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wyrmswears · 1 month

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"Generator"; 1569 words.

The Administrator has something to show Agent Walker.

...

Sure, he knew it wasn’t the first time he had been called to a one-on-one meeting with The Administrator, but it may as well have been. It wasn’t like he remembered any of their previous interactions; he was going in blind all the same.

When his fax machine first spat out the offending paper, he believed it had been sent to the wrong agent. But there was his name at the top, ‘Agent Walker’. There was the possibility that someone else shared his surname, but as far as he was aware he was the only agent without a first name.

The listed meeting room wasn’t her office, nor was it one of the Administration’s more conventional meeting rooms, complete with tables 30 people long but only one person wide and more fake potted plants than you could ever imagine. No, today he had been called down to the lowest floor of the Administration: the server room. The part of his brain that understood technology bristled at that; it would be much more effective to place the server room on a higher floor. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t say anything about that to The Administrator when he faced her - he would stick to his department, as all good employees did. The networks and communications department could handle that one.

The elevator down required two separate keycards: one was his standard agent ID, and the other digitally recognised him as a department manager. The former granted him permission to move between floors, yes, but only the latter allowed him access to the basement.

The ride down took 2 minutes and 43 seconds. He counted. No one else entered the elevator the entire journey.

When the elevator reached the basement and the doors slid open, The Administrator was standing on the other side of them. He hoped he would forget this meeting like the others, if just so he could become ignorant to the way he jumped at her sudden appearance.

“Agent Walker.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Administrator, ma’am.”

She smiled. This did nothing to soothe his racing heart. “Come, let’s talk.” She beckoned and he followed her into the dark room.

It was large, but so were most rooms in the Administration. The realm reassignment department was tiny relative to the office rooms that the majority of their employees were stationed in. This room was about half the size of block 8E sub-block 185A A3/11√5. He could see three of the walls, dark stretches of concrete, sealing them in. The fourth that should’ve sat opposite to the elevator was obscured by rows upon rows upon rows of computer servers. A blue glow emanated from them and he grimaced at the thought of the voltage it would take to create a light that strong.

As he struggled to keep pace, The Administrator barely spared him a glance. “This may seem beyond your department, but trust me, your role will become clear soon.” She forewarned. She would never have him leave his department, he knew. That was the first rule of the Administration: Stay in your place. “What do you know of Lord Ras of the Wyldness?”

Lord Ras. He had heard that name. Some of the employees that hailed from Imperium had mentioned it in conversations coated with nothing short of hatred. The ‘outlander’ who had gained a position of such power in their otherwise closed society. That sort of talk only ever continued for a couple days before their new job turned their interest towards paperwork and mild office drama.

“Isn’t he the one trying to awaken ancient evils without a permit?”

The Administrator shot him a look, slow and venomous. “He is”, she nodded, “but that’s not important to us right now.” She walked towards him. He averted his gaze to the floor with stiffened shoulders but found that she only continued past him, down the alley of servers. She didn’t need to beckon him this time, he knew what he was meant to do. He followed.

There was little light between the pillars of computers. They were only between two rows of the many, but what he could see was endless. The towers sparked a theory in his mind about why she was mentioning the rogue lord. “We use a lot of power.” He started, testing the waters. The Administrator stopped walking and turned to face him, her silence commanding him to finish his speculation. “Lord Ras allied with Imperium by promising them power; do we need to ally with him too? To have enough power?”

The Administrator smiled and shook her head. Count two for smiles, and a contradiction - she must have expected him to guess wrong. “You’re right that we do plan to ally with him, but it is not out of need for power. We have all the power we could need.” She turned again and continued to weave her way through the computerised nest which was now composed of more than just server towers. Thick cables ran both overhead and underfoot, LEDs glowed from no visible circuitry, and the drone of electric humming and cooling fans only ever got louder the further they went.

Finally, they breached the sea of servers.

Now that he could see the wall they had been trekking towards all this time, he realised that it wasn’t made out of concrete the same as the other three walls. No, this one was glass. Despite this, nothing was visible from the other side. There was no depth at all, only pure light glowing an almost-white with its brightness (though when Walker inspected the way it lit up its surroundings, he realised it to be tinted pale blue).

In front of the glass wall, the cables reached their largest size before slipping underneath panels in the floor. The servers did not get within 10 metres of the wall. Instead, they stood guard in their rows, watching the tiny humans approach the divine light.

The Administrator hummed, snapping Walker’s attention back to her. She gestured towards the glass. “This is our power source. You can look, if you would like.”

He didn’t know if that was a good idea. Just looking at the glass from this distance was already beginning to hurt his eyes. Nonetheless, unsure if it was because The Administrator had told him to or because he chose to, he stepped forwards.

