I figured it was time to update my pinned post and create a proper master post for all the things! I'm going to try to update this as I post more to hopefully keep everything a little more organized for easier navigation :D
I am open to any asks, tag games, or DMs you want to throw my way!! I don't sting, I promise ;)
The Writeblr Things
Writerblr Intro
Posting Schedule (currently on hiatus)
Tag List
WIPs
Echoes of War Chronicles Intro (EoWC)
Mood Boards (both EoWC and LotA)
I've just finished watching the talk "How to craft an emotional journey for your readers" by Erin Swann and at the end we did an exercise writing a lil paragraph to put the lecture in practice.
I decided to write an alternative version to one of the key moments in the first book of Project New World for practice, so here it is!
CW for blood and that's about it.
"Father, have you seen my scissors?" Neepfin asked, looking around the study.
"Why would I know where your scissors are?!" He yelled back, his voice loud and overpowering even when he was not in the same room.
"I'm sorry, it's just…"
She stopped.
The scissors were under a pile of rugs she'd recently woven, glistening red with fresh blood. Her ears buzzed. The world grew muted around her, eerily quiet. The scissors were now in her hands, staining them. A drop of blood fell onto her shoes and the buzzing in her ears grew louder, swallowing everything else with it.
As she turned around, the door burst open. There were soldiers, and then there were hands on her, pushing her down and slapping the scissors from her hands. They skidded on the floor, leaving red marks on their wake.
Neepfin looked up at her father. There were tears in his eyes, but his lips still quirked up as he asked, "How could you do this to your mother?"
Inside her, something crumbled, like the sand castle she had built once when she was five and her mother had taken her to the beaches in the far south. She felt herself go limp in the hands of the guards, what else was there to do? Her eyes had been forced open to the truth she'd always been blind to: her father had never, and would never, love her.
Neepfin looked him in the eye and said "She wasn't my mother," before they took her away.
--
If you would like to be added or removed from the tag list let me know!
ORION ALWAYS COMING IN WITH THE FINEST, MOST AMAZING, ONE TASTE AND YOU ARE AN ADDICT, LIVING ETERNALLY IN MY BRIAN, PIECES OF ART I HAVE EVER LAID EYES ON
An absolute legend and I will always scream their amazingness!!
So. Hmm. I've been away since... I think June? Things began going kind of wrong at my workplace (though, to be fair, they were wrong since before I even began working there) and I just... grew disillusioned with my life, I think.
I don't know. At that moment it felt easier to log off from this account and just pretend it didn't exist, though it remained at the back of my mind for a while.
Creative pursuits are hard, I think most people can relate. Other things get in the way and it can be hard to remember why you were doing anything in the first place.
Today I pulled a card from my oracle deck and it told me to "follow my dreams". My gut reaction was to say "what dreams? I don't have any" but, well, that's a lie! I have many dreams, and writing is one of them, so I remembered, and I'm back.
I don't know how I'm gonna go about this, but I'm choosing to try again. So hi, my name's Orion. Nice to meet you. It's good to be back.
Hi! My name is Nii (pronounced knee) and I'm a aspiring author.
I wanted to join the writers tumblr community to rant about my WIP's and maybe post some short stories on here or poems to just practice my writing before I officially start the first draft of my big project! I also kind of wanted to do it anonymously hence why I'm not on tiktok or anything.
Here are some things about myself:
She/her
I've been writing stories since 2020 - The first being a story about a Zombie apocalypse starring myself and my best friend.
I'm a huge fantasy story lover (foreshadowing my WIP)
I really like animated shows or shows with a different world or society
I'm an artist (kind of)
I'm a professional yapper (hence the point of me making this page lol)
My WIP
Project Dream is one that surrounds the theme of humanity and human nature.
My biggest inspiration for this theme was a quote from The Umbrella Academy from Five where he said to Viktor "There's no such thing as good guys or bad guys, there's just people."
For some reason, this quote really resonated with me, and now here I am, working on a Fantasy novel that takes place in a dystopian society!
I'm not too sure if I want this work to be a series, but as of right now it's a standalone with potential.
I'm still in the world building phase, so I guess here I'll just take you all along on my journey!
I'm also open to chatting and being friends!
I hope this wasn't too formal.. Until the next post besties!
(slightly sarcastically) “I'm sorry, it appears I must've left my sense of humor at home.”
- Kieva Caron
Despite being the adoptive son of Caron—head of one of the world's most well-renowned academies and a man extremely prominent in the public's eye—Kieva himself is a bundle of mysteries.
When Kieva was only seven years old, a feral berserker appeared on the outskirts of Maunne. It brought ferocious storms, savage lightning, and a senseless brutality with them, attacking all who approached and causing dozens of casualties.
None of the local guards or mercenaries were able to do much more than escape with their lives or those they'd been tasked with protecting.
So they sent for aid from the king, who then dispatched Kieran Caron himself—a man well-adapted to combat and disabling opponents of all kinds—to quell the savage beast's fury.
Only for him to discover that it was a child.
A child incapable of speech, more animalistic than human... ignoring, of course, the fact that it wasn't human. But Caron still saw it just as worthy as protection and love as any other, and, recognizing its frenzied attacks were attempts at self-defense, petitioned to be allowed to take in and raise the child himself.
He was later named Kieva.
Due to Kieva's inability to speak, read, write, or understand language prior to his adoption, he was never quite able to tell Caron or any others why he'd been found in the frantic state he was. By the time he knew enough to share what'd happened, he'd long-since forgotten... and had grown comfortable in his new life as Caron's son and Tián's brother.
