#oc-tember

[crossfire-krypt]

OC-tober: day 5!

16 year old Wrath and mama Wrath. They had a great relationship with no problems or fights whatsoever (lying)

[illidraws]

[thereluctantinquisitor]

OC-tember Day 5 - Throne

Thank you @oc-growth-and-development for the OC-tember prompts!

CW: panic attacks. PTSD.

This one focuses on Lorvain, Adiran’s eldest brother. Recovering from a nasty injury he received while fighting in the north, he sneaks off one night and finds himself alone in the throne room... (700 words)

--

Lorvain hadn’t set eyes on the Talveran thrones in almost two years. 

Wincing, he limped his way into the grandiose hall, nodding to the guard stationed at the entrance. While clearly confused, the man saluted and made no attempt to stop him. And why would he? Lorvain was still the crown prince, despite the efforts of some. While he had no doubt the guard would inform the King and Queen of his visit come morning, at that precise moment, he just couldn’t bring himself to care. 

He was finding it harder and harder, of late. To care.

Nothing had changed. He had been sent away to the frozen north, held the line for over two years with meagre supplies and miserable soldiers, nearly lost a leg for all his efforts... and nothing here had changed. The polished floor - massive slabs of pale, rippled stone - remained just as spotless as he remembered. The weavelit chandelier, blazing like a silver sun, still hung proudly at the centre of the room’s vaulted ceiling. The smaller weavelights, hung on walls and pillars in smokey casings to offset the harshness of the chandelier, continued to tint the air a softer honey-gold. They’d been fitted just before he was sent away. Just in time for the tournament season.

Lorvain had to stop halfway, pressing a shaking hand to one of the pillars that lined the hall from entry to dais. His right leg throbbed, burning beneath the freshly wrapped bandages. They reeked of alcohol and some kind of salve. The thaumist had almost killed herself, trying to undo the damage. He’d watched, near-mindless with fever, as she’d grit her teeth and pushed through the pain. As a larger tear had opened on her own thigh, hidden beneath the folds of her robe. Apparently he’d stopped her, when he noticed the dark, spreading stain. Demanded a physicker instead - bandages and salves - then immediately passed out.

Divider, he hoped she had stopped.

Dragging in a steadying breath, Lorvain forced himself to lift his head, his brow cold with sweat. The twin thrones stared back at him, raised five steps high by stone sharp enough to cut. The King’s seat was on the left, the Queen’s on the right. There were all kinds of reasons for that, supposedly. Everything from folk stories to politics to superstition. Lorvain didn’t believe any of it. Not anymore. Sometimes, a decision just had to be made. The path to travel had to be chosen, the bard had to pick his song, the wounded had to be left to die, the King sat on the left---

Eyes stared sightlessly skyward. Dozens of them, half-buried in the snow. They all looked the same. Just like how they’d left them.

Suddenly, the air in the room abandoned him, as though torn away by unseen hands. Gasping, fear spiking up the back of his throat, Lorvain pressed his back to the pillar - ripped his eyes from the thrones and squeezed them shut - as his chest was seized by a vice-like grip. No. Not here. Not now. Breathe. Just breathe.

Seven for the huntsman, with arrows made of air.

The verse - some childish rhyme - forced itself to the front of his mind. Desperate, grateful, he grabbed it with both hands; recited it all the way to one, then began anew.

Six for the blacksmith, whose fire forged a prayer. Five for the weavers...

His breathing started to slow. The room, spinning around him, stilled. When Lorvain eventually returned to himself, he was on the floor, back to the pillar, thin shirt soaked to his skin. His arms were rigid, hands palm-down against the stone on either side of his hips. As he sat and breathed, the sound of it echoed around the magnificent empty space. He’d danced in that hall, once. More than once. Flashed warm smiles to charming ladies. Delivered grateful speeches and heartfelt pleas. Offered sympathy to his brother, shared knowing glances with his sister. Stood tall and proud and unshakable beneath that blazing silver light. He’d done everything he was supposed to do.

Nothing had changed.

Lorvain swallowed. His leg burned. Tipping his head back, he curled his hands into fists and pressed his knuckles to the floor.

Nothing had changed.

[nonbinarygaster]

#OC-tober #5

Day 4-6: Them as a child/hood

Howla already is a child, so we're back to when he was a baby, being carried by his mother who is trying to escape a war between 2 fae. The two along with some others found themself in the mortal plane. Surely it'll be safe for the two.

[jolly-squish]

My oc, Morell. It feels like I haven’t drawn him in a long while.

[ultimatooo]

Day 2 of OC-tober: Antagonist

So this OC’s name is Varsa and he’s not actually evil lol. The protagonist, Jaruko, just sees him as an antagonist due to his assignments and magic-related tests (neither of which are that hard). Varsa just wants to help his students succeed in life.

Varsa is one of the many teachers of Luxarc Academy. He specializes in fire and dark magic. Varsa teaches his students how to fight with magic. He also assigns history reports. When he’s not teaching, he works part-time at an animal shelter.