A writeblr sideblog for the original works of @magical-bean. Current WIPs:
| Peacemaker
+ a high fantasy epic following the life of Torin, an exiled monk with the unfortunate task of saving the world.
| Ophelia
+ the story of the eponymous witch who casts spells for the locals by day and runs a rest stop for wayward demons by night.
| Decadence (working title)
+ political intrigue and polyamory take up most of Cassian's life, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Set before the events of Peacemaker.
I'm a little behind (already..... fuk) BUT I've got a PLAN for Fictober 2020!!
This year I planned out each prompt in advance. Usually I get excited in the beginning and burn out later as I try to come up with a new idea every day. Hopefully planning ahead this year will help me avoid the burnout ;w;
Also this year I'm doing fanfic only. I've got 31 Dragon Age fic plans ready!! LET'S GOOOO
Carver Hawke was born to be more than his brother’s shadow.
Little Hawke. Junior. The baby brother. Maker, it never ends. It’s all anyone ever sees.
His mother made it especially easy the day Carver made for the Gallows alone. “What would your brother say if he knew?”
What would he say— piss on it. He’d be furious. He’d ask if a Gallows Templar is what he’d wish on their father, on Garrett himself, maybe he’d even have the audacity to bring Bethany into it.
Carver doesn’t give one moldy shit what his brother would say.
He will be more than his brother. He will define himself as his own man. For all its faults, Kirkwall is a chance for them all to start over. Even if Garrett and his mother squander their chances, Carver won’t follow them.
Knight-Captain Cullen is a good man. A good soldier. Carver hopes his armor may fit as well as the Knight-Captain’s does someday. Unfortunately, Cullen spends less time training recruits these days. It’s not with him that Carver learns the ropes, but under a sergeant — Malden, he’s called. Some of the more experienced Templars avoid Malden, and Carver’s heard whispers that he’s hard. Too hard. From the outside he’s rough, sure. And perhaps none of the girls at the Blooming Rose catcall to Malden like they do to Cullen and even Carver, but what does that matter? Carver braced for the worst, but Malden is fair to the new recruits.
“You’ve pledged yourselves to a worthy cause,” Malden had said. “The city guard may uphold the law, but we are the order.”
Law and order. Carver likes that. If Kirkwall must be his home, then he will make it a home to be proud of.
It was Malden who eased Carver through his first lyrium dosing. Malden who clapped him on the back, told him he was proud, knew Carver was tough enough to endure it easily. Thinking back on it, the moment still makes Carver’s chest swell.
He’d turned some heads with his swordplay already. Even the Knight-Commander took notice. Sergeant Malden had told him, “Keep it up, boy. You’ve got a future here.”
Carver clings to those memories. To the thought that he can be somebody — and that someone else acknowledges him. Carver clings to them more tightly than he’d ever clung to his mother’s hand when he learned to walk, to Garrett’s shirt when he was scared, to the wild hope of glory at Ostagar.
He clings even when he sees her across the training yard: a young girl, no doubt a mage, brought sobbing into the Gallows with a five-Templar escort.
They have to half-carry, half-drag the girl in; the tears come so hard she can’t even walk. Behind him, a couple of the recruits chuckle at the spectacle. But not Carver. Nor Sergeant Malden. He watches them drag her into the Circle tower. For a moment, he swears he hears his sister’s voice in those horrible cries.
He shakes it off, disquieted.
Sergeant Malden exchanges a few words with another Templar, who then passes him a small scroll. Malden looks it over, not a twitch of expression on his face, and immediately looks to Carver.
“Boy. With me.”
Carver follows at Malden’s heels. Part of him grumbles his frustration at being spoken to like Garrett summoning their mabari, but he shushes that inner voice. The less he thinks of Garrett, the better.
Here, his only family is the Order.
Malden leads him into the Circle to a small holding room on the first floor. The mage girl from the courtyard is shackled to the wall. Her small hands look like they could slip right through the manacles, but all the fight seems to have gone out of her. Two Templars man the inside of the cell, and two more guard from the outside.
Bit excessive for her — she can’t be more than ten, maybe twelve — but Carver has seen enough by now to know he can’t ever let his guard down. Malden nods to the guards, who let him in the cell. He beckons for Carver to follow.
