#dramatis. fenice

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[ excerpt from wctd ; it's been too long since i gave y'all content so...uh...enjoy?]

“Why?” He barked. “Is it not obvious why?”

“I believe I do not know what you are talking about.”

“You are a harbinger of doom!” Caelcinius’ chair screeched as he stood, robes flaring around him. “An omen of destruction. Unnatural. An abomination!”

“Your excellency—”

“That you have continued to survive this long only spells the coming of a great disaster and I will not have my eternal soul damned by giving blessings to such a thing.”

“Your excellency I recommend that you watch. Your. Tone.”

Fenice’s nails dug crescents against her skin, fury roiling within her chest waiting to lash out. She bit the inside of her cheek to calm herself. It would not do to lose herself now.

Caelcinius was heaving. Blotchy face going slack as realization lit up his eyes. He steeled himself, hands coming to clasp each other behind his back. Chin raised so that he looked down at her with his beady eyes. “What I have spoken is not defamation. It is truth.”

“Perhaps.” Fenice’s voice was tight. “And I will not begrudge you your truth. Nor your attempts at saving your…eternal soul was it?” She laughed. “Well, nothing I can do about your eternal soul. It is Aphel’s to do as he pleases, and as far as you are concerned I have no soul. Though perhaps I may yet be able to change your mind.”

Caelcinius shook his head. “Forgive me if I say that there is little you can do to change it.”

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Taglist (as to be +/-)

General |

@charlesjosephwrites | @bearunicorn154 I @seasteading | @writting-in-blood | @trapped-inadystopianovel | @inky-duchess | @thats-my-type-writer | @serpentarii | @myhusbandsasemni | @aphaimaniis | @writinglyra | @belialwrites | @amoranza

WCTD |

@zmlorenz | @andiwriteunderthemoon | @ryns-ramblings | @marchdove

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[wctd noncanonical scene - from 'i just wanna write soft things.docx]

THE NIGHT IS OLD WHEN NIKE SLIPS BETWEEN THE SHEETS, his weight slowly dipping the left side of the bed as he tries to slowly ease himself down without disturbing his sleeping wife. The gesture was out of courtesy than any need to be discreet. Nike learned, after their first week of marriage, that Fenice was ever the light sleeper.

She shifts to face him, red hair a stark contrast against her pale skin and white sheets. Her eyes open— but just a sliver, silver irises shining like crescent moons. Fenice squeezed her eyes shut as she stretched. Spine arched, spindly arms coming up to push against the wooden headboard with a quiet groan.

Nike pulled the fallen duvet towards Fenice. “Forgive me for waking you.”

Fenice hummed, burrowing deeper into the warmth of their bed. “As long as you haven’t buried a knife beneath your pillow.”

He chuckled, raising his pillow high to bare only pristine white sheets. “As if I would.”

“No,” she agreed. “You are too soft.”

He lays his head back down, hand gliding upward to cup her hands in his. “You are cold.” Nike pulls her hand to his side and she lets him, content to watch, as she always does.

“I am always cold.” She rests her forehead against his, strands of her loose hair tickling his nose. “Dead things usually are.”

“Your pulse beating against mine begs to differ.”

She laughs at that. Soft like clouds and as quiet as a stray breeze in the dessert.

Nike smiled as he pulled the covers over them both. There, curled up against each other, they simply breathed. The shadows of the night enveloping them like an embrace so tight, Nike, for a moment, thought he could forget about the world outside their chambers.

But only for a moment.

Fenice gazed at him, eyes half-lidded, framed by ugly shadows that would be painted away in the morning. She blinks slowly, eyes fluttering every so often in an attempt to keep awake. And she would, if she had to. Stay awake, that is. That is why it is Nike that closes his eyes and tucks his chin. Head immediately returning to the early days of his education where his ederosus attempted to make him memorize all the ways a prince must conduct himself.

He loved his ederosus, he really did. The man just had the rather unfortunate talent of putting young, energetic princes like Nike to sleep.

“You did not have to come back.”

His eyes snapped open. “What?”

“To me. To my bed. There is no reason for you to.”

“Must I need a reason”

Her silence was what answered him.

Nike sighed, turning to lay on his back, head pillowed by arm. “Must you fear the snakes that you avoid the trees?”

“I do not fear all snakes—only the ones in my garden.”

“Which one am I?”

“I don’t yet know,” she whispered. “And that’s what frightens me about you.”

_____

Taglist (ask to be +/-)

General |

@charlesjosephwrites | @bearunicorn154 I @sprigofbasil | @writting-in-blood | @trapped-inadystopianovel | @inky-duchess | @thats-my-type-writer | @serpentarii | @myhusbandsasemni | @aphaimaniis | @writinglyra | @belialwrites | @amoranza

WCTD |

@zmlorenz | @andiwriteunderthemoon | @ryns-ramblings | @marchdove | @pseudepigraphic

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the tension in trying to convince one character to say another character's name

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WRITEBOARDWALK FERRIS WHEEL DAY 1: PROTAGONIST

FENICE VI AETIER’S EXISTANCE IS AN ENIGMA. She had the entirety of her world at her fingertips before she was even born. A princess to one of the richest nations of the century and daughter to KING DANTALION and TITANIA OF TAUL, two of the most powerful mages of their generation and whose love story was once the stuff of legends.  She was conceived with the promise of unimaginable power, an experiment from which a god-child should have been born. Through her, Dantalion’s still contested claims to the throne would be stabilized. Through her, Dantalion and Titania would create a dynasty unparalleled.

