i'm rrrawrf, also known as lisa! you may or may not know me over at @rrrawrf-writes or my main, @rrrawrf.
i've been kicking around the idea of creating a new writing blog for a while now, mostly because my original one is a hot mess with no coherent tag system and lots of extraneous chatter. so now i'm doing it!
who are you again? typically i go by lisa! i don't mind rrrawrf or kili, tho. 33, they/them, airline employee. my main hobbies are roleplaying and listening to music, and sometimes i even write! mostly tho i just talk about airports and sleep.
what do you write? mostly medieval fantasy and superpowers! no fan fiction here, unfortunately. everything is from various worlds and settings i've put together over the years.
this blog is very empty. it will likely stay that way for a while to begin with, but i plan on queuing up posts! i am going to attempt not to spam everyone. the ultimate plan is to bring what i want to keep over from my original writeblr, but this time with consistent tags and occasionally in the proper chronological order where applicable. i'll be reblogging a lot of things from others, as well, and leaving behind some things i'm not really keen on re-sharing.
your old blog??? will still be there! i am not deactivating it, because i have lots of posts with warm fuzzy notes that i treasure and cherish. i just won't be posting to it very much any more! if you did follow me over there, please follow this one! i would very much appreciate it <3
why is this one called rrrawrf-REwrites? because there are some things i've posted that i want to rewrite, and because this is a revamp of the old one! once i've finished moving and updating, i may change the names so that this one has the og blog name, but we'll see.
[Image ID: A flow chart with two branches. The starting point reads "does this character have problems." One branch leads to "yes" then "make them worse," while the other branch leads to "no" then "give them some." End ID.]
What if we were two sides of the same coin. What if i lived in your shadow all my life but found comfort in the darkness and dont know what to do once youre gone. What if youre the only person who understands. What if you have have no idea what i went through. What if we went through the same traumas but ended up with oposite conclusions about our suffering. What if i dont recognize you anymore. What if i see the ghost of my former self reflected through your eyes. What if it never had to go this way. What if this was the only way things were ever going to go
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
functionally suicidal character saying “I would die for you” to their significant other and its like. I get the sentiment, honey, but if a hot dog vendor told me he’d sell hot dogs for me, I wouldn’t feel very moved now would I
Peeling off the broken breastplate of a stoic knight who only fights and never speaks, just to realize there’s nothing in there. Not metaphorically—the armor is literally empty. It doesn’t appear to affect him. If the armor stays mostly in the shape of a knight, he just gets back up to keep fighting. But with the chest plate off he just sits there, equally impervious to curiosity as I reach up into the cavity where his body might’ve gone. Stubbornly, no answers are found anywhere in there.
So I forge him a new breastplate and on the inside, because I know he has plenty of room, I put a little pocket. Not big enough to hold anything functional of course. Just a little extra piece to see what he’ll do with it.
He comes back next time with some grievous injury to his nothing, presumably from the massive shredded gash across his thigh plates. He sits and waits. I fix it for him. He is still nothing in there. I decide to add a drawing on the inside, of the type of beast I imagine could rend metal into scraps with a single blow. He puts it back on. He no longer moves as if he is injured.
Over time the interior of the knight becomes decorated with whatever odds and ends I could think to attach to the inside of a guy who’s got room to carry it. What really gets me is that he never removes any of it. Never requests a change. Not even when I installed a curtain rod for a small tapestry, or a bud vase to carry roses for his beloved, or an accordion folder for letters. He didn’t say a word for any of the many, many drawings of mythical beasts that now fight forever inside of his shell.
There are plenty of other forges. I’m not entirely sure why he keeps coming back here anyway. We’re pretty popular, but he could get his armor fixed a lot quicker (and with fewer ridiculous modifications) literally anywhere else. I asked him if I could get a look at his nothing again. He flipped up his visor and nodded his head so I could take a look. It was the same as it had been, filled with drawings and trinkets and weird little fixtures I’d put in there. I asked if he was annoyed by it, or liked it, or felt anything at all, but he literally only ever says nothing, so I’m not sure why I asked.
There’s not much room left in his nothing now. When he comes back for repairs I’ve had to fix my own foolish additions. Some of these pieces are intricate and irritating to repair, but I fix them anyway. It feels wrong to take any of it away from him now, even though I’ve been rudely encroaching on his nothingness to the point where it’s barely even there. How he squeezes his nothing back into a body so full, I’ll never understand. But it’s a game to me now, finding a spot not yet filled and putting something there. A dark part of me wonders if he ever gets filled up completely, if whatever sorcery holds the nothing-knight together may break, and it will all clatter unceremoniously to the floor.