As he approached, he could feel the electricity in the air. It combed through his hair and bounced around a pit in his chest, dangerously close to the one that ached whenever he thought about the family he might’ve once had, before he forgot everything. He didn’t realise he was shaking with a strange sense of excitement until he was close enough to touch the glass and found himself unable to hold his hand still. He almost did touch the glass, but held back just before his fingers made contact. He still couldn’t see anything on the other side. Pale blue swallowed his vision.

He looked over his shoulder to The Administrator. She raised an eyebrow and jerked her head towards the glass again. He turned back. A bright light stared back at him.

He didn’t scream. This was unusual - Walker knew he was cowardly and anxious and that in any other scenario he would’ve jumped or fallen back or swung a punch - but something was different this time.

If anything, he stood closer than he did originally, watching the sparking lights with complete fascination. His breath fogged the glass.

“What is it?” He asked after what could’ve been anything between a second and a day, even though he couldn’t hear what he was saying over the pounding of his own heart.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” The Administrator was at his side now. When had she moved? “It’s lightning.”

Like realising one’s hunger upon taking a bite of food, the word sparked an ache in the back of his head. “Lightning…” He knew what that was, of course, as well as where it came from. They must have captured it live from a storm. He had never seen a storm before, but he had heard anecdotes of them from newly recruited employees and field agents alike. He was jealous. Did all lightning look like this? Freckles and curls?

She watched as he pressed a hand to the glass. The lightning responded in kind, pressing the palm of its hand opposite to his. “We could let it go of course, but it would run away. Far from here.”

Far from here… No. They couldn’t let it free. Now that he had seen it, felt it, he knew he couldn’t bear to part with it. They had to keep it contained. He told The Administrator such.

She nodded and smiled again. “I knew you’d understand.”

He dropped his gaze to study the hand that would’ve held his if it could.

It was almost the same pale blue that shone through the rest of the glass, but somehow brighter. The similarity in colours made it hard to tell the form of the figure apart from its glow, but blue and yellow markings fanned out across its form like the branches of a pine tree. Lichtenberg figures, his mind supplied.

He looked up at its face, admiring its curls and running a hand through his own. He wondered if he’d at all resemble the figure before him if he looked in a mirror.

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charliejaneanders · 24 days

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#books #writing #writing advice #creative writing #writers of tumblr #writers life #writerscommunity #writers on tumblr #writers and poets #writers community #bookworm #book wyrm #politics #trans day of visibility

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whumpy-wyrms · 3 months

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WOAHHHH NEW OC STORY IDEA ALL A SUDDEN

okay so vampire guy works at a morgue and feeds from the dead bodies but it’s never Enough. it keeps him under control but he does needs fresh blood once in a while. anyway this human guy dies, was brought to the morgue, and the vampire guy drains him of all his blood (as he does to every corpse) but this human died recently and his blood was fresher and tastier than the others. vampire leaves the dead human in one of those corpse shelves for the night (vampire guy lives in the morgue somewhere) and the next morning BOOM. the human guy is awake and alive and healthy as if nothing happened. immortality moment!! woah

and the vampire guy is like SWEET!!! new infinite food source of fresh delicious human blood!! now he doesn’t have to feed from those gross corpses anymore or go hunting and risk being killed by pesky vampire hunters.

but vampire guy still has to work at the morgue. that’s his whole business. that’s his home and how he needs to make money to buy food for his new human bloodbag (guy can survive without food but his blood tastes better when he’s not starving).

and it’s strange for the vampire guy sometimes. he’s always spending time around dead humans and this is the first time he’s gotten close to an actual live human before. and even though he’s keeping him captive, he still likes making conversation sometimes. it gets lonely being an immortal vampire who’s hasn’t had a close relationship in decades, and who’s instinct it is to suck the blood out of every human he meets. and since immortal human guy is trapped there and has nothing to do, he might as well talk to him. he’s lonely too and now just found out he’s immortal. he doesn’t wanna be alone forever

but obviously he hates being fed from by a vampire and desperately wants to escape. vampire guy kills him a bunch of times just because he Can. sometimes he drains him of all his blood when he’s extra hungry, sometimes he just kills him for disobeying or trying to escape to teach him a lesson. sometimes he kills him for fun, for the thrill of the hunt. dying is PAINFUL as fuck to the human. he hates dying even though he always comes back fully healed.

sometimes the human wants more things to keep him occupied so he’s not bored all day trapped in the basement of a morgue (or maybe he’s kept locked in a corpse shelf during the day, extremely claustrophobic and dark, with no way out, trapped next to a bunch of human corpses. who knows). but the vampire doesn’t wanna waste his hard-earned cash on buying his human silly unnecessary things just because he’s bored.

