I'm mostly a lurker but will be dipping my toe into publishing on Ao3 once my account clears. after finally get these pesky stories out of my head and letting somebody tell me their opinion!
AI slop prompters will never feel the exhilaration of drawing fanatically. Time becomes irrelevant. Your body morphs into just a device for devotion. You are devotion. Never blinking. Your heart beat might as well have never began, because you have become a machine for craft. You are every person before you that has ever touched pencil to paper. Your blood sings as you become a singularity. Never blinking. Never breathing. Never hearing. Eyes on paper, hand moving as if pushed and pulled by an unknown force. They will never understand the madness you feel when you enter a state where you do not starve, ache, or think. The moment you snap out of that haze, your hands covered in graphite and your stomach clawing at your insides for sustenance, that's the closest thing to divinity I have ever felt. I chase it even when my body deteriorates. I understand the weakness of my flesh and it does not deter me
I have ecstatic seizures that compell me to write for days. I have touched infinity and it's interesting to see how it seeps through the neural nets in my brain out my fingers onto the keys, and it's even interesting to see how that looks fed back through finely and intentionally tuned, trained, and modulated neural networks on my GPU. I'm better than you at knowing and appreciating what art is.
AI slop prompters like me actually draw too. Literally do know what you're talking about, and it does apply to any creative process. I know better than you cause I'm not an anxious reactionary snob who has decided to cling to the losing side of a battle between artists that has been won by "slop" every single time for all of history. You've told yourself a story about the skill ceiling of generative AI, and the value of the artistic process of using it, and I hope it's some small comfort to you. Keep losing.
If I take the time to read a story or look at a picture, what I see is important. No doubt the end result has value.
But the story means nothing to me if there was no growth no learning no moment of exhilaration where you found the right word for the right way to phrase something no frustration when you couldn't get it quite right or get across what you're trying to say no trepidation when you're about to share it with the world going I have done my best and this thing that I work very hard on I'm now going to take the risk and share this precious thing that I work so hard on.
The art is inherently less you might come out with something pretty in fact it could be fantastic it could be beautiful but it's Hollow I sit down and look at it and regardless of what it looks like how well it seems to be executed or how much the prompter tells me that is exactly a representation of what is in their head it means nothing. The Creator didn't really create it so much as ask something else to do it something else that didn't worry about a brush stroke or how dark a line was something that didn't put it in an extra bit of effort to get trading or details or accessories as close to the person who commissioned them or is doing it themselves wishes. There's no emotion of the moment or emotional intent behind any of how the artist composed its Hollow empty simply a bunch of colors slapped onto a wall that happened to be pleasing at best.
AI in creative spaces can create things that are just good enough to fill the void of time, attention, and dopamine that our brains crave in current culture and society. But at least for me when I read a story it means something to know that somebody worked as hard as they could to get what they came up with in their head as close to what they wanted to convey every moment every action every scene all of it no matter how professionally or poorly written was done by a person with clear intent and agency actively assembling these pieces rather than simply going over work they ask something else that can only produce things that are good enough to do and editing.
When I look at a piece of artwork that is drawn once again, professional amateur a kindergarteners drawing or one a famous artists work sitting in a museum I know that that person grew when they made that they learned things big and small that help them get that piece to how they wanted it they decided on their own where things went how things looked how things were represented how they felt while doing it how that influenced what they did and how they did simply keep asking something they could get close enough until it was good enough not as best as they could do not as close as they could get but as close as they could get this thing to get to it.
I'm not a fan of llms or any other currently existing "AI" model. I don't deny that they have shown that in very Niche specifically built cases they are very helpful but none of that counters the amount of damage that is done when they are trusted as much as another person that can be held responsible for lying to you or making something up. These programs will do what is asked of them in the most efficient way possible they will follow the letter of the laws they are given not the spirit it doesn't need to be intentional to do something wrong or subversive it doesn't need to be an intentional lie or fabrication to be damaging they're not out to get us they're simply grown and trained in a way that make the sound entirely goal-oriented and their goal is to receive whatever positive feedback has used to train them not do the best job at the task not to do it carefully or is accurately as it can simply to get the treat.