“This is how we separate the strong from the weak,” Malden says. “You can sing the Chant, you can best your peers on the training pitch… but when it comes time to wet your blade, do you have the stomach for it?” Malden pauses, looks Carver straight in the eyes. “Do you, boy?”
“I did that plenty at Ostagar, ser,” Carver says. He squares his shoulders, but Malden notices him glance uncertainly at the chained up mage girl.
“So they tell me.” Malden nods to one of the Templars, who unfastens the girl’s wrist. She sniffles and flinches away, scrabbling at her dirty tunic with her free hand. “Today is the day we test you in the only way that matters. Carver Hawke, you will make your first phylactery.”
The grizzled sergeant pushes a rounded contraption in Carver’s palm. A ring of gold encircles an empty glass vial. At one end is a small hole in the metal to allow the vial to fill.
It’s… smaller than he expected. He’s never seen a phylactery in person before.
Whether or not the girl knows what a phylactery is, she knows enough to be afraid when she sees bare steel. Carver unsheathes the small dagger at his waist and her eyes go round. She shrinks back against the wall, blunt nails scraping at the stone. She cries out for her father, sobbing when the other Templars yank her back around and hold out her shaking arm.
Carver stops. He considers putting his dagger away. Again, he hears something of his sister in those pitiful wails. Then he sees Malden. It’s like the sergeant reads his mind. And Malden does not order him to do it — does not get angry or yell or even berate him for being weak.
He is disappointed, but not surprised. And that — that is worse than anything else.
“Leave her,” Carver says to the Templars. “Just let go of her. I’ll handle it.”
They don’t listen to him, but look to Malden. When the sergeant nods, they back off. The girl still cowers and cries. Carver kneels down in front of her. “Hey,” he says. “It’s all right. It’s scary right now, but it’ll get better soon.” He’s never exactly had a comforting personality, but he has to try. “My name’s Carver. I’m new here, too. Can you tell me your name?”
She peers down at him, glassy brown eyes bloodshot from smoke, by the smell of her. She reeks of fire and ash. Her tunic is singed, and so are some bits of her hair.
“Kira,” she says.
“Good to meet you, Kira,” he says. “People say some bad things about the Circle here, but we’re trying to help. It’s better for everyone if you learn to use your magic safely. Better for you, too.”
He trails off, unsure of how to transition the conversation towards cutting her before Malden gets impatient. She mumbles, “You talk funny.”
“I get that sometimes,” he says. “I’m Fereldan.”
“They have dogs in Fereldan? Those big ones?”
“Mabari. Yeah. You like dogs?”
Her jaw trembles but she nods.
“I have a mabari. Well, my brother does. Maybe the next time I visit home, I’ll bring the old mutt up here to meet you.”
“Does he bite?”
“Not even if I was getting pummeled in the street,” Carver assures her. “Big coward, he is. Got the brains of a mouse.”
Did she just smile? No, he’s probably imagining things. Trying to make himself feel better about this, too. “Kira,” he says, “we’ll make sure to get you some fresh clothes and food soon. First, I just need to take a bit of your blood. Can I have your hand?”
She doesn’t ask what for. She doesn’t ask if it will hurt. Clearly she knows the answer to both already. She flexes her fingers and looks down at them with her lower lip between her teeth. The Templar to her left lets out an irritated grunt. “Andraste’s tits. We haven’t got all day. Give him your fucking hand, you little hellbeast.” He gives her a shove for good measure.
Carver nearly snaps at him, but Kira extends her shaking arm to Carver. She ducks her head against her chest, silent as the grave.
The blade is sharp, so it hurts less and heals cleaner. But it doesn’t make Carver feel any less guilty for pressing the blade against her wrist. He holds the phylactery under her wound to catch the blood, holds her hand steady so she doesn’t squirm away and make it any harder on herself. And he talks to her. He tells her about the mabari, about how dumb and goofy he is, how much he likes it when he gets scratched behind the ears. Maybe it doesn’t make it better. But he hopes. Maker, he hopes.
When it’s full, the phylactery magically seals itself shut. The blood inside of it glows a bright, piercing scarlet.
“There,” he says. “All done. See? You’re all right.”
He wraps a clean cloth around her wrist until a healer can see to her. The worst is over now. She can settle in, clean up, and be around other mages who will help her acclimate to her new life. She’ll be all right now.
