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comicaurora · 8 months

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tldr I committed to a bit too hard

The slow-dawning sunlight dappled down through dense, rich foliage, scattering golden lace across mossy trunks and grassy hillocks. The light caught on the forest floor in a thousand glassy dewdrops and bent, fisheyed, in globed inversions of the canopy above.

No breeze stirred the forest so early in the morning, but a thin mist gathered in the valley under the warming air. Sunbeams lanced through the fog, pale in the dawn but soon to brighten and intensify. For now, the air was damp and cool and still, and the scent of the night lingered.

Pip bent a pawful of grass to the side and sniffed the air suspiciously.

It was too quiet, too still. And with no wind, she couldn't mark the position of the strange beasts and their odd, dusty, acrid scent that had no place in these woods. It hung low and directionless over the peaceful morning, distant but permeating, like a faraway fire.

She adjusted her backslung blade, wrapped her cloak closer around her and dropped onto all fours, nose pointed straight ahead and whiskers standing at attention. Her dusty green-gray wrap would shield her from all but the most attentive prying eyes, and - she quirked an ear, just to be sure of the silence - most of the forest was still asleep, unlikely to mark her passage.

She managed to stifle a flinch as a sound that wasn't a sound bypassed her ears and rang straight into her head.

Pip? Where'd you go?

She exhaled softly through her nose, the barest expression of frustration she allowed herself.

Scouting, Alder. Go back to sleep.

She set off before he could reply, scurrying silently along the mossy forest floor, tracing a sinuous route through the canopy's shadow to stay out of the slow-brightening sunbeams.

Scouting?!

The thought squeaked with disbelief. She didn't answer it.

Alder never had fewer than three thoughts at a time, and the more agitated he became, the harder they became to sort through. A jumble rang in her skull, a snatch of Eldest told us- and moves like thunder and have to hide, that last one echoing in six different ways with the significance it held in his mind. She concentrated on tracing her silent route, one shadow to the next, and came to a stop under a broad-leafed stalk as Alder's distress built to a crescendo.

If she kept moving, eventually she'd slip out of his range. Wasn't that a tempting thought.

I said go back to sleep, she sent, and with an afterthought of inexpert kindness, added I'm being careful. It'll be fine.

The chattering ground to a halt, and she felt the effort it took him to focus his thoughts down to a single thread. Come back, Pip. We have to stay hidden until they're all gone.

We can't hide if we don't know where they are.

Pip caught the beginning of his protest and shook herself violently, breaking off the connection. It was rude, she knew; closing her mind completely was one of her rarer talents, but unlike her other oddities, this one she wasn't particularly respected for. Her skills as a scout were admired precisely because she had such sharp senses, physical and mental both - some days she could even hear the slow, tangled thoughts of the Long Shadows - but when she didn't want to be disturbed, she could wall herself off from the others as thoroughly as if she'd been on the other side of the forest.

And right now, picking her way between treetrunks and sniffing her way towards the bizarre menagerie that had invaded her forest, the last thing she wanted was to be disturbed.

Her right forepaw sank in unexpectedly soft soil, and she recoiled with a stifled gasp. Her eyes darted across the swath of ground, analyzing its shape - and then she widened her scope, scanning the yards beyond that first strange softness. In a low-lying, hollowed track between two thick-rooted trees, the carpet of grass and flowers were flattened and crushed into a felted mat, mud bubbling through it in irregular patches like sickness in a wound. A wide track had been beaten into the soil by dozens - at least dozens, she amended - of flat-pawed creatures. Their dusty, acrid stink lay heavily over it.

She drew back from the unnaturally soft soil. Even with her diminutive size and weight, there was the risk of getting mired in unexpectedly watery ground, and while rescue was never far away in these woods, she certainly didn't want to weather Alder's overconcern or Eldest Luma's quietly smug passivity. Instead she skirted towards a point where the track narrowed, lashed her tail for a momentary burst in balance, then sprang over the mud and latched onto a tree root on the other side, freshly ripped free from the soil and scored with dozens of thin scars from the claws of the marching creatures. She scurried up and settled at the tree's base, where the gnarled roots tangled into a more-than-sturdy foothold overhanging the morass.

With the newfound advantage of height, she surveyed the terrain. The tracks overlapped one another in a mad scramble, pouring up from the lowland forest and curving up and away.

They moved with surprising organization for such motley creatures. She counted at least four very different sizes of print in the track, some barely longer than her own body (nose to the base of her tail) while some were large enough to crush her underfoot without even noticing.

The tracks were only a few hours old. The swarm must have passed in the early pre-dawn. She strained her memory to try and recall if she'd felt any tremors from down in the sleep-halls of the hollow, but if she were honest with herself, they were too far down and too well-insulated by the soft soil walls to have marked their passage.

She turned her attention to where the trail vanished from sight, curving over and up the slope. The land in that direction was treacherous and, to the mind of her people, best avoided. Gravel slips and rain rivulets ran down between the massive plates of rock that jutted out of the soil, and even though trees and flowers overgrew them, their roots could not be trusted to hold the ground together enough for safe passage of one of her size. Fresh rainfall unearthed and dislodged glassy chips of stone, and the soil turned to mud and slipped between the boulders, exposing treacherous chasms that could swallow an unwary traveler. The shattered earth built up and up until it abruptly skewed and slanted down in a gentle curve, like the ground had been struck with a terrible force and the shattering had rippled out from the center. And in the heart of that broken land, glimpsed fearfully from treetops or the shadow of the stones, lay the stronghold of the Long Shadows.

Once, long redmoons ago, Pip had traveled three days and nights to scale the shattered peaks herself, to see the stronghold with her own eyes (mostly due to a burst of rebellious curiosity after a scolding from Eldest Luma). The works of the Long Shadows could always be distinguished from natural formations or nests - they had a love of smooth things, and the stone they shaped stretched cleanly skyward and bore no footholds beyond the straight, geometric fissures that ran up and through them. So Pip already knew that the stronghold was encircled by a massive shadowcrafted cliff, pale and smooth as ice and taller than trees, and it surrounded the entire stronghold just behind the shattered peaks. Beyond the wall, great columns and cliffs jutted skyward, more smooth handicraft of the Long Shadows. At times they were even spotted outside the walls, tending great swaths of land in the same precise straight lines they shaped their stone. Those tracts bore vast quantities of food in unnatural abundance, some that grew nowhere else in the valley, but the Long Shadows guarded them closely and harshly punished intrusion, and the Eldest three generations before Luma had forbade anyone from entering (or even approaching) their strange geometric works, no matter how lean the winters became.