so sometimes he lets the human help him work. vampire guy owns the morgue and has no other employees, and only works at night to avoid sunlight, so human wouldn’t be able to call for help anyway. human guy hates being around dead bodies but it gives him something to do and he technically gets paid for it in a way. now vampire guy gets things done twice as fast and has more money and free time too. he buys his human the stuff he wants, like books or puzzles, and they sometimes play games together.

human was a nobody. he probably died from some freak accident and was brought to the morgue by the hospital. he didn’t have a family or any loved ones that claimed his body or set up his funeral. nobody came looking for his body to bury or cremate because Nobody cared that he was gone. and that just makes things a whole lot sadder because even if he does somehow escape the vampire, where’s he gonna go? he’s legally dead. Everyone thinks he’s dead. he’s supposed to be dead. there wouldn’t be anywhere to go or anyone to go to because he obviously can’t tell people he’s immortal, that would just cause more questions, and surely being experimented on by scientists would be worse than whatever he’s going through right now, right?

so human guy has to accept his life now, as an immortal bloodbag for a vampire who works at a morgue. his life is filled with blood and death, but there’s nothing he can do about it. maybe vampire guy eventually gains sympathy for him, and starts to feel bad for his pathetic excuse of a life. maybe they eventually become friends. or maybe the human stabs a wooden stake through the vampire’s heart. who knows

anyway these guys have existed in my head for nearly an hour and they don’t even have names but i am going insane over this holy shit???? RAUHHHH i’ve gotta make picrews dude i gotta draw them. new blorbos. new brainrot. i prommy i’ll still get tllr chapter 13 out today or tomorrow but WOAHH look at these new little guys they’re so silly

#AHHHHH i love vampires and immortals and morgues #3 in 1? YES #if anyone has name recommendations feel free to tell me #i’m most definitely gonna write something about these guys #probably not a long lore driven series like tllr but Something #maybe i will also make an au where the human is taken by Anton and experimented on because Anton wants to learn more about his immortality #there’s just so many possibilities with this concept and i love it i love these silly guyssss #brand new blorbos were born today. happy birthday #wyrms says stuff #no idea what this series will be called either so idk what to tag this as yet #i need name ideas!! ahhhhh #vampires #death #murder #death mention #vampire whumper #immortal whumpee #silas oc #aspen oc

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rainbowwyrm · 7 months

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TW: Scopophobia, slight eyestrain, unreality (in alt ID)

𝐖𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐮𝐩?

Reblogs are appreciated!

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scifrey · 3 months

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NINE-TENTHS

Twenty-four is one year too young for a quarter-life crisis, but hey, Colin's always been an overachiever. He's got a degree in Sustainable Tourism, which his family says he's wasting as a barista, an annoying anxiety disorder, and no freaking idea what to do with his life.

The only thing going his way is the cute coffee shop regular, a homo draconis named Dav (who, in his humanshape, is a total hottie.) Still, it'd be easier if Dav didn't have a habit of accidentally setting things on fire when he's startled. Like the café kitchen.

When Dav breaks draconic taboo and volunteers as a replacement bean-roaster to apologize for the inferno meet-ugly, sparks really fly. Everything's finally happening for Colin, until he learns that hooking up with Dav means that under dragon law, Colin is absorbed into Dav's hoard.

Possession may be nine-tenths of the law, but becoming his boyfriend's property does not make this whole identity crisis thing easier. Especially now that Colin must navigate politics, paparazzi, and legal questions about his personhood. Colin's still angling for his Happily Ever After, but the growing scrutiny on his relationship with Dav threatens their budding romance.

And if he's not careful, Colin's fight for agency may just destroy symbiotic human/dragon relationships worldwide.

🐉☕❤️

A sassy, queer, alternate universe romance from Publishers Weekly's Best Books of 2011 author J.M. Frey. Wrapped in discussions of autonomy and colonialism, Nine-Tenths meets in the middle between Red, White & Royal Blue and the Temeraire series.

🐉☕❤️

Part One

There's this thing in stories called the "inciting incident".

And mine? It's a goddamn doozy.

It’s the part of the book, right at the start, where the lovers have their meet-cute, the farm boy leaves for the wider world, the Chosen One is attacked by her first evil monster, blah, blah, blah. You know what I mean. It's the place where everything opens up and you have no idea what you're in for—only that it'll be exciting.

I know all about Inciting Incidents because I was going to be a writer.

No, I thought I was going to be a writer. Historical romance, that’s my jam. Dukes, rakes, windblown-gowns, dropped handkerchiefs, cliffside confessions—I am a slut for that stuff. Forget real history (totally flunked ‘We’re-Feeding-You-Colonialist-Narratives-Disguised-As-Education’ 101). Give me made-up kingdoms and far-flung pirates. Give me the fantasy of a happily ever after that lasts beyond ‘the end’. Give coffee and stories, and I am a content boy.

