please don't hesitate to ask if you want to read something of mine, like a continuation for example
Be aware that if you reblog a bunch of my posts before you ask for something, I will recognise you and your request will possibly definitely gain priority in my scattered little brain. That means your chances of successfully reading whatever you want get higher.
long ago I signed up for a Sea Shanty Challenge, organised by @kendardarkmoon. the idea is to write something based on a sea shanty, and my (assigned) inspiration was "To the Sea" by Katzenjammer, submitted by @thepenultimateword
I am very late! Nevertheless I am finished :D
...
The wind always whispers about the sea. It invites one out, to play in the waters, to swim with the fish.
The sea always taunts with the chance of hunting. It doesnât so much whisper or scream as offer small insights in tandem with the waves crashing into the shore.
The wind feels closer, up on the shore. It had always whispered about the sea.
So had their mother, once. The sea will take him back. Because sirens came from the sea, so there they will return, becoming one with the sea foam that forms upon the symphony of the waves crashing ashore. Unlike humans, who came from the dirt, presumably, since theyâre buried there.
Ren wondered sometimes, whether they belonged to the dirt or the sea. Zazi had said, why should you choose, and they decided they belonged to both. But then what would claim them as their own in death? Maybe the wind, they thought. The wind, which whispered. The wind would kindly snatch them when nothing else wanted them anymore. Â
âŚ
Fire crackled in the fireplace.
Ren never particularly minded the cold. Regardless, the fire offered a shield. A pretence of humanity, a shield from the judgement that should have been imposed upon a lone individual by the shore. Unprotected and persisting. Enough of a shield to seem a fisherman despite the boat never leaving shore, enough to pretend its reflection created the illusions of hair colour changing, despite the blue and purple and green.
The fire was comfort, and it was a lie.
The humans needed it. They were not accustomed to swimming in cold angry waters, fishing without a flimsy piece of portable ground to sit and rock in.
Ships generally avoided that part of the sea, anyways. Too many sharp rocks. Too many past incidents to be considered safe.
Nobody asked where Ren got the fish from, because that one was obvious. Nobody asked how Ren got past the spikes and stones and sharp rocks just off-shore, because it was easier to keep one eye close and the other one hidden behind the veil of white lies. Nobody asked, because who asked too many questions would be forced to face the reality of a wild, untamed soul, of too many rows of teeth behind the smile that stretched too wide. Hunters rarely consulted the prey on dinner.
Nobody asked what Ren ate. They didnât want to know, for fear of finding something unsightly. It was easy to imagine that the fish were enough to sustain them, even if perhaps they had to eat some raw from time to time. Raw fish were excusable. Nobody dug deeper.
Questioning a siren was pointless, anyways, since everyone knew sirens could sense the answer that was wanted. A sense for showing what was desired, for acting in a pleasing way to the other. Calm. Mild-mannered. Bloody claws tucked away from sight.
And if the rapist noble suddenly drowned one day, ripped apart by sirens something with claws, all anyone said in Renâs direction was thank the gods heâs gone. It was enough. Acknowledgement, but not the dangerous kind. Not the kind that would bring soldiers to their house.
All Ren ever was, was one of them Marikaâs boys. The quiet one, better left alone.
Nobody asked if that was the truth, because getting too close meant seeing how sharp those claws could get. Getting too close meant seeing the colour of their hair shift and their gender melt into something appealing, far too appealing to be safe. Foreign shapes, sometimes, products of imagination.
Nobody asked, because getting too close meant never leaving again.
âŚ
Remains of the fire crackled in the fireplace. They would need to rouse it properly to ward of the cold. Not for their sake, but for sake of the injured human in their bed.
There had been a storm at the sea that night. Like 20 years ago, except natural in all but its power. Bone-chilling, boat-shattering power.
Ren sung that night to call upon a stray boat. It wouldnât have been strong enough to reach the shore otherwise. A sirenâs call could not be resisted. A call to mobilise the sailorâs strength mobilised the sailorâs strength. As if in a dream, moving towards the shore with a burst of energy that would fade together with the sirenâs song.
