

🍰Cheesecake ~ What is your process to making and developing a character?

🍫Chocolate ~ What is your opinion on roleplaying with a character to develop it further?

🧁Cupcake ~ What is your overall goals for your WIP? (publishing, art, sequels, etc)

🍭Lollipop ~ Explain the magic system in your WIP (if applicable)

#salad starts collecting oc ask games #salad should give writing ask games a tag

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

worst part about getting angry is how much it makes you want to be mean

#mood #😭

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Iustitia Aecum - OC in Three Graphics

The Prince of Thieves

Bree Cooper

Jamie Wardrew

Colette Haris

Geoff Marks

The Queen of Lies

Breanna Hatchet

The Court of Rogues

Izzie Leclair

Jean Regent

Andreas Munk

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

[ID: a scratchy llustration of a green chameleon perched on a dark branch and facing to the right. It is on a simple background with faded branches and a gradient between green and orange. Signature text reads “Featherbone”. End]

Jackson’s chameleon, aka three-horned chameleon. Like all chameleons, they change color depending on mood, temperature, and health.

#feather-bone

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

"How can you write romance if you're asexual?" The same way I write fight scenes despite never having elbowed some dude in the small intestine: Really badly and I don't know what I'm talking about pls I'm sorry-

#mood #writing woes

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

OC Questionnaire Tag

I was tagged by @mundanemoongirl <3

I'm gonna go with Damien, because I miss my guy. For him to answer this instead of grabbing the bags and running, this probably has to be set past a sequel I haven't written yet.

1. What's the first time you rebelled in your life against the society and its expectations?

"Really? That's a question you want to ask the-"

He breaks off, unwilling to say the old name out loud, even now that he has been pardoned. He takes a deep breath.

"Society. That time I really said 'fuck it' wasn't towards society. It was towards my father's expectations, even if he was dead already. I looked at all the glass, and I knew I could never be what he had wanted me to be no matter how hard I tried, and I… I destroyed it all. Destroyed my life with it. Then everything was gone, and there was no way back, and I had nowhere else to go." He shrugs. "Didn't feel good for long. It never does."

2. What is something you miss the most from your childhood?

Damien pales a little, his gaze flicking towards Valadan who is looking at anything that isn't him. Perhaps his answer would have been different hadn't you asked that question while his brother is in the room.

"I miss the time before everything fell apart. Perhaps it wasn't right. Wasn't like it should have been. But it was all I knew. Telling stories with a bit of magic. Making pancakes with blueberries I gathered myself. Spending our days outside. Being… being my brother's hero."

Valadan has started to cry, and this time it's Damien who does his best not to look.

"I miss us trusting each other. Looking at each other without guilt."

3. What's your biggest regret in life so far?

"I don't know. How could I know? I made so fucking many mistakes. So many decisions, one worse than the other. I should want to… go back. Shouldn't I? So I wouldn't… would never... have hurt…" His voice breaks, and he needs a moment to gather himself. "What if," he whispers. "What if I had never had driven Valadan away. What if I had never listened to that recruiter. What if I had never become Ed's puppet. But. I'm here now. We all are here."

He looks up, meeting Valadan's gaze as a tear runs down his cheek.

"I regret my whole fucking life, but not what it led to. As long as I can have this. As long as I have my family, as long as they're happy." Ever since his return from Caldeia, he doesn't bother with the illusion anymore, and his right arm is missing, the fingers of his left hand clenched into a fist. "I wouldn't want to trade this life for one where I am unscathed but alone."

And still, his expression suggests that he wonders if this thought isn't a too selfish one.

And since I did this one specifically to kill @starlit-hopes-and-dreams feel yourself tagged. Also tagging, @dont-touch-my-soup and @cryptidwritings if you want to do it, and open tag.

Your questions are:

1. Do you have any nicknames you go by?

2. Have you ever been betrayed?

3. What's your most prized posession?

#salad-tag #OC Questionnaire Tag #unless you feel like doing the same questions I did then you can pick them as well lol #Can't have Merry there she'd rip off your head for asking #Damien is his own nightmare #and he will never say that he misses his mother in front of Valadan ever again :)

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

When you start reading a book and it quickly becomes clear it would work as a bad example and nothing else.

#salad-txt #at least I won't have to buy it #that's the free sample

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

The Holy Crusaders

The sole fan in the room wheezed and squealed as it twirled, stirring the sluggish air into lazy motion. It did nothing to dissipate the heat, only shift it around.

Nadia stood at attention nervously, sweat dripping down her face. Her lustrous dark hair hung in limp strands. The recruiter leaned close, until she could smell the whiskey on his breath. "This is your bed. You will place your stuff here, then you will report at the foyer. Understand?" He pointed to a bunk bed. Its metal frame was rusting, and the mattress had a suspicious brown stain on it. 

Nadia nodded dumbly. It had taken all of five minutes for her to realise this was a terrible idea. The recruiter gave her a glare, then left.

Standing alone in the musty, dilapidated barracks, Nadia cried. Her eyes were wide open, and her mouth made no sound, but the tears streamed down her face. She stayed like that for a moment, then wiped her face and left. She had no possessions, nothing except her sword and armour. Everything had been left behind.

