lampea-by-lamplight

[lampea-by-lamplight]

Let’s spend some more time on the location, actually. What are some cool places that are visited in your story? What makes them so special? Would you go there, if you could?

#tsenpha #event; writeblr summerfest #reblog from the main blog #worldbuilding; tsenpha #geo; neráleio

[lampea-by-lamplight]

5. What are the overall aesthetics of your current WIP?

thanks for the ask

forests illuminated by sunlight, by firelight, by moonlight. glowing figures walking amongst mortals. rain hitting leaves. overgrown gardens of wildflowers and roses. the distant sound of a wolf's howl. the sound of twigs breaking. blood on snow. the creak of a ship. the splintering of ice. dice hitting the table. the sound of laughter and drinking. singers and dancers performing. a fleeting glimpse of a glowing blue deer. a three eyed raven there and gone again. a golden dove shining in the sunlight. the cackle of a fox wearing bangles and earrings. the steady gaze of a blood coloured shark. the feeling of being held by someone long gone.

#tsenpha #event; writeblr summerfest #reblog from the main blog #type; asks #type; aesthetics

[lampea-by-lamplight]

Let’s discuss the setting of your story! If it’s modern world, what is the town of city like? What’s your favorite way to describe the aesthetic? If it takes place in a made-up location or a fantasy world, tell us a bit about that, too!

#tsenpha #event; writeblr summerfest #reblog from the main blog #worldbuilding; tsenpha

[lampea-by-lamplight]

Let’s follow that first prompt up, and take this chance to share some fun facts about our story! You can either do a five point bullet-style list of fun facts about what’s going on in your wip, or just use this as an opportunity to ramble!

Looking more guidance? Make them come from the center of the story!

#tsenpha #event; writeblr summerfest #reblog from the main blog #chatter; can you believe i haven't updated this blog in almost a year and that it's been months since writeblr summerfest #worldbuilding; tsenpha

[lampea-by-lamplight]

death always wins

there exists a place where people say death cannot touch you, where so long as you remain under the mountain, you will not cross the glade and enter the garden of death.

in a world where death is so revered, so accepted, there exists those who seek to prevent it, to put it off for another day.

it doesn’t quite work like that for, you see, when a death is predicted by a loulrívon, there is no place they will not go to see that their duty of predicting (and delivering) the end of life and the beginning of death is carried out.

they don’t take kindly to those who attempt to cheat them out of their prize, or those who attempt to play games with them and win; they don’t take kindly to those who run.

and so it goes that a man is fated to die by the appearance of a loulrívon. and so it goes that the man flees beneath the mountain where death is said to be unable to touch you. and so it goes that a loulrívon follows him beneath the mountain to drag him across the glade and into the garden of death herself.

it would have been much easier, much gentler, if he accepted his fate.

for, again you see, the loulrívon who follows him beneath the mountain, who dons a mask beneath a wedding veil to walk through a world where everyone wears a mask, has built a reputation amongst her fellows for being a little too sadistic, a little too cold, a little too ruthless.

the moral of this story, if there must be one, is that when the electric blue lilies bloom and a blonde dressed in white crosses your path, delaying the inevitable is an exercise in futility and how to make your last moments alive and breathing hurt.

#tsenpha #type; writing #oc; candide brodeur #group; the bride who carries death #geo; dianthus

[lampea-by-lamplight]

tag the oc who’s a mad scientist

#tsenpha #type; oc tags #oc; victoria martin #group; how i met my cyborg #geo; tulipa #oc; corianne mary #group; who writes your story #geo; lilios

[lampea-by-lamplight]

tag the OC who is a sharpshooter

#tsenpha #type; oc tags #oc; fitzgerald de fresel #group; an adventuring party walks into a tavern #geo; lilios

[lampea-by-lamplight]

you and your beautiful soul

pretty.

lovely.

gorgeous.

objectively, they’re not wrong. objectively, they’re not bad compliments. objectively, she shouldn’t hate those words and their synonyms as much as she finds she does.

something unpleasant scratches at her ribs, bubbling and snarling and clawing at a prison made of something more than human-

(did she even have a ribcage? or was that just the impression of one she felt beneath her hand? an intrusive thought that wouldn’t leave her head until she peeled off skin and muscle and fat to find that she did, indeed, have bones curling around her lungs.)