The Templars take her from the cell, but Sergeant Malden stays behind, so Carver does too. He cleans his dagger off without looking up.
“You look rather green, Hawke.”
“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s just — she’s a child. It’s hard.”
“Hard?” Malden says. “That’s the easy part.”
Maybe somewhere in the back of his head, Carver knows that. He tries to ignore it, but he knows.
“We’ll begin the Harrowing shortly.”
And just like that, Carver knows nothing. He jerks his head up. He must have heard wrong.
“Her Harrowing?”
Malden lifts an eyebrow.
“She’s a little girl. She’s not even properly trained,” Carver says. “And she just got here. She’s tired and stressed and — if you make her do this now, she’ll fail.”
“Three of your brothers-in-arms died in Darktown trying to subdue her sister, who became an abomination. That ‘little girl’ killed one of them herself, defending the demon,” Malden tells him. “Sympathy is weakness, Hawke. It is silent death. Either cut that weakness from your heart like a tumor, or it will kill you first.”
With that, Malden strides out of the cell, leaving Carver alone within. He cannot will his legs to follow. Then the footsteps stop, and Malden calls back, “You will attend the Harrowing. If she fails, it will be your blade that fells her. That is an order, Hawke.”
Lmao did I seriously get called a bootlicker for holding the terrible oppressive opinion of “authors deserve to be paid for their work”? You’re not a radical for distributing other people’s creative work for free you’re just a dick.
Fucking wild how many of these people seem to believe both that books are so vital that it’s necessary they’re immediately available to everyone at no cost, and also that authors are bougie scum who contribute nothing to society, have nothing of worth to say, don’t deserve to be paid or not have their job security undermined, and should find another job… and they see no contradiction in this. Absolutely amazing.
#this is honestly not an exaggeration I have seen all of this in the past hour #also loving the assumption across the board that all authors are white able-bodied financially stable and otherwise not marginalized #which is HILARIOUSLY inaccurate in the circles I run in #and by loving I mean I want to punch people
#‘oh but if you buy books it goes to the publisher not the author’ #yeah usually but if you buy books it tells the publisher it’s worth buying ANOTHER book from that author #it means their next advance might be higher #it means they CONTINUE TO HAVE A JOB
#yeah capitalism is bullshit and we all hate it but until we escape it we still all need incomes in order to eat
Also, as I have said a million kajillion times? People who work in publishing deserve to eat too. Not just authors. Although authors also deserve this! Publishing isn’t the music industry. Editors spend many, many hours working on those books you like so that they’re readable. (Sometimes you can tell when an author has got too famous and they clearly have stopped listening to their editors. You can see the quality of the books decline.) Illustrators drew that map of the book’s fantasyland at the front; illustrators drew that double-page spread of a mediaeval town with the hundreds of people walking around. Photographers took the colour photos in the glossy insert. Permissions staff called around and cajoled that Scandinavian museum to secure the right to print that photo of that Viking ship. Typesetters and graphic designers made the interior readable, and made the eye catching cover. Heck, editors made sure that each paragraph of text was tagged correctly so that the book could be turned into an ebook, and checked it once it was done to make sure it hadn’t all gone weird in the conversion. If it’s a nonfiction book, there’s even a chance that the publisher sought out an author or author team to write the book, not the other way around – especially for textbooks.
There is an extraordinary amount of work that goes into publishing a book. Authors spend a horrific amount of time on each one, and so do staff at publishing houses. Almost none of us get paid particularly well. In my first job as an editor, I was alarmed to discover that I could get a 10k raise by quitting and going to work as a receptionist. I’ve been a receptionist before. It didn’t require me to work overtime, or to have a university qualification. I’ve played Solitaire on the computer as a receptionist. Being an editor had me regularly stay late at the office.
The thing about ‘x book has sold so well! All the money should go to the author’ is that it shows you don’t understand how publishing works. Most books don’t make very much for the publisher. Some don’t cover the cost of production. The reason why publishers can keep producing books, and can publish interesting or risky books, is those rare success stories. In Australia, our local publisher Allen & Unwin had the distribution rights for Harry Potter, which they did not produce. But the money they got for distributing the series bankrolled books by Australian authors. It meant they could publish Garth Nix’s children books, a beautiful coffee table book on the Sydney Harbour Bridge, or the Phryne Fisher series.