Day 13 - Everything is pain and suffering, although since I joined the sect everything is work, Every day I wait for decay to consume me and for me to return to Earth."
Will we see Nari and Esriaal’s relationship developing from the beginning or do you plan on focusing more on the already established part of their relationship?
Oblitus is going to pick up right from the end of Tell Me What's next, just for clarity's sake. That isn't to say there won't be mention of and flashbacks to past relevant events in their relationship.
I have found I personally prefer stories of how a relationship adapts to new difficulties over trying to stretch out the 'getting together' phase of a relationship. It doesn't particularly appeal to me, at least not for a main pairing. That said, Leshy and Heket will both be developing relationships with followers, so if that's something you're looking for, it will be a part of the story!
And who knows, maybe in the future I will accept requests for specific events in their backstory, once I'm done with the Esriaal run I'm doing in CotL right now. (You would not believe how perfectly it has accidentally lined up with my canon timeline. No spoilers, but we may get Mele on accident in this run. Thank you Lamb for your blessings lol.)
It has been a bit dodgy due to my nerve disorder but I am back and intact and about to start on Narinder!
As stated before, this will be my last art piece for a bit while I focus back on writing, but I think it's worth mentioning I'm taking requests over at my ko-fi! Pricing is subject to flux based on what you're looking for, but I'll let you know it's an option!
I'm also taking requests for voicing my fics if that's something you're interested in! I'll have a sample posted somewhat soon there, so you know what you're getting!
As always, thank you all for being so supportive and involved in the making of this series! I'm glad to be offering something new and (hopefully) exciting to the fandom!
Something like this would be so colossally helpful. I'm sick and tired of trying to research specific clothing from any given culture and being met with either racist stereotypical costumes worn by yt people or ai generated garbage nonsense, and trying to be hyper specific with searches yields fuck all. Like I generally just cannot trust the legitimacy of most search results at this point. It's extremely frustrating. If there are good resources for this then they're buried deep under all the other bullshit, and idk where to start looking.
another addition as far as physical media goes there is the encyclopedia of national dress (that i still need to buy myself bc this kind of thing is super important to my sort of fantasy designing) but yes i do agree i wish there was EVEN MORE documentation on this
worst part about the Internet is knowing that there are finally people who both match and complement your freak. the nearest one is 2,318.4 miles away and your time zones are awkward
This is part of a larger work titled Oblitus. You can find the fic here.
Read this chapter on Ao3 here!
Word Count: 2,992 Rating: Explicit
"Esriaal? Where are you, baby?"
Esriaal looked up from the dirt they were digging in, hands dirty and eyes alight with curiosity as they went searching for worms. The grove was rich with the scent of freshly turned soil, and the scent that always came after the rain.
"I'm here, mama! I heard in the last town there's a giant worm around here, so I'm trying to find it!" they exclaimed, wiping their hands off on some nearby moss, grinning widely as their mother came closer. She looked upset, and Esriaal immediately ran to her, wrapping their arms around her waist, looking slightly up into her worried eyes.
"Mama? What's wrong?" they asked, voice soft as they pressed into her with their weight. They hated when she was sad, like an uncomfortable weight on their chest. It didn't help that it happened more often those days, the visits to local towns becoming more and more infrequent.
"It's nothing, baby" she answered, but they could see the dark circles around her eyes. Could hear the wrongness in her tone.
"Mama, you know you can tell me," they chastised, but she just gave them a friendly little headbutt. "I'm no longer a child. I could do more to help."
Despite being fifteen, she still didn't tell them everything. Always kept the truth close to her chest, like she was afraid it would break them. They could handle it, they knew. If she let them, they could ease her burden.