Ren was able to reach them by the shore. They carried the soggy human out. Lucky them, to manage to pull through and get closer. Ren did not delve into the open sea during storms. Violent storms always meant monsters in the waves, older and stronger than Ren could ever hope to become. Violent storms meant death, and shipwrecks and food.
Ren inspected the body. A sailor. They tugged on the broken shirts, inspected the fabric. The colour, the texture, the quality. Soldier, they knew. Royal navy. Because of course it had always had to be difficult. Royal navy was looked for, when the storm was gone. More soldiers would come.
More trouble than they were worth.
Ren still carried the sailor away, into their house. Stripped them from the wet clothes and tended to their wounds. Survivors rarely reached the shore in a good state.
They helped Zazi like that sometimes. A thing to add to their pretence at humanity, perhaps, helping the lighthouse keeper. It had made them seem more human in the eyes of others, the occasional body saved.
They lit the blue light on their house. It could be seen from the lighthouse, but from little else.
Zazi always came when the blue light was on. Sooner or later, he would be knocking and taking the body away to tend to them properly, under the âofficialâ roof. Or perhaps, he would tend to them in Renâs small home if they were too weak to be transported safely, while Ren poked around the lighthouse in his stead.
The blue light meant there was an injured person in Renâs care.
Zazi, more than most, realised the temptation of fresh blood and flesh to a siren. And so he always hurried along, as soon as he noticed, as soon as the conditions allowed. Not on behalf of his own life, but fast nevertheless.
Strangely enough, it felt soothing. Ren enjoyed being perceived a threat, for all their attempts to hide the quirks of their not-so-human side. It felt nice, to be acknowledged for what they was, all sharp edges and teeth.
Zazi understood better than most. Older brothers did that, Ren heard, as much as they hated it as times. Despite this he couldnât sense any negative sentiments from Zazi, and didnât take it for true.
There were rules in their relationship.
From what Ren understood, other siblings did not have such things. But then, their circumstances were a bit different. Even if everyone still referred to them by their motherâs name, they came from different places. The one thing they shared was the space of her womb.
And consequently, the inheritance of her magic.
Ren had never felt the need to eat Zazi. They had never perceived him as food. Even that one time he had been gravely injured, despite the blood, despite the sweet, sweet opportunity.
It might have been the magic they shared, the feeling of rain heavy in their bones. It might have been the promise Zazi made them once, that once Zazi would âfall into one of those goddamned whirls near the shore and mauledâ, Ren would be allowed to eat his corpse. It might have been that they grew up together as they were, and Zazi almost felt like a part siren himself. He sang well. He loved the sea, the devastating power of the waves.
Now, Zazi was probably on the way, towards the blue light.
Ren roused the fire, until it cracked properly on the dry wood, until it pushed back against the biting cold and forced a bubble of warmth to dull the raging storm outside.
They looked at the body.
The sailor was fighting for life, unaware of their company. Escaping death, barely, over and over again. Each ragged breath assured their existence among the living, fixed their place.
The navy colours rested in remains over Renâs chair. Illuminated by the fire, they looked unnatural. Unfitting. Promising and threatening, with the presence of more, boasting the numbers of swords and heavy boots that would thump thump thump over their home and inspect, search and sniff for nothing but neverending boredom. Ren didnât like the clothes, but they would have like the consequences even less. Â
The sailor smelled of blood. It called out to Ren, tempting. Offering a bite that would be significantly more filling than fish and their feeble little bodies.
A survivor of one of the bigger shipwrecks, no doubt. Had there been no other prey to distract and satisfy the mermaids, Ren doubted they would be able to reach the sailor before something else did. Singing to an almost-dead man had been comfortable. Easy prey.
Except they were not prey, not if they cooperated. Not if Zazi made it there before the sailor inevitably woke up and perceived Ren as a threat. Sometimes they didnât. Oftentimes they did. Royal sailors longer for conflict and refused to close their eyes and reap the benefits of ignorance. They were trained to spot a siren, so Ren couldnât fault them. But they couldnât fault Ren for not laying down to die without a fight.
The sailor twitched.
Their body trembled a few times, their breathing picking up, becoming more heavy. Laboured, but nearly conscious.
Ren kind of hoped Zazi would be late. To have an excuse.