She debated following the trail. It would inexorably lead her towards the stronghold, but if the creatures were focused solely on the Long Shadows, that was valuable information to bring back to the hollow. No doubt Eldest Luma would be pleased to have yet another reason to avoid the Long Shadows and their works.

A sudden awareness prickled in the small of Pip's back, shivering up into her ears and all the way down to the tip of her tail. Her gray fur bristled and she froze, eyes darting wildly, seeking the source. The feeling had no obvious impetus, but she trusted her tail with her life, and something was happening. Something sourceless, something…

At the base of the root she was balanced on, a sprout punctured the trodden soil and curled upwards, splitting into pairs of pale green leaves. She watched as it climbed to twice her height in less than three beats of her racing heart.

Instinct took over. She scampered up the tree like a shot, finding footholds in the bark with a practiced ease that belied her jolting terror. She plunged into the safety of the leafshadow and clung to a branch, breathing fast and shallow and trying very hard to stay quiet.

Below her, a green carpet spread across the mire as grass and flowers bloomed impossibly fast.

The Weeping Shadow was approaching.

Pip strained her ears and caught the hint of a whisper of movement through the grass, distant and soft but certainly coming closer. It was pointless to cast her eyes towards the darkness - The Weeping Shadow was, in the stories, always swathed in gray, near invisible in the shadow of the canopy, and it passed in many tales without a trace, save for its flowering footsteps as its passage drove the forest to frenzy.

But it never came so close to the stronghold. The Weeping Shadow's domain was the deep and tangled woods, much further into the valley than even the hollow. It haunted the river and the wild places, and its realm was thick with plants of impossible vitality and sweetness - but not even the bravest scout dared its domain, even when hunger was rampant. The fruits of the Weeping Shadow's realm were steeped in an absolute sorrow whose depth defied comprehension, and the slow pulse of its thoughts churned in dark and wrenching misery that could be heard across half the valley. It was too much for the mind to take for long, and scouts that had strayed into its influence took moons to recover from the borrowed grief.

That had been the prickling on Pip's neck. The slow approach of the Weeping Shadow was already casting a pallor on her mind - and it was getting closer.

Pip's thoughts scrambled for her next move. If she stayed hidden, the Weeping Shadow would pass nearer to her than anyone had ever dared. She flattened her ears against her head and focused on the walls around her mind. Could she close herself to it strongly enough to hold out?

A wild fear beat against her ribs. She wanted to stay clinging to this branch forever, but she also wanted to bolt, to sprint the length of the branch and fling herself into open space, trusting the soft soil to cushion her fall - or rather, if she were honest with herself in that moment, heedless of what the fall might do to her. The desperate urge to flee was strong in her people, and here, faced with a terror closer than ever before, it was nigh overwhelming.

But Pip had a third instinct that overruled all others when she allowed it, and it had been slowly growing in her mind ever since she'd slipped from the hollow before the dawn. It was a hunger, of a sort, and one that warred always with fear. The hunger was curiosity, a thrumming urge for exploration and understanding that spurred her on through peril and dark for the promise of clarity on the other side.

The beasts in her forest were descending on the stronghold, and their passage had stirred the Weeping Shadow from its domain. Something was happening - something vast, something perhaps unknowable. But it would certainly stay unknowable if she didn't even try to know it.

And perhaps the Weeping Shadow knew.

Pip had more control than most over the openness of her mind. It alarmed her peers, sometimes, that she could pass among them in silence, unreceptive to their soundless speech. It unnerved them more, for those who knew - from a time when she was more open with her secrets and her strangeness - that she could at times hear the deep thoughts of the Long Shadows, and stranger still, sometimes even catch a shred of their meaning. The idea that the minds of the Long Shadows could in any way compare to the bright, clear thoughts of her people was on the surface laughable, and just under that surface, frightening. Still, she knew it was true. Their minds were dark, slow places, but they contained meaning and knowledge, most beyond the reckoning of her kind.

The mind of the Weeping Shadow was an abyss of grief and sorrow, but if she could attune her senses to it - if she could withstand its pressure - she could, perhaps, glean its purpose in the shattered peaks, and what it knew of the creatures that she pursued.

The underbrush cracked. Pip flattened herself against the branch and peered intently at the sound as the rolling wave of green spread under the tree, blanketing in every direction.

A shape moved in the shadow of the trees, ponderous and slow.

Pip felt her eyes grow hot and stinging, the space behind them heavy with unshed tears. A borrowed bottomless grief encroached on the walls of her mind, lapping at it like a swelling river threatening its banks.

The Weeping Shadow broke from the treeline and stepped forward.

It towered, even from Pip's high vantage point. It was gray and still and almost shapeless in the dim of the canopy, but twin lights glimmered near its summit, pale green like the sprouts boiling at its feet.

Pip's head pounded. The pressure of its presence was terrible. It was vast, yes, but the power of the sorrow within it seemed vaster still - like all the forest around it was desperate to weep, and the Shadow was the only part of it that could, yet it refused to.

The Shadow tilted its head down, and the lights of its eyes vanished in the gloom. But it was not weeping, Pip knew. It was… looking.

Looking at the tracks under its carpet of grass.

Pip gritted her teeth, gripped the branch, and opened her mind.

It was gentler than she had anticipated. The pressure and power was indescribable, but once she stopped trying to push it back, she found it moved her rather like water would - with force, but without pain. It was almost easy to let the thoughts of this vast creature buffet her where they would.

The words in the Weeping Shadow's mind were unknown to her, but she felt a snatch of them repeating over and over again. The words mattered less than the feeling that drove them, and as she focused, she realized that the Weeping Shadow was, in some way, at war with itself; the thoughts were not all in agreement. The repetition smelled of deep, old terror, but its loop was broken over and over again by a different, newer thought - one that Pip herself was intimately familiar with, strong enough that she needed no translation to parse it:

But I can help.

