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@steelbvtterfly
and if i'm honest, i think i'm beginning to question how much i want this
aeira rose. indie, mostly fandomless, multiverse. a free spirit contained, a butterfly under glass. written by tass, 25+, us central time. selective, friendly, distractable.
mobile information and rules other blogs: rivera siblings | the white hare banner template. image credit.
Some actually useful Questions to get to know your OC better...
↳ What’s your character’s biggest fear and how does it screw up their relationships? Are they terrified of being abandoned? Do they push people away before they can leave? Are they scared of not being enough? Or being too much?
↳ What’s something they’re stupidly passionate about, and how does it drive their entire life? Like that thing they’d fight someone over. That core belief, hobby, or dream that lowkey fuels every decision they make (even when they say it doesn’t).
↳ What’s one childhood memory they can’t shake and how did it shape the way they see the world now?
↳ What weird habits or quirks make them totally them? Do they always talk with their hands? Hum when they’re nervous? Refuse to eat foods that touch?
↳ Do they have a secret talent no one expects? Like, are they surprisingly great at card tricks? Can they play the piano at concert level but never talk about it? Bake the world’s best banana bread?
↳ How do they handle failure?
↳ Who’s had the biggest impact on their life, and why? Friend, enemy, sibling, teacher, ex?
↳ What do they believe in, deep down? Like, what’s their moral compass? What lines won’t they cross? What kind of person are they trying to be, even if they mess up along the way?
↳ Is there an item or feature they’re weirdly attached to? A necklace? A hoodie? A scar? A pair of old sneakers?
↳ Do they have recurring dreams or nightmares? And what do those dreams mean? What are they trying not to deal with while awake?
mmmmmm hm hm hm .
what if the exit of Aeira's scar is the pool.
mmmmmm hm hm hm .
@steelbvtterfly sent : "It's not fancy," she says, and she's right. The blue and white striped gift bag she places on the counter between them is simple, with some white tissue paper on top and a piece of silver ribbon tied around one of the handles. "But I hope you like it." Inside the bag is a jar of spun honey with an embroidered handkerchief between the lid and the ring, and a stack of stained glass sugar cookies wrapped in tulle - each of the gifts also tied with another piece of ribbon and every part of it reusable for some purpose or another.
It may not be fancy, exactly, but it’s beautifully assembled, and Mazie takes her time appreciating it. The gifts are removed from the bag, the packaging carefully folded up and returned to the bag. She moves the cookies to a plate, and can’t resist opening the jar and stealing a taste of the honey.
She smiles at Aeira, eyes bright. “Did you make these?” she asks, delight in her voice. “It’s wonderful, Aeira. It’s all absolutely wonderful.”
She returns the smile, but she's bashful. "Yeah," she says, nodding. "The bees send their love." Immediately she feels a little silly for that comment. Nevermind, though, she pushes the thought aside as best she can. "I'm glad you like it. I wasn't sure about giving cookies to a baker, but they turned out so well I wanted to share, and... What better excuse?"
For the rest of the gift she has no by-the-wayside reason for the care taken, and even for the cookies she's smudging the truth a bit. She's not about to admit that she had made the hard candy 'glass' from scratch, or gone through several test batches specifically to get the blue shade just right...
