current icon art by dana-delion, sidebar image by kent davis, header by janedoe 💖
prompts are always welcome, just know I can’t guarantee a piece of writing!
*numbers between brackets indicates the session the fic takes place around. If there are no brackets, it takes place before or after the game or at an ambiguous point between sessions
Nepenthe found herself mentally taxed as they exited Fenwatch Keep. She hadn't cast any magic, did little more than walk and talk, but she was realizing that social maneuvering had a cost. She'd never been loquacious, but Maes couldn't always speak for all of them, so she contributed where she saw fit.
She could lie, and decently, but there was a reason they sent other Children ahead of her for covert missions. She had utmost respect for the Children whose first and foremost choice was subterfuge and that appreciation rose to new heights after experiencing what delicate work it was firsthand. It wasn't just the skill of weaving the lies in the first place—it was making sure they held under the weight of time and scrutiny.
She supposed she was on the other side of it: those more skilled at wordplay might have taken her fighting prowess for granted. There was a reason they needed diversity; different roles required different tools. The Children's success meant knowing when they needed a dialogue and when they needed bloodshed.
Nepenthe wondered if it was a privilege, before, not having to puzzle her way through every possible outcome, readjust her mental footing, deflect. She wondered if this was just a fraction of how Vierna's mind worked, a peek into her labyrinthine mind. She again found herself grateful they balanced each other out. Nepenthe could stop Vierna from exhausting herself on what-ifs and Vierna had helped prepare Nepenthe for the work abroad with thought exercises.
She scratched her cheekbone. Was it less taxing for Derval and Vierna because they had more capacious minds? She didn't detest it—she was even beginning to enjoy it—but she definitely preferred the physical exhaustion of a fight.
Only a day after learning about Azul in the Empire, Nepenthe downed a dose. They felt connected, like divine punishment or providence. She couldn't decide which—the transformation always felt like both.
She wondered if it could've been avoided if she and Maes had kept a better watch. Part of the blame lay on her, but Maes was supposed to help and hadn't noticed their stalker, either. She should have known better than to pair up with Maes after what he'd confessed the previous night, knowing her own focus was likewise brittle from thoughts of her daughter. Two sets of distracted eyes and ears were as good as none.
The blame didn't end there. If she'd been faster during the fight, been able to mount or pin down the dragon, they could've slaughtered it. Instead, they were forced to watch it flee and shrink into another speck of snow on the night's horizon. Her eight legs itched to follow, but there was no closing the distance before the vial wore off.
It was the first she felt like she'd misjudged the danger of a situation. The transformation stretched her body beyond what it was normally capable of, its purpose to balance or tip the scales. Would the outcome have changed if she hadn't? Would the dragon have stayed or still retreated? It had been basic math, at the end—five against one, six if her drider form counted as two.
Weeding Luxon worshippers was always meaningful regardless of how many died. Killing the wolves hadn't been enough—all the power of a goddess in her hands had been wasted on wild dogs. Part of her secret—the Children's secret—spilled, and she hadn't landed a single blow on the dragon.
She only cared what the others thought insofar as it didn't leave their circle. They all coveted power, didn't they? How it took shape varied. At least the how of her secret wasn't clear if she didn't elaborate.
She flopped into the snow while Derval and Maes allowed her to recover. It rapidly cooled her fevered skin. She'd heard her. Loud and clear, not just indistinct whispers. A manic laugh wanted to burble up like blood; she bottled it.
Everything Vierna had written undercut that voice, facts wearing down her initial thrill and elation. Lolth praised; her wife cautioned. Nepenthe's heart paced between them, wanting to please both.
Learning about Azul had twisted up her mind, and now her body matched, punished for lacking. Her daughter had run. The dragon had flown off. What good was power or love that couldn't be used?
She vowed vengeance on the dragon whelp, to collect its life for the dose she'd lost.
dont store a knife with the point facing down, it damages the blade. no, dont do that either. when you store it with the point facing up you might accidentally hurt yourself when you try to grab it. dont store a knife at all actually. your blade must never leave your hand, always ready, ruthless and waiting. you know deep down that ever since you learned the stench of blood you will never be able to cast it aside. or just get a sheath for it i guess.
There are going to be days (or weeks, or months) where you sit down to write and feel... disconnected. From your voice, from your characters, from your ideas. Like the person who used to write your stories just packed up and left.