They kind of hoped Zazi would be there before the inevitable, so that they could join the pretences about being a harmless almost-human.
Ren focused on their body. Picked a stable form. It wouldnât do to slip up in front of a royal sailor. When Ren was hungry, they shifted as the person they were with wished to see them, a reflex of hunting.
Now, they were not exactly hungry. They were never exactly hungry, for they got used to getting by with fish and the occasional squid or other. But there was an itch, an urge to eat. To devour.
Corpses never had the same damnable pull as living, pulsing prey.
The sailor was trying to open their eyes. They managed in the end. One hurdle overcame, they attempted to sit up. Their body just twitched, and stayed down.
They tried to speak. Coughed. Their eyes closed again.
Ren exhaled. More waiting for Zazi. More tending to the comfort of a body one gust of wind away from death.
More pretending they belonged to the dirt rather than the seafoam.
They added more wood to the fire, until the air felt unbearably hot. Good for the human, they thought.
Long night ahead of them.
âŚ
Their mother had the ability to talk to the wind.
It came with the more powerful and more sought-out gift of commanding the weather. Air and wind, moving around, creating tornadoes and rain and storms, chasing the clouds away to give way to sun.
Their mother had found out, one evening, that her siren partner had ensnared her former husband, drowning them in the sea. To have her for themselves. She had been willing, given the death.
She had not forgiven it.
âThe sea will take them back,â she told her children. One of them looked up at her with colourful eyes, colours melting and moving, shifting to mirror her mood. Their hair moved around, like seaweed in the currents. Their older brother was embracing them, uncaring of the oddity.
She could raise a siren child without their parent, she thought.
Perhaps she truly could have. But sirens were not forgiving creatures, either.
The storm she summoned was a strong one. Her siren partner was at sea then, on one of the boats that shattered in the sudden storm.
Sirens could hold their breath better than humans. But still, unlike other merfolk, they could not breathe underwater. They could drown.
The siren called back. Sensing the betrayal, they sang, over the storm, voice so strong it made their mother move.
Ren could not be ensnared. A siren who was their parent held no such power over them, especially when they narrowed the focus of the song on the woman that betrayed them so strongly.
They held Zazi that night, through the twitches and urges to obey the song. They sang a lullaby, cradling the human child despite their older age. They talked to the wind together, later that night, calming the remains of the storm.
The sea took Renâs parent back. Their mother drowned with them. The ocean now held all their parentâs souls together with their secrets.
Zazi was the only one who stayed, over the years.
He spoked with the wind together with Ren. They stayed near the shore, helped warn the townsfolk of when the weather would change unfavourably. For over twenty years, they lived by the village.
Zazi was the only one who stayed. The only one who understood the wind as well as them. It was a connection Ren couldnât be ignorant of, as the wind whispered back, and joked with them both.
...
Much later in the night, when morning was nearing, the sailor managed to wake enough to be assisted when sitting up.
Ren offered them water in a mug and adjusted their support so that they could stay sitting. Then they retreated to their chair.
The sailorâs eyes traced their shape.
Ren could feel the pull in their body, threating to seduce and tear apart, little pulls sharpening under their skin to make way for a different shape. And claws.
Distractedly, Ren noticed the flickering of a lantern from outside. A little light, making way from the lighthouseâs direction. Zazi was nearly there. They hadnât noticed as early as they could have, but it didnât matter then.
âAreâŚâ the sailor cleared their throat. Drank more. âAre you⌠the lighthouse keeper?â
âNo.â Ren followed the light flickering outside. Very close, then. Almost there. âHeâll arrive shortly.â
âI have to⌠to warn him.â The sailor was trying to get up now, despite their shakiness. Despite the paleness. Royal sailors were always like that, trying to do things. Desperate, unwilling to sit still and heal. Duty and what other nonsense their heads were full of. Hurrying, hurrying, hurrying. Right to their own death, so long as it was fast, they wouldnât have minded.
âYouâre not fit enough to walk on your own.â
âButââ
âHeâll be here in a moment.â
The sailor managed to lift themselves from the pillow behind their back. They leaned forward to test placing the weight of their feet. They swayed dangerously forward.
Ren moved and caught their upper arm, steadying them. The blood was more pronounced from up close. They focused on regular breathing.