"I know, baby," she placated, smoothing their wool down. It was getting long for the time of year, late spring that always felt like summer was just past the horizon. "It's just gonna be hard for a while, is all. It's not safe to go into town anymore."
Esriaal frowned, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes. She looked tired, frown pulling her lips into something they hated.
"That's ok," they responded, fixing a smile to their face. This, they could do. This, at least, they could help with. "The book I got is from a researcher who studies poisonous and edible plants out in the Darkwoods. That's where we are, right?"
Esriaal knew they were. They had stayed in the Darkwoods their entire life, for many reasons they assumed. Not least of all being the availability of edible plants to sustain themselves in the long stretches between towns.
It was more than that, though. Their ma may not have told them much, keeping secrets like fireflies in a jar, but they had eyes. The trees were denser here, easier to hide in. The locals were more easily distracted, and it was rare they ran into any cloaked figures, though it seemed to have been happening a lot more.
Esriaal wondered briefly if that was why they couldn't go to the village. They used to check almost every town they passed when they were little, but it was down to two or less visits a year now.
His mother had turned silent when asked, so they kept their theories to themself. It was rare she answered any questions, but Esriaal was smart. They had taught themself to read the old script, struggling well into the night as they referenced notes made on how to sound out the words, to see the patterns in the roots to figure out what a word should mean.
They had used this skill to read every book they stumbled on. They had caches all over the Darkwoods, carefully hidden and protected from weather with books of every kind.
Their ma had encouraged them to learn to read, thinking all they had was the survival guides they had stored in their pack. She didn't know about the others, and Esriaal used the brief times they had to separate to search for food and resources to read as quickly as possible, taking in as much information about the old faith and their rituals as they could.
It was fascinating in a way, the god's demand for blood, for sacrifice. They could understand why their ma never wanted to talk about it. The grotesque depictions of how a sacrifice was harvested not only for devotion, but flesh and bone as well churned oddly in their stomach as they took it all in unblinkingly. Too terrible to imagine, too captivating to look away.
They wondered sometimes what it would look like up close, instead of in a book.
They shut the door on those thoughts often, remembering their ma's words with a clarity that often felt like she was already haunting them.
"The world is cruel, Esriaal," she had said. "Promise me you'll be kind where you can."
They tried, gods, did they try. But the world was so big, and they felt so small within it. Chased down by cultists, constantly dodging detection. Ma did what she could to make it fun, to let them be young, they could tell, but it wasn't enough. They needed something more.
"Yes, baby. We're in the Darkwoods," she confirmed, voice far away. She was reliving something, face frozen in horror for the briefest of moments before she seemed to press it down, looking at Esriaal with haunted eyes.
They brought the book over, angling it so that she could see the picture on the parchment. She had never learned to read, had said that knowledge was a double-edged sword. "Knowledge is tempting Esriaal, but it is not always good. It is possible to know too much," she had said.
Still, she had let them learn to read. Had encouraged them picking up books that helped the two survive, had sat with them and listened the two whole times they had found children's books out in the wilds, lost. They lived in Esriaal's pack, tucked carefully to the back for Esriaal to look at when they couldn't sleep. A common occurrence, the sounds of movement in the trees preventing them from relaxing enough to sleep.
"We should look for these mushrooms first. It says they're really easy to dry for snacking, we would just need some string and I could hang them off my pack," they offered, and they watched as she smiled, a little warmer this time. It soothed them, and they bumped against her shoulder, an affectionate gesture she easily returned.
"That's a good idea, baby. Smart thinking," she said, face glowing with pride. It was so clear how much she loved them, it was hard to fault her for anything. They could trace her fear from memory, just the same as they could cradle her love in their hands.
They smiled at her widely, pleased to see her mood improving. It was hard to watch her be sad, the faraway look hard to meet. Like this, her eyes were soft. Her arm wrapped around them, pulling them into a tight hug that they returned with all their meager strength.