They didn't. They're just tired. Here's how to keep writing anyway:
Lower the bar (Until it's on the floor)
You are not here to write something brilliant. You are here to write something. A paragraph. A sentence. A single line of dialogue. Movement matters way more than quality.
Write around the story
Don't force it. If you can't write the scene, try:
⋆ A character ramble / journal entry
⋆ A conversation that won't be included in the final draft
⋆ A list of things the character would never admit out loud
⋆ A messy summary of what should happen
Engage with the story from a different angle.
Borrow a voice until yours comes back
No, not with AI. Read something that feels close to what you want to write, or watch a scene that captures the tone, then write immediately after. Not to copy, to reignite your instincts.
Write the emotion, not the plot.
What is your character feeling in this moment? What are they afraid of? What do they want but won't say? What's being kept from them? The emotion leads, the plot catches up later.
Stop trying to "feel like a writer" first.
You don't write when you feel like a writer. You feel like a writer because you write.
You are still a writer, even on the days it feels distant. Especially then.
cihro: terrible at most games save farming sims and mario kart, but this is made up for by kishore, who co-owns the twitch channel. this is some small karmic justice for him being an assassin in multiple lives—just total dogshit aim in games and terrified of horror, which is what he ends up playing most cuz it's funny to watch him shrieking while kishore is unmoved
crow: playing a lot survival building games like subnautica, sea of thieves, valheim, but also coop games like peak, R.E.P.O, and lethal company
iona: rpg and sim girlie. likes animal crossing, skyrim, and fantasy mmos like WoW or ragnarok online and runescape. probably dabbles in some rp elements or servers. doesn't devote a ton of time to gaming but enjoys it when she does
nepenthe: an absolute troll. never on mic, but will spawn camp you and snipe or target you repeatedly, then type 'ggs' in chat and leave the lobby after she's won. good at pvp games like overwatch and valorant and fortnite—azul plays so she joined her and now her mom is a menace but she can't complain cuz she wins them all their games
union: the mom of gaming. slow reflexes, doesn't understand the mechanics, happy to just watch someone else play. would probably enjoy dating sims and walking simulators
vesuria: similar to cihro, horrible at fighting games despite being a martial artist irl. much better at shooters like halo or CoD. would probably really like destiny, crash bandicoot, and the witcher; stuff that's bright and colourful or has a rich story and cool fighting, but she can also have pretty shallow taste (see aforementioned CoD)
i understand all that shit about honor and knighthood and solemn vows but “kingslayer” is simply a bad insult. it sounds cool as fuck. might as well call him the landlord annihilator or the billionaire’s bane.
cihro: read it, thinks it's fine, prefers much trashier stuff that's local that he can dramatically read out loud to annoy his loved ones. the worse, the better
crow: refuses to read it and is very superior about that fact
cadiana: started reading it, was like 'I could put oskar in his place' cuz they prefer submissive men, then forgot to keep reading or found something more interesting to them
genevieve: not really interested because the characters feel a bit too young to her, she prefers romances in her age range, plus her name is too close to guinevere
iona: indifferent; doesn't care to read it cuz she mostly reads lesbian fiction
nepenthe: started reading it on the caravan ride to rexxentrum to get a better idea of what was culturally popular but got bored, plus they mention a cult with a spider symbol and she was like "excuse me?"
union: union is easily moved by a love story and lyrical prose so I think he liked it; I think it's a good book for bi folks so they can swoon over both love interests
vesuria: tried picking it up but got annoyed at oskar so stopped reading it cuz she was like "I'D treat guinevere like the lady she is, she even kisses girls!"
vierna: does not know it exists, but wouldn't bother with it if she did
Rexxentrum was the most populated city she'd been in by far. It was no surprise, then, when people accidentally checked her shoulder or barrelled into the back of her legs at a market.
She'd wound her way out of the Mudtop Ward for food from the Tangles. Just because she and Derval were staying there for anonymity's sake didn't mean they had to suffer the cheaper produce.
She turned, expecting a halfling or gnome—she was used to people her height or taller—but it was a human boy, shedding his baby fat and taking the first steps into something lean and fast. He was modestly dressed like most people in the Tangles, neither rich nor poor, growing up on a decent living.