Dimly, in her faraway body, she felt tears pouring from her, hot and desperate from a grief she couldn't fathom. Her claws gripped the bark of the branch. The Weeping Shadow's thoughts, at the moment, were focused on its inner war, but it did nothing to shield Pip from the substrate of its misery. Still, she was onto something. If she could just push through, she might learn what the Weeping Shadow understood of the intruders to their forest.

Pip dug deeper. The Weeping Shadow knew what these creatures were - knew what they intended - believed it could help in some way - but what did it know of them?

Running below the looping dread and the punctuating bursts of hope, Pip glimpsed a glimmering ribbon of understanding wending its way just below the Weeping Shadow's conscious thought. It snaked under the fear, coiled around the thought of help. This had to be the knowledge that had motivated the Weeping Shadow's unheard-of migration. This was the mystery of the creatures answered.

This, perhaps, was Pip's only mistake. As she caught the thread of that understanding, it abruptly yanked against the current and plunged her down, down, down into the icy depth of the Weeping Shadow's truest misery. Its knowledge of these creatures came from the same bone-deep wellspring as the torrent of tears, and Pip screamed aloud as it battered her mind full-force. Alien thoughts crashed against her, unbearably loud; the grinding of bone, the shifting of stone, the pounding of waves greater than any river, the splintering of mighty trees. A twisting, a breaking - a power like a maddened, wild animal, thrashing and uncontrollable, kept in check only by its own terrible exhaustion and grief. She was so, so small, and somehow in the depths of this vastness she was even further diminished, crushed to a single point of light-

And something was watching her.

With a last mighty burst of willpower she released the thought-thread, flung herself away, and tumbled off the branch. It was something of a mercy that she was too stunned to feel the impact, and the carpet of seedlings cushioned her fall.

The first thing she became aware of was her breathing, high and fast and shallow in time with her racing heartbeat, real panic and borrowed sorrow draining away with shocking rapidity. Second, she felt the pain; her head pounding with spent exhaustion, her paws cramped in every joint, her back and shoulders bruised from where the impact of the fall had driven her scabbarded blade against her spine.

The third thing she became aware of was the shadow stretching towards her, claws stretched as long as her whole body, the deep purple of the skies after dusk.

The Weeping Shadow loomed over her, vaster than mountains. Two points of green pierced out from the dark.

She ran.

#aurora #prose writing #look. I have no explanation #well no I do have an explanation #and I'm curious if this makes literally any sense to anyone but me #but I had fun and that's what counts #pip's fine I have plenty more ideas for her

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riacte · 4 months

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Life Series False manifestation from HC10 False [UNSERIOUS] [clownery]

Open up the clown tents! I was going to give up after October 2023 but y’know 🤡 if you watch certain parts of HC10 False with your eyes closed you can pretend it’s the Life series 🤡🚦

I know this is 95% stretching. I know this is unserious and a pipe dream from 2021 fueled by two clips from False and half of a clip from Martyn (of all people). But whatever, we’re having fun 🎪

1) Fun little red name display? 👀

False’s HC10 E1 starts off with a quick explanation of the new Demise game. And there’s this screenie which is basically identical to what a life series player would show the audience to introduce the lives gimmick. But we all know Demise is Life series 2.0 and Life series is Demise 2.0. Still, visually, it’s a nice little touch.

2) Interactions with red name Ren

False E1 33:45. False said Ren’s red name suited his outfit and then she said about herself:

“Reckon I can get a different colour, yellow, to match my hair?”

Ren, damningly enough, said in reply:

“Sure! That would be cool!”

And then False repeated “that would be cool”.

— Which, I know, I know, means nothing. Yellow is just coincidentally a colour of a life in Life series and also the colour of False’s hair. And it would be cool. Like, hypothetically.

Ren then suggested killing False to bring her down to yellow, which is not how it works in Demise because yellow doesn’t exist, but it’s okay, his brain is stuck in Life series, we get it. And I know this means nothing, but for a second, Ren’s brain thought of False in the Life series in which it was possible to get her to yellow.

Then False, Stress, and Iskall tried to lure Wels in for Ren’s red kill and got extremely disappointed when he failed. This is not the first time False has brought Ren human sacrifices. She was also really good at it during the cursed burning box segment with Ren and Martyn.

I think this got cut from False’s ep, but there’s a bit more in Ren’s E0, 1:11:57.

False: While you’re red, you need to be using it to your full advantage.

Ren: That is true.

False: Threaten people, you could have someone else do it for you.

Ren then discussed his killing choices with her. If you close your eyes, this is basically a convo between a green name and their allied Boogeyman / red name. False is even coming up with fun red name strategies even though she’s not a red. And giving Ren advice while standing on her pillar of safety.

(There are also some nice parallels between Ren sorting resources at the hillock while being bullied by everyone + green person comes up to him // Ren doing enchanting stuff at a hill while being bullied by everyone + green person comes up to him.)

Regardless, you can tell False’s put thought into this whole death game / red name thing, and in a hypothetical situation, it “would be cool” to see her strategies / alliances go down in Life series.

3) Irrational fear of salmon Pearl

Going into full stretching territory now. In False’s E1 29:30, (white name) Pearl comes by, armourless but with a salmon head.

False: Pearl is still not wearing any armour.

Pearl: You didn’t have to call me out like that, False!

False to Stress and Iskall: Guys, don’t move, she might not have seen us

[Hermits chuckling]

Pearl: Thanks, that’s fine!

False: Don’t move. If we don’t move, she won’t attack, guys. Stay calm.

…

[Pearl runs away]

False: We stood still enough, she’s run off. We’re almost safe. Okay, we’re safe, good.

…

False: She was AFK on top of a tree, watching us, getting ready to go caving! I don’t know what was going on!

Iskall: It’s kind of scary.

False: It’s kind of freaky, yeah. I feel like I’ve made an enemy now if Pearl’s name turns red.

…

False when Pearl gets close to Iskall: She’s a dangerous being, don’t move, just don’t move Iskall, you’re fine.

And this bit about False being randomly scared of Pearl and warning others about her goes on. Which, at least to me, is strangely reminscient of everyone being scared of Double Life 5am Scarlet Pearl for no reason. Something wicked this way comes indeed.

Anyways, does any of this mean anything at all? Probably not. But it’s a fun bit of clowning 🤡 like it’s as realistic as HC Martyn.