When he hands me his breastplate yet again, it is so shockingly disfigured that I wonder if being made of nothing has somehow kept him alive. No ordinary knight could sustain such injuries. So I fix it. And he waits, unmoving, in a quiet corner of the forge. It’s like he’s watching, even though I know the reading glasses I put inside his helmet were just for fun. I’m careful to put it all back exactly the way it was when he last left. There’s no room to add more this time.
He examines the breastplate, and pauses before putting it back on, like he’s looking for something. Is he worried about the fit? But it suits him just as it always did. He calmly points to a little space, about an inch, between a miniature shelf and one of many pockets. There’s nothing there. I ask him what’s wrong, and again he points. It’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen from him, and it’s barely anything at all. I take it to mean he wants something there.
I spend some time engraving a little snail in the gap. He watches, as much as nothing can watch. When I’m finished he holds the breastplate, but he doesn’t put it on right away. I ask him if something’s still wrong. He says nothing, and puts it on. I tell him I can’t add anything else. Even if he could ask, there’s no room left.
Next time he comes back, there’s nothing wrong with his armor—he lets me check to make sure. I ask him what he’s doing here. Out from one of many pockets, he retrieves a tiny rusted knife. It’s in miserable condition, barely worth saving. I tell him I could make him a nice new one, but I’ll fix it if he likes. He puts it away and reaches around to find something else, a needle and thread. Better condition, but I’m not a sewist and I tell him as much. He puts them away. He then retrieves a little twisted piece of wax paper. I open it. It’s candy. I ask if I can eat it. He says nothing. I eat it. It’s flavored with cinnamon. I’m surprised he let me take it.
He keeps bringing me candy now. His armor is the most laborious to repair out of every client my forge serves, but it’s my own fault so I can’t complain. Sometimes he keeps me company while I work. I wonder if he is trying to tell me something when he hands me mints. I wonder again at the lemon lozenges. He stares at me when I eat, as much as nothing can stare.
One day he brings me a little jar of honey. I thank him, I tell him I’ll save it for dinner. He watches me work, he puts his repaired armor back on, and he stays. My shift passes slowly, and when I finally pack up to leave it’s dark outside. He follows me out of the forge. I ask him where he’s going. He points to the jar in my hand. I ask him if he wants to watch me eat it. He says nothing, but the nothing-knight clearly wants something, so I open the lid and dunk my finger in the honey. I try not to get any on my chin. He stands there, inches away, watching me try to consume this jar of honey without a utensil. It tastes like clovers. About half the jar is left when I’ve finally had enough of pretending to be a bear, but he doesn’t move to leave.
I ask if he’s going to follow me home. He says nothing. I tell him he can if he wants to. Again, nothing. I start walking, and he follows at my side. I know he’s not going to say anything ever, so I fill the silence. I tell him I’m grateful for the sweets, I tell him about how his various components are made, I tell him I’ve never met anyone made of nothing before. I tell him it’s a rare opportunity for a smith to work so much on the inside of something. He says nothing. I tell him again how much I like the candy.
It occurs to me that maybe filling me with sugar is as close as he can get to filling someone else’s empty armor with trinkets. I’m not sure if that’s really why he does it. I tell him I don’t have room to be filled with anything on the inside, not like him. I’m not a container for much besides food. He offers me another piece of candy. Maybe he likes containing something, the way I like to feel full. Maybe it’s nothing at all.
—
I didn’t edit this even a little bit. Thanks for reading!
10. In a gaudy temple. The fee was exorbitant for something most acolytes can do, but time was of the essence. The higher quality oil they anoint your face and shoulders with smells nice and the sun shines through a stained glass window that has your favorite color.
9. An inn where you've been sweating into the sheets of a rented bed for a few days. The revelry downstairs makes it difficult to hear what the old woman that freed you told your friends. But they look relieved to have you back and you're relieved to be back.
8. Out in a field, where the wild grasses still benefit from the blood that spilled there a lifetime ago. A spirit that looks like you, in a uniform you never wore, grasps your shoulders. You're told to hold tight as the spirit goes to find aid. They never return. You never tell what happened once the others notice your return.
7. Stuck in the middle of a crowd awaiting an execution. The conflict you felt about the punishment disappeared when the blade met the wood beneath. Around you, others blink and shake their heads as if just awaking, feeling the same release as you.
6. On a slab in a morgue. Your returned breath caused the mortuary assistant to drop her tools. The resulting clatter woke you up. She screamed, you fought to remove the sheet covering your face, and the mortician laughed at the both of you when they made it down the steps.