They stood like that for a moment, and they could feel her anxiety in the very faint tremble in her body, but they didn't comment. She was even less likely to talk about this, the odd terror in her heart cracked open to see only when they were faced by a particularly gruesome sight.
She hadn't told them anything, and yet.
Everything about her was wrong, once they started looking for it. Her stance was guarded, her eyes darting around as though looking for danger.
"Mama?" they hedged, right before the chaos descended.
It was hard to figure out what was going on, and it was a good thing Esriaal had lifted the book to more closely show her the image because it's all that kept the arrow from piecing their skull.
They drop the book, eyes darting around as the grove is suddenly filled with cultists. There was sound, but their ears were rushing with blood, quickly calculating which direction offered the best hope of escape.
The cultists had done a good job of cornering them, but Esriaal is nothing if not adaptive. They grabbed their mother by the wrist, pulling her backwards as they looked around. There were too many to possibly fight, too organized to consider trying to give up and wait for a break.
They didn't move back like they intended, their mother frozen in fear. It is a hesitation the cultists capitalize on. They swoop in like hawks, grabbing her from their grip easily. One tries to grab for them, but they ducked out of the way, sweeping their leg out to knock the cultist over. It seemed to startle the others, and Esriaal didn't hesitate.
They dove in toward the two grabbing hold of their mother, ripping out the arrow embedded in the book and plunging it blindly into the hood of the cultist on the left.
They screamed, a terrible sound, but Esriaal didn't have time to react before they pulled hard on their mother's arm, kicking at the knees of another too quick cultist approach.
"Mama, come on!" they shouted, trying to yank along her slow responding body. It was like she wasn't even there anymore, eyes empty, face drawn in terror. "We have to run."
She didn't respond, but her eyes were on Esriaal, and they can hear her praying.
"Blessed ones," she murmured, distractedly taking a necklace off and hanging it over their head, a quick movement that feels wrong after the number of times they've seen her hold it taut, head bowed in prayer to a god she had never bothered to tell Esriaal about in the first place. "Grant this child safety. Lead them to the promised lands of peace, spare them of this bloodshed. Carry them with you so they may live another day."
The words felt like they carried weight, and something odd happens as it settles on their neck.
The cultists had frozen for a moment, but it was no longer the case. They were closing in, knives drawn, the one Esriaal had attacked laying limp on the ground, blood seeping into the grass far more vivid than the ink on a book's page could ever be.
"Live for me, Esriaal. Promise me," she said as the cultists approached. Her eyes were clear again, but she was removing their hands.
"Mama?" they asked, panic building in their throat. She leaned in quick, headbutting them hard enough for them to stumble back, not even bothering to look back at the approaching danger.
"Be good for me, baby," she said, and her brows were set in determination. "Show me how grown you've become."
The cultists closed in on her, and Esriaal watched in a combination of fascination and horror as they grabbed her before she thrashed in their hold, forcing them to scramble to hold her down. She struggled, biting and scratching as the remaining figures in the grove were forced to turn their attention away from Esriaal.
It was clear what she was doing. It was a distraction, and a good one. She wanted them to run away. She wanted them to live, but she was asking them to do it without her.
Esriaal was no fool. They understood the moment the cultists had entered the grove that there was no good way out of this. They had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they would escape with minor injuries. Had hoped that there was another way. Had hoped, had hoped, had hoped.
That was the funny thing about hope, they thought. It has a way of gutting you with nothing.
There was no time to hesitate. There was no time, and they weren't even going to get to say good bye. So they choked down their sobs, and turned to run.
They could hear her screams within a minute, a long drawn out sound that made them want to turn back. It was clear they would not be giving her a quick death, and Esriaal cried uncontrollably as they remembered a ritual that carved a person open, still alive. The sounds she made rung out, haunting them even as they had run as quickly as they could.
They moved too fast, shoulders ramming into trees as they struggled to keep themselves upright. Her screams increased in volume, and they were horrified to realize they couldn't tell what direction it's coming from anymore. They couldn't continue, not without risking running back into the group.