send me a prompt for one muse to find the other in the following situation:
feel free to specify which muse is in which role
( fury ) : incredibly angry
( hostage ) : held captive for ransom
( frozen ) : suffering from hypothermia
( tears ) : sobbing openly, unable to stop
( haunted ) : trapped in a haunted house
( fall ) : having fallen off a cliff or tall tower
( hungry ) : half starved and malnourished
( splash ) : having fallen into a body of water
( ends ) : having just broken off a relationship
( defend ) : unconscious as the result of a fight
( rest ) : trying to sleep, but unable to fall asleep
( fear ) : having just woken up from a night terror
( ER ) : in the hospital after an injury of some kind
( tall ) : stuck somewhere too tall for them to get down
( feverish ) : suffering from a high fever and severely ill
( soak ) : shivering and drenched to the bone in a rainstorm
( shipwreck ) : unconscious / injured, washed up on a beach
( student ) : getting extremely frustrated while learning new skill
( exhausted ) : too tired to stay standing, too stubborn to lie down
( lost ) : wandering in the middle of nowhere, with no idea where they are
( party pooper ) : alone, surrounded by party decor after no one else showed up
( magic ) : injured as result of a spell. either enemy’s or their own malfunctioning
OLD GODS OF APPALACHIA SENTENCE STARTERS
A collection of quotes from Episodes 0, 0.5, and 1 of the horror podcast Old Gods of Appalachia. Feel free to change pronouns/wording as desired. CONTENT WARNING(S) FOR: Spoilers, horror, death, cursing
“ Folk who live here don’t trust easy. ”
“ There are whole graveyards full of what we’ve learned about outsiders. ”
“ There are places in this world that humanity was never supposed to see. ”
“ Our tongues do not have the shape to speak the true names of what they are… ”
“ They are not evil. They are not of Hell or the Christian devil. They simply * are * . ”
“ We were never meant to be here at all. ”
“ But they didn’t claim the land. The land claimed them. ”
“ How dare we think we could break the skin of a god and try to dig out its heart without bringing forth blood and darkness! ”
“ First come, first served. ”
“ Hanging food from a tree branch will not save it nor you if you are foolish enough to try to camp here. ”
“ They called her a witch. ”
“ They’d never find her body. ”
“ Where this story’s goin’… that’s probably for the best. ”
“ So bear with me now. ”
“ The boy was a liar of course, as many boys are. ”
“ It was nice to have it out in the open. ”
“ Some say that place will find you if it wants you there. ”
“ They feared witchin’ far too much for that. ”
“ Dead was dead. ”
“ Whatever this was though, it thought it was clever. ”
“ Been gone a while, have you not? “
" Oh, you’ve got to try harder than that! ”
“ What are you, her priest? ”
“ Try again, spirit. “
“ Oy, smartass! ”
“ Come back tomorrow. Show me your true face, or don’t come at all. ”
“ Hail, Witch. ”
“ I am no spirit. ”
“ You have not a name for what I am. ”
“ You said you had an offer, so say true or begone. “
“ Death is death in this place, to the point that you speak and understand. But what if you never had to know its sting? ”
" I have land. Don’t you see my fine palace and my sprawling manor grounds? ”
“ All we have to do is wait. ”
“ Come closer. Let us talk… of many things. ”
“ It used to be a schoolhouse. ”
“ The air here is heavy. ”
“ Everybody knows that you don’t climb into the dark earth without her swallowing a few of us whole. ”
“ You do not take from the mother without her taking back. ”
“ It was fair trade though. ”
“ All she asked in return is that we die slowly and without complaint. ”
“ That’s where it started. ”
“ There’s no way to describe what was left. ”
“ A darkness stirred and the path to the world of men stood open. ”
“ The dead, such as they were, were grieved and life went on. ”
“ You just come on with me now and I’ll get you home to your momma. ”
“ Momma’s dead. ”
“ Well ain’t that a shame. ”
“ I can still get you to her though, she’ll be right glad to see you. ”
scars, relaxation, aches
[meme]
scars: how many scars does my muse have? where are they located on my muse’s body? how did they get them? what do they look like?
She's lost count, and to a degree so have I. She has a Y-incision scar on her chest/torso and numerous scars on her arms, all of which were acquired from the injuries sustained from her experiences in the caves. Or at least that's what she'd say if asked. All of those are fully healed but will never get less obvious, and most of them aren't as clean as they might be had they been stitched up properly from the beginning. Aside from those major ones, she has quite a number of scars from general roughhousing and from picking fights throughout her growing up years. All of those are long since healed and nothing she thinks about regularly.
relaxation: what does my muse do to relax? do they find it easy to carve out time to relax?
Working in her garden, spending time with her animals, and reading. She loves a quiet night in with a book and something warm to drink, curled up with a blanket by the fire. She occasionally meditates, but not nearly as often as the others. Taking time for herself is sometimes difficult, depending on what life is throwing at her at any given time, and she can tell from her own stress levels when she hasn't gotten a chance to be by herself and breathe in a while.
aches: does my muse have any frequent aches? ie, muscle aches, joint aches? how do these affect them from day-to-day?