6. In the space that was once your childhood bedroom. It's not a room anymore, the walls fell away to nature or some other force. The metal skeleton of a bedframe gives a support structure to vining plants that drape around a stone carving of a rabbit. You forget what exactly you placed in front of the carving as you try to find your way back to the road.
5. On the field of combat, sounds of pain, exertion, and metal impacting leather and wood finally breaking through the ringing that's been drowning you for ages. The person you were preparing to swing your weapon at has an open hand extended to you. You take it and help them up.
4. At midnight, sitting in the dust of a rural crossroads intersection. Next to you sits an older man in a wrinkled suit. He glances over at you and smiles, like you're a pleasant surprise. With a chuckle, he claps your shoulder and uses it to push himself up to his feet. By the time you think to ask any questions, he's long gone.
3. In the arms of a stranger on a busy festival dance floor. You return to yourself for the first time you can recall as someone whose name you don't remember teaches you the steps to a dance you'll never forget. Music and laughter and spices and frying batter. The person that stumbles home in your shoes later that night is someone you've never been yet.
2. In the early hours before dawn, sitting in front of a headstone. It's not yours but it could have been. The person who rests under it still owes you money. You are finally realizing that you no longer feel like you would give up the rest of your possessions to bring them back. You can feel them laughing at you for taking so long to get to this point. You didn't bring flowers, but the small pile of plucked grass blades you made while talking to the headstone counts in the only way that matters.
she is a princess and you are a dragon. she will be married tonight. do not keep standing outside of her room like that, go inside. go get her. that is what proper dragons do.
not that you have ever been a good or proper dragon. when you hatched out of your egg, your eggtooth was too smooth. the other dragons were rough with you, put little holes in your wings.
you were not bold. you were odd. you liked rippling water and the shine of chitin when bugs scuttle and of course the movement of the stars. those were all acceptable interests albeit maybe not traditional. perhaps you had inherited these through some great-great-uncle or something. certainly a dragon may be wise, or clever, if they are not bold.
yes, you have been a great deal of a puzzle to the other dragons. your body is smaller and rather more soft than it ought to be. so speed should have been yours, perhaps - your mother said it would be like fighting a shadow. if a dragon is not aggressive, it may instead be cruel, sly; a backstab. but alas your scales - so iridescent that they almost shine like the moon at night, a glow from within - you are not a shadow, you are a beacon like the flash of a knight's blade. your father has said at least you would make a fine egglayer, a nice mate to a good male. a dragon like you may still be a good mother perhaps; and that is a fine thing to be; although of course it would have been better if you'd been a trove-hoarder instead.
what a dragon must not be is kind.
you have watched her now for six moons. what a good and proper dragon would do is to go inside and to snatch her. a very proper dragon would have kidnapped her many times over, but you will be the delight of your brood to princess-snatch even at all. when you catch her in your jaws and bring her home, they will love you, then. they don't think you're capable of it, but you are, because you're a proper dragon. you can show them that. if you go in, now, right now.
you are rather too glossy to hide in the shadows, so instead you have learned how to appear flat and round, a puddle of light. (how your siblings would mock you! a dragon should be matte, to blend with the night). you dapple your flank with mud. you perch in odd angles atop of trees, scuttle like the bugs you love - hither, tither, frantic.
what you must not do is fly with your wings full-out. alight, you will be limned by the moon's corona. you will be a beacon. you must remember this when (not if) you snatch her.
____
you found her because of the lake. this lake in particular was your favorite - nestled deep in the woods, between two mountains. it is very quiet; there is nothing to horde there so no other dragon bothers you. a gentle waterfall spills over into a deep cove, and there are many mossy caves you've spent your afternoons napping in. while it is not proper for a dragon to prefer such things, you like to lay in rolling tenure just under the water. you have become excellent at holding your breath, can do it for hours. it is the easiest way to appear as a patch of sunlight.
she was not sunlight. she was the night's joy. the dark press of water. her face at first concealed by many diaphanous layers. her breathing quick and quiet.
she had pulled them back to drink from her water flask. and there she had been: a princess. your first very-real princess. right there, only the reach of a single talon from you. if you had simply lunged then, you would have been able to take her easily, in one single movement.
but you did not take her.
she had startled you a bit; you'd been daydreaming about music, which you'd just discovered, and rather liked. you'd heard it from a little house while you snuck in and stole their sheep.
but you knew the sound of fear, of being followed. you'd been chased too many times, you knew what it looked like. the rapid jolt of fear.
you smelled her then; cinnamon and onyx, and perhaps that was what had blinded you. perhaps your mouth was just watering. whatever the case, you waited until she had fled back into the forest; and then you waited a bit longer. in her wake, a garrison of men, their hands rough.
oh. so they were not knights. they were just men chasing a young woman through the woods. perhaps they did not even know a real princess had been running from them. well, that was a relief. you are not good at fighting with knights, who have swords instead of cudgels. these were just men, so you rose from the water in the quiet way you'd learned from the fish. they did not hear you coming.
and besides. proper dragons do violence so well.