âHe has to⌠message. To the Capital,â The sailor said. They tried to take a step, without much success. Desperate. Like a puppy trained for the sole purpose of honourable death that never stopped sniffing for bones. âWe crashed and IâveâIâveââ The sailorâs eyes searched together with their memory, sliding all around the room without focus. âIâveâ singing?â
Their eyes focused on Ren more clearly. From that close. They slid along Renâs face, along their arm, to the fingers enclosed around their upper arm. To the skin that might have felt different to one who searched for evidence.
The sea was a graveyard. The thing about puppies that wanted to dig without reason, who sniffed until they found a bone to show off, was that they always, without fault, ended up chewing on one of their own.
The sailor lurched. Barely stable on their feet, too close to Ren for comfort but unable to go away fast enough. They searched for a weapon. Trained to fight.
Zazi had to be by the door about then. Ren looked out the window to confirm, without particular concern for the shivering mess of a body in front of them.
Something shattered against Renâs head.
Leftover liquid dribbled down their head, as they were hit another time with what was left of their mug. It hadnât been their favourite, but it was theirs. Had been.
And it hurt.
Ren turned to the soldier, slowly.
They could feel the tiny wounds on their head knitting closed. Like all shifters, they healed. Like all shifters, they could feel the pain more sharply, as it echoed through the body.
The soldier stood shaking now, leaning on the wall for stability, clutching their hand to stop the shakiness. To fight the dizziness. The whole room was spinning, but they had to get out. They had to fight their way out, find a way to the lighthouse, something, anythingâ
Their agreement with Zazi, their rules, had notable exceptions.
They attacked first.
The sailor flinched. Perhaps they sensed the shift in mood. Cornered prey so often did realise they were trapped within walls of wet dirt with nowhere to go after it dug its own grave. There was no space to take the step back they desperately needed to take. There was nowhere to run.
The door creaked open.
The pouring of rain buried the cracking of fire, the speeding wind promised destruction and chaos as it wheezed by.
The door shut again.
Zaziâs inhaled sharply. He set the lantern down, and shook the worst of the water out of his cloak. He looked up when the worst was done, and hesitated. Â
âDonâtââ the sailor said. They were trembling now. âItâs aââ
Whatever they saw on Zaziâs face made them pause.
It might have been the similarity of their faces. Their motherâs nose. Their motherâs brows, her hair, her shape, her height. It might have been Zaziâs resigned look as he took in the small traces of blood left behind on Renâs face.
âThey attacked first,â Ren said.
It was one of their rules. Zazi knew that. He sighed.
âWhatââ The sailor managed to take the step towards the door, then. They stumbled, rather than walked, barely catching themselves from tumbling sideways. As if the door could shield them, save them from the monsters once they were out, at the mercy of the elements.
They made a stumbling, badly coordinated attempt at moving past Zazi to reach the door.
Ren caught them firmly, wrapping their arm around the sailorâs chest. They rested their fingers against the sailorâs throat, feeling their pulse beat underneath their fingers. Their claws forced their way out now, teasing the quivering skin. Prey, confirmed their senses, food.
âPlease.â The sailor was talking to Zazi. âItâs a monster, itâsââ
Zazi placed a hand on the side of the sailorâs face, cradling it. Wiped the tears away. Steadied. Offered a comfort that wouldnât last, a final prayer before the funeral. His hands were always warmer and softer than Renâs, no matter the callouses. No matter the hard work, the scars and scratches pressed into his skin.
The sailor shook. The tears didnât stop despite the steadying hold. They begged again, soundlessly, pleas mirroring in their eyes.
âThey are,â Zazi said, softly, like calming a child, âwhatever you make them out to be.â
He let go.
The sailor tensed.
They were dragged out of the house by Ren, then. The struggles of a nearly dead human nothing against a shifterâs strength. No blood was spilled until they were in the water.
Ren ate their fill of wriggling, twitching, bleeding, warm flesh. The screams hid into the noise of the storm and magnified it, along with the crunching and tearing of tendons and bone.
Ren let the remains sink to the seafloor. Something would be called by the blood, no doubt. Something always took care of the remains, and the sea cradled the bones in its hold.