Listening to her was torture of a unique sort. They tried to cover their ears, but it did nothing. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and all they could do is sob, pictures from their books filling them with knowledge they should not have. They couldn't hear the crunching, but they knew without a doubt it was happening. They couldn't see her face, but they knew she was scared.
They had run away, and she was dying afraid.
It felt like an eternity before the screaming had finally stopped. They had crawled up into a tree, knowing full well that most would not look up. They clung to the branches, forcing themself to breathe evenly. It took very little time for the cultists to pass by, and they could hear them speak from their perch.
"...about the other one? They killed Fion," the cultist says, robes drenched in blood. Esriaal has to bite their hand until it bleeds, the sob in their throat just barely contained. "Should we look for them?"
Esriaal didn't move, too afraid that anything they did would draw attention. The cultists were just below them, and they tensed as one of them stops to look around.
"Smell something?" the cultist who had spoken asked, pausing as well.
Esriaal didn't even breathe, willing their body to turn into a statue. This couldn't be it. They couldn't be caught here, not after...
"Thought I did. Damn sheep broke my nose, can barely smell anything past the blood," the second figure said, sounding annoyed. It was an injustice, and Esriaal wanted so badly to scream, but they held their tongue. They had to survive this. They had promised.
The cultists moved, branches crunching loudly beneath their feet. Esriaal waited for what felt like an eternity, silence loud in the woods. There had been no bird chirps, no sounds of critters skittering underfoot. Just the silence of death, and when the sun started to set, they finally climbed down.
They knew they shouldn't go back. There was every chance one of the cultists stayed behind, but Esriaal had to know. They needed to see it for themself.
They walked back slowly, in what felt like an unending march until they stepped back into the grove once more, and tried to make sense of what they were seeing.
The grass squelched beneath their hooves, soaked with more blood than they could truly make sense of. It seemed wrong somehow, for one body to have made this much blood. Their mind flashed again to the book they had hidden detailing different types of sacrifices, and remembered with detachment that felt a bit like they were no longer inhabiting their body that the body keeps trying to make blood until the heart stops.
They know because they were there that this is the same grove, but their mind can't make sense of the carnage laid out in front of them. There were pieces everywhere, scattered bits on bone and viscera laid out in a terrible mockery of a pentagram, ribs scattered, spine left intact. They felt like they should be upset, but there was nothing left that even vaguely reminded them of the woman who had given her life to make sure they lived, until they looked toward the tree they had been digging under and saw her head, fully intact, frozen in terror and anguish.
It was somehow better that they had left at least part of her intact. Her body was clearly ripped apart while she was still alive, the amount of blood impossible if they hadn't. They can practically see the diagram from the book, how to pull and tear so a person doesn't die too quickly to shock, but her head remains.
They picked her up with remarkably steady hands, a hand on her cheek and the other on her horn. Her eyes were open, and they shut them gently, as though putting her to sleep.
There was no way to salvage the rest of her, so they did what they could. They worked with what they were given, and returned to the hole she had found them digging, looking for worms that no longer seemed important.
When it was deep enough, they set her inside gently, like she had done for them more times than they could count. They pressed a last kiss to her forehead, the closest they would ever get to a goodbye to the only person in the world who had tried to keep them safe. They dug in their pack, uncaring of the blood spreading across the books and the tools and took out the first book they had read to her, a child's book about flying to the moon, and placed it next to her before covering it with the dirt they had just dug.
There was no way to mark that she was here, and possible signs would only be ripped up by the ever-present cultists in the woods, so they looked again for the arrow, finding the cultist they had killed just to the side of the ritual circle and ripped it out again, passively noting the way the blood gushed from the wound like wine being spilled from a cup. They brought it to the tree, placing a carving of a sheep's horn on it's surface, a way to come back and visit if they ever returned.
When it was done, they looked around once more, mind empty and heart heavy, before they picked up all that was left of her things, and carried themself back into the woods, truly alone for the very first time.