Kieva's history prior to his adoption is surrounded in mystery, but his life afterwards is easily tracked: he was raised no different from Caron's biological son, treated with love, all but pampered, and allowed to wander about Lotus Academy to attend any and all classes so long as he never disturbed other students.
Which... he didn't.
Even before Kieva officially enrolled in classes himself, he observed other students learning, lowkey participated in lessons when he could without disturbing others, and picked up various skills from his observations.
So Kieva had a major head start—alongside being raised and given self-defense lessons by Caron himself—when he officially started taking classes himself.
And that's not even mentioning his berserkerness.
Berserkerness?
Kieva Caron is a berserker: a creature gifted with enhanced senses, healing, and strength—both physical and magical—directly tied to their emotional state. Positive moods make them generally healthier and more resilient, while negative moods take a toll on their overall health, strength, and resilience.
Anger and fear can even further boost the strength of a berserker, amplifying it past "inhuman" to straight-up monstrous. They can crush bricks or trees with a simple grip, heal from near-fatal wounds within minutes, react to things with a speed and dexterity far beyond human capacity, and accomplish magical feats 10x their usual might. All it takes is for them to choose to lose control.
That's where berserkerness turns into a curse: tapping into that power slowly corrupts both their will and appearance, making them visibly less and less human while increasing their tendency toward rage and violence.
Even if they manage to stray from the path of wrath, their appearance will be forever warped, a reminder of what they've done.
Although it's unknown in-universe—and, in fact, theorized to be random or genetic at best—berserkers' appearances are warped relative to one (or both) of two things: what they want to be or what they see themself as.
Beyond his typical berserker antlers and fae-tipped ears, Kieva has two pairs of wings—a small set on the sides of his head, naturally covering his ears, and a large set stretching over his back and shoulders that let him fly.
Similarly, he sometimes can have talon-like claws for fingers and the taloned legs of a falcon.
Which brings up the last point—although it's next to unheard of in berserkers, Kieva naturally has mild shapeshifting abilities. On top of being able to mildly warp his limbs and features to hide parts of his berserkerness (but never remove his wings or antlers), Kieva is able to transform parts of his body into electricity. He uses this ability during fights both to avoid attacks and to move near-instantaneously across large distances.
Not only is Kieva an absolute mystery because of his origins, but he's a marvel in the face of what arcanists and scientists alike thought they knew about berserkers.
Fortunately, Caron has kept their investigations far away from him.
And may it forever be a mystery.
Appearance
Beyond his fae-tipped (pointed instead of rounded) ears, double-pairs of silvery-gold wings—one small pair often covering his ears and the other, large set stretching over his back and shoulders—and deer antlers, Kieva otherwise tends to look human when not tapping into his berserker strength.
Kieva is a pale, effeminate, 5'7 (170cm) young adult man with messy, shoulder-length white-blonde hair he often ties back into a bun, grey eyes, and thin-but-soft features.
Kieva overall has a wiry frame, bags under his eyes from a frequent lack of sleep, and often appears deadpan or unassuming.
After the beginning of RFtA, Kieva gains (non-continuous) burn scars over his jaw, chest, arms, and hands from the Disaster of Vemor.
Personality & Motives
Kieva, now aged 19, has long-since acclimated to his life as Caron's younger son. Early into his childhood, he would constantly wonder about his life before, where he'd come from, and what had happened to his biological family, but he's given up hope of learning.
Not only are the memories lost to him, but Caron's own investigations—incredibly thorough and the results of which were occasionally shared with Kieva—pulled up nothing.
So, instead, Kieva has fully accepted Caron as his father and Tián as his brother.
Caron's strong sense of justice—and the nobility of taking him in to begin with—has rubbed off on Kieva, making him incredibly stubborn, kindhearted, and protective of his loved ones.
Despite his known origins as the berserker that terrorized the outskirts of Maunne twelve years ago, Kieva is an incredibly calm and collected person, mostly minding to himself. He's overall professional, but turns deadpan sassy around his friends and casually intimidating with aggressors—both his own and others'.
He's spent his entire life learning about combat, had nothing but a loving family who've made him well-aware of his strengths and weaknesses, and has no problem turning the tables against those who deserve it.
Kieva wants nothing more than to become a knight, protect those in need, and, most importantly, make his family proud.
So... how's he going to feel when the investigations into the disasters around Kihroin start bringing up more questions about his past?
He's so great!!! You make such good OCs @ominous-feychild!!!! I love him too not as much as Carmin and I'm so, so curious as to his backstory now!!! Does he ever figure out the mystery of where he came from 👀 And his powers have so much potential, especially in the angst department!! Corruption powers??? Um, yes please!!!
And OHHHHHH YOU SURE BET BRO HAS ANGER-CORRUPTION ARCS AND FINDS OUT WHERE HE COMES FROM!!!
Actually, while Carmin, Kieva, and Sammy are officially the MCs of RFtA, I'd say technically Kieva and Sammy are the “real” MCs. While Carmin is still very important and a key player in the story, the boys' stories themselves are actually explored more in the first book than Carmin's—whose story moreso gets explored book 2.
That is to say: oh, does Kieva's “mystery background” get explored.
(slightly sarcastically) “I'm sorry, it appears I must've left my sense of humor at home.”
- Kieva Caron
Despite being the adoptive son of Caron—head of one of the world's most well-renowned academies and a man extremely prominent in the public's eye—Kieva himself is a bundle of mysteries.
When Kieva was only seven years old, a feral berserker appeared on the outskirts of Maunne. It brought ferocious storms, savage lightning, and a senseless brutality with them, attacking all who approached and causing dozens of casualties.
