Hi! I'm Tergel (+20s, she/her) and this is my blog!
I mostly write romance fics, fluff, angst/comfort and the like but I will occasionally write heavier NSFW topics so be mindful of that and check the tags on my works before you read.
As he approached a wider, flatter portion of Alder Creek, Bran could walk freely along the bank. He dragged his hand along the ferns that marked the border between stone and soil. He might’ve busied himself for the rest of the afternoon at the edge of the stream, unfurling the ferns and whistling through blades of grass. But as he turned a bend in the creek, Bran’s eye caught on something ahead, tucked into a small patch between two alders and the natural border of the water.
Mushrooms had sprouted in the undergrowth. This itself wasn’t uncommon; Bran had spied countless of them on his jaunts that day. But those he’d seen had dotted the detritus seemingly at random, or clung to fallen trees in closely-knit clusters.
These were aligned in a perfect circle.
Bran had heard of faerie rings before. His parents had told him stories of the fae, almost always in the form of warnings. There were countless signs, rules, and traditions to keep in mind when faced with their presence, and even in his excitement, an ominous thrum sounded in the back of Bran’s mind.
Faerie rings were never to be toyed with. They weren’t to be touched by anything but fire. The mushrooms could poison a grown man. And, above all else, stepping within the circle was to risk your life.
Nobody had ever said anything about looking at them, Bran thought as he took a step forwards.
And they were rare enough to cause a sensation. Multiple classmates had come forward about seeing faerie rings, and serious investigations had always ensued. As it turned out, none of the stories had revealed a perfectly even ring, but even those they had found were burned, just in case.
This one was real. It had to be, given the hairs on Bran’s neck standing on end. He took another step forwards.
A sudden caw made him jump, and the quickly approaching shape of the raven had Bran ducking for cover. He turned around to watch it fly back over the grove and disappear.
The reappearance and departure of the raven left Bran rooted to the spot, momentarily struck dumb. It must’ve been the same raven that led him here, somehow, though Bran suddenly wasn’t sure how he could’ve known.
Momentary doubt broke Bran from his reverie. There was no way for him to tell any two ravens apart, especially not when one flew overhead so quickly. And, for that matter, the faerie ring was likely a fake, too. Perfect rings were rare; as far as Bran was aware, none had been found in the nineteen years Winnie had been alive, much less the nine he could claim. In fact, Winnie didn’t seem inclined to believe in the fae at all, which was a good a sign as any that Bran shouldn’t have, either.
But that didn’t explain the chill running down his spine. Or why he was suddenly so afraid at looking back over his shoulder.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Bran loudly repeated what Winnie had often said, as though to make it more convincing. “We should've left the fae in the 19th century. They’re only real in stories and imagination now.”
There was a beat of quiet, with the only sound being the trickling water beside him, and Bran let out a relieved breath.
Then, a voice replied.
“That’s rather unkind. I think we have every much a right to this century as you do.”
Bran’s chest hitched as he gasped. Swiveling around so fast he nearly tripped over the rocks at his feet, he stared at the faerie ring.
Suddenly, what had only moments before been empty was now holding an odd figure.
They offered a wide, inviting smile. “Hello, little one.”
Genre: Fantasy, Fictional Biography (I don’t think I have to give a disclaimer that I’m not actually writing my own autobiography lol)
Status: Outlining
Summary:
'The Lies in the Legend' is the fictional autobiography of Lady Ghislaine Agassi, an elven noblewoman who rose rapidly in station and influence from an unremarkable youth into a political powerhouse. Over the centuries of the prime of her life, she would go on to play a role in the rise and stability of various nations, as well as her most infamous maneuver: playing a heavy hand in the destruction of an emerging superpower.
As she looks back on her accomplishments and blunders, Lady Ghislaine warns of taking too much stock in the legend of figureheads like herself, hoping to provide truth where exaggeration has taken pains to both celebrate and vilify her in the public eye.
setting | small fictional town of Bildenbey around the turn of the 20th century
synopsis | When Winnie Pewitt’s younger brother is taken by the faerie folk, the entire town of Bildenbey accepts his fate as irreversible. But Winnie, determined, headstrong, and a little bit reckless, has never been one to take things idly by. Investigating the creek by which her brother, Bran, disappeared, Winnie discovers a faerie ring along the other bank, and inside it, a strange man who may know more about Bran’s abduction than he lets on.
I can’t believe another November has come and gone. I can’t believe something that I started doing in 8th grade just for fun has become such a big part of my life that, nine years and 10 nanos later, I’m still already excited about next November. It was through NaNoWriMo that I finished my first ever first draft of a novel (it was when I was 13, and it was absolute trash, and I love it). I’ve met countless friends, collected countless WIPs, and really driven home how important writing as a medium is for me.