But right before he got sick, in the summer between my first and second year of university, my Dad and I had a serious talk about writing. How much work it is. How long it takes to start paying off. Backup plans.

And then… after, I thought, well, he wasn’t wrong. If life was going to be pointlessly, stupidly, cruelly short, then I should spend my time trying to do something good, right? I switched majors. Science makes sense. Science is logical. Science creates vaccines and saves lives. Science can bring species back from the brink of extinction. Science doesn’t break your heart.

All of this is to say that I can—with complete and utter certainty—point to the exact moment when my life became a trash fire. It was my twenty-fourth birthday, and my big sister Gemma gave me the dumbest, but totally plot-inciting gift: a sunrise alarm clock.

The Incident starts like this, in Mum’s pokey poppies-and-roosters kitchen, with Gemma leaning on the back of my chair:

"I have a perfectly good alarm clock." I hold up my phone, then let it slap back down onto the plastic tablecloth. "Goes ding when there's stuff."

My sister heaves the kind of sigh only eldest-born siblings make, indulgent and frustrated at the same time. I love making her make that noise. It's hilarious.

"It wakes you up gently," Gem says. "So you’re not cranky."

"I’m not cranky in the mornings."

Everyone laughs. I may have snapped at Stuart this morning when he shook my foot through my childhood bed sheets like an aggressive chihuahua. Okay. So I'm cranky in the mornings.

"I don't see how it's supposed to work." Stu grabs the clock. "How can you see the light if your eyes are closed?"

As the younger brother of twin siblings, I am used to having the toys I’m playing with pulled out of my hands. Instead of trying to snatch it back, I fiddle with the iridescent green bow that was on my present, then stick it to my ear. Mum smirks at my accessory, but otherwise her prim little 'all my babies are home to roost' face stays in place.

I'm the only one of us who went away to school, and stayed away. Gem came back to live with Mum straight after she finished her undergrad, so Mum wouldn't be alone in the house. Stuart never left the city, though he's got his own place now. But that's why I stayed away after I graduated last year. Mum and Gem don't need me, and if I came back, Stu would try to get me to join his crew.

I go weak in the knees for the kind of person jacked enough to pick me up and consensually throw me around. Standing on a roof next to a whole crew of pretty roughs trying to help them replace shingles? That's gonna lead to me swooning and dying of a broken neck. Stu doesn’t want that on his conscience.

Because she's a bossy know-it-all, Gem takes my present from Stu and opens it to show me how it works. She huffs. "You can see sunlight through your eyelids. It just works, okay?"

Stu helps himself to another piece of my birthday cake, licking the icing off his fingers and the serving knife. Mum slaps the hand holding the knife, and Stu flushes up and sets it down. He descends on his third piece like a wolf, but at least now he's watching his manners.

"There's an instruction manual," I point out as Gem tosses the booklet on the table.

"The day you read the instructions," Mum says, "is the day I'll know for sure the fairies really swapped you."

It's an old joke, being the Changeling child. I'm the only one of them with dark hair. The rest of my family are blond as heck.

Mum’s grinning into that little curl in the side of her mouth that holds secrets. Dad always called it Mum's 'Peter Pan Kiss’. He'd wrap his arms around her waist and kiss that corner, and Mum would swat at him for ruining her lipstick.

Thinking about Dad reminds me he's dead.

I hate the swoop-and-stab sensation in my chest that comes with remembering. Especially when there's a moment you want to share, and you turn your head to his chair and start composing the sentence in your head: "Hey, Mum's doing that—" and then you stop.

You stop composing. Stop turning. Stop thinking about sharing. Stop breathing.

Because that chair is empty.

Dad's dead.

And you'll never get the chance to point out the Peter Pan kiss again. Or watch Mum swat him. Or listen to him tease us for falling for Mum's Old World fairy stories. Or hear his stupid har-har-har donkey laugh, thick with his French accent.

It's my birthday.

He's not here.

I'll have another birthday, next year, and he won't be there for that one either.

I try to control my breathing, but Mum hears it hitching. I'm already staring at Dad's terrible empty chair, so it's not like I can hide what I'm thinking about. Mum curls her fingers over my knuckles.

"I wish he was here too, mo leanbh," she says softly.

Stu and Gem go quiet.

"Sucks," I cough out, deciding to give no one the pleasure of watching me actually cry. I'll save it for later, when I'm back in my own apartment. Not because of any kind of 'real men don't' toxic masculinity bullshit, but because I hate the fuss. They take the shit my therapist tells them about being my support network too much to heart.