-it’s always those kinds of compliments.

a pretty voice.

gorgeous eyes.

a lovely body.

the most beautiful sculpture in the world brought to life and given power beyond that of most mortals, reduced to a prize to be won, reduced to the catalyst of wars and murders and bloodshed-

(-the cause of bloodshed and murders and death-)

-reduced to an object she’d long since stopped being.

it’s always about her looks, always about her body, always about ownership and claiming and being able to say that the most beautiful sculpture in the world belongs to you.

it’s never about who she is. it’s never about her personality or her talents or her interests, never about her love for animals or her loyalty or her sculpting.

it’s always about being prettygorgeousbeautiful like she’s nothing else.

she’s so sick of being fucking pretty.

who fucking cares.

who gives a fuck.

why won’t they leave her alone?!

#tsenpha #type; writing #oc; galatea #group; spirit squad

[lampea-by-lamplight]

and it's off with your head!

being beheaded is an out of body experience.

if she was actually capable of moving her mouth, she might have laughed.

as it stands, she just-

watches.

watches her fingers start to twitch, watches her hands move to push her body up off the ground, watches her eyes blink open and silently watch her headless self feel its way towards the missing piece.

there is so much blood.

i am so burning that dress when i’m able, she muses. one of the works of the “greatest seamster ever” be fucked.

a spirit cannot die.

well.

unless they wish it so.

a spirit cannot die.

but a spirit might be scarred.

(a ribbon tied around her neck. she quips that it’s the only thing tying her head to her body. she is only somewhat joking. what would you do if you knew? what would you do if you saw that scar?)

#tsenpha #type; writing #oc; lapine #group; spirit squad

[lampea-by-lamplight]

for the sun and the moon

the sun is warm. the sun shines on everyone, eventually, no matter where they are.

the sun is gold. a shimmery disk reflects off the lake’s surface; glittering light reflects off coins the same colour.

the sun scorches. crops set ablaze, wells made to go bone dry, skin burnt and red and sore.

the moon is cool. the moon watches everyone, eventually, no matter where they are.

the moon is silver. a glowing disk surrounded by the twinkling constellations; glowing light reflected on waves.

the moon calms. pale light illuminates the darkness, dreams kept safe and sound, the shadows soften.

warm, cool.

gold, silver.

scorching, calming.

(she is neither spirit of moon nor sun, neither spirit of silver nor gold, neither spirit of fire nor water, and yet the spirit of sculptures shines like and reflects both the light of the golden sun and the glow of the silver moon.)

#tsenpha #type; writing #oc; galatea #group; spirit squad

[lampea-by-lamplight]

like a moth to light

“stop that.”

“stop what?”

irritation darkens his eyes, turns them the colour of malachite instead of spring leaves, and makes his shoulders tense in a way that can’t be comfortable - she’s half tempted to offer to draw him a bath or give him a massage or something - as he glances pointedly at her lips. “that.”

that, it turns out, is her habit of biting her bottom lip in thought - a habit he’s well aware of, considering just how much thinking they need to do in their line of work, so she doesn’t actually know what the issue is this time - and, honestly, who could blame her for being too deep in thought to clock on immediately?

lust’s perfume just has so many applications in potions that it’s kind of funny how it’s named for the spirit of lust and not one of its many uses, like how it can be used to create a potion capable of relaxing a person to the point they almost die.

reflexively, she bites her lip again. an aggravated groan leaves him, his jaw now also clenched in irritation, as he stands and circles the table to stand over her. his left hand, covered by a leather glove as it always is, is warm against her skin as he cups her face and presses his thumb against the centre of her bottom lip.

she looks up at him, eyes wide, and traces the stoic line of his mouth, the furrow between his brows her fingers almost itch to smooth out, the way his hair is out of place after several hours of staring at schematics and books in frustration.

it is a semi-unfortunate truth that, under the single mindedness and the sarcasm and the pride, fitz is an attractive man.

“it’s like you’re consciously tempting me.” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, fingers absently stroking her jaw line. “but i know you are not so, please, stop.”

her skin is soft, her eyes are bright and clear, and everything about her is so damnably light that a part of him - the parts of him soaked in blood and revenge and possession - aches. a lesser man would forget the dragon fire that seeps through her veins, would forget her wit and her mind, would forget the magic that curls around her like smoke and fog and mist, would forget her rage and her biting tongue and the blood that stains her hands, but he cannot because it is the presence of those traits that makes her brightness even more brilliant.

the smart thing to do, she knows, would be to agree - he would step back, go back to his work, and she would return to hers, and they wouldn’t acknowledge this one tension filled moment ever again, wouldn’t acknowledge his apparent fixation on her lips or how the feeling of his hand on her skin made her shiver.