___
once you had smelled her you could find her, although such things have always been easier for you than for the others. you spend a great deal of time studying things - it allows you to analyze them. you have tried to explain to the other dragons that sometimes it is best to slow down, but of course no dragon should be slow.
at first you did not understand the confusion of the people's umwelt. they relied so much on their communication (only words and actions!) and what they could see with their eyes. you and the other dragons did not use these as much; but you liked prying out the little sonic differences between hello that means "i like you" and hello that means "i don't like you."
so it took you a while to learn that you were responsible for what had happened to her. men had gone missing, and even bad men going missing makes a big fuss. (you know that if it had been girls missing, it would be okay. many proper dragons steal girls because it will not bring a knight to their door). for a while she had been trapped on the palace grounds. it was determined that it was no longer safe for her to be just a princess, she must undergo some human transformation and become a wife.
even so. you had gone looking for her (only to study, of course, so you may know how to snatch her best). but that night you saw her descending from the window of a castle, quick and agile, moving like a whisper, clad almost entirely in black. you could see her quite well of course, although you were not seeing her; but instead her heat and her smell and her sound and all the other sensory noise all humans give off.
you followed her, keeping yourself in a cloud so you appeared as if mist. she stole off into the woods. you were interested in that, and watched her scuttle - although of course you could have taken her then, you wanted to study your prey as best as you could. she did not seem to do much in the woods, only run around cry into her little hands.
she appeared to be looking for something. she did not get far that first night; scurried back to her bed. over and over this happened - she would run as far as she could, only to go back again. it seemed rather boring to you, but of course you had been free your whole life.
and then one night - finally, she arrived at the lake. she sank to her knees then, her hands pressing into the water. her head tilted to the sky. her dark hair spilling in a caught breath behind her.
this is how you heard her voice for the first time. when she came again the next night, she did so more quickly, more assured. straight to the lake, as if it had called her.
she had skipped a pebble over the surface of the water. this action was dangerous, because it almost hit the sail of your wing. you had structured yourself very finely to look like a rockslide.
"three months." her voice was like her: it was deep and smooth and dark, a low violin string. "they want me to marry that bastard in three months."
and then she cried into her hands again, and the sound of it almost broke you.
you followed her maybe more than a proper dragon should, after this. more than just back to the castle and her bed. you hid along her daily walks and watched her in the throne room and saw her out riding horses. she was good with dogs and nice to her people and very much a proper princess, although you had heard it said a proper princess ought not to slip out at night and run around barefoot through the woods.
you discovered she is terrible with directions. you have often had to make a path more clear so she could get home again. she cannot hunt better than an egg; you have had to kill fish and push them subtly up to the shore.
but she appears to love the lake as much as you do. you have seen her read by candlelight (how foolish. the entire woods saw her each time). you have seen her build little paper boats to float along the surface. you have seen her strip her many layers and dive in, have seen her lay with her belly to the sky, floating like she is suspended by the hands of darkness itself.
oh. so she loves the stars, as well, then.
__
you must go in. she will be married tonight. that is a human thing, but you have since learned what it has meant. she will go to somewhere else, and you will not see her again, maybe ever. and then how will you be a proper dragon? go!
you have made yourself in the form of a gargoyle, hiding in the white stone. you can see into her room; and the tapestries that seem unlike her. everything in her room is very bright, which is bad for a proper dragon. there are many knights in the hallways and in their rooms, and their smell is itchy and repugnant to you.
her dress is white, which does not seem like her. you have only seen her wear black. she is sitting at some kind of desk, and she is crying again. she smells of cinnamon still, but moreso of grief. you can feel the heartbreak in her as if it was inside of you.
you cannot watch her cry anymore. you have watched too often without moving. that is shameful.
you nose the door open. you can move quiet, because you are not very big. she is within a cave of you, then a wingtip, and then she is standing up, looking into your eyes.