She suffers from chronic pain most of the time. her shoulders and her wrists. her forearms. some of it is just from general wear and tear over a life spent mostly outdoors, and a lot of it is tied to where her scars came from. Most days it isn't severe, and she's very good at hiding it even when it's on the worse end. At baseline, she can mitigate it with pain relief (both pharmaceutical and herbal remedies, depending on the day) and being careful with herself. When it's bad, sometimes she can't get up to her loft to sleep, or she can't get down from it. At the worst, she sometimes doesn't sleep at all.
It's… odd, being in a proper, lived-in house. Strike had only ever seen the run-down ramshackle remains of the towns surrounding Whiskey Flats, when she tagged along for resource gathering, and Synth didn’t even have that, since they spent their entire life before the enclave being moved from one shitty Neon high rise to the next. So neither of them can resist looking around, undisguised fascination on both their faces.
Synth helps Strike keep off her arm as she hops onto the surface, then withdraws to give Aeira space to work, but not so far that Strike can't easily grab them if needed. They don’t like being out of arm’s reach from each other, not for very long.
“So,” Strike starts, “you got a killjoy name, but you ain’t a killjoy, because this ain’t the Zones.”
“We're not the first ones to tumble in,” Synth finishes. It gives them a spark of concern; it means there's probably a way back, if that's what they end up deciding to do.
“How the hell’s that work? No way the ravine’s seen a lotta humans come through.”
“Might not be connected to the ravine,” Synth says reasonably. “Coulda been connected to the dracs, or…”
“Don't say near-death experiences, they're a dime a fuckin’ dozen in the Zones.”
Synth shrugs, hands up in surrender.
After the initial setup, Aeira's turned her attention away from them, though she's listening when they start to speak to her. "Correct!" she says to the first assumption, shoulders deep in a low cabinet as she searches for supplies.
There's really not much she can do for a broken collarbone except help to immobilize it with a sling and give her guest something for the pain, and it's been a minute since she needed a proper sling. It's somewhere in one of these cabinets, she's sure... "Aha!"
She emerges, holding her quarry triumphantly, and refocuses on her guests. The conversation isn't really directed at her anymore, but she's caught the main points. She gets to her feet and returns to them, shaking out the sling as she does so.
"I have to admit I don't know how it works," she says, almost apologetically. "Just that it keeps happening, enough for me to be used to it."
scared sentences for your scared needs … sentence starters
“Hide me!”
“Who’s there?!”
“It wasn’t human!”
“You can’t do this!”
“Get away from me!”
“Don’t let them hurt me!”
“This can’t be happening!”
“Please! Please, help me!”
“I-I know someone’s there!”
“Please… please, I’m scared.”
“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”
“Are you… are you here to hurt me?”
“There’s… there’s something in here.”
“No, don’t make me go in there alone!”
“Stop! Please, stop, you’re scaring me!”
“No, no, no, don’t leave me here alone!”
“No, stop! Stay away! I said, STAY AWAY!”
“I saw it! You have to believe me, I SAW it!”
“Wait! I d-don’t… I don’t know what you want!”
“I’m not lying! It was right there! It was right THERE!”
“Long as they ain’t smilers, we’re prob’ly fine,” Strike answers. It’s not like either of them have a lot of experience with pets, anyway. The porch stairs proved difficult, but not insurmountable, though she’s leaning a little harder into Synth’s side now.
Synth is too worried about her to even notice the sluggishly bleeding scratches on their hands. They’ve done worse to their fingers just trying to build their radio relay—probably destroyed, now. They try not to think about it yet; there will be time to take stock of their losses later, when Strike’s no longer in enough pain to be wholly dependent on them keeping her upright. Still, a faintly haunted look crosses their expression as the realization hits. They’re soothed by a quick glance down to Strike; as long as the two of them have each other, things will be okay.
They hope.
She nods, acknowledging the response. It's been... a while since she's had anyone from their time and place, so the quip is somewhat lost on her. She gets the gist, that's enough. She turns the handle to admit them to the house.
The main door swings into the house, and she glances around to take stock of said pet situation. No sign of Mel, probably sleeping somewhere. That should be an interesting first meeting, if past experience is anything to go on. These two might have different familiarities and experiences to make it less surprising, but... the odds aren't in favor.
After confirming neither currently indoor animal are laying in wait for them, Aeira steps back, holding the storm door open and gesturing for them to go ahead of her.
Once they're through the doorway, she ducks in behind them, cutting around to the side to raise the drop leaf on the side of her kitchen island, just low enough to be easy to sit on - or help someone else sit on, as the case may be. A cursory dust off with her hands and she pats the surface as if to say 'have a seat'.