#hermitcraft #falsesymmetry #ria.txt #long post

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hillockgreensblog · 23 days

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#hillock green in singapore #hillock green condo singapore #hillock green

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birgittesilverbae · 11 months

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smth smth finding a shade of paint as rare as the love of your life. toxins seeping into skin and something you can never unravel from your bones

shannon first mentions it in passing, oil paints doled out onto a palette, trying to capture the glow of the divinium blade she flips in her left hand. it's like a hole, she says, in the colour wheel. you can try your best to approximate the cyan of divinium glow with phthalo blues, can add phthalo greens, lighten with whites, but the hue is never quite as sharp, never quite as saturated as the reality.

a hole in the colour wheel visible only thanks to the hole bored between her shoulder blades.

mary watches shannon's deft hands as she scoops hillocks of paint into the centre of the pallet, smears them together with her palette knife, holds it up beside the divinium knife for mary's examination. the colours are similar, at least to mary's eyes, but she can see what shannon means. the dullness of the paint, as though the halo is moving out of proximity and the divinium going stagnant in its wake.

it's been out of production since the 90s, shannon explains, the pure manganese blue that fills that very specific niche. a perfect storm of cost and safety regulations and a supply of pigment stocks finally running dry.

shannon's never quite been able to express her wants, her desires, but it's easy to tell that this is one. that a woman who wants for so little, has vowed to want for so little, longs for this one piece of history that's out of her reach.

they're catching their breath in amsterdam, in the wake of a mission gone right, with a free night ahead of them before they drive home the next morning. they're walking along the prinsengracht, taking advantage of the opportunity to stroll hand in hand, when mary tugs shannon away from the water, towards a storefront. an art supply store, where mary leads shannon to the tubes of paint, clarifies "pb33, right?", starts to sift through the shelves.

"they're not going to have any, mary," shannon says softly, tugging at her elbow, "let's not waste our night looking."

"it's not a waste if it's for you."

they come up empty in the shop in amsterdam. so too in brussels, in riga, in every stop they make on the heels of a mission. mary, ribs aching from a blow with a rifle butt, starts with surprise and excitement in vienna, waves shannon over from where she's slouched against the counter talking to the shop owner, but it's a false alarm, a manganese blue hue rather than pure.

shannon falls, and the halo is pulled from her back, and the divinium in her chest fades, dulls with the distance until it's gone to darkness, the unlit sheen of phthalo blue fresh from the tube.

mary fights for her memory, and fights for her family, and in the aftermath of the war she finds herself still in the habit of wandering unfamiliar cities, still looking, always looking, for that missing piece. eyes roving across signs, scanning for variations on artista and pictor and kunst.

they're mid-return from a mission, passing through a village on the south coast of france, when she spots a paintbrush on a wind-worn sign, when she trips over herself asking bea to pull over. the shop is dusty, over-priced, the man behind the counter glaring back at her when she responds to his greeting in broken french. he still directs her towards the back of the store, though, and she sifts quickly through the paint tubes piled on a wobbly side table. her eyes catch on a label and her breath catches in her throat. the paper is worn and tattered, but the text is still legible. pb33, no qualifiers, no mixes.

she reads it again, through eyes filling with tears, just to be sure, catches the tang of seawater cutting through the musty air of the shop as the front door opens, closes. but she can't give it any notice, not when she's found shannon in this tube in this shop on this mission, when she's found shannon in a colour she never got to use.

her cheeks are streaked with tear tracks when she returns to the van, but nobody mentions it. ava reaches out a hand to hold hers and it's smaller than shannon's, but there's that halo bearer's warmth to the touch, and mary grips her hand with all the love she can muster to put into the gesture.

#ask #'anon'#warrior nun #mary x shannon #myfic #mywn #fafo

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thana-topsy · 10 months

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Hello! I hope this isn't too much of a loaded question, but do you have any general tips for writing? I'd like to give fanfic writing a shot at some point.

Not at all! I'm always happy to talk shop about writing! As far as general tips go, there are some things that I think everyone could benefit from, so I'll try to condense my opinions and suggestions into A Numbered List. (We'll limit it to 5 suggestions for now).

Read Actively I mean this in the sense of really chewing on whatever it is you're reading. Dig into the meat of That One Paragraph and look for things you enjoy, things that tickle your brain. I'll give an example from something I read recently, which is our lovely @kookaburra1701's newest story "Aristeia" "They crested the final hillock; Mor Khazgur dominated the shallow valley below. When she had been younger, Borgakh had often imagined the longhouse was a lazy cat asleep on a bright green rug, curled up against the rocks of the Druadach Mountains. When the stronghold’s goats were pastured in the glade, they played the role of mice scurrying about under the cat’s nose." I was just ENAMORED by this passage. The whimsy, the rhythm of some the repeating consonants -- stronghold's goats, glade -- and just the imagery it drummed up, reminding me of those fanciful imaginings of my own childhood. So don't just read a lot, but read actively. Read works that inspire you, authors that impress you, and subject matter that's similar to the type of stuff you want to be writing. And think about why you like the things your like, and draw that inspiration into your own writing. Imitate your heroes until you're no longer imitating and it's just how you write.

Accept Constructive Criticism This one is always a challenge in the beginning. The Ego is a powerful little devil, and it'll try to confuse you. It'll tell you that your value is tied to the words on the page. But I'm here to tell you that YOU are NOT the words on the page. Take an objective stance on your prose and your plot. Everyone starts somewhere and (hopefully) nobody ever stops learning or improving. NOTE: Notice I said constructive criticism. This does not mean you should let people tear your work into shreds in bad faith. Listen to people who want to see you improve and also find joy in the craft of writing.

Read Your Writing Out Loud This is kind of self-explanatory. You'll get a really good feel for your own rhythm and flow VERY easily this way. And you'll catch almost any mistakes right away.