“make me,” darya says, because sometimes she wants to be stupid (also she kind of wants to see how he’ll react), and nips at his thumb for good measure.

#tsenpha #type; writing #oc; fitzgerald de fresel #oc; darya grönvall #group; an adventuring party walks into a tavern #rom; world on our shoulders #geo; lilios #chatter; this is older than even if we can't find heaven but i didn't post it for some reason #chatter; chronologically it should take place after heaven bc of the implications but these idiots are not at all interested #chatter; in following the usual order of things so who can say

[lampea-by-lamplight]

even if we can't find heaven

looking out of his window and seeing nothing but stars and a shifting darkness will never not be breath-taking, nor will it ever not fill him with a specific kind of trepidation that comes with staring at something ancient and undisputable in its certainty.

there will always be darkness, both of literal and metaphorical sense, just as there will always be light. it’s a lesson he’s found himself learning, since his path intertwined with those of his companions, leading him beyond revenge and bloodshed into a life of adventure onboard a piece of long lost, ancient history that he finds he can’t bear to think about losing - although there is still a fair bit of bloodshed.

not that he’ll ever admit it.

he has already lost one life and almost lost himself as a result. losing another might very well kill him.

his room is enshrouded in shadows, the only points of light being from a single lit candle and the light seeping in through the crack under his door. darkness, or something close to it, has always been something of a comfort, even if it terrified him at the same time.

so, of course, the door cracks open slowly, and the room is illuminated save for the shadow that appears in the doorway. he looks up, a question with a hint of irritation as to what the fuck whoever it was wanted sitting on his tongue, and pauses, swallows down his question.

in big ways (even if he had not known her for long at that point, her hair steadily changing from dark auburn to teal and light green ranks up there on the list of features he feels are important to note) and small ways (her skirts, when she wears them, no longer reach her ankles, which is perhaps the observation he is most irritated with himself for making), darya grönvall has changed over the course of their acquaintance and partnership.

if he thinks about it in strictly business terms, he can ignore the way he can metaphorically feel himself soften on the inside around her, for her.

that does little to change the fact she is standing in the doorway of his room, illuminated only by the softly glowing lightstones out in the hallway and the singular lit candle on his workbench, looking so delicate that it belies the fact she’s one of the strongest people he’s ever known, mentally and physically and magically. his hand flexes, the worn leather of his glove creaking slightly.

a singular questioning arch of an eyebrow is enough to prompt her to shrug, an easy kind of wordless communication he has only observed when she interacts with her brother, and step further into his room.

“can i sleep in here?” is an odd question, perhaps, but not completely unexpected when the person asking is darya.

spend three thousand years asleep with another person beside you, then another several months with only each other to rely on, and see how you fare trying to sleep without some form of companionship.

“floros and osian are… indulging in each other,” her nose scrunches up as she begins to answer the unasked question of ‘why’ she wants to sleep in his room, “tabi sleeps as a big cat and has a penchant for kicking, and dorothea is a ghost.”

a very friendly ghost, a member of the weird little family they’ve formed, but the fact remains she physically can’t offer what darya seeks.

he glances at the bed she wishes to borrow, undisturbed since he made it that morning, and nods. “go ahead, i’m hardly using it,” a single gesture to the cluttered workbench in front of him makes her laugh, even as she shakes her head disapprovingly.

gently, she pushes the door closed behind her and the room is once more engulfed in shadows - he’ll have to light a new candle soon. he watches her carefully cross the room and climb into the bed, pointedly ignoring the satisfaction that blooms at the sight of her in his bed.

he turns back to his latest project, his concentration… not broken, but affected by the weight of her gaze on his frame as she watches. usually, and by that he means always, he has hated the feeling of someone staring at him as he worked, their eyes pressing and piercing and irritating, but with darya…

darya, he finds, is the singular exception.

the faint sounds of her shuffling into a comfortable position cease, the weight of her gaze fades, and her breathing evens out. he allows himself a single glance over his shoulder, and sighs when he sees that she’s fallen asleep without pulling the quilt over her.

he’s pushing himself up off his stool and crossing the room before he can think about it. his footsteps soften and slow, careful not to disturb her, as he draws near. he maintains that softness and slowness as he tucks the patchwork fabric around her.

her face scrunches up briefly before smoothing over, and he sighs. in sleep, her face is light in a way that isn’t absent, when she’s awake, but when she dreams it is far more pronounced.

his thumb brushes against her cheekbone and he presses a kiss to her brow before he can stop himself, keeping both touches as featherlight as possible. she came to him for a place to sleep, to take comfort in the physical presence of another being, and if someone as bright as her seeks comfort in the shadows he takes comfort in with him, then he cannot deny her that.

he cannot deny her anything.