None of the local guards or mercenaries were able to do much more than escape with their lives or those they'd been tasked with protecting.
So they sent for aid from the king, who then dispatched Kieran Caron himself—a man well-adapted to combat and disabling opponents of all kinds—to quell the savage beast's fury.
Only for him to discover that it was a child.
A child incapable of speech, more animalistic than human... ignoring, of course, the fact that it wasn't human. But Caron still saw it just as worthy as protection and love as any other, and, recognizing its frenzied attacks were attempts at self-defense, petitioned to be allowed to take in and raise the child himself.
He was later named Kieva.
Due to Kieva's inability to speak, read, write, or understand language prior to his adoption, he was never quite able to tell Caron or any others why he'd been found in the frantic state he was. By the time he knew enough to share what'd happened, he'd long-since forgotten... and had grown comfortable in his new life as Caron's son and Tián's brother.
Kieva's history prior to his adoption is surrounded in mystery, but his life afterwards is easily tracked: he was raised no different from Caron's biological son, treated with love, all but pampered, and allowed to wander about Lotus Academy to attend any and all classes so long as he never disturbed other students.
Which... he didn't.
Even before Kieva officially enrolled in classes himself, he observed other students learning, lowkey participated in lessons when he could without disturbing others, and picked up various skills from his observations.
So Kieva had a major head start—alongside being raised and given self-defense lessons by Caron himself—when he officially started taking classes himself.
And that's not even mentioning his berserkerness.
Berserkerness?
Kieva Caron is a berserker: a creature gifted with enhanced senses, healing, and strength—both physical and magical—directly tied to their emotional state. Positive moods make them generally healthier and more resilient, while negative moods take a toll on their overall health, strength, and resilience.
Anger and fear can even further boost the strength of a berserker, amplifying it past "inhuman" to straight-up monstrous. They can crush bricks or trees with a simple grip, heal from near-fatal wounds within minutes, react to things with a speed and dexterity far beyond human capacity, and accomplish magical feats 10x their usual might. All it takes is for them to choose to lose control.
That's where berserkerness turns into a curse: tapping into that power slowly corrupts both their will and appearance, making them visibly less and less human while increasing their tendency toward rage and violence.
Even if they manage to stray from the path of wrath, their appearance will be forever warped, a reminder of what they've done.
Although it's unknown in-universe—and, in fact, theorized to be random or genetic at best—berserkers' appearances are warped relative to one (or both) of two things: what they want to be or what they see themself as.
Beyond his typical berserker antlers and fae-tipped ears, Kieva has two pairs of wings—a small set on the sides of his head, naturally covering his ears, and a large set stretching over his back and shoulders that let him fly.
Similarly, he sometimes can have talon-like claws for fingers and the taloned legs of a falcon.
Which brings up the last point—although it's next to unheard of in berserkers, Kieva naturally has mild shapeshifting abilities. On top of being able to mildly warp his limbs and features to hide parts of his berserkerness (but never remove his wings or antlers), Kieva is able to transform parts of his body into electricity. He uses this ability during fights both to avoid attacks and to move near-instantaneously across large distances.
Not only is Kieva an absolute mystery because of his origins, but he's a marvel in the face of what arcanists and scientists alike thought they knew about berserkers.
Fortunately, Caron has kept their investigations far away from him.
And may it forever be a mystery.
Appearance
Beyond his fae-tipped (pointed instead of rounded) ears, double-pairs of silvery-gold wings—one small pair often covering his ears and the other, large set stretching over his back and shoulders—and deer antlers, Kieva otherwise tends to look human when not tapping into his berserker strength.
Kieva is a pale, effeminate, 5'7 (170cm) young adult man with messy, shoulder-length white-blonde hair he often ties back into a bun, grey eyes, and thin-but-soft features.
Kieva overall has a wiry frame, bags under his eyes from a frequent lack of sleep, and often appears deadpan or unassuming.
After the beginning of RFtA, Kieva gains (non-continuous) burn scars over his jaw, chest, arms, and hands from the Disaster of Vemor.
Personality & Motives
Kieva, now aged 19, has long-since acclimated to his life as Caron's younger son. Early into his childhood, he would constantly wonder about his life before, where he'd come from, and what had happened to his biological family, but he's given up hope of learning.
Not only are the memories lost to him, but Caron's own investigations—incredibly thorough and the results of which were occasionally shared with Kieva—pulled up nothing.
So, instead, Kieva has fully accepted Caron as his father and Tián as his brother.
Caron's strong sense of justice—and the nobility of taking him in to begin with—has rubbed off on Kieva, making him incredibly stubborn, kindhearted, and protective of his loved ones.
Despite his known origins as the berserker that terrorized the outskirts of Maunne twelve years ago, Kieva is an incredibly calm and collected person, mostly minding to himself. He's overall professional, but turns deadpan sassy around his friends and casually intimidating with aggressors—both his own and others'.
He's spent his entire life learning about combat, had nothing but a loving family who've made him well-aware of his strengths and weaknesses, and has no problem turning the tables against those who deserve it.
Kieva wants nothing more than to become a knight, protect those in need, and, most importantly, make his family proud.
So... how's he going to feel when the investigations into the disasters around Kihroin start bringing up more questions about his past?
He's so great!!! You make such good OCs @ominous-feychild!!!! I love him too not as much as Carmin and I'm so, so curious as to his backstory now!!! Does he ever figure out the mystery of where he came from 👀 And his powers have so much potential, especially in the angst department!! Corruption powers??? Um, yes please!!!
honeyyyyy i can’t wait to come back to proper posting because i have heaps of fun stuff i’d love for you to see!! always love your input <33
take this ask as an open invitation to tell us a fun fact about a character, ramble about a story, share something creative your proud of, or anything!