Zazi was sleeping in the armchair when Ren came back.
The sheets of the bed were changed, all traces of anotherâs presence gathered in one corner. To be disposed of. The Royal Navy uniform, or what was left of it, gathered to be taken to the shore and thrown into the depths of salty waters.
Ren ran their hand through Zaziâs hair, gently. It was so fixed in their dark brown colour, unlike Renâs own. Fragile body, unable to shift, equipped only with nails, a sad parody of claws. Strong in his own vices, so unlike Renâs own.
They had promised themselves that they would protect this human, with whom they shared a connection, a while ago. Perhaps that was why. Despite Zazi being older, he would always be weaker. Too squishy for the hardships of the sea, unable to protect themselves against the strength of the currents. And yet, he stayed.
Ren settled next to the armchair, cuddling into the offered warmth.
Hey, can yâall rb this if itâs okay to send you messages asking about your ocs, cause on god I wanna interact with yâall but I am terrified of being annoying lol
I took part in @thepenultimateword's song-story writing challenge. It was fun!
My assigned song was Scarborough Fair by Simon and Garfunkel, submitted by @wacko-weirdo.
...
The fire cracks and sways, warm against the cold night. The shadows of those gathered around it dance much like flowers in the wind, swaying calmly without hurry. A unique form of slow dancing.
The hunter watches from further away. They could listen in on the conversation if they wanted to, but the sounds all smudge in their head. They barely manage to thread the waters of their conflicting thoughts. Theyâre tired.
The tree against their back is grounding. Itâs the hunterâs only comfort. They donât think to ask for more. They couldnât possibly.
The group seems so calm. As if theyâve forgotten that there are still soldiers hunting them. The conversation is light, flickering with laughter like the dancing flames, all-consuming.
âŚperhaps they wish to forget for a while.
The hunter would much like to forget, too.
âAre you going to join us?â
The hunter looks at their old friend. Old friend doesnât quite cut it. Neither does lover. Neither does any other label that the hunter has tried over the years. Their friend is simply always there.
Their witch friend.
The witch meets their eyes. The fire reflects in the deep brown that is so familiar to the hunter. Its familiarity offers comfortâcomfort, which the hunter is unable to accept.
The hunter canât bear to look.
They turn back towards the fire. Staring into the light is a bad idea, the hunter knows, for one cannot monitor the shadows blinded. And yet, they look. The blazing flames seem to swallow their worries, to soothe. The fire gazes right into their soul and warms its darkest corners. It all feels alright for a little while.
The witch gently takes their hand. They tug the hunter along, towards the fire.
The hunterâs arm lifts to follow the movement but they do not budge. The tree theyâre leaning against is their anchor then. They fear losing their ground. They fear getting lost entirely.
They want to go. They want to let themselves be pulled along, they want to join everyone, they want to belong. They want to belong, to finally, finallyâŚ
âIâve killed too many.â
On someone elseâs orders. Because of someone elseâs ideals. They didnât know better.
The blood is on their hands.
I might have killed you, too.
The witch steps closer to them, interlocking their fingers instead. They examine their hand, the knuckles, callouses and scars. Those little wounds that tell the stories, if one can read them well enough.
They run their fingers over the hunterâs bandaged forearm, a ghost of a touch. They were the one who tended to the hunterâs injury that day.
âYouâve helped us get away.â The witch meets the hunterâs gaze. âYouâll help us still, wonât you?â
âOf course.â For you.
The witch keeps staring into their eyes. They might be trying to look right past, into the hunterâs mind and soul. They might just be able to read each and every of the hunterâs thoughts.
The hunter has thoughts. The hunter has many thoughts, flying around in their head, possibly causing more harm than good. The hunter canât seem to stop them.
The hunter knows nothing of herbs. They know nothing of healing. With each moment passing by, they learn that they know nothing of witches, either. They try to learn.
They were told witches are dangerous. They were told they were vicious, vile creatures, evil beings beyond salvation. They were told death was a witchâs only comfort.
It used to be their only truth. The only thing that could help them carry the weight of their sword somewhat, when all of the life seeped out of another pair of silver eyes. It was their shield when the weight of taking a life threatened to slit them open.
It has all shattered so easily.