(and, unbeknownst to him, she is the same.)

.~.~.~.~.~.

she blinks awake, sleep leaving her vision slightly hazy, and considers the warmth she feels against her shoulder and around her waist. floros would be the obvious suspect, but the fact the source is both slimmer and taller, if the vague shape towards the end of the bed that looks like feet is anything to go by, discounts him.

besides, he said he would be spending the night with osian doing… things that she never wishes to see or discuss with the closest thing she has to blood family if she wants to be able to look osian in the eye without wanting to deck him any more than usual. some things a sister just isn’t meant to know.

that, of course, begs the question of who she decided to spend the night with, seeing as her usual cuddle buddy was otherwise occupied, but the sleepy haze is starting to fade from her eyes, and she recognises the quilt tucked over her.

she made it, after all.

sure enough, when she turns her head to the right, she finds fitz crashed out on his side and fast asleep. his glasses are on the bedside table, which she considers a good thing considering his habit of falling asleep with them on.

in sleep, and nowhere else, fitz looks peaceful, content, innocent even. his jaw is relaxed, his brow unfurrowed and his breathing is even, soft against the skin of her neck.

she shivers.

in his sleep deprived state, darya figures, fitz must have forgotten that she was already in his bed and passed out before the realisation could dawn on him. his arm being thrown over her waist must have simply been him sprawling out in bed, or maybe seeking out the nearest source of warmth; she doesn’t dislike it.

a single glance out of the window tells her that whilst it is morning, it’s too early to be getting up. a glance at one of the many clocks fitz has tinkered with and scattered across the ship tells her the same thing.

she sighs and settles back down, her body angled just enough that she looks at fitz’s face without straining her neck or disturbing his arm.

if all mornings, she thinks, could be like this, just the two of us in each other’s arms without the weight of the world against us, then i would live quite happily.

she blinks. the haze of sleep beckons her back into its fold and, lulled by warmth and comfortability, she slowly follows.

and it is in this half-asleep state, that she doesn’t hesitate the brush the softest of kisses against fitz’s forehead.

let the implications of that be a problem for later; just let the two of them rest now.

#tsenpha #type; writing #oc; fitzgerald de fresel #oc; darya grönvall #group; an adventuring party walks into a tavern #rom; world on our shoulders #geo; lilios

[lampea-by-lamplight]

“I see the future. that’d be more useful if i wasn’t seeing every possible one consecutively.”

#tsenpha #type; aesthetics #oc; anastasia highglory #group; for glory and for honour #geo; lilios

[lampea-by-lamplight]

"once, someone asked me if, given the chance, I'd bring my family back. I said no. when they asked why not, I said because they're not my family anymore. they wouldn't know me, I wouldn't know them. I could no more be a princess then they could be mercenaries."

#tsenpha #type; aesthetics #oc; anastasia highglory #group; for glory and for honour #geo; lilios

[lampea-by-lamplight]

she doesn't know why she's here in this tavern, in this city, in this land that was once the kingdom of the Highglory family.

nothing remains for her here. there's only an empty shell of a castle left to stand as a monument to the Highglory family's end. and the beginning of the Highglory princess's end as well.

distantly, she supposes she's happy that the people seem to have survived through the loss of their rulers. that's the part of her that still feels a connection to this place past the knowledge that she isn't doing what she's doing just for the sake of her own revenge. she's doing it for the people who burned in the castle and those that survived the fall.

she doesn't know why she's here, on this day in particular, either.

it's cold for one, although not as cold as the frostlands and of course the riverlands would never be as warm as the sunlands, that's just a fact, and miserable for another. all those clouds and the rain that's more like sleet.

it's also the sixteenth of January. the anniversary of the day the castle burned.

eleven years, it's been.

eleven years, and she's been across the continent twice over. eleven years, and she's too scarred to ever return to her past. eleven years, and she's more dangerous then anyone would've ever expected.