"More tea, Mummers?" I ask instead.

"Time for something stronger, don't you think?"

Next Part | Read on Wattpad

Trailer Music: "A Thousand Years" by The Piano Guys Cover Art: @seancefemme

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o-wyrmlight · 4 days

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Transcript for the upcoming Chapter 14 of A Toast to the Pigs, because I'm autistic and I fucking love this, actually. Coming this Friday to a store near you. Also subject to change but likely won't change a lot, if at all, because I like it so much.

Kim glanced out the window and caught Harry watching him. At some point, he’d stopped pacing. He met Kim’s eye and tried for an uncertain smile, giving him a thumbs up with both of his hands.

Kim moved, going to open the door. “Do you need something, detective?” he asked quietly, holding the transceiver at arm’s length behind him for some semblance of privacy.

“We good?” Harry whispered.

Kim held up a finger. “Give me a minute.”

“Okay. I’m gonna just”—He gestured somewhere behind him, pointing—“just be right over there. On the bench. Don’t want you to think I’m running off or anything.”

“If you haven’t fled the scene of the crime yet, I don’t think I have anything to worry about,” Kim joked, offering a reassuring smile.

Harry, who was reassured, relaxed his posture. “You’re so cool, Kim,” he said, pulling the triggers of his fingers with a muffled snap. And maybe Kim was just tired, but his hand felt obligated to return the gesture, even if his gloves ruined the effect.

“Go sit down.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, sir.” With a half-hearted salute, Harry turned to do so, stretching his arms over his head.

#kim: oh thumbs up is part of the sign for 'help'. does he need something. i should check in on that #harry: no no i'm just asking if we're all good now 9-9 #i'm so normal #disco elysium #harry du bois #kim kitsuragi #a toast to the pigs #wyrm writes #they're nerds your honor

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whumper-cars · 27 days

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Sick Whumpee who's extremely exhausted, and yet their body won't let them get even a second of sleep. Then finally when they start feeling a little better, they crash.

Feel free to add onto any of my prompts!

#wyrm writes a thing!#whump #whump prompt #writing prompt #sick whump #sickfic #totally not inspired by covid-riddled me right now #whumpee

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nonhumanresources · 3 months

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Snowfall

Short Undertale Yellow fic about trying to move on. Spoilers for the pacifist ending! This isn't everything I want to write about Yellow for sure, I've got at least one more idea I've been toying with, but I was listening to the soundtrack and feeling stuff. It's not much but I've been thinking about the characters a lot so it's nice to get something down on the page.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snow fluttered downwards, flakes tumbling over themselves in their haste to join the building drifts. It sank through the air, some snowflakes lagging behind others, apprehensive. The flurries twisted around and around, eventually scattering across the treetops and paths in even layers, like sand. Or ash. Or dust.

Martlet let the snow collect on and around her. She’d have to shovel later, tossing the buildup off her balcony to keep the fragile wooden beams from snapping. Those had been built… what was it, three years ago now? Itching for space, she’d torn down a wall and repurposed it into an exterior patio with uneven handrails and mismatched floorboards, held up by a tree and too few poles. Nowadays, she could see the flaws in the construction; too-shallow angles, half-pounded nails, stress points with naught but a single board hastily screwed into position keeping the whole thing up. Martlet prefered to pay attention to the other details, though. From where she was sitting, she could see down, just between the handrails on one of the poles, there was a nick in the wood. That was where she had taken a chunk out of it with her carving knife when she dropped a mallet on her talons. Further down, there was a section with evenly spaced nails, save for one that was bent in half. That was Chujin’s work. He’d been so excited when his wife had shown up that he’d missed the last nail in his haste to wave hello.

She sighed, closing her eyes, feeling the snow accumulate.

Somewhere not far off, Marlet heard wood scraping against wood. Front door, she thought immediately, knowing that particular sound by heart. She ignored it; the balcony was on the front of the house, so whoever it was would have seen her up here anyway. Sure enough, the door behind her opened moments later. There was the sound of clawsteps and the swish of fine cloth.

“You’re not at your post.” Ceroba’s clipped tone was short, but that didn’t indicate annoyance. She was just like that. Martlet heard more rustling cloth, and the creaking wood told her that Ceroba had sat down beside her, nearly silent. She often moved like that these days.

Martlet wanted to sit in silence for a while. She’d been doing that already, after all, besides briefly greeting the balcony when she’d sat down. Her beak had other plans, though.

“You ever wonder about where it all comes from?” she asked. She liked to imagine her voice swirling out like the snow, laying across those who could hear in a soft blanket, conveying its meaning through its delicate frigidity. It didn’t; it was just about as loud as she normally spoke. It was so hard to capture the way she saw it all in her head, even with her own voice.