The hunter vividly recalls the moment their friendâs eyes flashed silver. Their friend was pushed to the edge, looking to them for help. The pieces fit together perfectly. The soldier next to them lunged forward. Their blow never landed.
The hunter met the others a little later on. The other not so evil creatures, who just want to live.
The hunter knows a little better now.
Witches are curious about the world much like their friend has always been. They bear their own weight, the magic running silver in their blood. They desire to live. To be safe. To be understood. The hunter can relate perfectly.
They try to learn.
âThank you,â the hunter says.
âFor what?â
Thank you for opening my eyes. For trusting me. For not letting me stay in the clutches of their truth.
âBeing such a pain in my ass.â
The witch laughs. The sound wraps over the hunter like a soft blanket. Nobody ever told them that a witchâs laugh could heal.
The witch lifts the hunterâs hand. They press a kiss to it, holding their gaze.
The hunter shivers.
âI should thank you,â the witch whispers, âfor protecting us.â
âAlways.â
The witch pulls them along again. Towards the fire. Towards their family.
The sun that endangers them is hidden. The moon is their guardian during all times. At night, it watches over them, it makes them company. It reflects the sun and lets them connect with the warmth of it in a way they can handle.
During the eclipse, it defeats the threat of the sun for a moment. The magic shifts to become their shield. It doesnât happen very often, but they have all the time in the world to wait for it.
It does not concern you, does it?Â
It's barely a few seconds of time. A blink of an eye, in the middle of a day that protects you otherwise. It's barely there. No threat at all. Just a shadow that floats along the ground, there and gone again.
Have you ever even considered how fast a vampire can run?
You're at the bus stop when your friend tells you the news. He's checked the morning news. He wishes he hadn't.Â
You ponder about the thing a bit as you go about your day. You have things to get through.Â
You know it's bad.
You sit at home when you hear them, voices from outside. They roam the streets and hug each other, tell each other to survive. Live to see the better tomorrow, they say. Prepare because it will try to kill you. Build a boat to hide in when it happens. Ĺ tÄstĂ pĹeje pĹipravenĂ˝m.Â
You sit at home and yet the outside feels so close by.
You knew it was bad. There is a flood coming, after all. It might just sweep everything you know.Â
It scares you, the voices. You love them. You love their compassion. You hate that they need to talk about such things. And yet they came together. And yet we'll survive, you think. You survived until now. And you'll survive still.Â
You think of all the people who will get caught in the water. You hope none of them will drown, but you know different. The flood knows no mercy. The flood has no friends. The flood is an earthquake disguised at the devil's tail.Â
You think of your friends out there and hope they could live with you in your home. But the safety of it is not their own.
To the people who commented: hello! And thank you, since this wouldn't have happened otherwise.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
...
The walk back was alright, considering. There were no more traps shutting around them, neither guards leaping from the shadows of trees. The supervillain could have something like that. The henchman wouldnât be surprised.
The thing was, once the henchmanâs mind had calmed down somewhat and processed the adrenaline from the dangerous situation, the conversation prior to supervillainâs arrival crashed into them like a train gone off the rails. Their thoughts kept leaping back and back to the net conversation, pondering.
They wanted to ask. They didnât want to push.
And of course, the conversation would surface again, as if asking your boss âwhatâs your regret in lifeâ before a suspected death ever did anything good. They were in the industry for a long time, for fuckâs sake. They should have known better.
They had already been so close to their villain just hanging in the net and it was so inappropriate and entirely unprofessional. They wanted to ask, but boundaries were pushed quite enough that day, far beyond their liking.
At least they were finally back on their own turf. The chances of being attacked by someone unfamiliar or snatched up by a net hidden in leaves and shadows of the forest were minimal. Their home base was peaceful.
Back in their office, the villain took off the work jacket. They exhaled and moved to the wall map. The henchman let their coat hang on the rack by the door as they joined to input what little they managed to find before they were unceremoniously interrupted by a bundle of expertly placed ropes. The only reason the henchman wasnât dying of embarrassment at that was that it was supervillainâs net, and that meant they had little chances of missing it or escaping otherwise.
They wrapped up quickly for lack of substantial information. And the general exhaustion.