Now that the sappy stuff is over, here’s some more fun stats and things:
End Word Count: 50,563!!
I did it! I hit the 50,000 mark yesterday, and then finished up the chapter I was on this evening. I knew going in that this month was going to be particularly hard on me - moving all my stuff home, exams, big research paper, all on top of trying to write part of a novel. And I was really nervous about how I was going to manage to keep up.
Somehow, I actually was more consistent this year than I’ve ever achieved before? 2020 was the first time that I ever managed to write every single day of November (even if one of those days was only 5 words and doesn’t even show up on the site’s little daily chart). And honestly I might be more proud of that than I am of actually hitting the big 50K.
It helped that my project was really fun this year. I haven’t always loved every moment that I’ve been working on Beneath Alder Creek - the usual bouts of loathing anything I put down on the page showed up as normal - but even when the quality itself was in question, the actual story never stopped being something I wanted to write.
I can’t possibly go through the whole thing and pick out all my favorite pieces right now (sometimes, prioritizing nano means falling behind on hw lmao), but here are a couple more recent snippets.
Excerpt 1:
The throne room was far smaller than Winnie had expected, especially coming from the front hall. It was strikingly similar in size and setup to a chapel, with rows of pews all facing a central pulpit. Only, rather than a lectern for a preacher, a platform was raised to draw focus to a large, golden throne. The throne itself was intricately beautiful, but Winnie hardly noticed it, too concentrated on the figure sitting upon it.
Queen Ceridwen, Enid had called her. She was at once both divine and grotesque, white skin with dark veins that stitched themselves into a tangle of smaller lines, like the splitting of branches as they extended from the trunk. Her eyes and lips were black, or near enough to create a stark contrast, and matching, sleek horns stretched out from where her hairline ought have been. A golden crown jutted down to the tops of her cheekbones and tucked back behind her ear, extending up in spikes that shot out like a sunrise, each one longer than Winnie’s hand.
Perhaps even more chilling than her appearance were her eyes. There was a fathomlessness to the darkness, the depth of shadows that brought with them the fear of the unknown. Though the Queen’s expression remained passive and detached, as Winnie stared at her, she had the feeling that the matriarch was not actually with them but making her observations from somewhere within those cavernous eyes.
“Speak.”
Excerpt 2:
The music was still playing, but its calm, ambling tempo had quickened with Winnie’s heart rate, and its soothing, entrancing melody broke into a high, panicked frenzy, piercing through the forest.
Birds that had been resting on branches took flight. The fish dashed through the water, twisting and thrashing. A line of ants at Winnie’s feet broke formation as they hurried away from the lake.
But for all their terror, Winnie was drawn in all the more.
One step. Her foot was beneath the water, but she no longer felt the cold.
Two steps. The hem of her dress was wet, quickly taking on more weight. Winnie felt none of it.
Three steps. Winnie was halfway up her calf in the lake, and the ground beneath her feet was steadily sloping down.
Four steps. A sudden plunge up over her knee. The splash could not be heard over the urgent pipe.
Five steps. Suddenly up to her waist. Winnie struggled to keep her balance, raising her arms to hold them above the surface.
Six steps. It was more of a slide than a step, as Winnie hit the end of the decline. Only by lifting her chin could she keep her face out of the water. She had made progress, nearly halfway to the island.
Seven steps, and a sudden tug at the back of her dress. Winnie was dragged backwards out of the lake, choking against her collar.
Excerpt 3:
Winnie paced silently between two large trees, hands clasped tightly behind her back. She had been doing so for several minutes, ever since discovering Taliesin’s abduction, and though Enid had begun by patiently watching, her claw-like nails drummed against her sleeve as she waited for the human girl to say something.
Just as Enid took in a deep breath, preparing to interrupt Winnie’s clouded thoughts, the young woman stopped, turned to her companion, and asked, “Did you see which way they went?”
“What are you planning to do, track them?” Enid asked teasingly, but her smile faltered at the solemnity in Winnie’s eyes. “You can’t be serious. You’d have no chance against a scout, they’re meant to move without a trace.”
Winnie’s earnest gaze deflated into disappointment. As she stared down at the ground, past Enid, her eye caught Taliesin’s pack, still lying where he’d left it. A rush of hope filled her with renewed optimism. “Perhaps Taliesin left some kind of trail for us to follow! Something small, like breadcrumbs. That’s always how they mark their path in fairytales.”
Enid leaned against a tree, examining her nails with disinterest. “Of course he doesn’t expect us to follow him. What reason do you have for helping him out, anyway?”
The callousness in her voice was unexpectedly brutal. Winnie knew that Enid and Taliesin did not seem to get along, and likely that what little tolerance for each other they displayed was purely out of respect for the deal that had been made. But to show no care for his capture was a level of apathy that Winnie hadn’t expected.