LETTERS!!!! Always lovely to see you 😘 I can’t wait to see what you’ve been cooking up!!!
I, uh, have been in a little bit of a creative rut recently holiday/busy/depression season tends to do that to me so uh, I guess enjoy this?? *throws half edited scene at you and scurries away*
“Go away! We closed!” Frugel’s sharp, heavy Ketaawai accented voice called from the back.
“It’s me Frugel,” 703 sighed. The old woman was as cracky as they got. “I told you I would be stopping by for supplies.”
The crone poked her head out from the back. As always, her hair was a literal bird’s nest. 703 had grown accustomed to seeing one or two birds perching in her hair, nipping at stray strands, and tonight was no different. There was only one currently. The red Spardip. That one had always seemed overly attached to her.
Frugel hobbled around to the front. Her humped back and gnarled stick of a cane made her look all the more crazed. The bobbles and half empty vials handing from the end of her stick clattered with each step. She wore an overzealous amount of jewelry and a slightly oversized dress. Or robe. 703 wasn’t really sure. It could have just been a piece of fabric the woman had wrapped herself in for all 703 knew.
“Oh, it is the cockroach.” She glared at 703.
“Do you have what I requested?” She asked, ignoring the insult. If she could even call it that. She been called far worse things.
Frugel huffed, leaning on her cane. “Always asking me to slave. Torture on old joints. Give me no time. Expect miracles?”
703 unclipped the bag of dues from her belt, dropping it on the counter. It clinked on the wood. Another bag followed, this one was slightly lighter, but far more valuable.
Frugel gave her a gapped smile. “Lucky I like you.”
She snatched the pouches, hobbling into the back once more.
Her eyes wandered around the shop as she waited.
It was cluttered beyond belief with barely enough room to walk through. Somehow, 703 found that amusing. To own so many things you could barely contain them all. It fathomed her to no end.
Wind chimes hung from the ceiling. Right next to shrunken heads, feathers hazardously tied together, small cages with assorted creatures, bones, and assortments of bottles. The shelves were stacked so full of things they bowed and threatened to break. Vials and bottles of every size and shape filled with any kind of tonic or poison lined the shelves in no particular order. The spaces in-between were stuffed with books that spilled out onto the floor and created a tripping hazard. Decaying plants hung across the top of the shelves, some shoved in cracked pots on the floor. Unidentifiable oozing buckets sat next to piles of tree branches and several animal limbs with fur still on them. A [xz animal] wandered about, slinking between stacks of boxes and books with ease. The plants growing out of the wall moved of their own accord. Twisting vines stretching across the shelves before moving on in a different direction.
After a minute, Frugel shuffled back out. Now, with her second bird in her hair. This one a blue Spardip that 703 had learned was the male’s partner. She held a paper bag that clinked with bottles every time she took a step.
“There you have.” She handed the bag to 703.
“Did you have everything I requested?” 703 began shifting through the bag’s contents, noting which vials contained what. Frugel had long stopped labeling them once she realized 703 was more than qualified to make these same tonics herself. Keeping alchemy supplies wasn’t very feasible with her life. It was easier to have it outsourced. And Frugel was one of the few she trusted to do it.
“Pat! Since when I not?” Frugel attempted to hit 703 with her cane, but she easily avoided it without bothering to look up from the bag. “You always paranoid. Picky picky.”
703 rolled the bag closed, tucking it in her vest. “Thank you. Try to behave while I’m gone. We don’t need a repeat of last year.”
Frugel crackled. “Those boys asking to be cursed! They cross me!”
For this week's @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt!
Word count: 812
—
Jabari wrung his hands into a mess.
He sat upon the hill of the blackthorn, watching as pink and purple hues reflected off the river cleaving Arobyre in two.
A seagull and a crow hassled each other at the foot of the grass verge, tussling over scattered oats. More birds of either creed followed, calls and caws jarring the air.
He chuckled as the birds pecked at each other and blew their opponents off, some resorting to aerial droppings.
“Bird brain, I’m here.” Someone tapped on his shoulder.
“Huh, huh, what?” He looked up, realising Alycja was standing there. “Great, you made it.”
“Not without a hand, anyway.” Jabari took the hand she offered as he got up from the grass, brushing the odd bits off.
Just seeing her made his throat seize. Her pink and orange dress lifted the coral-bronze hues of her skin, and he lost his breath looking into her brown eyes, flickering with magic and mischief.
“I could say the same.” He shrugged, his debt to Damien a heavy but welcomed weight on his chest.
The pair walked through the plaza, littered with people sitting around reading books and sipping on tea, kids dashing around while some parents hollered about dinner.
“I’ve never been here before.” She admitted, looking around the place. “It’s so different here, you guys have way more buildings than what we do.”
“I wouldn’t be the judge of that,” He slipped his fingers through hers, teeth on his lip until she interlinked hers and smiled at him. “We have our forests too.”
He smirked and winked at her, hoping that he wasn’t going too fast. “Let me take you for a tour.”
The pair went under one of the painted stone arches, bright blue with splotches of white and thin black lines for birds. Beyond it, a mix of vibrant spices and the sizzle of fried chicken filled the air.
“That smells so good.” Alycja said, glancing at the small window where a few lads dashed around either dishing out bags of spiced chicken and chips, or preparing other things. If it weren’t for his mad dash out the door to escape his mother’s curiosity before dinner, he may have been tempted too.
But he worried about introducing Alycja to his family, at least this soon. Would they suspect his situation on sight, or could he mask it too, like he did a lot of things.