Cut All Unnecessary Words This is getting into the technical side of things, but why not? One of the first books I read on the craft of writing (whose title unfortunately escapes my mind at the moment) contained this advice, and it is STILL something I struggle with. Obviously, when you have a character with a specific voice, sometimes they get flowery in their internal speech and observations. I'll use Aiden as an example: "The fort loomed over them, massive and severe. Aiden attempted to judge the architecture and found he wasn’t quite sure what race or nation could have possibly built it. Or when it was built, for that matter. Second era, perhaps? The design seemed more Breton than Nord: austere, angular, and formal. But so close to the Velothi mountains, it could have been Imperial." I bolded words that don't actually add anything of value to the descriptions here. We lose nothing by cutting them out. But they're how Aiden thinks about the world around him. So I keep them to give shape to his internal processing. I'd say to try to write without these kinds of flavor words first, then start adding them in. Learn the rules before you break them, or break the habit before it becomes the ONLY way you write.

Write Every Day This one is tough in the beginning, but it's so crucial to becoming a better writer. WRITE. EVERY. DAY. Even if it's just 200 words, do it. Make it your little morning ritual or evening wind-down. Pick a time that's just for you and your words. Close all your tabs, put your phone on silent, and just write. Be alone with the world that you are trying to create. And soon enough, you'll find that you can't go a day without writing something. And what a joy that is.

That's my list! I hope you found these tips useful! I also recommend reading books on the craft of writing, too.

Best of luck on your journey! You have infinite possibilities before you.

#topsy's asks #writing meta #writing advice #on writing #fanfiction #fanfic meta

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lemon-butters · 5 months

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A/N: What's supposed to be simple 500 short escaped me, all this stemmed from Malcc art. (I have more in the works)

Glynda lies nestled on a plush sofa, the contours of her form relaxed into the soft cushions. Her swollen belly asserts itself, an audacious curve interrupting the line of her body; it rises like a gentle hillock from the valley of her reclining figure. Atop this mound rests a tome, its pages splayed wide open, though the words seem to blur and dance under Glynda's half-focused gaze.

"Settle down, little one," she murmurs with a fond chuckle as if addressing a mischievous student rather than the life stirring within her. The baby responds not in obedience but with a series of gentle flutters against the inner wall of her womb, like the delicate wings of a butterfly trapped in cupped hands.

"Always so active when I try to read," she whispers, her voice tinged with both exasperation and wonder. She imagines she can almost discern patterns in the movement. A secret language of nudges and bumps that only she is privy to decipher.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Glynda's bright green eyes squint as she ponders the sensation, her thin ovular glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. With a sigh, she adjusts them back into place, yet her focus isn't on the lines of text. It's inward, attuned to the tiny dancer.

A powerful kick interrupts her reverie, drawing a gasp from her lips.

"Oh!" The fluttering evolved into more assertive taps now, commanding her full attention. Glynda places her hand gently on the epicenter of the activity,

"Easy now," Glynda murmurs.

Her tranquility fractures when she attempts to rise from the sofa, an action once simple now a feat of sheer willpower. Glynda exhales sharply, bracing herself against the cushions' soft resistance. Her muscles contract, protesting against the shift in gravity as she leans forward, seeking leverage. A pang of discomfort arcs across her lower back, drawing a tight line between her shoulder blades.

With an effort that leaves her breathless, she plants her feet firmly on the floor and pushes upward. The book that had been her companion slides off her belly and thumps onto the cushion beside her, its pages fluttering like captive birds eager for release.

Finally upright, Glynda allows herself a small smile of triumph. Her hand, still resting on her abdomen, feels the echo of the earlier kick.

Glynda's ascent begins each stair, a gentle peak to summit. She places her foot on the first step, weight shifting forward as she pulls herself up with a measured grace that belies the strain it imposes on her body. Her breath is steady, a cadence marking her progress, and her green eyes focus on the landing above.

The nursery door stands ajar, a sliver of light promising a haven. As Glynda nears the top, her gaze lifts to find James, his back to her, standing on a step ladder. Immersed in his task, the careful strokes of the brush against the ceiling painting clouds of a gentle storm grey.

Glynda's breath hitches as she crosses the threshold, her gaze sweeping over the nursery. The room is a midnight canvas, the dark walls serving as the night sky for an array of bright constellations that twinkle with vivid hues of sapphire and emerald. Each star seems to pulse with life, a cosmic dance frozen in time beneath the gentle glow of a crescent moon decal. On the lower half, a lush valley stretches across the walls, painted in verdant greens and earthen tones, a tranquil landscape under the watchful eyes of the heavens.

"James," she whispers, the words barely escaping her lips, caught between admiration and awe.

James perches precariously atop the step ladder, paintbrush in hand, as he etches the final touches on a particularly ornate cloud. The bristles dance delicately across the matte expanse, each stroke adding to the tranquil ambiance of the nursery. He steps back, his eyes scrutinizing the ceiling with an artist's critical gaze, ensuring every detail contributes to the serene tableau he envisions for their child.

"Is it too much?" he mutters.

"James, it's breathtaking," she whispers, the words barely escaping her lips, caught between admiration and awe.

A sharp jolt seizes her attention, a sudden kick from within that draws a low groan from her throat. Glynda's hand flies to her lower abdomen, pressing gently against the fabric of her blouse. The baby asserts its presence with another robust movement, shifting restlessly inside her.

"Let's sit you down," James suggests, guiding her gently toward the rocking chair nestled in the corner of the room. The celestial tapestry they've created surrounds them, stars and comets bearing witness to the quiet strength of their bond.

She breathes out, sinking into the chair with a relieved sigh. "I just need a moment."

"Stubborn, just like their father," Glynda remarks a wry smile, the tension easing from her features. Her humor, a balm to his concern, prompts a chuckle from him.

"Or their mother," he counters playfully, the warmth in his voice wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. The baby chooses that moment to kick again, a firm nudge against James' hand. His eyes widen.

Glynda leans back in the chair, her breath quickening as James' hand settles protectively on her belly. She closes her eyes and tries to focus on the feeling of his touch, the familiar warmth of his skin against hers, but it's difficult with the baby kicking so insistently. The little one seems to know exactly what it's doing; every nudge and wiggle sends a wave of joy through her body. It's like a dance between them—the baby leads, and they follow, their hearts syncing in rhythm. The rocking chair creaks softly under their weight, providing a gentle sway that matches the movements within her womb.

The celestial tapestry hangs above them, its colors shimmering in the soft light from the nearby lamp. A shooting star flashes across the fabric, leaving behind a trail of silver dust before fading away into nothingness.