"it's you." her hand on your jaw is warm. "i thought i was imagining you, you know. i turned around that day. i saw what you did to those men. i have been looking for you since. i told everyone that i had an angel to protect me. they locked me in here anyway."
you are not an angel, you are a dragon. you have to keep your wings locked tight or you would explode the walls of this place. it makes you feel big, suddenly. you are not used to that sensation. you do not like to be locked in a tower. you believe maybe the princess does not like to be locked in a tower either.
you take her in your jaws. she is very small, and does not resist you. although you are not a strong flyer, you must take off in a single push. any other movement would be too slow. you must also hold your breath so you do not smell her, the clove and cinnamon and little bird of hope. your mouth would water and you would drop her.
against the full moon, you do the thing that is impossible. you stretch yourself out all the way, a bold and beaming arrow, and you fly. you can hear them cry about you now, loudly. a banner that would strike pride even into your father: dragon. dragon. dragon.
on the eve of her wedding, you snatch the princess from her tower.
an arrow whisks for you, and then dozens, and then hundreds. you are not afraid of pain. you have learned long ago how to fly with holes in your wings. you hold her very gently still, and you push past the smell of your blood.
in the night you are a star. someone somewhere could look up and see you and make a wish.
there will be another lake, you decide. you can find another lake. somewhere very, very far from here. however long you must fly, however long you must hold your breath: you will take her home, because you are a proper dragon.
___
sometimes they come for her, your treasure. you have built her a little castle here, deep in the forests off the map. and of course for you: a silver round lake like the shift of her iris. you bring her books and she brings you bugs to study. you let her saddle you, and together you ride through the clouds and fog banks. she is a shadow on your back; a warm and velvet thing. she makes you music and lives the way she should; free in the night like a promise.
but they do come. you have stolen a real princess, and they do not want her to be a princess. they want to make her into a brood mother, or into bait, or into prey. they always look into the caves first; into the places proper dragons stay. they are real knights, not just men with sticks. they are loud and their smell still makes you itch.
but she has made you brave now, and cunning. if a dragon is not big, it should be cunning. and since you are a proper dragon, and since your treasure is your most precious thing, you lay in wait.
let them come. you will let the light drip off of you, and then you will pour through them.
afterwards, your princess will tell you a story around the fire. she will patch your wounds as she did that first time. she will sing to you.
and in that moment, neither of you will be a title nor a story. she will just be herself, and you will just be you.
"What's that you got there?"
The bird croaked and fluttered down the branch, the little orange ball still in one set of talons. Ruff frowned, walking along the hedge. It wasn't really a hedge, but kind of a hedge - he didn't know gardening terminology. It was a fence made of those trees that stay low and can have their branches stretched and grow long out to either side, like it had been flattened against paper. Evenly spaced, the trees' branches all tangled with the next one in the line, so every four feet or so, there would be a tree trunk, then another four feet and a thicker knot of branches and foliage where it held hands with the next. Ruff paced along the marching line of tree-hedge as the bard kept hopping and fluttering along. Not once did it actually take flight, proper flight. Once it dropped the little orb, and Ruff lunged for it, but the bird was too quick, fitting its beak around it and gliding another fifteen feet or so along the tree-fence. Then it perched on the very tippy-top of a tree, gripping the ball in one foot so it could preen itself, like it was proud.
Ruff huffed. This was stupid. It was probably just some toy - ping-pong ball, maybe, or a bouncy ball that they sold in machines and he always got in trouble for buying and then throwing it as hard as he could against the floor of the little interstitial hallway that had the bathrooms, connecting the Dairy Queen to the next door Chevron gas station.
That was a world away. Not literally, but it was absolutely an ocean away, and most of a continent. At least two flights and one long misery over the Atlantic. It felt like a world away to Ruff, though. The people here weren't like the people back home, and not just because they were in different countries, different cultures.
They literally weren't like the people back home.
Supposedly, Ruff wasn't, either. He breaks into a jog this time, but when the bird spots him getting closer, it starts its little hop-flutter-hop-hop-hop-flutter away from him. Ruff felt the rumble in his chest before he heard it - a low, rumbling growl, rolling over itself. The bird froze, and Ruff stopped short, clamping a hand over his mouth.
He didn't make those noises. He told himself that. He didn't make them, because he wasn't one of them. But if he wasn't one of them, why couldn't he cross the property line? He could jump the hedge-trees, or go through one of the four gates, or take an axe from the shed and just have at it. Thinking about the axe made his fingertips itch and burn, the way his roommate's cutlery had just two weeks ago.
Ruff licks his lips. He doesn't growl. He's not - not like them. He just doesn't want to leave. It's a nice place - a massive house, rooms full of privacy so that he can spend literal days without seeing another soul. Food's dropped off in his sitting room in his suite, and he still hasn't seen who's actually bringing it to him. He has an idea, because he can go into the kitchen and he's seen the folks who work in there, all day every day.