“The shiverstones in the cavern roof,” Ceroba responded without hesitation. Martlet imagined her staring up through layers of snow, ears tilted back, a snowflake or two settling on her nose and melting in her breath. It was very picturesque. “Water-laden air is sent up by the lava in Hotland, where it freezes and falls in Snowdin. Apparently part of what keeps the Dunes so dry is the wind that movement creates. Chujin would talk about it when we visited, sometimes.”

Martlet stayed still. She imagined Ceroba frowning at her. (She was right about that one.)

“This is a riddle again.”

“It’s not a riddle,” Martlet pointed out.

“Fine,” Ceroba sniffed. “Further back then. The humidity required for this kind of snow comes from Waterfall. The water from rivers and streams collects into the lake and the fens, where it’s picked up by the wind and carried through here.”

“Yeah,” Martlet nodded.

“But, that’s still a definite answer. You don’t wonder about facts.” She could see exactly how her friend’s ear twitched when she used that tone—some mix of what might be frustration, but might be humor, too. Or maybe something else entirely. Ceroba tended to keep an unreadable demeanor when she could. “So, keep going. The Waterfall cavern is largely tougher minerals, with slick, unforgiving walls, except for the limestone veins that have been worn away by the water flow. The main river emerges underground, but at least as much seeps down from—”

“The Surface,” Martlet whispered. Ceroba was silent.

By now, Martlet’s head feathers felt warm. They’d been cold at first, then frigid as snow melted into them, but once a thick enough layer had formed, it had warmed right back up. The snow made for a good insulator. Or maybe she’d just gotten used to it.

“You’re thinking about that day.”

Martlet sighed. She was. She had been, every single day since. It was months later, now, and she still couldn’t believe that it had only lasted… what, nine hours? Ten? According to Dalv, Clover had only been in the Underground for about an hour and a half before entering Snowdin, and according to some eyewitness reports she’d been so wrapped up in puzzle maintenance that she’d missed them by a hair on multiple separate occasions. Had she turned around, she’d have met Clover and had an extra thirty minutes with that knowledge.

She didn’t expect that to hurt so bad.

When she finally opened her eyes, Ceroba was staring at her, gaze sharp and discerning as it always was. How was it that the fox had more of an eagle eye than the bird? There was no snow on Ceroba’s clothes, and it had melted in a small aura around her kimono. Seeing Martlet’s face, she sighed and turned, staring out over the treetops. Her paws curled along the edge of the balcony, tapping on the underside of the wood.

“Yeah. Me too.” With her deeper voice, when she spoke softly, it came out in a growl. Chujin had once confessed that he’d convinced Ceroba he’d suffered an ear injury at the Steamworks and gotten her to whisper for a whole week just to hear it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever not been thinking about it,” Martlet sighed.

“None of us have, Martlet,” Ceroba admitted. “It’s kind of hard to forget.”

“I noticed,” Martlet grumbled. She hunched forwards, wings on her knees, and stared down into her yard. “So many monsters are so happy. Almost every time a human has shown up, it’s been a disaster, either for us or for them. A slaughter or a rampage. But when it’s neither, I can’t even…” she took in a shaky breath. “I’ve been thinking about the water a lot. Clover, they didn’t even hesitate when I said that we had to ride on Ava. Heck, I tipped the boat more than they did.”

“You aren’t known for your grace, dear,” Ceroba interjected.

Martlet gave her a sardonic stare. “Thanks. The point is, I seriously doubt it was their first time on a boat, you know? No one has that much confidence the first time. Do you think…”

“They were some sort of sailor, up there?” Ceroba guessed. Martlet just shrugged and hunched forwards further.

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s a stupid thought, I guess. I’ve just been… yeah. Wondering. That’s all.” Martlet slipped a nail from her pocket, fiddling with it and brushing it through the feathers on the tips of her wings.

Ceroba mulled over it while Martlet sulked, taking her time to answer. This was always how it went; Martlet would run through a series of tangents, and her friend would come up with some sort of swift response that helped her narrow down her thoughts. At least, that was how it had been back before they’d stopped talking.

This time, Ceroba didn’t offer up any wisdom. She only sat and stared out at the trees. “I can see why you like it up here.”

Martlet sighed. “Yeah.”

The snow continued to fall. It was morbid, in a way. Falling was a symbol of death in the Underground. Falling down was the start of it. There was a while afterwards, for most monsters, but eventually, they were nothing more than dust. Unlike the snow, though, their dust rose upwards, towards the myths of avenging angels and the dark cavern and, maybe, someday, through layer upon layer of mica and shale and marble and rich ore, to the sun and the Surface. That was how you knew it was snow, not dust. It settled.

