My name is Cristina, and I’ve been on Tumblr for a very long time. Sadly, I accidentally deleted my blog in 2020 and have since sort of abandoned most efforts to revive it. Fortunately, this allows me to reintroduce myself to the Writeblr community.
So... Hello again. I'm a thirty-year-old anicent cryptid who loves fantasy worlds, mythology, and the act of creating. I enjoy spending a little time in nature, love snails, and I’m a gamer, a reader, and on occasion, I do some writing, haha. For the last six years, I have been working on my art (mostly snail-related), but it is about time for me to focus on my writing again!
I’ve been working on a lgbtq+ fantasy series called The Kingdoms of the Nine Muses for almost a decade now, and currently I'm on Draft #2! It's a bit of a dark fantasy with romance elements, scheming goddesses, found family, angst, queer romance, mystery, gore, and badass lady warriors.
TKOTNM is about Arietes (Ari), a Warrior-to-be who grew up with the Sol Warriors after her mother was killed in battle. When someone arrives and claims that her mother is very much alive and imprisoned in the Elvish Kingdom of Pueri, it sets her on a journey to save her mother’s life. Along the way, she and a few others, including the woman (Vafer) who broke her heart, will discover something bigger is going on in Mnemosyne. People are going missing, and the trees whisper of a mysterious Hooded Figure that might be behind it all. A truth has been hidden away by those in power, history made myth, and something has lain dormant for centuries. But what would happen if it were to wake? 🌙
I think I'll finally be able to give this story the attention it deserves. The story has grown as I have grown over this past decade, and now, with more lived experience to draw inspiration from, I'll finally get this story going. As well as a writing group that meets once a month to help with accountability, lol.
Hopefully, I stick to it. I have been putting my art out into the real world recently, being brave, and at this point, I'm simply proud of myself for trying. I can still be afraid, but as long as I do it anyway, that's all that matters. I hope you're out there doing things that scare you, too. In the unknown is where we find ourselves and grow. Do hard things. I believe in you, little snails. 🐌
Ari didn’t meet her eyes, but could feel Vafer’s gaze. Her skin heated, and she knew her face was reddening. Damn you. “Please… don’t say my name like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know very well what I mean, Vafer.” Their eyes met again. Ari watched as Vafer glanced down at her lips, then farther, to the trail of skin left exposed by the blouse. She hugged her arms around herself, cheeks burning, face as red as a beet. Why can’t I let the idea of you go?
“Fine,” she said finally. Ari let out a breath she had not realized she was holding. “I owe you for that kick to the stomach yesterday, anyhow.”
“Certainly, I’m no fool to think you, or anyone, perfect, but... you’ve never apologized.” Where had that come from? Thought Ari. Perhaps exhaustion had rotted her mind, made her vulnerable when all she wanted was to scream and rage. Nightmares plagued her often, and mixed in were dreams of a beautiful warrior that she wanted nothing more than to forget. The dreams often left her more wounded than the nightmares did, and she hated the power this frustrating woman had over her.
Ari held the pommel of the sword securely against the center of her breast. A two-horn guard to keep the full length of the blade between them; she enjoyed the distance and the safety it provided. But not even an ocean between them would be far enough.
Thick, black smoke billowed and roared as flames ate away at bodies strewn about on the shore. Few Sisters had fallen, but the body count was no less significant. Appendages and sinew littered the beach, like bloody flotsam ready to be pecked and picked apart by ravenous carrion birds. Sunlight reflected off the armor and weapons of the fallen, making the fine sand sparkle and shine in stark contrast to the endless gore and suffering.
Effluvium burned in their nostrils, while smoke and ash filled their lungs. All around, the survivors coughed and wailed in agony. A few screeched in terror as their lives came to an abrupt end. The Elven Warriors, well-known for their brutality and mercilessness, were shown no compassion by the Sol Warriors. The Sisters struck without hesitation: a sword through the neck, spine, cranium, or some other deadly blow. They watched the dying Elven males, with light-purple skin and silver hair, whose faces turned an even lighter shade of violet in death.