“I still have a deal that needs to be fulfilled.” It was true, and better, something that Winnie knew Enid might understand.
The woman’s expression remained cold. “As I see it, you can cut him out of the deal. Our aims both lead us to the Dusk Court. You find your brother, I get help dethroning an advisor, and we go our separate ways.”
Excerpt 4:
Back into the bog. Winnie no longer worried herself with her skirts, allowing them to drag through the stagnant water. It was a mistake, she soon discovered, as the drenched fabric weighed her down and made the progress even slower. With an exasperated groan, she stomped at the ground, kicking up a spray and lodging her boot into the mud.
Taliesin appeared at her side, having turned back while she was distracted. “Having trouble?”
“Just tell me how much farther we have to go before we reach these all-knowing Three,” Winnie said darkly, glaring at him from beneath strands of hair that had come loose from the lopsided bun she’d attempted.
“I think I have a better idea,” Taliesin offered. He reached out his hand, and Winnie let hers drop into it, clutching at her skirt with the other.
Taliesin’s eyes closed, and Winnie felt the boot free itself from the mud. She breathed a sigh of gratitude, but quickly realized that her foot had not stopped there. She was no longer eye-level with Taliesin, but looking down at him slightly. The droplets from her skirt and shoes hitting the water below revealed that it was not the golden man who had sunk, but she was levitating a few centimeters over the ground!
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Klaus arrived at the library with the bravado of a university graduate receiving their diploma. As he reached the table Georg had been holding for half the morning, he hurled his open bag onto its surface, spilling papers and pens across Georg’s notes.
“Well, I did it!” he announced proudly as he dropped into his seat. “I told you I would do it, and you didn’t believe me!
Georg shot daggers at his friend as he brushed Klaus’ belongings off his side of the table. There was no need to ask what Klaus had done; given enough silence, Klaus would spill his darkest secrets to fill the space.
True to form, before Georg could return to his notes, Klaus elaborated. “I’ve signed myself up as a tutor for the Philosophy department.”
“Didn’t you say you were just doing that to meet girls?” Georg wrinkled his nose at the thought.
“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m doing it for the good of the first years.” Klaus pressed a hand to his chest and tilted his chin as though he’d announced that he’d decided to singlehandedly confront the Soviets on their behalf, rather than review notes.
“Wouldn’t that involve staying as far away from them as possible?”
Klaus ignored the remark, choosing instead to shift his attention to organizing his supplies into a teetering pile on the edge of the table.
“Third year sucks,” he complained as a pencil rolled off his binder and clattered against the cold library floor. “You know, final exams aren’t until the end of next term, and yet Dr. Bandow is still insisting on loading us with papers before we’ve had a chance to finish moving in.”
“Klaus, you live in the city,” Georg retorted without looking up from his law textbook. “You’ve stayed in the same apartment for the past two straight years. What is there to move in?”
With a huff, Klaus pressed his chin into his palm and spun a pen in his free hand. “Well, sure, but plenty of other people are still moving in!”
“You’re ridiculous,” Georg snorted before leaning back over his textbook. His first class wasn’t for another hour, but they’d been given a case to study over the summer, and the only notes he had managed to take were covered in doodles and expletives.
Silence fell over the table as the boys turned to their work. The library was still relatively empty; it was too early in the semester for crowds of study groups and students preparing for panicked, last-minute attempts to revise for exams. A young man slid into a chair a few tables away, and a young woman was speaking in hushed tones with the man at the front desk, but otherwise, the only sound was the scribbling of pen against paper.
For several minutes, the young men could almost be mistaken for well-behaved students. Klaus leaned close to his paper, as though he were trying to inhale the words on the page. Every passing minute, his face crept closer to the tabletop, until, finally, he pitched forwards entirely.
Georg barely glanced at his friend’s face being pressed into the table.
“Tell me why I didn’t decide to work as a janitor,” Klaus groaned.
“You’d never succeed as a janitor; you never even had to clean your own messes growing up.”
One of Klaus’ arms snapped forwards, and a smack that was aiming for Georg’s shoulder instead slapped smartly against the wooden back of his chair. With a sharp intake of breath, Klaus drew himself upright.
As he rubbed at his knuckles, Klaus shot back, “As I seem to recall, the Aachen family also hired a housekeeper.”
The young man nearby hissed for the two to pipe down. Klaus, with his back to the other student, rolled his eyes, but they both returned to their work. Georg flipped the page in his notebook, only to discover that he had gone through all of his notes.
With an internal groan, he opened to a blank sheet and started to jot down what he could remember of the case.
I’m definitely not going to be making attempts to wrap-up every single day of the month. I’ve attempted that before, it’s just not realistic. Maybe every week? But I figured I’d start off the month with a little something.