Even the first human had fallen down. Every time, one after another, all six had fallen, never referred to by another term, sharing the literary fate of monsters themselves. It was true, every time, too. They fell. Killed, vanished, or… allowed to fade.

Clover hadn’t turned to dust. Martlet knew that all too well. The cold pierced her feathers, and she shuddered.

“How do you stand it?” she choked out, tears threatening to spill. “Chujin. Kanako, your family, they’re gone, yet here I am acting like this after a kid who showed up that day is gone. I… I barely even knew them. I abandoned them in the Dunes! And here I am, months later, and I, I haven’t even written in my, my journal, there’s feathers all over, I can’t stop… stop thinking about them, what I wanted to say, so much—”

Crack. Martlet shrieked, wings flapping. Ceroba hadn’t moved, but she’d tightened her grip so heavily on the edge of the floorboards that they’d snapped in her paw. She slowly unlatched her paw, brushing the splinters from her fur and placing it back down next to the ruined board.

“It’s… hard,” she grunted.

“Er. Sorry,” Martlet said sheepishly.

Cerboa chuffed, acknowledging the apology. “It helps to have friends.”

“I mean, I do have those…”

“Yeah, I know,” Ceroba responded. She took a moment to respond. “Look, Clover’s gone. We can’t change that. I spent a very long time trying to get Kanako back, and I nearly killed the kid over it.”

Martlet frowned. “If this is supposed to be helping—”

Ceroba interrupted her again. “I get it. I’m not the most consoling, okay? Only Kanako could get that side of me out.” She tapped her claws on the wood again, tracing a semicircle around the splintered board. “Clover gave us a gift, Martlet. The gift. Everything. I really didn’t get it for a while. Honestly, it made me furious, knowing that they took away my chance only to throw it right back in my face. I couldn’t even begin to realize what made a kid their age so obnoxiously noble.”

Martlet nodded. She’d seen how kind Clover was firsthand.

“It was Kanako that helped me figure it out. She…” Ceroba swallowed. “Kanako, she had the exact same look on her face when she asked me to let her help that Clover did that day. A deep-seated need to do what was right.”

“But that’s what I can’t get over!” Martlet burst out, trying to find her words. “I—we let a child give up their soul, Ceroba. I don’t care about the stupid barrier or Asgore or the Royal Guard or anything, because what does it matter when all that we accomplished was convincing a kid that the only way to help is to die for the cause?!”

She was standing. When had she stood up? Snow slipped from her head and smacked her beak, falling to the ground and filling some of the holes left by her talons. Tears followed the same route and splashed in the snow. Martlet started to pace, Ceroba remaining motionless. She tapped the nail against her thigh with agitation.

“Maybe it’s not… it’s not worth it. We live okay, down here. Maybe if it means letting children die, I don’t want to destroy the barrier.” She knew it was a bad idea to speak about that kind of thing; monsters avoided you with that kind of talk, and in a place like the Underground, isolation was a torture all on its own. Ceroba, though, just nodded.

“Perhaps it isn’t. That does not bring back my family, though. So perhaps instead we should make it worth it,” she stated, even voice cutting through Martlet’s flurries like a hot knife in the snow.

“How? How are we supposed to change anything?” she demanded, stepping up to the handrail and gripping it with her wings. It bowed under her weight. “I couldn’t even stop Clover.”

“You asked how I stand it,” Ceroba recounted. “I stand it because if I don’t, that means inaction. And inaction means stagnation. I let myself live in an Underground that allows children to sacrifice themselves for strangers. I don’t intend on letting that Underground claim any more. Perhaps that doesn’t help you, but that’s why I continue on.” She stood up, and despite being several inches shorter than Martlet, she managed to carry so much more weight to her. It was like she’d gone off and lived three times as much as Martlet had when they’d parted ways. It was unnerving, at times. She folded her arms, leaning on the handrail as well, and a small piece of wood splintered off and fell to the snow-covered yard below.

“Yeah.” Martlet took in a deep breath, letting go and wiping her face with both wings. “Yeah,” she sniffed again. “I think I get it.”

“Good. And Feathers… keep wondering. Maybe we’ll get some answers someday.” Ceroba squeezed her upper wing, her palms hot. The nickname warmed her heart

Martlet nodded. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now, about the actual reason I came here—”

“Ohmygosh, sorry!” Martlet startled. “I didn’t even ask!”

Ceroba waved dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. Starlo and the others have gotten it into their heads that they need some sort of mechanical horse in the Salon. I told them that it was dumb but they wouldn’t stop pestering me until I offered to go pick up an expert.”