A dilemma weighed on his hands. The street got thinner, the buildings here taller with longer shadows.
Jabari’s hand got squeezed. “Say, where is it exactly we’re going?”
“Oh, um—“ He breathed, his hands getting clammy. “We’re going to my friend’s house.”
“Is it far?” Her voice dipped in concern, her eyes prickling with flecks of magic.
“Just a stone or two’s throw away, nothing more.”
The path curved to the left, a sharp bang popping in the distance.
Both of them stopped, Alycja pulling out a pale brown stick with fuchsia veins running through.
“Whoa.” He let go of her other hand, turning to face her. “It’s okay, I promise. Are you alright?”
She slipped the stick back into her pocket. “I… No! Are you not concerned about the faerie creatures that wander here? You know, the ones that could kidnap us to Morilaste and do Galista-knows-what-else? Those faeries?”
“What?” He blinked a few times. “Faerie creatures? We don’t really get those, aside from maybe the taxman, but you only see him if you’re in trouble.”
He didn’t truly fancy knowing what or where Morilaste was. Now he saw why South Arobyre dubbed the central river ‘River of the Day Faeries.’
“Okay.” She breathed, as Jabari put his hands on her shoulders. “How long until we get to your friend’s house? In better terms.”
“I’m sorry.” He frowned, looking at her eyes. “I get it. You’re nervous, you’re not used to this. Maybe we should’ve met up earlier. Truth is, I’m nervous too.”
She raised her hands in expression, her face contorting. “Nervous? How come?”
He kissed her. Jabari slipped a bronze hand under her chin and pressed his lips against hers for a moment, his touch warm on her skin.
Alycja stared at him as he pulled away. “You are the craziest boy I’ve ever met.”
She pulled his face back to her and kissed him, her tongue pressing against his lips until he warmed to it, melting into her touch.
He brought her closer, her presence dousing the nerves to nothing. One hand moved down her back, holding her steady in his arm.
His tongue lit up in ecstasy, nerves set alight with the joys of the night. The joys of her, the joys of love.
“So, do you accept?” Jabari kept her face in his hand, smiling like a madman.
Alycja chuckled, flashing that stunning smile again. “For as long as you’re with me.”
—
Obsidian Sapphires plus General taglist (ask, comment, message me if you'd like to be added or removed): @mr-orion @thelaughingstag @original-writing @the-ellia-west @guessillcallitart @thereadingfoz @glassstardust22124 @honeybewrites @ashirisu @drowsy-quill @oliolioxenfreewrites @theglitchywriterboi @did-i-do-this-write @threeking @seastarblue @gioiaalbanoart @midnight-and-his-melodiverse @outpost51
did in fact write something from the prequel timeline I've been trying to focus on, full text and content warnings below the cut
At such a late hour as this, the corridors of Nar-thelyr were still and empty — now, more than ever. The war-council session had concluded just three days prior, and the councillors and generals that only had seasonal appointments in the fortress had left with their convoys. The few year-round inhabitants were shuttered into their rooms to keep out the chill wind that drove against the mountainside: asleep, if they were wise or perhaps lulled by the drumming of sleet outside, or awake poring over notes or records, if he knew them as well as he suspected.
For his part, Idhren wanted nothing more than to do the same. The sudden storm and the icy winds brought with it had set his knee aching and turned his hands clumsy and trembling, and there was work to be done that would be almost bearable with the warmth of a fireplace and a cup of tea. But Tathran had knocked on his door not ten minutes ago, austere and businesslike as ever.
“The Warmaster is not himself,” he had said, expressionless but for the grim set of his mouth. “He refused to take his evening meal. He has been drinking again. I imagine the cold pains him terribly, but he is refusing to let me enter his rooms to tend to him. I thought, perhaps, your presence might ease his distress…?”
Idhren had bitten back a curse as he got to his feet, limping a few steps as his knee acclimated itself to use once again.
cw: blood/self-injury/scratching, alcohol, paranoia, suicidal thoughts of varying degrees of repressed on both their parts, self-loathing as typical for Idhren's POV
At such a late hour as this, the corridors of Nar-thelyr were still and empty — now, more than ever. The war-council session had concluded just three days prior, and the councillors and generals that only had seasonal appointments in the fortress had left with their convoys. The few year-round inhabitants were shuttered into their rooms to keep out the chill wind that drove against the mountainside: asleep, if they were wise or perhaps lulled by the drumming of sleet outside, or awake poring over notes or records, if he knew them as well as he suspected.
For his part, Idhren wanted nothing more than to do the same. The sudden storm and the icy winds brought with it had set his knee aching and turned his hands clumsy and trembling, and there was work to be done that would be almost bearable with the warmth of a fireplace and a cup of tea. But Tathran had knocked on his door not ten minutes ago, austere and businesslike as ever.
“The Warmaster is not himself,” he had said, expressionless but for the grim set of his mouth. “He refused to take his evening meal. He has been drinking again. I imagine the cold pains him terribly, but he is refusing to let me enter his rooms to tend to him. I thought, perhaps, your presence might ease his distress…?”
Idhren had bitten back a curse as he got to his feet, limping a few steps as his knee acclimated itself to use once again.
Damn. I didn’t expect this again, not so soon. He didn’t imagine his presence would make any difference. He wasn’t the one who could soothe the Warmaster’s afflictions, only a poor substitute whose use seemed to be lessening by the day.
“Alright,” he had said instead, facing the young mage with the closest thing to a smile he could manage, and laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll do what I can. If you don’t mind, have the kitchens prepare a sleeping draught in some of the Ikhanan wine—”
The mage held up a silver-wrought flagon, its surface fogged by the warm substance within. “Already done, sir.”