The bird is stopped still, cocking its head and staring at him. Ruff stares right back at it. Well, if that was him growling - and he's not admitting it - he's also not meowed, or hissed.
Bird. He's heard the birdsong around here, and this black one is harsher, but not bad to hear. Ruff, feeling foolish, opens his mouth, and a hoarse caw escapes his throat.
The bird lifts its head. Then it launches itself off the tree into flight - proper flight, this time. Ruff is too surprised to hold out his hand in time. The little glowing orange ball bounces off his tennis shoes, and the bird lands on his shoulder, whispering into his ear.
this is from a writing game back in september, but i wasn't as happy with it as the other two trailmix & cloudtape bits. still, for the sake of continuity! ish.
Trailmix's forked tails swish back and forth. She's never seen this much water. Home's got a little pond, just deep enough that most of them can paddle around a little bit, toes barely brushing the muddy bottom. This isn't a pond.
Cloudtape says it's the ocean. Their last - Trailmix's last errand had dropped them here, no warning, and Trailmix had panicked and flailed as the water dragged at her thick fur and feathers and salt flooded her mouth, until Cloudtape's talons grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and dragged her onto a haphazard assembly of planks.
It floats, even with the both of them on it. It's hot out here, which Trailmix doesn't understand, because when she splashes some of the water up, it's still cool, but the hot sun overhead dried them both off in a couple hours. Well, Cloudtape's feathers dried off a lot quicker, but Trailmix is so thick with fur that she still feels a little damp.
She broods in the center of what Cloudtape calls a raft and stares at the endless water around them. Neither of them understand what this errand's supposed to be; the elders never gave 'em much information. Trailmix would've forgot anyway, so she'd let Cloudtape take the cracked wordscreen for safe keeping. It isn't very helpful.
There's a tall, thick pole in the middle of the raft, with a triangular stretch of well-patched cloth hanging from it. Trailmix can feel when the wind grabs it and pulls them along, but she can't really figure out how to keep it like that. Cloudtape's not working on it, either, even though she found what's called a rudder. She told Trailmix that they'll just end up where they need to go, one of the others back home had something like this in their errands, and they just gotta sit and wait it out.
So they sit and wait it out until Trailmix realizes that the sun's going down and nothing in the scenery has changed. It's pretty; it's hard to get an uninterrupted view of the horizon like this at home, unless they climb all the towers, and then Trailmix always gets in trouble for that. Back home though she sees neverending swells of thick, glossy green trees. Not just... water. They can't even drink this water; when Trailmix tried, she'd spat it right back out.
She hunkers down, scowling at the water, and thinks about how stupid this all is. Then she immediately feels bad about thinking about how stupid this all is, 'cause it's holy errands, and important, and Trailmix has to do them.
She's happy to do 'em, but Trailmix doesn't do sittin' down very well, especially not when there's nowhere to go besides the sittin' down.
the writing game i did june 15 was just really good for me and i'm very happy with the three rounds i did xD just please remember that these are not edited at all lmao. picture prompt included for this one bc it gives context. apologies for no credit, i don't know where the other person in the game got it from.
Please turn back.
lol. wish i could.
it's not safe behind me, either, where i was. i can see the sign looming out of the darkness, a rearing horse; takes me a sec before i realize it's decapitated. the lit-up sign gets bigger and bigger, and then it's nothing but a streak of red, blue, and yellow lights going by me, and then i don't see it anymore. not unless i check the bike's one remaining rearview mirror, which i don't want to, because then i'll see the other lights.
don't look at the lights
i know.
seriously, chaff, DON'T LOOK AT THE LIGHTS
I KNOW!
i might've shouted that out loud. doesn't matter tho, cuz the only things that can hear me are still long behind me. still following, though, as the motorcycle keeps carrying me on into the west, into the last dregs of a sunset i wish i'd been able to actually stop and appreciate. at least the sun's not in my eyes anymore, even tho the helmet's shade-shifting visor's really good at blocking out the searing rays. now it's adjusted to the dark, though, clear as day for me. well, except it's getting night, not day.
semantics are stupid and they don't matter and i can say what i fuckin want.
stop cursing
sorry, dad. i roll my eyes, tho not anyone's there to see or hear.
the road's not as smooth as it was on the base. it's not ill-maintained, either, just kinda rough. every few feet, regularly, there's a ba-dump on each wheel as it zips over some slightly ridged imperfection that happened when they first laid it. i wonder why some roads do that, have that miniscule ridge every ten or five or whatever feet. they keep trying to twist my front tire arounds.
i want to look back. are they still coming? i wish i had music, but i didn't have the time to register the helmet to me; the HUD won't activate no matter how many times i wink and blink like there's something in my eyes. cuz there's nothing in my eyes. there isn't. it's just the very end of twilight that's got my vision blurry and nothing's in my eyes or coming out of my eyes and fuck there's another sign?