“An expert? Where are you—oh! Oh, me!” Martlet grinned. “Mechanical horse. Yeah, I think I can do that! Let’s see, I’ll need my saw, nails, pulleys…” she trailed off, counting on her feathers, then switching to her talons as she took off, sending snowflakes soaring upwards into the cool air. So enticing was the project that she didn’t even think to say goodbye, already doing mental calculations.

Ceroba watched her circle down to her toolshed and start pulling out all manner of DIY paraphernalia. A distraction would be good for the bird. It would be good for everyone, honestly. She turned back to the stairs, leaving the view behind, and went to go help pile tools into a wagon.

#writing wyrms #my stuff #undertale yellow #undertale yellow spoilers #uty #uty clover #uty martlet #uty ceroba #uty kanako #uty chujin #uty fanfic #uty spoilers #a desire to change #btw martlet is building ava 2. I don't know what to name her yet tho #also she chases people away from one area of the dump like a goose. she's very protective

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ibrithir-was-here · 9 months

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Ok! Last one for a while I promise xD

But here's all the covers I've done over the last few months! Super pleased with them if I do say so myself x)

As always please go check out the novels featured(wrll you dont really have to do Twilight 😅) especially @rosesnwater and @theboarsbride who's original novels/ wips are featured in the first and third rows, they're all amazing!

Click for better quality

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pencildragons · 4 months

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snippet from my upcoming foxquin fic sinner, sinner (come to dinner) for foxquinweek !!!!!

“Commander Fox,” says the Chancellor, smiling his kindly smile. Fox stands very still and stares straight ahead, past Palpatine and through the great transparisteel window at the city below, skyline exploding in the brilliance of the sun’s final dying rays. The fanciful part of him that will one day be responsible for his death imagines that, if he’s just still enough, Palpatine will forget him entirely. It’s ridiculous, he knows, he knows, of course he knows, but he clings to it anyway, endeavours to move as little as possible, turns trying to hide even the slight rise and fall of his chest into some sort of test of how good his impression of being a block of stone is. “Sir,” says Fox. “Commander Fox,” Palpatine says again, still smiling that awful fucking smile, but sadder, now, mournful, bushy eyebrows doing something terrible and expressive. “You have disappointed me.” “Yes, sir.” “I gave you a very simple directive, Commander, and still you failed.” Fox is barely breathing now. Only a few klicks away, the spire of the Jedi Temple burns in a halo of pink-red, spearing through the cloud-strewn sky. It looks like one of the paintings hung in the Senate rotunda corridors, the ones that like as not cost more to procure than he did. His throat is dry. He tries to swallow. It sticks. It is likely he is dehydrated. There is a little light flashing on top of the spire, warning away in-atmo transports and low-flying starships. Orange-blue-green. Orange-blue-green. He stares at it, so he doesn’t have to look at Palpatine. “Yes, sir.” “Such inadequacy is, of course, unacceptable, Commander, as I’m sure you’re aware. I really had hoped it would not come to this, you understand.” Liar, Fox thinks. You love this. “But there is only one way to learn, and that is through experiencing consequences of your actions. Perhaps next time you will not take your sworn duty so lightly, hmm?” “Yes, sir.” “Draw your blaster, please, Commander.” Fox blinks and, in his surprise, breaks his stillness to turn his head to face Palpatine properly. “…Sir?” “Must I repeat myself twice? Draw your blaster from your holster.” Slowly, Fox draws. He wonders if this is some sort of test, if he’s going to be punished further for making his weapon naked in front of the Supreme Chancellor of the entire fucking Republic. (In the light of the dusk spilling through the window into the opulent office, Palpatine’s eyes seem almost gold. It is for but a brief moment, just the rays of the fat sun catching oddly, and then they return to that sharp, ice-chip grey like nothing at all happened.) “Good,” says Palpatine, and smiles again. Like this, he looks like some natborn’s father’s father—grandfather, he believes the term is—all benevolent wrinkles and knowing looks. “Set it to kill.” Fox sets it to kill. It is not a difficult thing. He is just as much a weapon as the blaster in his hands, well-oiled, clean, smooth. Efficient. He was designed for this. It is easier to follow orders mindlessly; his brain, like all their brains (except, perhaps, Kote’s, but Kote’s a little fucked up and is an outlier for everything else, anyway), is primed for command, made to obey. A perfect, thoughtless gun, with just enough ruthlessness and self-determination to set them apart from the CIS’ droids. That’s the idea, anyway. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time the Kaminoans failed in the execution of something. “Turn around, Commander,” Palpatine murmurs, words soft and smooth and rich as the heavy velvet-fabric from his home planet that he has all his clothes cut from. “And fire at will.”

rbs deeply appreciated :]

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