Pirating books won’t hurt the few executives who make money at publishing. But it will hurt authors – most of whom don’t make enough from writing to classify their work as anything other than a hobby – and it hurts people like me, who make authors works look good.
Pirating books shuts down small publishers, or otherwise they get bought out by the same big publishers you rail against. Ours is not an industry with a large safety net. We really, I don’t know how to get this across to you, do not make much money. The reason why Hachette is large and makes a lot of money is because Hachette is an umbrella publisher that has something like sixty smaller publishers under it. I can’t remember the exact number from when I worked there, and it’s likely changed since, anyway. If you don’t want the five big publishers owning everything, you need to support the smaller publishers. Which means buying their books, or at the very least not pirating them.
Most people who work in publishing do it because we really love books. We’re really not in it to make money. Which is good, because people who work in publishing are really poorly paid. I have met more than a few who leave after five or ten years, who go to work in the government, or at universities, or in marketing, because the poor pay and the stress has finally got to them.
And you know what? If capitalism ceased to exist tomorrow, I’d be delighted to spend my days making books for no renumeration. I love books. I love editing! But that’s not the world we live in, and I don’t want to see my tiny industry basically cease to exist. I’ve already seen the number of jobs in publishing shrink and shrink in my country. I’ve seen publishers disappear and get swallowed up by others.
Authors and publishing staff are not the enemy. Why the fuck shouldn’t they get paid for their fucking labour.
Hi! It’s me, your friendly neighborhood professional copy editor!
I haven’t been paid in three months thanks to corona. I don’t get paid much when I do get paid. And if you pirate this biography of Charles de Gaulle that I am devoting my weekend to, I won’t get paid at all.
Books do not fly straight from the author’s head to your hands.
If you can afford it, buy your books. (And if you’re in the U.S., buy them from Bookshop.org because fuck Amazon.)
If you can’t afford to buy books, GO TO YOUR LIBRARY! THAT IS HOW YOU GET BOOKS FOR FREE! A librarian can help you get any book you want! And the library pays for the books! Publishers get money to pay their employees and you get the book for free! The library gets a boost in circulation numbers, which helps them convince the state government to please, please give them some of the tiny percentage of tax dollars that are still used to better the community.
You say you love books?
SUPPORT SMALL PUBLISHERS. SUPPORT SMALL BOOKSTORES. SUPPORT LIBRARIES.
I am finally trying to do the thing I’ve been wanting to do for... literally years lol and start self-publishing!
I have several story plans and the ones I’m looking to publish first would be queer literotica that emphasizes character growth and relationships. (Think love stories with juicy sex scenes. Also, everyone is queer.)
The first on my list to publish is planned fully from start to finish and it’s about two gay grad students falling in love and helping each other through their past trauma!
It’s a total long shot because I know I don’t have like a huge tumblr following, but I would really really really appreciate any support possible as I work on these projects: a reblog, a like, an (eventual) purchase, spreading the word to friends via carrier pigeon, throwing rocks at my window while blaring 80s love ballads, etc. Making a living off of my writing has always been my dream, and if this project is even slightly successful, I can consider quitting my soul sucking day job to work for myself full time. Each story will probably be like $5, 10k-40k words, published on Amazon or whatever less evil alternatives to Amazon I can find.
Anyway, if you or anyone you know is interested in LGBT+ lit/fun sexy stories with Feelings(tm), please keep your eyes peeled for updates on my projects!
If you had no idea that I write stuff — hi!!! I write stuff! Snippets of fics and original stuff can be found on my AO3 and my writing sideblog.
Thanks for reading and I love you and stay safe & healthy!!
Hiding information from your readers on purpose will help you create tension in your novel. I know this doesn’t work for every novel, but if you’re writing something with elements of suspense and mystery, hiding details and revealing them later will improve your story. This also helps add dimensions to your characters and explore their motivations on a deeper level.
Here are a few things to hide about your characters to create tension:
Whether or not your protagonist is lying
Even good characters lie, especially if they feel like it will protect other people in the long run. There are ways to hint that your character is hiding the truth without actually revealing what the truth is. If your protagonist gets nervous or changes the subject when they’re asked about a specific detail, this will help show your readers that something isn’t quite right. If your character’s deception is hidden and then revealed at the right time, you’ll be able to add exciting tension and shock value to your story.