“Answer,” Strike says, the same time Synth says, “Pain.” Strike starts to protest, but in turning to Synth to argue, moves her arm wrong and nearly drops from the white-hot protest in her shoulder. “Fine,” she grits out. “Pain shit first.”
Synth stands and moves to Strike’s uninjured side. They crouch again, wrap an arm around Strike's waist, and carefully help her to her feet. She trusts her weight to them, focused on keeping her arm immobile to avoid any more flareups.
“You can take a tumble off a bike, but a ravine’s where y’meet yer match,” Synth teases gently.
Strike grins, wrinkling her nose. “Shut up, y’lil fuck. I can prep to fall off a bike, an’ your ass didn’ see the ravine comin’ either.”
“I’m not th’one with a broken collarbone.”
“I’m gonna fuckin’…” but her exhale is more laugh than anything.
Synth meets Trip’s eyes. “I got ‘er,” they say. “Lead the way.”
Her mouth curves just slightly as she listens to them banter - it's not quite a smile, but it's close. She doesn't know yet what their relation to each other is, exactly, but the way they interact reminds her of-- Well, suffice to say it reminds her.
"This way," she says, gesturing for them to follow her.
She doesn't look back at them, trusting that they're following, until she reaches the porch. That appraising look is back as she makes sure they get up the porch stairs without too much casualty, but gone again just as fast in the second before she turns to the door.
She pauses, hand on the doorknob, and looks back at them again. "Either of you got any problem with animals? I've got a couple pets in here, fair warning."
argumentative, confrontational dialogue … sentence starters
“Just open up. For once.”
“Oh my god, just grow up!”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!”
“Stop it, you’re being childish!”
“I told you I’m fine, stop asking.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Just shut up!”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Don’t you owe me an explanation?”
“Why don’t you ever listen to anyone?”
“I’m so tired of listening to you lie, lie lie!”
“Stop, I don’t want to argue. Just let it go.”
“Stop talking down to me. I’ve had enough.”
“Why are you sneaking around here like that?”
“What made you think that any of this was ok?”
“Why… why would you say something like that?”
“Don’t tell me you’re happy. I can see you’re not.”
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Start talking.”
“You’re not perfect! Stop pretending that you are!”
“Why does everything have to be a fight with you?”
“Have you ever told the truth about anything, ever?”
“Talk to me. That’s all I want. Just talk to me, please!”
“Just keep your mouth shut for one second. Just one.”
“Why are you acting like this? What’s gotten into you?”
“You expect me to believe you? After all you’ve done?”
“Can’t you just give it to me straight, for once in your life?”
“Tell me what’s been going on. I deserve that much from you.”
“Why are you always trying to stick your nose in my business?”
“You can’t keep secrets from everyone and expect them to trust you.”
“Something’s up with you, and I’m not letting you go until you tell me what it is.”
“Strike,” she offers. “Synth,” they chime.
The city name throws them both for a bit of a loop; Strike’s quite literally never used her ‘given’ name, barely even remembers it, and it’s been long enough for Synth that even offering it would feel weird. A quick glance between them, and they decide to disregard the city name. “Synth,” Strike says, reaching for them with her uninjured arm, and Synth immediately sets to helping her sit up. She grimaces in pain, cradling her injured arm to her chest.
“Sorry,” Synth murmurs.
“Better’n gettin’ gunsick,” Strike grumbles. “We’re damn lucky we didn't get shot.”
“Or eaten,” Synth agrees.
Upright, Strike has a better view around them. “So, this’s definitely not the bottom’f the ravine we fell down.” She shifts her attention back to Trip. “Where are we? An’ how d’we get back?”
Synth grimaces a little; they’re not sure they want to go back. They’re not sure they have anything to go back to. But they don’t want to bring Strike’s attention to that just yet; the grief can wait at least until she’s in a little less pain.
She sees it, on their faces, when she says her name. She'd thought about leaving off her given name altogether, but to not include it had felt... disingenuous, almost. She's not a 'joy, not really. She understand what they stand for, sure, and she keeps that name in her pocket for just such an occasion but... it's not who she is.