DON'T TURN BACK
IT'S TOO LATE NOW
The horse is decapitated this time, but its still flailing its legs. i suck in a breath and roll on the throttle, pushing the bike even faster and fuckin grateful it's not one of the old-style clutch bikes. i can ride those, too - they're my fave, actually, but i haven't ridden since the lights - the other lights - got me the first time and these new ones are faster, anyway. at least the ones owned by the lights, used by their sec guys, with their fancy helmets that take forty-five minutes to jailbreak so i can use them. at least i was able to just plug in to the bike and it accepted me immediately.
another sign's coming up. i don't want to look but my eyes are dragged towards the red-yellow-blue lights.
the horse's head and body are both dropped now, the pool of blood from the severed neck wrapping around new text:
i have done another 10 minute writing game in a server and oops these two lil peoples came up again. i wish i'd reread the first bit bc the voice is completely different but whatevsss
Trailmix stares up at the stepped hills. She's gotten a quarter of the way up, but she'd really thought that they were farther. Cloudtape's farther, of course, her wings helping. The feathers are finally starting to grow back in for both of them, after Cloudtape forced them to tear out the clipped pinfeathers. Trailmix's are growing more slowly. She still remembers Cloudtape's sharpened finger-talons digging into the back of Trailmix's furry neck, as she yanks out each feather, one-by-one, on all four wings. She remembers the finger-talons soothing her after as Trailmix tried not to cry.
But with the clipped feathers gone, they just need to wait for new ones to grow in. Then these giant, endless hills won't be a problem again. Trailmix's split tail waves back and forth as she gathers herself on her haunches, then leaps up to the next level. This one's higher than the others, and Trailmix's back paws have to scrabble at the green-covered fence before she can push herself up onto the next ledge.
Three more, and Trailmix is caught up with Cloudtape. Cloudtape sits on a rock in the level, even green grass that tickles Trailmix's stomach if she walks on all fours. Taking a drink of water, Cloudtape gives her one look, mutters, "Finally," then glances away again.
Trailmix is grateful for the rest. Cloudtape's the one who decides, though, when they stop. This stop must be because she knows Trailmix's weak stamina is running out, and Trailmix can't help but nervously shrink into herself. She can't disappoint Cloudtape - after all, she's doing Trailmix a favor, a great favor, by coming with her. Trailmix has no idea how the elders allowed it, but none of them had questioned the arrangement.
Like Cloudtape, Trailmix lifts her gaze. Every day since they left has been a wonder. They've been in these hills for three days, climbing one after the other to a clouded ridge that seems so far and so high away still, but Cloudtape says that's where they must go, and Cloudtape's right. Trailmix tried to navigate them once, and when their raft ended up down a big lizard's throat and Cloudtape lost a tailfeather saving Trailmix's foolish hide, she meekly agreed to let Cloudtape direct them from thereon out. But even after three days, and with a brief rest, Trailmix can still marvel at the sight.
Mountains as big as the one they'd left at home roll on and on, and the ledges are built into the sides. Sometimes the ledges are just pools of water, and Trailmix's thick fur is still damp and heavy from the last time she'd fallen in one. These latest have just been soft and green. Trailmix isn't sure what they must be harvesting from them, but Cloudtape says it's still spring, so whatever it is hasn't ripened for harvest yet.
Cloudtape is still for another three seconds. Trailmix is still panting for breath when Cloudtape stands on her long, spindly legs and turns to face the rising hill they're climbing. She puts away the water without offering any to Trailmix, so Trailmix just puts a few stalks of whatever this plant is into her mouth and chews for the moisture, watching Cloudtape stretch out her wings and give a few futile flaps.
Disappointed, Cloudtape huffs, then says shortly, "Let's keep moving."
Someone mentioned how they were having a hard time creating a world for their fantasy fiction geographically because they kept reinventing the island of Britain, which also happened to my good close enemy George R. R. Martin. I would like to suggest North Carolina. I know that sounds absolutely ridiculous but North Carolina has an awesome geographic setup for a fantasy kingdom, I think. Inhospitable barrier islands, constantly shifting shoals in the sound, swamps with alligators, venomous snakes and carnivorous plants, lots of very flat and somewhat sparsely populated farmland, foothills, mines, mountains full of mysterious phenomenon that were originally very difficult to navigate and people still get lost in today. It kind of rocks.