---

The first light of dawn barely creeps through the curtains when Glynda shifts restlessly, her body heavy and cumbersome. The bed creaks softly as she turns, a deft hand nudging James. He stirs from his slumber with a groggy grunt, his eyes struggling against sleep's sticky tendrils.

"James," she whispers, urgency etched into her voice, a thin thread of panic weaving through it.

He blinks at her, his brain foggy, not yet catching the gravity of the moment. But then he sees it—the dampness spreading across the sheets like a silent alarm—and he's instantly awake. His heart hammers in his chest, a mix of fear and awe seizing him.

"Your water…" James murmurs, the words trailing off, his voice thick with emotion. He sits up, suddenly wide-eyed, every cell in his body on high alert.

"James," Glynda says again, this time a clear command. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, each movement deliberate, fought for against the weight of her belly. Small beads of sweat glisten on her skin, a testament to the effort and the pain that is just beginning to announce itself.

"Okay, okay," James replies, scrambling to his feet. He rushes to her side, his hands hovering over her as if he’s afraid to touch her, afraid to somehow make things worse. His mind races—hospital bag, car keys, call the doctor—but he forces himself to focus on Glynda.

"Are you alright? Can you stand?" His voice is steady now, the military man within finding his footing even amidst the chaos of impending fatherhood.

Glynda nods, grimacing slightly as she places a hand on her swollen stomach, feeling the stirrings of life within battling to greet the world. "I can stand," she asserts, though her voice betrays the rising tide of discomfort.

"Good, good." James is all efficiency now, his training kicking in, guiding him through the protocol of emergencies, even one as personal as this. He tries to steady his breathing, to match the calm he knows Glynda needs from him.

James springs into action, his military training kicking in as he retrieves clean clothes from the dresser. His hands are steady, belying the tempest of emotions inside him. Glynda, with the grace of a dancer even in her ungainly state, attempts to stand. He's at her side in an instant, guiding her gently to her feet.

"Deep breaths, love," he murmurs, slipping a soft maternity dress over her head. The fabric cascades down her body, a gentle wave of comfort. Her hands clutch at his forearms, her grip ironclad.

A contraction grips her then, fierce and unyielding. Glynda folds inward, a sharp inhalation marking the pain that etches across her features. "James…" she gasps out, and he feels the tremor in her voice.

"Right here, Glynda. I've got you." His words are a lifeline as he steadies her, his own heart pounding a relentless rhythm against his ribs. She leans into him, her body racked with the effort of birthing new life.

The world contracts to this single moment.

They reach the hospital, the early morning calm shattered by the urgency of their arrival. James' arm is firm around her waist, her fingers digging into the muscle of his back. Each step is measured, a testament to their shared determination.

"Almost there," he assures her, though it's more for his sake than hers. The pain is a live thing between them, a third presence that demands attention.

"I know," Glynda breathes out through clenched teeth, her nails leaving crescent moons imprinted on his skin. The sensation is grounding, a reminder of the here and now - of the life they're about to welcome.

The hospital room hums with the quietude of exhaustion and elation. Glynda, now a depository of tranquility, cradles the monumental bundle that is their daughter. Her eyes, twin emeralds softened by tears and fatigue, never leave the infant's face — a visage so new yet already etched into her heart.

"James," she whispers, "come meet your girl."

"Hey there, little one…" James begins, his voice a cocktail of awe and fear. He reaches out with his left hand, flesh and blood, trembling as it hovers above the child.

"James?" Glynda prompts, her brow arching in concern.

"Your hand won't hurt her," Glynda assures him, her tone gentle, yet edged with the steel that defines her. "She needs her father."

Taking a deep breath, James extends his flesh hand once more; his movements are deliberate, mindful of the precious cargo he's about to receive. The metal hand remains aloof, tucked against his side, a silent sentinel.

"Okay, okay." James’s internal mantra pulses with each heartbeat. "You can do this."

Glynda lifts the girl, guiding her towards James with practiced ease. Gossamer strands of black hair crown the baby's head, and her tiny nose, unmistakably his, scrunches in slumber. When the weight of his daughter settles into his arms, a rush of warmth floods through him, drowning all fears.

"Hi there, sweetheart," he murmurs, drinking in every detail. His thumb, cautiously, tenderly, strokes her cheek. She stirs, a small sigh escaping her lips, and James feels the seismic shift within him. This fragile being, part him, part Glynda, is theirs. Completely theirs.

"Look at you," James breathes, his throat tight, "you're perfect."

"Hello, my brave little girl," he says, vision blurring as he leans down, pressing a kiss so full of promise to her forehead. "Daddy's here."

#james ironwood #glynda goodwitch #rwby glynda #rwby #ironwitch #oneshot #Pro James ironwood

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readyouagain · 8 months

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Divine Rivals: Collision (Roman's POV)

You know what they say about a train breaking down, Roman thought with gritted teeth as he walked on the side of the road, typewriter case in one hand, leather bag in the other. His shoulders were aching and there was a blister on his heel--there truly was no telling how many kilometers he had walked that day--but the sky overhead was vibrant blue, reminding him of simpler days. And somewhere ahead of him was Avalon Bluff, his destination. Somewhere ahead of him was Iris, and the realization made his heart quicken.

I could walk a hundred more kilometers and I still don't think I'd be ready for this.

Perhaps it was good the train had broken down. It had given Roman plenty of time to think as he walked, muscles warm like kindling, and worked through his snarled emotions. But countless minutes had ticked by on his wristwatch, and countless steps had been taken along this westward road, he still wasn't sure how to break the news to Iris. He had no better plan than when he had first started his journey, finding a quiet compartment on the now out-of-service-gods-forsaken-train, and Roman inwardly groaned.

It's a sign of bad luck. He could hear his father's voice intruding into his reveries. Of course, the man who made his fortune on the railroad would think a temperamental train was harbinger of something terrible, and Roman tried to shake those feelings. It was nothing more than coincidence or an ironic twist of fate that the first and only time Roman would leave home and defiantly strike out on his own that there would be some sort of malfunction.

If you walk out this door, you are no son of mine.

Mr. Kitt's words still stung, hours later. They clung to Roman's clothes like smoke and he drew a deep breath, hoping his father's ultimatum would dissolve from memory. But those sharp-edged words lingered like a bruise, and Roman quickened his pace, relaxing his white-knuckled grip on his typewriter case.