The henchman just wanted to go home. Eat something. Take a long shower. Pass out on the bed and hibernate for the next three years maybe. The villain was competent enough for world dominance on their own, if they so desired. The henchman did not think world dominance would be something the villain ever desired, as it came with a lot of talking to people they didnât know. But they had the skill.
Were they too young for retirement?
It wasnât like the villain couldnât just pick any of the many other henchmen that crawled around whenever there was a plan being executed. So many skilled people. Surely one retiring minion wouldnât be a problem.
It was all just thoughts produced by an exhausted mind; the henchman knew. Thoughts they entertained far too eagerly. There was something about it.
Nevertheless, their work was done at the moment, so they were going home. Finally. It would make more sense in the morning.
âBefore you go,â the villain said as the henchman moved to take their coat and leave. âThe thing I was about to say before we got interrupted.â
âHuh?â
âYouâre getting promoted.â
âHuh?â
The henchmanâs mind was stuck. The loading circle wasnât even spinning.
Promoted.
Promoted?
First, that was the villain's regret?! Not promoting them surely wasnât such a huge deal. Second, what were they even getting promoted to? There was nowhere to be promoted to! Everyone worked under the villain. The only step above would be the villainâs level. And becoming the villainâs equal was⌠no. Absolutely not.
Before they could shake their head and no doubt make a fool of themselves somehow, the villain tilted their head.
âBecome my right hand?â
The henchmanâs mind slowed down a bit. Not quite equal. Just⌠closer to equal than before.
âRight hand,â the henchman echoed. They supposed that was technically a position between the boss and the minions. The villain did employ quite a lot of people, lately. âIs that a real title, even?â
The villain shrugged. âBlizzard mentioned it. She said, itâs like the head butler of henchmen.â
âRight,â the henchman said. Blizzard was one of the villains they were often cooperating with, and their villain took her advice seriously. (Regardless of whether they followed through with it.) âRight.â
They could work with that. The henchman smiled. They could work with that.
The villain considered them.
âI understand itâs a lot of responsibility,â they said. âIf youâd rather not to, Iâll understand. But thereâs nobody I trust quite as much as you. You have this way with words, too⌠I canât speak as well in stressful situations.â
The henchman had all of half a second to ponder if the villain actually found situations stressful before the villain carried on.
âIf todayâs incident proved anything itâs that I canât actually work without you.â
That was delightful, the henchman supposed. âWords alone wouldnât get me anywhere.â
âNo.â the villain grinned, a crooked wild thing of a smile. âYour bluffs are always based on my strength, perhaps. But still perfect bluffs.â
The henchman filtered away the way the villain pronounced perfect for later sorting. Presumably for the evening when they stared into the ceiling before sleep again.
âItâs just a title.â It sounded dismissive the moment it came out of their mouth. The villain didnât seem to take it personally.
âEnjoy it, then.â
The villain seemed to have thought about it a lot. They wouldnât have offered otherwise.
Right hand, huh? It sounded alright. They still werenât that sure that it was a working position. Sure, they knew Blizzard had one, and that the other people worked under them both⌠Okay, maybe it was a working position. It still felt kind of weird.
Did that mean they would be redirecting things from the villain to others? That was nothing new. Except now, they supposed, they were kind of responsible for the execution. Kind of a lot. The realization slowly sunk in. There has always been a level of personal responsibility, but now it felt magnified.
If they were to officially be responsible for other henchmenâs wins and fuck ups as well, that would bring a whole new level of stress to their life.
âDo I get a raise?â
The villain stared.
The henchman prayed they did not cross any lines again, as so often, but it was too late to take back anything. They were perfectly sure the villain had heard them now, besides.
âHm.â
âI was mostly joking, boss,â the henchman blurted. âI didnâtââ they caught themselves. If the villain was willing to pay them more, then that shouldnât be a problem, yeah?
âWeâll see.â
And that was that.
The henchman took the coat of the rack, said goodbye and decidedly did not stumble on their way out. That much for the retirement.