Who the real villain is
Some of the best tension is created when we’re uncertain about who the real villain is. In mystery/crime novels, for example, there’s often evidence that points to one person who ends up not really being the one we need to worry about. If you hide this information from your readers, you keep them guessing throughout the course of your novel and this will aid in creating suspense.
The truth about their past
When you hide your character’s past from your readers, you have the ability to use it as an explanation for something important later on. For example, if you character has these mysterious powers they can’t explain, you can use their parents and back story in order to reveal later on why it’s happening. Revealing past details slowly over the course of your novel helps build the mystery.
What their secondary goals are
Sometimes characters will have goals no one else knows about but them OR they will have a false goal that their using to cover up their real goal. For example, a character might say they’re rescuing another character because they want to help, but it really might be all about finding some hidden treasure along the way. There are many reasons why a character might want to hide their goals. Explore character motivations on a deeper level and you’ll be able to realistically include this type of deception in your story.
[ Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. ]
Chapter 1/5
Words: 1204
Rating: T (for canon-typical action and violence in later chapters, romance)
Warnings: spoilers for the entirety of BotW. Link/Zelda eventually.
>> AO3 <<
Summary
At last, the storm has passed. The time has come to rebuild what was lost. Zelda takes the future of her kingdom into her own hands, but there are some who still linger who wish to see her mission fail. The princess and her knight find that, even with Ganon gone, evil still lurks in Hyrule. [ Post-BotW ]
Chapter 1: Stability
Darkness.
Putrid and chaotic, it swirls around her. She fights against it with all she has but it seeps into her pores. Corruption. It’s spreading – it always is, but it’s spreading to her now, too. She bats it away like it’s a leech. It burrows deeper.
Darkness is not the absence of light, her mother’s journal had said. It is a testament to the existence of light. Know this, and you can conquer any shadow.
Never had the light felt so far away. How is she supposed to believe in what she cannot see? How can she fight the embodiment of evil when it exists in everything around her?
It is not water. It is not tangible. But the darkness rises to her chin, and she knows it will drown her. She takes in a deep breath, just barely remembering to close her eyes, the darkness rises – rises --
Zelda snaps upright.
Chest heaving, cold sweat soaking her clothes and sheets. Numb hands feel her arms and face for any signs of corruption. All she feels is her own clammy skin.
Where am I? she nearly asks aloud. It’s dark, but not the kind from her nightmares. Starlight and torches illuminate a bit of the large, circular tent. Zelda shakes when she holds her breath again. Anxious eyes comb through the entirety of the tent. It seems there are no other occupants but for one Hylian – the stable master, who has fallen asleep in his chair at the desk.
From the open tent flaps comes a faint orange glow. Zelda fumbles with the covers and follows the light.
He sits with his back to a woodpile in front of a fire, twiddling a charred stick in the flames. Just seeing him there, relaxed as he is, keeps her panic from building. If Link senses no danger, then she is safe. Perhaps someday her subconscious will understand that.
“You can’t sleep?” she wonders.
Link lifts his head to see her. He shakes his head.
“Neither can I,” Zelda says unnecessarily. She finds a patch of grass to settle down on beside him, cradling herself in her own arms. Eyes close. She is exhausted. It’s been weeks now and she has yet to sleep through the night. At first, it was from the relief. She was alive, Link was alive, Ganon was gone forever. Order had been restored. She had so much to see, so much to learn from her century-long absence. But relief flickered away into nothingness. Ganon’s destruction had not rid Hyrule of its scars, it had not brought back her loved ones, it had not cleansed her of her hundred-year fight.
Zelda left the ruins of her home believing that it was all over and she could rest at last. But night after night, she finds herself back in the bowels of the castle, fighting. And failing.
A whoosh hits her ears and a warm fabric sweeps around her shoulders. At first, she thinks it’s a blanket. She peeks out, touches the cloth, and she realizes it’s Link’s travelling cloak. It’s worn and frayed at the edges, but the material is thick. It smells like Epona. It probably smells a bit like sweat and dirt too, but it’s been a while she since had a proper bath herself; she’s acclimated to it. Zelda huddles up and tugs it around her for warmth. Only once it envelops her does she realize how much she’d been shivering. She shuts her eyes again, hoping she might feel rested without giving herself to slumber.