And then, the young princess was born dead. 

Deadborne. A condition that leaves parents mourning their children as soon as they are born. ANIMUS MAGIC is a prerequisite to living, and for all those poor infants who came into the world without it, their death is an inevitability. Some last a few minutes, others a few days. It is why Fenice vi Aetier’s existance is the greatest mystery of them all, having survived eighteen years as a deadborne, earning her the scorn and morbid curiosity of many. 

Fenice led a very isolated life in Isidore— her mother’s fiefdom and primary residence after their divorce—both due to her rank as princess and future duchess, and her condition manifesting in a weakened immune system that left her weakened and susceptible to most illnesses. This, too, was a deviation from the norm, as most royal children are raised within the palace until their coming-of-age. This period of her life would prove vexing to future historians as, with the exception of her correspondents with her uncle prince Andras, not much is known about Fenice’s early life. She is studious, had taken to learning all sorts of instruments, had a penchant for learning languages, and is very partial to sewing and embroidery— but then again, there are only so many things you can do when stuck within a house (however palatial it may be).

She idolizes her mother, Titania of Taul, of whom it’s been stated many times she remarkably resembles. Titania was mother, friend, and protector; those who sought to harm the young princess stood no chance with the Witch of Taul guarding the gates. When Titania suffered an “untimely” death, Fenice was left emotionally and physically vulnerable against all who wished to do her harm. And so, at the urging of her father and uncle, she was whisked away to the royal court for her protection.

But court life has given Fenice a taste for the life that could have been— should have been  hers, and she finds that she has quite the palate for all the politicking. The crown is now within reach. For Fenice whose jealousy and ambition have been stewing for years, the only way to sate these new desires is to rectify the wrongs destiny has dealt her. Princesses trapped in their towers are hardly as docile and sweet as the stories would have you believe, and dead men have little else to lose.

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When Comes the Dawn // Camp Nano Round-Up

Total Words Written: 30,704/30k

Goal: Met

This was a great month guys! Even if April lasted like basically one week. I got pretty far in WCTD, the farthest I've ever been since the restart, and while I'm still figuring things out along the way I feel like I have a pretty good grasp on where this story is heading.

Also, can we appreciate how Fenice's characterization went from Ice Queen to positively feral (and slightly cannibalistic)? Girlboss, what happened.

Excerpt 1:

FENICE HUNGERS in the way all dead things do:

silently and without abandon

A rumbling chasm in her gut; a charybdis that opens its gaping maw and swallows the world only to spit it back out because what she eats does not sate her appetite. Only emphasizes the hollowness. The absence. The Hunger.

Excerpt 2: [cw: violence and mild gore]

Aretos only stared at her with that damnable silver eye of his. In vivid clarity she imagined herself lunging at him. Gouge out that eye he is so terribly proud of. Pluck it from his skull and squashing it in her fist; grinding it beneath her heel, so that he can witness with his lone eye the very symbol of his so called claim be reduced to nothing more than ground viscera on the dirt floor.

Anyway, we are near reaching the first major plot point of the story which is Fenice's Ascension. Though I have written a couple scenes that take place way farther down the timeline where things are a lot more...messy.

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"Fenice isn't the type of person who would bitchslap someone—"

oh.

oh i guess i was wrong.

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the absolute joy of suddenly coming up with a way to make your character's life 10x worse

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Line Sharing Game

Thanks @inky-duchess for the tag!

Rules: share as many of your favorite line/lines you’re proud of from your wip as you want!

From When Comes the Dawn (cw for very mild and brief mentions of death and body horror)

There were many times that Fenice just couldn’t understand what her mother was teaching her. Couldn’t unravel the strategy good enough, couldn’t plan a counterattack well enough. Face blotchy in frustration, teeth-marks  pressed against the knuckle of her index finger like badges of dishonor. Each simulated loss felt in the crescents on her palm, the tightness of her jaw, and she would rage against Titania like the child Fenice swore she never was. What use is this? She would cry, tearing apart whatever apparatus they used to simulate battle. What use is this for an heir that cannot fight? For a dead child? For a daughter discarded?

“Politics—” Titania said, carding her scarred hands through Fenice’s hair— “is but another form of war. So is love. So is life.” She tilted Fenice’s head back, earthen eyes staring into silver. “And all fall under the realm of strategy.” 

Her mother’s ghost prowled around the room. A lion. A  dragon. A falcon circling its prey and waiting to strike. There is a gaping hole in her chest sprouting flowers with scarlet petals that drip drip drip in her wake. Her eyes burn like frostbite, teeth gleaming all too white.  

There are five things that make up a strategy. Do you remember them?

Tagging: @vaelinor @ayzrules @asablehart