"hard to believe it's been over a decade."

she glances at the man behind the bar and nods, once.

tall, broad shouldered, with a knife up his sleeve and a hunch to his back. perhaps he lost someone in the fire. many people in this city did.

a conversation starts on a table somewhere to her left.

"didn't the Highglory family have dreams?"

"most people have dreams, idiot."

"yeah, that's true, but didn't they have, you know, prophetic dreams?"

"if they did, they must've not been good at using them. the burning castle seems like a thing you'd dream about."

anastasia stares into her tankard, purses her lips and knocks back her drink.

it's rumour, hearsay, gossip between two people drinking on a day that always stirs up memories. and yet... perhaps...

(a fork in the road. one goes left, the other right. you go right, there's a camp of bandits looking for someone to pass through. you kill them, or they kill themselves, but there's a scar across your temple now.

it blurs.

a fork in the road. one goes right, the other left. you go left, there's a merchant's caravan under attack by bandits. you help fight them off. there's gratitude, payment.)

... perhaps there's some truth to it.

#tsenpha #type; writing #oc; anastasia highglory #group; for glory and for honour #geo; lilios #chatter; this is old writing which is why parts of it don't line up with tsenpha lore #chatter; but i finally gave anastasia a story so??? keeping it for posterity if nothing else

[lampea-by-lamplight]

"sunlight streams through those green leaves; hazy dreams of gossamer silk in which thou believes

sleep, my darling one, on waves of deepest blue; light bounces on those changing waters I once knew

under pale moonlight and ancient trees, we lie in the Weald; cloaked in silver, we dream of things once sealed

lapping tide against timeless sand, lost in the deep; although our hearts betray us, still we sleep"

- part of an old song once sung by the Highglory family to their children. only these lines are remembered by the last survivor.

#tsenpha #type; writing #oc; anastasia highglory #group; for glory and for honour #geo; lilios

[lampea-by-lamplight]

how does a stone castle burn?

oh, it doesn't. it scorches, walls and floors coated in smoke and ash. it still burns, just not in the way you think of first. what really burns is all that made it Highglory Castle.

furniture burns. wardrobes housing clothes for several generations burn. chairs and tables commissioned for the many great banquets burn. all burn. all gone. cinders and ash. gone.

tapestries burn. woven tales of Highglory history eaten by those hungry flames. windows melt. stained glass and not stained, once depictions of history, now cooling lumps of glass. all burn. all gone. cinders and ash and stories. gone.

people burn. screaming, crying. king, queen. advisor, servant. crowns melt on the royal heads. all burn. all gone. cinders and ash and stories and flesh. gone.

no one escapes. no one lives. Highglory burns. gone.

there was a... princess? wasn't there?

perhaps.

what happened to her? you didn't mention...

she dies too. not in the fire, not in flames. not burned.

she dies in the forest, at the hands of those who burned her home, three years past the day it happened.

slit throat. lost arm. scars, on her face, on her back, her arms, her torso. scars inside. blood. too much. should be long dead.

death comes. she out runs. it burns. slit throat, can't scream. lost arm, rely on the one she has left. she has her wits, and her legs, and one good arm. she can adapt. she will. she must.

it burns. vengeance and anger sit in her chest. three years of abuse, three years of suffering. fair crow no longer. this fire won't be put out so easily.

the fair crow princess of the Highglory family dies. her smiles and laughter, innocent and sweet, perish. all the things she was taught, embroidery and music and dancing, are lost to her. days spent eating summer fruits lost. gone. burned away. she won't return.

the crow survives. assassin, mercenary, hunter, murderer. all fit. scarred, one arm. she isn't pretty anymore, not in the way royalty thinks matters. not soft, not gentle, not unmarked. hardened and rough and scarred. still, she's beautiful. can't speak, except for sometimes. throat scars ache, voice grows fainter. her arm hurts where it was cut, still she endures. one armed woman who never loses at arm wrestling. how does she always wear her hair in a braid? how does she use a crossbow? answer: magic.

Ana?

yes?

are you the Highglory princess?

perhaps. once. no longer. the Highglory family is dead. its line ends with me.

#tsenpha #type; writing #oc; anastasia highglory #group; for glory and for honour #geo; lilios