He rolled his tired shoulders and angled his neck until it popped.

If this was a terrible idea or the beginning of a bad luck streak, then Roman supposed he deserved it. If his father never wanted to see or speak to him again, then Roman also supposed he deserved it. He could carry such heavy terrible things, ignoring the pain and the grief they roused, but he could not live with the regret.

It had been his paramour for a while now. Regret haunted him at night when he lay down between the sheets, eyes open to the darkness. It follows him to work and back, through the gloaming hours. It was in every shadow of his parents' mansion, the places where Del had once laughed and thrived, and it often stole his breath on his runs.

He regretted many things, and he did not want to create another when it came to Iris.

"Hello Winnow," he said, practicing his speech. "You look good. No, you look well? Never bloody mind, and yes I'm here to write articles for the Inkridden Tribune, same as you. I..."

Roman sighed. He had no idea how to break the news to her that he was Carver. He only knew that it needed to be done in person, and that was why he was chasing after Iris. That was why he was trembling like he had never run a kilometer in all his life. Indeed, he felt like he was all but stumbling his way to the war front. Sweat was breaking out on his palms and creating patches on his jumpsuit when the road finally curved up a hillock.

At last, he saw the town in the distance.

Roman stopped, gazing at Avalon Bluff. It was quaint and cozy, reminding him of a painting in a storybook. Stone-walled houses with thatched roofs sprawled their way up a hill, woven together with gardens and dirt-packed streets. Pastures seemed to stretch in all directions, rolling onward for as far as he could see, trimmed in dark green forests and mossy fences.

It was vastly different from the brick, steel, and pavement of Oath. Roman could taste the meadows, the damp loam, the pines in the distance. He was surprised by the nostalgia that welled in his throat, making his sight blur. He had never been to the bluff before, so why did it feel like he was returning to a place he longed for?

He inwardly shook himself. He needed to focus on the important task at hand.

What are you doing here, Kitt?

There was a high chance that Iris would greet him with those sharp words, and most likely indignant, shocked expression. There was an even better chance that her competitive nature would spark at the mere sight of him and Roman was surprised by how much he both craved it--there was something comforting in being side-by-side with her, even if they were rivals and one was doomed to lose--and by how much he simply wanted to just sit in the same room with her and do ordinary things, like argue over poets and compare tea and make remarks about the weather.

"I'm not who you think I am," he whispered and then grimaced. Should he say it confidently? Should he say it mournfully? Why did his thoughts seem incoherent every time he envisioned seeing Iris again? Roman shivered in the sunlight, his anticipation flaring like embers. A cool breeze blew, tousling his dark hair like curious fingers. He was still standing on the road, unmoving as a statue, when he heard the distain wail of a siren.

He didn't know what the siren meant, but it couldn't be for anything good.

Roman decided to cut through the field, his heart hammering in his chest. The long grass whisked at his knees and dragonflies coasted on their iridescent wings around him, but his eyes were fixated on the town in the distance, and how strangely still and quiet it seemed to be. As if it had been abandoned.

Was this a practice siren? And for what? Bombs?

He frowned, glancing up at the sky again. The clouds were thin and spread like butter across it, but there was an unmistakable chill in the air that hadn't been there a moment ago when he was at the road.

Hurry, a voice whispered to him.

Hurry.

He could feel the word beat in his blood.

Roman walked faster. He was in the middle of the field and was wondering which house he should approach--he was going to have to ask a complete stranger to shelter him--when his gaze was caught by something moving in the distance ahead of him. A slender shadow in a sea of golden grass.

He narrowed his eyes and realized it was a woman. Five steps later, he could discern her face and drew a sharp breath. The world seemed to tilt and freeze, save for Roman's heart, which continued to erratically pound.

Iris.

She was running, no, sprinting to him, her long brown hair tanging behind her. There was fear in her expression, desperation in the way she moved, and Roman instantly dropped his typewriter and leather bag. He broke into a run to meet her, and he knew then that something was terribly wrong. Something was wrong and they were both in danger, and Roman needed to reach her first, before the world fell apart.

His long legs devoured the ground beneath him. He almost twisted his ankle when he stepped on a rock, but he never let his attention slip from Iris. She was shouting, but he couldn't hear her. Not over the roar in his ears and the rush of his breaths, which cut his lungs like a blade. The air was cold as midwinter and the sunshine was beginning to dwindle, turning gray like storm light. There were shadows bruising the clouds behind Iris. Shadows that were moving and growing closer, high in the sky, but Roman didn't dare look up at them.

He kept his eyes on her and the distance that had felt immense moments ago suddenly vanished. The space between them melted and Roman was reaching out to grab her, her name smoldering in his chest, curling on his tongue, when Iris did the most peculiar, unexpected thing.

She took two fistfuls of his jumpsuit as if she both wanted to drag him against her and keep him away. And then she pushed him to the ground.

Roman was so shocked he went down like a stack of cards, taking her with him. He couldn't help but cling to her, his hands caught up in her hair as his back hit the earth with such force it made him wheeze. His fingers splayed over the curve of her back, holding her firmly against him, and he finally managed to find his voice. He gaped at her and said, "Winnow?" Winnow, what is hap--?"

"Don't move, Kitt!" Iris whispered urgently in response. But of course she would cut him off, and Roman nearly protested until he felt how frantically her chest rose and fell against his. How terror shone in her eyes like ice as she gazed down at him. "Don't speak, don't move."

He didn't speak, and he didn't move. Iris shivered and closed her eyes, and he felt every point of contact between them. The way their legs tangled together, how their ribs aligned. He studied her face, so close to his that he could feel her warm breath fan across his mouth.

This is not what I expected, he was thinking. This is not--

Roman's thoughts went completely silent when he saw the eithral glide above them.

He pressed his hands firmly into Iris's back, feeling her quake against him, and he swallowed as her hair tickled his chin. But she was unmoving, as if she had charmed herself into stone against him, and he did his best to mirror her. To inhale shallow, quiet breaths, to ignore the sweat that tricked down his nose and the way his right ankle was itching from the grass. To not think about the flap of wings in the sky above, and what it would mean if he should flinch or move in that instance.

When the creatures began to screech and circle overhead, Roman felt his stomach lurch.