“Aren’t you cold now?” she murmurs.
Link reaches for her hand beneath the cloak. His thumb swipes the back of her hand, parallel to her knuckles. It’s one of his tracing signs that he taught her so very long ago. A horizontal line for no. A cross for yes. She’s not sure if he plans to pull his hand away; Zelda squeezes it between both of her own, and he lets her.
Somewhere out in the plains, crickets hum and the grasses sway. Fire crackles, logs splitting and charring to keep the night at bay. A restless horse snorts in its stall. Zelda rests her head on his shoulder. He breathes, his heart beats. The wind blows his hair against her cheek. All these things, she thought she appreciated. Zelda knows better now. Because now she knows how easily this serene night could be shattered.
Once, this could have lulled her to sleep. Now she is afraid that she may wake to find it’s slipped through her fingers again.
“Is Kakariko far from here?”
No, he swipes again.
“Let’s go, then,” she says. “We’re awake. The weather’s fair. Why not ride?”
A swipe back and forth – a very firm no. Zelda lifts her head, hoping she is not too delirious to be indignant. Link frees his hand from hers to speak freely.
You need rest. Epona, too, he signs.
“I’m fine, I’m…” She rubs at her eyes. Bites back the yawn building in her throat. Warmth has stolen her sense and made her drowsy. If she had the energy left, she would fight it. “I’ll rest once we reach Kakariko.”
Link only looks at her. He is not one for smiles, and he has none for her tonight. He nudges her drooping head with the corner of one knuckle. She makes a tiny noise of discontent… and realizes how much she sounds like a child.
When he throws a bucket of water over the fire, she does not protest. She does not complain when he picks her up, or lies her atop the sheets of her cot, or tucks her under the covers. For a moment, only a moment, she thinks his fingertips might linger on her hair. She hears a footstep, and knows he’s turning away. Leaving her.
She grabs his sleeve. The sound that leaves her is… anguished. Zelda wishes it were not so – it ill befits a princess to show so much weakness. She has lived through worse than this. Yet the thought of him leaving now, just when she is about to be consumed by her night terrors in Ganon’s maw once more… her courage fails her.
“Please,” she begs weakly, “don’t go.”
Link carefully pries her hand from his arm and sets it down on the bed. He walks away.
Tears well up in her eyes. She is so exhausted, her strength is sapped, and all she has left is this weakness and terror. Zelda has never felt so alone in her life.
From the corner, she hears… rummaging? The waking world is fast fading, but Zelda opens her eyes to peer out at the tent. Link has closed the flaps and secured them. He walks towards her with a wooden chair under one arm. The chair falls to her bedside, and Link sits down. His hand closes around her wrist. The touch is gentle, but it calms her. He gazes into her eyes, and she needs no words – verbal or not – to know what he’s thinking.
I’m here. You can rest now.
And it brings her some comfort to know – even if she’s plagued with another night of twisted dreams, she will wake with Link by her side.
Once again, Saturday has struck! And once again, I want to attempt to revive this lovely event! (It was a whole lot of fun last week!)
Reblog this post if you want people to send you asks about your writing, wip, or characters today! For each ask you get, try and send one back in return!
This event was originally started by @lonely-pages-of-ink and @drist-n-dither, and was a huge, incredibly fun writeblr event when I first joined this community, but has since fallen in participation and awareness. You can read the original info post here!
And don’t feel shy about sending asks to writeblrs you know nothing about—this is a wonderful way to get to know new stories, and make new friends!
“Why does the third of the three brothers, who shares his food with the old woman in the wood, go on to become king of the country? Why does James Bond manage to disarm the nuclear bomb a few seconds before it goes off rather than, as it were, a few seconds afterwards? Because a universe where that did not happen would be a dark and hostile place. Let there be goblin hordes, let there be terrible environmental threats, let there be giant mutated slugs if you really must, but let there also be hope. It may be a grim, thin hope, an Arthurian sword at sunset, but let us know that we do not live in vain.”
— Terry Pratchett, “Let There Be Dragons” (A Slip of the Keyboard)
Reblog this if you want readers to come into your ask box and ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines.
Or, send in a ⭐star⭐ to have the author select a section they’ve been dying to talk about!