He’d nodded, thankful, if not terribly confident in his chances. “If he won’t take that, there’s nothing for it.”
And so he found himself standing outside the door he had entered so many times before, hesitating, as he was doing more often lately, listening for any hint of noise from within.
The lanterns lining the stone corridor flickered low and cast long shadows, and outside the sleet and rain drummed at their steady pace.
A snap, from within — barely heard, like a piece of firewood being split, then a dragging noise like a chair across stone. The Warmaster spoke something to himself, in a slurred mix of Cenaith and Ikhanan.
Idhren knocked, two crisp raps on the heavy door, loud enough to be heard but hopefully not enough to startle him.
The voice ceased. A breath later, something crashed into the door, shattering in a way that sounded concerningly like a porcelain tea cup, and Idhren was thankful there were no passersby to see him flinch.
“My lord,” he began, steadying his voice as best he could.
“You might as well come in, I don’t give a damn, if you’ve come to have at me the door’s unlocked.”
Ah, so it’s that kind of night. He’d suspected, since Tathran had said he hadn’t taken any food, that the Warmaster’s paranoia of being poisoned by his attendants was rearing its head again. He couldn’t even blame him, but he always felt so unable to deal with any of it well enough to help.
As he entered, the Warmaster retreated into his inner room, leaving the door open behind him. Even in the low light — there were no candles or lanterns within, and the fire burned low — Idhren didn’t miss how he stumbled. As he righted himself, only to collapse in a rather undignified manner into the upholstered chaise, Idhren couldn’t help but think his imposing figure seemed stripped of most of its bulk. In place of the armor he wore so often these days, Nar-thelyr’s lord wore only trousers and a simple shirt, both too thin for this far into winter. The shirt’s sleeve was torn and its hem seemed spattered with something red, either wine or blood, mixing with cold sweat. The red gem hanging from his neck glowed faintly as ever it did, a churning, angry sort of light, the light of captured dragon-fire.
Idhren stepped over the shattered fragments of the tea cup and crossed the entrance chamber without any real sort of awareness to stand in the inner doorway. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, it became clear that the spots on the other man’s shirt were, in fact, blood. He had reopened the old scars on his cheek and neck, as if trying to claw the pale lines from his flesh, as if beneath them would be revealed skin whole and unmarred.
This was not the first time he had done such a thing. Idhren would have to inform Tathran, and leave the mage to his healing work, once this fit of their lord had passed.
“My lord Maithyr,” he tried again, hoping to work some nameless essence into his tone that could soothe his torment.
The proud figure sought his face in the dark, but as he spoke, drunk and in pain and half-lucid, Idhren knew it wasn’t he that Maithyr saw.
“Linna?”
It should be Linna, here in my stead, not crushed beneath enemy boots and presented before the masses as a noble corpse, face draped in fine velvet to spare the lords the sight of their king's mangled remains. If I could serve my lord better in death I’d do it in an instant.
“No, my lord.”
No, that isn’t the sort of thought to be entertaining tonight. Your role is here, for what little help it may give him.
The Warmaster scoffed, barely affording him a wave of his good arm, and turned aside angrily. “Then be gone, I have no use for you.”
Idhren bowed, and did not let his face betray his thoughts, even in the heavy darkness, even as his lord refused to look at him.
“Yes, my lord. There is spiced wine if you will have it. Please send for me if you have need.”
He barely noticed the twinge in his knee as he left. Maithyr’s voice — it had sounded rasping and painful as it hadn’t since those months after his duel with the Aureate. It could only mean that he had been refusing the medicine for his throat for days. He’d have to mention it to Tathran. The mage, at least, could help their lord with the worst of the pain. He, at least, served some purpose.
The wine, warm and spiced and honeyed, contained a sleeping draught as well. When Maithyr was of sounder mind, he had specifically allowed for its use if needed. It wasn’t like they were deceiving him. He would appreciate their decision, eventually.
It was an odd thing, to be so preoccupied with the threat of a traitorous officer or aide slipping unseen poison into his drink, or tampering with his medicines, and yet to threaten to down the whole vial of the orchid tincture for pain or of the sleeping draughts in front of those same attendants at least once a fortnight.
He’d been saying again lately that Idhren couldn’t stop him if he tried. Idhren had no delusions otherwise.
He wanted to stay, to linger in the entrance chamber and watch over his lord, as if it would do any good. But tonight, he was no more than war-council mediator. He had no place in his lord’s quarters if he was not called for.
As he closed the door behind him, hoping beyond reason that Maithyr would manage to drink enough to sleep before he worked himself into more of a frenzy, Idhren’s mind returned to the bloody nail-scrapes on his lord’s face.
He supposed it had been right for Tathran to remove the bulk of the medicines from the Warmaster’s chambers a few days ago.
He rather wished their temporary storage place hadn’t been his own, and tried not to think of it.
He still had his work to finish, and he was sure his tea had gone cold, not that he could stomach it either way. There was still the generals’ monthly pay to allocate, once the records were sorted properly by region and assignment, and he had offered to check over the junior-councillors’ records of supply levels before the month ran out. And — gods and their thrones, he’d promised to write to Leithe regularly, and it had been a month now, at least, that her last letter had sat unanswered on his desk.
He wasn’t sure what to say, if anything could pass as truth without being terribly gloomy.
You are not Linna. You cannot expect to be for him what Linna was, do not delude yourself into the arrogant assumption that you could be enough to help him. You are a distraction, an unsightly and inferior imitation of his love. It is more than enough that he bothers with you at all, and if he thinks of Linna when he touches you it is more than you deserve and a welcome chance to serve him.