There are actually 36 carnivorous plant species native to North Carolina, roughly half of all carnivorous plant species in the United States are found in North Carolina! I added the carnivorous plant detail because that’s something I love about the state. We have so many fucking bugs that the plants keep evolving to eat them.
I love that giant man eating Venus flytraps are worldbuilding staples in untamed tropical fantasy settings but they’re actually native to a small region in the Carolinas.
And I agree with the notes, the Chesapeake Bay + Great Dismal Swamp (partially in NC anyway) and the South Carolina Lowcountry would be good geographic additions to this.
HIIIIII!!!! I am a big fan, I followed you from Rrrwarf-writes and I LOVE LOVE LOVE Winn and Rembrandt’s story, I remember binging it multiple times, and it was like a treasure hunt scanning the tags on your blog to find the story parts—
Are you going to continue the story? Or have you in your spare time and off Tumblr? This isn’t meant as a pressure to write more, I just adored that series and Winn and Rembrandt were such good characters, and Jonas, of course and Rhianon ((?? Is that her name? Rebecca??? Something like that, it began with an R)
Anyways!!! Just wanted to say I loved your writing — and still do when I do a re-binge, hehehe — and hope you’re having a good day🥰
oh my goooosh ;3; thank you so much! this means the world to me <3
i'm definitely working on more winn & remy (& others) now! it's going very slowly because i need to change stuff i've already posted asfhafdgl. i do feel bad in that a lot of the stuff i post is not always "canon" or connected to other pieces, but one day when i get medicated buckle up, it's gonna be so good >:K
(it is rhiannon <3 )
lil sneak peek just for u~ uwu
"I wonder about you." Rembrandt straddled his waist. He set the little contraption next to Winn's head, then reached back to pull out the pair of gloves tucked into the bag. He looked down at Winn as he pulled them on, head slightly tilted to one side. "From the start, you've always wanted to fight everyone. It doesn't seem to matter that every time, you lose."
He braced one hand on the floor next to Winn's head; Jonas let go of Winn's shoulders, pulling back to give Rembrandt room to lean in. Winn shuddered as Rembrandt cupped the side of his face, running his thumb over the cut along his cheekbone.
"Do you like this?" Rembrandt was so close Winn could smell the mint on his breath. He squirmed, wanting nothing more than to get away. He flinched when Rembrandt dug his thumbnail into the cut, pulling down until the scab cracked, letting new crimson leak through. "Because I can't think of many other reasons you spent all that time practically begging for my attention. Ruining all my plans, stealing everything you could get your filthy little hands on, knowing that I'd always, always catch you again."
He smeared the blood across Winn's cheek, a sly smirk tugging at his lips. "I'd take that tape off, if I didn't already know what you'd say. And I don't miss the sound of your screaming. Not yet, anyway."
If you're writing anything involving cons, scams, heists, or morally questionable characters who are very good at lying, here are some free resources I've been using for research. Saving you the "why is this in my search history" anxiety.
1. The FBI's Famous Cases & Criminals archive (fbi.gov/history/famous-cases) has detailed breakdowns of real fraud cases, Ponzi schemes, and confidence operations. The language they use is clinical and precise, which is perfect for getting the procedural details right.
2. The FTC Consumer Sentinel Network publishes annual reports on the most common fraud tactics in the US. Great for understanding how modern scams actually work and what makes people fall for them.
3. The Smithsonian's American Art Museum has a free digital collection of forgery case studies. If your character forges documents or art, this is gold.
4. Court Listener (courtlistener.com) is a free legal database where you can read actual court transcripts from fraud trials. Want to know how a real con artist talks under oath? This is where you find out.
5. The Internet Archive's collection of old newspaper crime sections. Search for "confidence man" or "swindle" in papers from the 1920s through 1960s and you'll find incredible real stories that would feel too dramatic for fiction.
Bonus: The Psychology of Fraud section on the Association for Psychological Science website has accessible articles about why people trust, how deception works cognitively, and what makes someone a convincing liar. Essential reading if you want your con artist characters to feel psychologically real.
Reblog to save for later. Your WIP will thank you.
A HANDY CHART FOR THOSE OF YOU WONDERING WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THESE. NOTE THAT THESE ARE ALL THE INFORMAL AND YOU IS THE FORMAL SO LIKE YOU WOULD ALWAYS ADDRESS YOUR SUPERIOR/ OLDER PERSON/ SOCIAL BETTER WITH YOU BUT WITH YOUR BUDS YOU CAN USE THESE.