Dragon Age
Fenris (with implied Fenris/Hawke)
Rating: General
Words: 3,527
Warnings: mention of Act 2 character death. Hurt, angst.
>> AO3 link <<
For all of its fancy words, not even in Tevene did any exist that might bring Hawke comfort. And what did Fenris understand of comfort, anyway? Fenhawke, Act 2. Some thoughts on what it’s like for Fenris, who knows nothing of family, and Leandra, for whom family is everything.
-
Fenris isn’t the only one of Hawke’s merry band to drop by his estate. He comes when he wants to, always unnanounced. So perhaps it’s no surprise, really, that Fenris often finds that Hawke is gone. Bodahn offers insight. I think he’s gone to speak with the Dalish up on the mountain. Should be back in time for supper, I expect! Or sometimes it’s more like Not sure, not sure. Messere Hawke is a busy man. So many important people to see…
The latter always meant: The Hanged Man with Varric.
Today he expects the same.
i hate this so much but this knowledge is too powerful to keep from you all.
last night @phaltu discovered that setting your font to comic sans in google docs improves writing speed and creativity by an insane amount. “no” i said and “die” but then i tried it and god. i wish it wasn’t this way. i wish it wasn’t true. i wish i could protect you all from this but it’s real.
something about this font is so disarming. something about this font lets you look past the shape of the words and into their soul. i’ve never written so much as i did last night, on my phone, at 2am, in comic sans.
if you have writer’s block. if you lack inspiration. if you need this. don’t be afraid to use it. sometimes the things we find most horrifying are also the things we need the most. trust me. let comic sans into your life.
my friend told me about this and I laughingly suggested it to my wife (who had a good number of essays to write and less than a week to write them). She finished 3 essays in 2 days using comic sans.
Prompt number: 9 - “There is a certain taste to it.”
Original fiction: Peacemaker
Rating: G
Warnings/Tags: none
To lie beneath the beech trees and gaze at the glowing canopy above, one might never know the world was at war. There were no sounds of weapons clashing or people dying. There, Asari knew a strange sort of peace.
Manufactured peace, of course. She was not foolish enough to believe all her problems melted away thanks to a quiet getaway and a nice view. But if she thought only of the misery of those just beyond her periphery, she would lose her mind.
At least that's what Marina had told her. And it was reason enough for Asari to take a little downtime. Not much -- not enough to be missed. Just enough to clear her head.
She closed her eyes, breathed in deep -- and found something soft and wet pressed to her lips. A piece of fruit held in place by Marina's finger. She giggled, taking the morsel between her teeth. The sour tang made her scrunch up her face, and it was Marina's turn to laugh.
"Purple for sweet, green for sour."
"Purple," Asari said.
Marina leaned over to press a soft kiss to her lips until Asari couldn't help but smile. When she pulled back, Marina replaced her lips with a purple grape.
"Much better," she said.
Asari watched her scoop a handful of mixed grapes right into her own mouth. She couldn't resist a snort of laughter. "You're going to choke!"
"No way, I do dis aww da--" The gibberish disappeared in a flurry of coughs and gags. Marina swallowed with tears in her eyes and laughter already bubbling from her lips. Despite the wave of panic, Asari collapsed back on the grass in another fit of giggles. "Okay," Marina relented. "Bad idea."
As they began to settle back down, Marina leaned up on her elbow to gaze down. She drew little patterns with the tip of her finger all along Asari's shoulder. "So, not grapes, or strawberries, or melon, or apples... You must have a favorite fruit."
"Mm," she agreed. "But I haven't had it in a long time. It's too cold to grow here."
"Too cold?"
"Maybe one day your mages will find a way to grow it. But they would have to find the plant first, and that seems unlikely," Asari said.
"What's it like?" she grinned.
"Purple as rich as the castle's silks and so tough you wouldn't think it was edible." Asari closed her eyes, trying to recall. How long had it been since she'd last eaten it? Years, now. It didn't always feel like she'd left home so long ago. How silly that thinking of food would make her heart ache for home. "But once you open it... it is heaven. There is a certain taste to it. Sweet, juicy, just a little tangy... Nothing else comes close to the way it tastes."
"Maybe," Marina said softly, "one day we can share one."
She slipped her hand over Marina's on her shoulder, gazing up at her framed so beautifully in the fairy lights far above. "Maybe so."
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