Ah, perhaps the letter to Leithe would have to wait until his hands stopped shaking, until the blood-smeared skin and flickering fire stopped playing before his eyes.
***
The dawn awoke dreary and chill, though Idhren did not see it. He was surprised, when he woke much later still at his desk, that he had been able to sleep at all. Damn, but his knee would have something to say about that. He could only hope that Maithyr had managed to rest, for his part.
There was something waking him, it seemed, but nothing he could place, no sound to catch his attention —
A knock sounded at the door, and he could only imagine it hadn’t been the first.
“Enter,” he managed, hating how his ugly Fairalmin accent worked itself so far into just one word, as he hadn’t awoken enough to keep it in check.
The door cracked just enough for a tousled mess of red hair to peer through.
“My lord — ” Idhren gathered himself into military posture, despite the knife-sharp pain in his knee, despite the ache in his shoulders and his heart.
“None of that, you haven’t been that formal with me in years,” the Warmaster closed the door behind him and offered a lopsided grin. He seemed…well, surprisingly so, all things considered.
“Gods, my throat hurts, I’ll have to ask Tathran to prepare more medicine,” he hesitated, just a brief catch. “I…suppose I must seem a fucking fool to you. It’s less easy to doubt the intentions of your friends in the light of day.”
Idhren didn’t point out that it had been more than one night that Maithyr had refused the medicine in question.
His expression sobered as he crossed the room and Idhren still stood stiffly before him. “Did — I said something last night, didn’t I? I don’t remember, but I must have.”
“Nothing, my lord,” he lied, and the Warmaster let him.
“You don’t have to tell me, then. I didn’t mean it, whatever it was. Forgive me.”
He leaned in closer to the older man, hesitating for just a moment, an unspoken question, waiting for permission.
Idhren wouldn’t think of denying him.
Warmaster Maithyr, the stalwart flame keeper of the north, the self-named Dragonbrand, architect of alliances and military campaigns, was remarkably good at kissing. This was not news, by any means, but as he put a firm hand to the chin of the somber and dark-clad councillor and tilted his head just so, his thumb brushing lightly over his lower lip, Idhren was reminded of this fact.
Maithyr shifted his good hand to catch in his hair, tilting his head back just a little further, and Idhren grasped at the back of his lord’s shirt, allowing himself a brief moment of worry disguised as want.
The kiss was brief, and tasted vaguely of wine and bitter herbs and blood.
And the worst part was that such little moments of affection were always so genuine, and Idhren could never ask for more.
I can take on whatever role, make myself into whatever you need me to be. Please, let me remain by your side, in your service, just a little while longer. Allow me the grace of pretending my selfishness is devotion.
As they drew apart he pulled himself back into the stiff posture of before. There was an ache setting in behind his eyes that he tried to ignore.
“If you’ve rested well, my lord, I could send for Tathran. I should return these records to Aglar as well, by your leave, of course, my lord.” He bowed stiffly and tried to tidy his clothes into something presentable that didn’t look slept-in. He was a coward, by all accounts, and he wouldn’t deny it — but he told himself that his lord needed, in this moment as so many others, what he could not himself provide.
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Premise: Post a snippet you've written that you're proud of/pleased by and tag some people!
This snippet derives from a certain angsty pining scene that exists in my files and in splinters on my blog 😅
—
He took another step backwards, his resolve ebbing. “I assure you that’s not the case, at all.”
She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Then why wish for things to be switched? You should be fortunate to have emerged unscathed.”
“Unscathed?” He scoffed. “Do you know how it felt like being forced to watch you have that wretched poison shoved down your throat? Watching as you shivered, screamed and convulsed on the ground, eventually knocked cold to the point you went still? I thought I lost you. Of all the ways, it had to go like this.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Eshani Faison,” His voice took a harsher tone, yet wavered. “You have easily got to be the most impulsive, reckless, self-sacrificial person that I have ever met. You are stubborn beyond words, your interference infuriates me, I-“
—
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(smugly) “Didn't you know? That's what I'm best at. Fucking up everyone else's plans.”
- Carmin Lévêque
Daughter of Kestrel Lévêque, squire of Kieran Caron, and descendant of a dark god, Carmin Lévêque's name holds a lot of weight—very little of which she's earned.
But she hasn't let it get to her head—far from that, Carmin avoids mentioning it and tries her best to keep people from finding out.
The only problem?
Her reputation precedes her.
Or... not her reputation.
But the Lévêques'.
All of Kihroin are familiar with the name and its meaning—the god they supposedly serve—and, while they pay them their due respects, the citizens of Kihroin give the Lévêques a wide berth when and wherever possible.
Including Carmin.
Although... there are whispers on the streets.
Whispers behind closed doors.
Despite her reputation, despite her aura, and despite her name... Carmin looks very little like her brother or father. Carmin didn't engage with political matters like her them. And Carmin didn't have the Lévêque magic like her brother, father, or his father before him.
And that was all of them—all of the Lévêques of time.
And yet Carmin alone, with so few similarities to the rest of her family, didn't have that magic?
It's just a silly little conspiracy theory, of course.
But why else would Kestrel—her lone parent after her mother's death years ago—keep her isolated from family events? Like he was ashamed of her? Like he hated her?
Who can say?
But everybody knows misfortune befalls those who whisper just a bit too loudly.
I mean, what else would you expect of a family who practices—no, specializes in—abstract, dark magic?
No.
Best to leave that be.
Besides, her brother, Roman, loved getting personally involved with those who gave problems to his sister.