Daily goal: 3,333
Daily total: 4,000
I like to try getting a little bit of a buffer when motivation is still high at the start of the month, so I almost always set a higher goal for the first couple days. If I’m being honest, I was a little afraid that the style wasn’t going to come to me as we were getting closer and closer to the start of the month, but I needn’t have worried! Things are moving perfectly smoothly (for now), and I’m pretty satisfied with what got done today!
Excerpt:
A moment passed with only the sound of striking knitting needles, each woman immersed in her own project and lost to her own thoughts. Whatever excitement Mrs. Bivin might have stirred up with her news settled into a self-aware stillness, not quite peaceful out of respect for the Pewitt’s loss.
“It’s a shame about Bran.” Mrs. Gower’s voice was low, barely audible over the sound of the needles. The others paused to listen. “It had been so long since the last disappearance. I had hoped they might’ve finally been satisfied.”
“There’s no satiation for the fair folk,” said widowed Mrs. Keelan. She was the oldest of the group, by far, and spoke with the grim weariness of experience. “And as for young Winifred, she’ll learn to accept it. We all do, eventually. There’s no need to force the grieving process before it’s ready.”
It was a breezy spring day, and two supervillains were sitting down to coffee. They sat across from each other at a small table outside - it was the first day of the season that allowed for it. Both were dressed in civilian clothes, not to try blending in - they were too notorious for that - but because it was a Saturday. And Saturday was their day off, a day when they allowed minor villains and other petty criminals to keep the city’s superheroes occupied.
One of the two, who went by the Ghost any other day of the week, cupped her mug between her hands and rested her elbows on the table. “I must say, Henry, that tactic of yours last Tuesday nearly had SuperDude. Had it not been for those horrendous neon green costumes you had your henchmen wear, I might’ve been blown away by it.”
Henry - who on that past Tuesday had demanded the Ghost refer to him as ‘Dr. Illusion’ - flashed a grin across the table. “I personally thought it was a nice touch. After you thoroughly humiliated me a month ago, I think I let you off easy, Clara.”
Clara nearly spat out her coffee. Managing to choke it down, she burst into a laugh. “Let me off easy? I just asked where you got your degree from. You didn’t have to deliberately dress up your henchmen in my least-favorite color! If you don’t have a doctorate, you have no excuse to title yourself ‘Doctor’ anything!”
Henry opened his mouth to argue, but either fell at a loss for words or knew better than to say what was on his mind, because silence fell between the two villains. He picked up his coffee and took a sip, listening to the busy street. Clara scrolled through a few a e-mails and news sites on her phone absently.
It was Clara that eventually broke the comfortable silence. “How’s your sister doing, by the way? She just had her second kid, didn’t she?”
“Yes! About a month ago now, actually. Another boy.”
Clara smiled, not unkindly. “Poor thing. Those boys must be tearing her house apart.”
A passerby walking along caught sight of the two villains as they relaxed. He glued his gaze to them as he passed, eyes wide in fear. Henry and Clara waited until he was out of sight to laugh at his unease. People’s reactions to seeing them in public never disappointed. Whether it was yelling or staring and back away slowly, citizens of the city always seemed to forget that the two supervillains lived among them. That they were just two more people outside of their jobs. People who could go shopping for groceries and meet up for coffee on weekends.
Even after both had finished their coffee, they sat and enjoyed each other’s company. It wasn’t until Clara checked her watch that she bent down to grab an agenda from her bag.
“I’ll need to get going soon. What’s your schedule looking like for this week?”
“I’ve got a couple henchmen out for vacation, so I’m not aiming for anything big. Maybe wreak a little havoc downtown on Monday, start the week off with some chaos.”
Clara jotted something down on her agenda, a smile tugging at her lips. “This is why I don’t work with henchmen. And if you’re not going to be too busy later in the week, I’ve got this marvelous heist planned. I can’t talk about it here, of course, but expect to be hearing about this one for years.”
“Only if you succeed,” Henry taunted.
Clara stuck out her tongue, eyes still on the agenda in front of her. When she’d finished, she snapped it shut and leaned forwards on the table. “You know what, Henry? If we ever do decide to work together, SuperDude will be Super Screwed.”
“Agreed.” Henry leaned back in his chair as Clara stood up and shouldered her bag. “But until then, I still need to avenge that chicken I sent you last year.”
Clara slapped her hand down on the table. “You sent me a chicken! You know I hate them! What else was I supposed to do?”
Resting his face in his hands, Henry pouted dramatically. “I just thought you could use another pet.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Clara laughed. “Until next week, then. Mr. Illusion.”
“See you next week, you second-rate mastermind.”
Clara threw her head back and laughed as she walked away from the café.