The henchman supposed it went pretty well, overall.
so i have a mildly popular âreblog and put in in the tagsâ post going around and its. very clear how many people donât know how to interact with a tumblr post
so, first of all, tumblrâs culture has changed a lot in the past couple years. thereâs a genuine community effort to not start any drama, and ironically a lot of the current hostility is an effort to keep things calm. thereâs also a change in how people interact with posts, so if you havenât been here in a while please skip down to the tags/replies/reblog with text section.
for newcomers: you should be reblogging posts about as liberally as you would like something on twitter. if you only like stuff, people will think you are rude/a bot. youâve probably heard people talk about âcultivating your dash,â and thats because this platform is 100% centered around your dashboard. trending matters less, unfollowing and blocking in order to shape your dash into itâs best form is widely accepted, the majority of the content youâll find and interact with will be because of your dash, and the only way to put things on your dash is to reblog them. tumblr users are deeply distrustful of algorithms and have largely turned off the âsee posts your friends have likedâ function (i recommend you also turn of the various algorithms in settings â general settings â dashboard preferences).
so, once youâve reblogged a post, thereâs three ways to add content to it. the tags, replies, and reblogging with text. all of them have different connotations
the tags: an inside voice. originally they were meant for organizing your blog (and theyâre still used for this), but theyâve also morphed into a way to share thoughts that arenât funny/insightful enough for non-followers to be interested in. when in doubt, put your comment in the tags
replies: basically talking to your friends in class. your followers have no way of finding your replies (they donât pop up on the dash, nobody gets notified except for the original poster) so chances are, only the person who made the post is gonna see your comment. itâs for quick one-offs that youâre okay with other people overhearing, but really is only made for one person. theyâre like a public dm
reblog with text: an outside voice. youâre getting up on a stage in town square and entertaining people. make sure itâs funny or insightfulâ bottom line, add something new to the conversation. you should use this the least
general rules of thumb:Â
when in doubt, reblog. people will judge you if your blog is only personal posts and you only interact with other content by liking it. Â
the only things people will judge you for reblogging are personal vent posts. leave a like to give a little virtual hug
if a post is asking about your personality/opinions (i.e: tell me whatâs the last tv show you watched, that kind of thing) put it in the tagsÂ
also if you see a nice edit, gifset, or art, reblog and say something nice in the tags! itâs that nice sweet spot of common enough that no one will notice but uncommon enough to make the artistâs day
... I really like your Cake, it intrigues me about what part 4 will lead to or end to... The slices are still soo good.
Love your writing and your assistant, baking a cake and beating themselves up while being worried about letting their thoughts slip. Villain that seems dependable, and pretty sweet. Interesting traits on how the industry sees the villains, what their power is, does it get explored, why no one gives a birthday cake to em(Me saying it like their a whumpie but it's a dude with a job giving me a '?' Reaction) Assistents to shy to be openly sassy if they can't let a word slip in their thoughts(I think I repeated, I'm sorry I really like this trait They supreess) I feel like your good at foreshadowing how sassy the assistant is in their civilian life honestly. but that's my interpretation. Even the supervillain was kinda interesting but not overshadowing.
if youâre ever about to comment on a writerâs work and think, oh, they probably know how good they are, youâre definitely wrong. every time a writer posts or publishes anything, no matter how many years theyâve been doing it and no matter how many readers they have, they are struck with the idea that perhaps they arenât very good at all.
if you think youâre annoying for commenting, or that we wonât see your comments anyway, youâre wrong. we see your comments. we actively look for them. we are starved for them no matter how many we get. we remember them and they fuel us. leave comments, even if itâs just saying âoh i like thisâ. i see an âoh i like thisâ and my heart grows three times its size and i am seized with an urge to provide you more writing just to hear you say âoh i like thisâ again.
âDonât say things like that. All of me? You donât know all of me. You donât even comprehend how little of me you know.â
âAs I said.â
âYouâd step into the dark expecting a step down or perhaps a small fall, and instead youâd be falling all of eternity trying to find stable ground again.â
âItâd be worth it if you held me through it.â
Terminology reminder: reblogging is Tumblrâs in-site sharing system but REPOSTING is saving a picture from a post and then making your own post
I have seen genuine confusion about this in the past (largely from ppl more used to other sites that donât have a reblog system) thatâs the only reason Iâm adding the explanation
words confuse me @alilbatflies - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