She blinked. After he'd regained his balance he blinked back, eyes doubling in size, little lungs working.
"Sorry," he said belatedly.
"No trouble," she said.
"That's a big sword," he rushed out.
"As big as you and probably half as light," she said with a smile.
His eyes bulged bigger, twin spots of sun twinkling in them. "Half as light?"
"She's probably about five pounds, give or take; she's elven made."
"She?" he prodded. "Your sword's a girl?"
"Vidrinath."
"What does that mean?"
"It means 'lullaby' in my language."
"Oh! My mama sings those to me." His brow twisted in puzzlement. "What language is that? Why lullaby?"
Nepenthe opened and closed her mouth. This, she was less willing to explain—soon he'd be old enough to train on a weapon. What that weapon was for the parents' or him to decide, be it one of farming the land, defending the city, an instrument for busking, or something she hadn't considered.
"Do you have a guardian nearby?" she asked instead. "Any friends you're out with?"
"Ruben!" A woman jogged over in answer, all attention trained on him. The mother—assuming so given they shared the same eyes and curly hair—gently took his arm. "Apologies, miss, he's—" She glanced up into Nepenthe's face under her hood and the words burnt up fast as dry brush, colour draining from her cheeks. Nepenthe raised an eyebrow.
"It's alright," she said. "Kids are learning how to take up space, aren't they?" She aimed another smile down at him. "Ruben's very curious."
"Come along," the woman whispered to her son, whisking him away, glancing askance at Nepenthe on the way for good measure.
"Bye," Ruben said, almost like a question.
Nepenthe frowned. Any sweetness from the interaction soured from the naked dislike. Mistrust she could accept, she nurtured a healthy amount for every stranger, and she understood wariness for someone armed to the teeth, but not dislike. Dislike rode on assumptions.
Ironic, the kid would've been safer with Nepenthe more than the mother, but only in the short term. She wasn't about to piggyback a child into a battle, but if any dangers came at them, Nepenthe would stand between them.
It occurred to her that Ruben must've been born after the war of Ash and Light, not even seen a decade of summers and winters. Her mind cycled through wild guesses: did the parents shelter the knowledge from him, or warn him of drow? Had he defied her wishes and latched onto the first drow he saw? Neither? It was too short a meeting to come to any conclusions, just one of the many tastes of what Rexxentrum had to offer.
She couldn't fault a mother for warning her children of the Dynasty and its creed. But it was another blister the Luxon had left her to deal with: a disdain she hadn't earned for herself.
Head Matron,
I've received your orders and look forward to this Sister's arrival. I will be out of town starting on the fourth of Horisal for an indeterminate amount of time in pursuit of the second key.
I seek guidance on another matter: there's a black market here run by a halfling woman who works with or is part of the Myriad. She's asked my name, a saleable item, and leverage all as the price of admission. I've given none of these things yet. I'm not sure anything that could benefit us is worth them poking their noses where they don't belong. There are others in my unit who will likely gain access before me and could potentially be my eyes if necessary.
I'm not eager to hand out poisoned blades to more hands; any information on me is a potential thread that leads back to us. The vault feels more my priority. Please advise.
Nepenthe
—
Vierna,
The stars not to your liking? That's fine; I can see you in everything. Lilac bushes, the empty space beside me, the smell of parchment, even this woman's cane that had a hidden blade inside. I couldn't think of a better metaphor.
I'm delighted to hear Cookie is sleeping on my side of the bed, but I also understand if you don't want a giant spider there. I would tell her to stop if you don't like it, except I don't think she can read.
Apologies for the less-than-detailed reply, you deserve more. We leave the city tomorrow for the Barony of Ashfen but I have no excuse—my companions need sleep and it leaves me with spare hours. I trust your mind to see connections I would miss, I just need more time to process what you've told me.
I feel like any question I could ask is one you've already thought of, but I'll ask them anyway for me to think upon the open road: were we told what we were told because they didn't know, either? Could it be the information they gave us was wrong at the time? Is there a purpose to it, if they've lied? Are these the wrong questions? My head spins.
I'm nothing if not a good judge of danger, and the Empire has yet to truly challenge me, at least in combat. Emotionally and socially, I feel flat footed and isolated from my people. That is to say, all five vials remain sealed as of writing.
Your letter will stay close to my heart in the meantime.
Love,
Nepenthe