There was nothing left at home for her, she reminded herself. Her family, if she even had a family left back there, would never take her back in, not after the Incident. She had to start a new life, even if it was here.

She strode to the foyer, where a dozen armoured Crusaders stood waiting for her. They seemed to know each other, chattering blithely amongst themselves. She braced herself to approach them. It was her first day, after all, and she needed companions to show her around. "Good day?" Her voice cracked, and she winced as they turned to scrutinise her. She knew what they saw.

A young woman, dark of hair and blue of eyes. Tall, olive-skinned, and well muscled. Or perhaps they were eyeing the armour. She had made it herself, spending months practising on the breastplate alone. It was a labour of love, but love was no substitute for skill. It was, to be frank, a sham.

She studied them in turn, pushing aside her embarrassment. Most of them were at least two shades darker than her, with the exotic features of the Northern People. Refugees, she realised. It made sense. The necromancers did not discriminate, and the revenants killed all.

They stood there in hostile silence, until a heavily scarred woman stepped forward. She had fiery hair, tucked into a bun, and brilliant green eyes. "Let's see whatcha got, kid," she drawled, grinning lazily. A blond man passed her a longsword, and she took a combat stance, gesturing for Nadia to come at her.

Shocked, Nadia fumbled for her broadsword, falling into position. She gave the woman a nod. Was this truly how they judged new recruits? It was a far cry from the garrisons posted near her village, who were, by and large, old, kindly and indisposed to attacking young women at random. 

The woman charged at her. Nadia blocked her clumsily, nearly getting the sword knocked out of her hands. Something was off. She was not normally so unbalanced. Perhaps it was merely surprise, or the shock of a new environment. But it felt more… Sinister. 

Planting herself firmly into the ground, Nadia extended her senses towards her opponent. She could smell the adrenaline, the sweat and excitement, hear the thumping of their heartbeats and the soft, panting breaths. And the whirring of magic. Dark magic.

Nadia stepped backwards, out of range of whatever spell the woman had put on her. Instantly, the confusion dissipated. Her head was clear of the influence, whatever it was.

The woman tried to get close, but Nadia dodged her, making sure to keep out of the spell's radius. She had to bide her time, then knock out the woman in a single blow. Anything else would leave her vulnerable to the spell.

The other crusaders crowded around her, forcing her closer to the mind mage. She had to act fast.

Nadia took a deep breath. Forming a mental block, she waited for the woman to try again. When no attack came, she launched herself forward, pouncing on the woman.

From there, it was a simple matter of physics. Nadia was larger, and her armour weighed more. By dint of sheer mass, she overpowered the woman, getting her into a chokehold. Breathing heavily, Nadia smiled. "I win," she said quietly, and looked up at the assembled audience.

They were wide-eyed with shock. The blond man shook his head. "Zich," he cursed. "How did you do that? I've not seen someone get the better of Ruth."

Nadia laughed, ignoring the sudden thrill of fear that ran through her. "Trade secrets," she said. With luck, none of them would work out how she did it. Magic was not tolerated in the Crusaders, not even when put to good use. Which raised the question: How was her opponent a mage, and clearly a user of forbidden magic besides?

Her little secret. Remembering it brought a bitter taste in her mouth. The secret that caused the Incident. She brushed off her unease, and stood up. "My name is Nadia Smith. What is yours?" She offered her hand to the woman, who took it.

"Ruth ka-Valranis. From the Valranis province in Losaras," the woman said, smiling. "You aren't half bad, kid. Let me get you a drink for your trouble. Besides, you look like you could use it."

Nadia nodded, sheathing her sword. "Certainly, I could," she allowed. "I am new here, and I do not know the area." It was an opportunity to unravel the woman's secret, and find a way to protect her own.

"Ah! So you're another refugee?" The blonde man exclaimed. "Forgive my manners. The name's Josiah, but everyone calls me Josh. Ruth here came from the same village as me. We were the only survivors of the Revenant invasion," he added. "So… You're alone?"

Nadia shrugged, and said, "I ran away from home, snuck the last train out of town before the Necromancer struck. Not sure if anyone else managed to get out on time." It was a half-lie. She had run away from home. But she knew nobody else had escaped in time.

“Come, let us show you around,” Ruth said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I shall treat you to a drink." She leaned in closer, and Nadia caught a whiff of tobacco on her breath. "Listen, Nadia," she murmured. "You're like me, aren't ya?"

Nadia nodded infinitesimally, praying she was not in danger. "Our kind stick together, eh? Come talk to me tomorrow morning. The Crusaders turn a blind eye to discreet mages," Ruth whispered to her. "Old Ruthie here will make sure they do."

Nadia looked at her with shock. "Tha- Thank you," she said, sotto voce. "I am grateful for your mentorship."

Ruth gave her a final nod of encouragement, then slapped her back roughly. Turning to her friends, she grinned. "Well, let's give our new recruit a welcome, eh? Onwards to the Sheep's Beard!" 

A ragged cheer set off in search of a drink, Nadia in tow.

#salad-reblog #others