It hardly matters, though, and she discards the thought of it. Keen eyes watch the new arrivals: it's both for the way they interact with each other (which tells her less than you might expect) and for the way Strike is moving (which tells her a LOT about the injury sustained. Cracked collarbone is believable).
Her expression flickers to uncertainty, not quite a grimace but akin to one. "That question... well, it's not hard to answer, exactly, but..." she considers her words, just for a couple of beats. "This is where it might get a little hard to swallow. You're safe here, that much I can promise. Do you want the rest of the answer or something for the pain first?"
One second, they’re running from dracs and smilers. Strike was usually better about skirting smiler territory, but with the attack on the enclave, she had bigger concerns on her mind. If they’re lucky, the dracs and smilers will take each other out before either pose a serious threat to them. The next second, though, they’re tumbling down a ravine neither of them had been aware of, trying to hold on to each other and break the fall. Strike hears something crack, and with the adrenaline coursing through her body, she’s not sure if it came from her or Synth.
The second after, they land… in a planter? The ravine and forest is gone, the mountains are gone, but it’s not like they were deposited in the desert, either, by the green surrounding them. “Synth,” Strike rasps, reaching for them—and is met with white-hot pain and an awful grinding noise in her shoulder. Ah. The crack was her, then, collarbone by the pain. “Synth,” she repeats, a little desperately, afraid to turn her head in case anything else got damaged.
A groan next to her, and Strike nearly sobs in relief. “Where’re we?” Synth mumbles, testing their own limbs. It looks like Strike’s cracked collarbone is the worst of their injuries.
“Dunno. I don’ think-” God, it feels weird saying it, but she can’t think of another explanation.
“Yeah,” Synth agrees, saving her the awfulness of saying it aloud. They manage to sit up, lightly resting their hand on Strike’s arm. They notice the woman first, fingers twitching against Strike.
Strike follows their gaze. “Think I cracked my collarbone,” she says. “Sorry if we fucked up yer… ‘s this mint? Nah, shit’ll be fine.”
Aeira gathers her thoughts and her hair, pulling the latter back into a low ponytail with the scrunchie around her wrist. She bounces onto her toes and back down, shaking out the tension from her muscles, and reaches for the handle of the door. It's always better to be as relaxed as possible for new arrivals, after all. Some have a more... strenuous acclimation ahead of them than others, and the less she exacerbates that, the better.
She closes the front door behind her, crosses the porch in two strides, skips down the short flight of stairs to the garden path. The mint bed is on the far side of the yard, giving her plenty of time to survey the situation. The first thing she notes is movement - good. Alive, conscious, ostensibly not injured to the point of incapacitation. Only one of those has really ever been a concern, but still. It's nice to know.
Seeing a second figure next to the source of the movement is a surprise. It's not unheard of for there to be more than one new arrival at a time, but it's not common by any means. There's no sign of the two of them trying to kill each other, so they're probably a unit, or something near enough. A few more steps and Aeira begins to puzzle out where these two might be from. She notes first the DIY-esque nature of a jacket, second the vibrancy of dyed hair, third a generally battleworn quality of the people before her.
Killjoys.
Without question.
She stops, just a couple of paces off, not close enough to touch or be touched. At the words, her gentle smile splits into a proper grin. "Yeah," she replies. "It's indestructible... Unlike you, though. I don't know there's much I can do for the collarbone, but I can try."
Her stance falls easily into something relaxed and nonthreatening that's a little less practiced. "I'm Aeira, but some people call me Triple Threat - Trip, for short."
She hears the thump and the low tones of the wooden wind-chime before anything else. She's on her feet before she's consciously registered the indication of new arrivals, almost to the door before she halts, gathering her thoughts before she steps out.
It's the mint, again. It's always the mint. It doesn't matter, not really, almost nothing can actually kill that stuff permanently, but sometimes Aeira wonders if she should at least try to move the bed somewhere it'll get crushed less often.
Then again, there's little else green and growing that would make a better or more hardy landing spot, and to build anything more intentional would make for potentially hard to answer questions from the uninitiated. Better to stay the course - if it ain't broke, and all.
What genre of book were you written for and did you survive to the end
Written for a science fiction book so you could live to see the end of the world
You work very hard and never let anything get in your way. Or at least almost anything. You are good at being aware of your surroundings and stand up for what you believe in. Of course this doesn’t always work out, you are witnessing the end of the world after all… but maybe we can just all move to Mars?