He bit the inside of his cheek; he could feel panic surge like a tide about to overcome him. His bones were aching, his pulse rattling his ears. He thought he might be about to pass out until a single thought, echoed through him: don't look at them. Look at her.

Roman's gaze returned to Iris.

Her eyes were still clenched shut, but she was holding onto him as if nothing could come between them. Not even the eithrals haunting the sky above. Not magic or war or death or fear. She was like a shield that he could rest beneath, and at first he wanted to feel ashamed that he was letting her cover him. He should be protecting her. But with each breath he drew, the steadier and calmer his heart became. He could smell lavender and the loam on her skin--he felt safe, tucked away with her in the long grass--and he marveled at her.

There was peace in her expression, as if she were far away. Roman wondered what she was thinking about.

He took that moment to memorize her. The constellation of freckles on her face. The slant of her lips. The dark curl of her eyelashes against her fair skin. The blush of her cheeks and the sharp line of her jaw.

Before he was ready, Iris opened her eyes and met his gaze.

She had caught him staring, and he expected to see a flash of anger or smugness in her. He expected to feel her fingers dig into his shoulders, her nails biting his skin. A punishment, a reminder, a way to bring him back to the present because while she might like him in word, she didn’t like him in person. But as she held his gaze--hazel, soft, relieved--he was swiftly reminded that Iris Winnow was anything but the expected. From the moment she had first walked into the Oath Gazette to the first time her letter had whispered its way beneath his wardrobe door...Iris had been unpredictable and surprising to Roman. Like turning a page only to be cut by its edge.

And maybe that was why he found it difficult to look away from her.

Maybe that was why he had given up everything to follow her to the front.

Iris...Iris I'm not who you think I am.

The shadows began to recede. The cold snapped; bright sunshine and warmth flooded the world again, and the wind soughed through the grass, as if Dacre's creatures were only illustrations in a storybook. It was over, and yet Roman didn't move. He waited for Iris to push herself up to a sitting position. She was still seated on his lap, wiggling ever so slightly. He swallowed, his skin flushing.

But then she glared down at him and Roman felt static, crackling in the air between them. Ah yes. This was familiar and oddly comforting; this was what he had expected, and he was hungry to hear her voice. He wanted to see what she was going to make of his arrival, and he couldn't hide the smirk that played across his mouth.

"What the hell are you going here, Kitt?" Iris shoved him in the chest. "Have you lost your mind?"

Yes, he thought. It's been lost for a while now.

Slowly, his hands slid down her back, coming to rest on her hips. For one heady moment, he wondered if she was about to kiss him but then realized no. A slap was more likely. He would take either from her, although he preferred the former.

The imagining was so wild it made him smile. It felt like a weight had just crumbled from his shoulders. A weight he had been carrying for years. He felt like he could breathe deeply again.

Thank the gods the train broke down, Roman mused inwardly.

But he only said, "It's good to see you again too, Winnow."

#divine rivals #iris winnow #roman kitt #kitt x winnow #bonus chapter: collision

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blackjackkent · 2 months

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Lacking any other immediately obvious goal, Rakha and co. head straight for the nearby druid settlement in search of the 'Zorru' that the tieflings mentioned, so they can shake him down for information regarding a nearby creche.

Rakha has little to no interest in anything else that might be at the settlement, but is forced to take notice purely because the door is currently shut and there is a lot of shouting happening.

"Open the bloody gate!"

"What's going on?"

Rakha registers immediately that this man is some sort of leader among the tieflings; he takes command of the situation at once.

"Goblins are on our tail. Open the gate, Zevlor. NOW!"

The man on the ground does seem to be some sort of leader as well, of the smaller band he moves with - but he lacks the composure of the man on the wall; his voice grates with terror.

Goblins. Rakha parses this unfamiliar word and quickly finds the meaning of it. Looking further down the road, she realizes that the three humans are being pursued by what can only be described as a hunting pack, a tremendous surge of small creatures about the height of Rakha's waist, all armed with bows and knives and gleefully cruel smirks.

There's a fight brewing, most certainly. One of them takes a series of brutal shots at one of the tiefling guards; who screams and collapses across the control wheel for the gate.

Rakha smells the sudden burst of blood; it saturates her senses as thoroughly as if she'd been coated in it. She feels her breath start to quicken, her heart start to race.

She cares little enough for the humans under threat and little more for the safety of those Zevlor seems to be trying to guard inside, but she can smell the promise of further blood about to be spilled. The goblins crave it the same way the beast in her head does; they will draw it from the humans, from the tieflings - from Rakha herself if she shows her face.

But not if I spill theirs first. She takes a step forward, flame flickering in her palm.

WHUMP. One of the small creatures is suddenly knocked back by a burst of green-black light from the top of the wall.

New magic. Rakha's head swivels around, looking for the source of this attack, which stung through the air with a sharp edge quite unlike the power she herself communes with.

A dark-skinned, dark-haired man in light leather armor has leapt off the wall. She can see the power surging around him, that same green-black hue, over his skin and in his eyes. He carries a blade in one hand, which he sinks unhesitatingly into the chest of another of the goblins, filling the air with another burst of blood.

"Damnable roach!" the man snaps. And he is smiling too - but it is not the murder-glee that sits in Rakha's head and on the goblins' faces. It is something else, something Rakha cannot even begin to interpret.

"Provoke the blade," he calls. A challenge, an invitation, a threat, all rolled into one. "And suffer its sting!"

Perhaps he has more pithy lines to offer, but if so, he doesn't get the chance, as the next goblin he turns his sights on evaporates in a sudden burst of flame.

"Hells!" he snaps, turning at this unexpected intrusion into the battle. Then he grins, registering that it was an intrusion on his side. "Good shot!"

Rakha does not notice the compliment; the smell of blood and charred flesh is overwhelming now. Her eyes have rolled back into her head and the beast has taken over, and she is already barreling deeper into the crowd of goblins with flame rising around her hands.

Gale, standing on the top of a nearby hillock, meets the stranger's eyes and gives him a sort of sideways grin as he prepares a spell of his own. "She'll say thank you later!" he calls. "Or maybe not, to be honest - she's a bit of an odd duck, this one!"

#bjk play bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #bjk writes her own party banter #HI WYLL

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