There was no good getting involved with that cursed family.
The Woman Herself
That was a lot about her family's reputation, right? What about her?
What about Carmin Lévêque?
Great question. The answer?
People don't really care.
Within Lotus, Carmin is—quite simply—considered to be a bitch.
She's cold, she's curt, she ignores and pushes everyone else away, she doesn't fake niceties, and she refuses to engage with any political elbow-rubbing.
During missions, she's detached and doesn't socialize with her teammates. During classes, she has the audacity to coldly offer her own advice to other students while the professor is busy—and, worst of all, it's always right!
And, if you just happen to come across her when she's not in classes or working? “Leave her the fuck alone.”
Magic & Combat
Carmin has the ability to manipulate the gravity on objects, which she uses in a myriad of ways.
Most frequently, Carmin uses her magic to lessen the weight of her armor and weapons, allowing her greater dexterity and speed in combat. Similarly, she can and will drag down her opponents or their weapons, making them struggle to move or lift their weapons.
Carmin can also use her magic to forcibly levitate people and objects, removing them from the field (both offensively and defensively) and possibly disabling them.
... or levitating many objects, which she can then use to barrage her opponents with as needed or necessary.
In conjunction with her levitation, Carmin most often uses throwing knives—which she can throw faster through the removal of gravity—and a bow.
Additionally, Carmin has barrier magic she's able to use to defend herself and others... as well as near-invisible stepping stones and walls to push opponents.
Appearance
Carmin is a Kihroihian (Fantasy!Mixed Country), 5'2 (157cm) woman of eighteen years.
She has tanned skin; straight, shoulder-length bobbed hair that's dyed black; a long face with soft features; and the signature Lévêque royal blue eyes... although it's speculated they were magically altered to be so or that she's wearing colored contacts.
Carmin has a wiry frame, a lot of muscle due to keeping in shape for her work as a squire, bags under her eyes from a frequent lack of sleep, and a resting bitch face. She most often has her shoulders squared back, an empty or angry expression, and holds herself in a way that implies arrogance or that she considers others beneath her.
Very shortly after the beginning of RFtA, thanks to being caught in the fires of Vemor, Carmin gains burn scars that warp the right side of her face, her right ear, and much of her right side—shoulder, arm, and bits of her leg, chest, and back—entirely.
Much of the right side of her hair was likewise burned off, but it's slowly growing back in its natural ginger color.
Personality & Motives
Carmin Lévêque is an angry, bitter woman who does little but work, train, and push other people away. She has little connection with her family—although Roman's protectiveness over her suggests a positive relationship between them... or him looking out for their family name—and spends a vast majority of her time focusing on her studies to become a knight.
Before first joining the academy, Carmin was a hermit who spent a majority of her time in the Lévêques' estate. Her existence was only known of thanks to her so-called identity as a Lévêque, and she only finally emerged to join the academy (at age eleven) alongside Roman.
Although she seems cold and uncaring on the surface, Carmin has a strong sense of justice and wants to make the world a better place. She claims her mother's death—which she witnessed to a burglar when she was five—is her motivation to stamp out evil, cruelty, selfishness, and corruption in the world. Despite her position, Carmin also attributes social issues and wealth disparities to the world's strife.
Carmin is extremely motivated, doing little but constantly building on her training to become a knight. She doesn't make friends, she doesn't party, and she doesn't network.
Except... she doesn't have a family she's sworn to outside her own. Roman is the knight to the crown prince, Elazi Adlani, and her father is the knight to the king, Riaan Adlani. Neither of them need knights, and none of them want Carmin engaged to Elazi or the second-born prince, Zain.
Go West go North go East go South, there is always something waiting, what will you find..?
--
She is not a human nor a beast
She is angry. She is quiet. She is loud. She is scared
Will you hold her hand?
Of course not, you're scared too.
Would you watch, at least? Give a little more attention than the right people have bothered?
Splendid. Shh, don't let her hear you, she hates surprises.
Who is she, you ask?
I don't know. She doesn't either.
Who am I? It hardly matters
You will follow she from land to sea, dirt to snow, to and fro.
She has made a mistake, causing her village pain.
Now she treads with enemies and not yet friends
Are you still watching?
Splendid. Let us begin.
--
Norah is not one for introductions, but if you will know her name eventually, what's the point of hiding? The point is survival. Her village despises her, she's stuck looking after her drunken father, and she doesn't even know her mothers name.
There is one light, her friend and mentor. This mentor talks of magical fortunes and smells always of fresh fruit, it was a dream. Until...one big fortune comes true, and Norah and the balance of the world is in danger.
Thrown out of what she carved as her shell she treads the dangerous lands of the woods, searching for answers and solutions.
If only a miniature nipping dragon, an amateur wizard, and her sworn enemy weren't following her. If only she could be alone, but for now, she keeps one foot in front of the other....Oh can those three be quiet-!
--
Character intros:
The Chaos
The Order
The Balance
--
This is a story of friendship. This is a story of belonging. Of you who are.
Alright, the Vibes for the OCs for Rising From the Ashes are immaculate and I need more knowledge of this WIP immediately!!
Also, love your blog, you’re doing great, and I hope you have the most fantastic day 💚💚💚
RISING FROM THE ASHES
During a routine, staged mission assigned by Kieran Caron—headmaster of Lotus Academy—three unfortunate students get caught in the middle of a disaster that devastates the city of Vemor and nearly kills them all.
Along with the help of a prodigious healer recruited from the relief efforts, will they be able to uncover what caused the disaster? Will they bring the perpetrators to justice, or be able to keep it from happening again?
Or will the four watch as more disasters continue to unfold?