Dead shapeshifters melted from their various beast forms, a rare sight amongst the males, who did not often possess such magia, something they coveted and punished their female counterparts for. As they turned back, silvery wisps of smoke enveloped their naked bodies until they were no more than ash and brittle bone.
The fields near the deep yellow and black sands of the Ragazzapad coast, now ruined and blood-soaked, would bear no fruit for years to come. Acai and date palms, once flourishing, were no better than charcoal. The damage done was enough to make any decent ecologist weep.
A horn sounded from the seashore, and the remaining Elven Warriors began to retreat. A firecaster shot flames at the fleeing, the blue fire originating from deep within her belly. They burned alive; the flames turning black as they singed and seared through their oxidized armor and flesh.
Another Sol Warrior raised her hands toward the ocean, creating a wave that swept away the burning bodies and the general horror. Their ashes whirled into the great blue mass of the Suffering Sea, never to be remembered, no better than chum. She shook her head, ears ringing, teeth gnashing.
“That is enough, Pyroia,” the Warrior, Patientia, commanded, “Go now, aid your Sisters.” The firecaster wiped a wicked smile from her lips and nodded, turning away.
The Warrior searched among the dead for her Sisters but found relief in their absence among the cold, lifeless forms. She thought about her friends, her home, and wished she could close her eyes and already be beside the crackling fire in the Warriors' Library. But in the haze of war, it all seemed so far away, almost another lifetime entirely.
Then she heard it, the whistle that told her all she needed to know. The sound rose and fell, almost like the serenade of a bird crying out for potential lovers. They were safe. Her closest friends, her Sisters, Gaella and Zanara. She could never repay them for what they had done for her all those years ago, accepting a lost and desperate girl into their ranks without question. But now, as a woman of exceptional power, she endeavored to protect them. She followed the call, wading through the remains and wreckage of the battle. A mile down the coast, she spotted them and began to run, leaping over bodies without a second thought.
“The Elven of the Saeva Clan have fallen, Patientia!” Gaella, an Elven female herself, shouted proudly when she’d found them. Her long silver braid was coming undone, loose strands moving gently in the breeze. They were both covered in blood, sand clinging to the viscous liquid that dripped from their armor. Gaella howled with delight as she embraced Patientia and Zanara.
“This fight is not over, Ga, and I doubt very much that it will end anytime soon. Pueri will not stop sending their hordes, not until they destroy all of Mnemosyne,” said Patientia, wiping a mixture of sweat and blood from her brow with the back of her hand. She was exhausted. Ships began to pull farther from the shore, abandoning their comrades who continued to retreat, most crawling to the surf, dragging their broken bodies into the water.
“We must celebrate the wins, Pati,” said Zanara, as she wiped the dirt from her cheek and detangled her ebony locks with expert fingers. The ends of her hair were singed and would need to be cut to mitigate the damage. She continued, “or life will become that much more dull.” Gaella shoved her, clearly appalled by her words.
“All of this blood and death, and yet you find yourself capable of boredom while the bodies have yet to cool?”
“You know what I mean,” Zanara huffed. “I am grateful to be alive, for another moment of reprieve. Thalia blesses us, as do her sisters.”
“Only Polyhymnia blesses this battlefield today,” said Gaella, watching the retreating ships sail away, Elven Warriors swimming to reach any available skiff they could. Patientia watched her eyes and knew she was searching for someone familiar who did not appear. “Shall we recite a hymn for the fallen?”
“I don’t know any,” admitted Patientia. Had she ever known any? Her mind had always been elsewhere when her mother dragged her along to visit Clio’s Temple. She recalled staring at the Muses’ statue, clothed in a chiton of stone, with a crown of laurels atop her brow. In her arms, a stack of scrolls and a set of tablets. For hours, Patientia would speculate as to the nature of the texts she possessed and was never truly present during the various services held by the Temple Priestesses, who tended to drone on and on. “Let us pray to Mnemosyne instead, for she embodies all of her daughters.”
In the bloody sand, they sat in a perfect triangle, holding hands, their eyes closed. Panic and movement continued all around them, the gathering of the wounded, the last farewells to the lost Sol Warriors. Other groups of Sisters performed their own post-battle rituals as well; it was tradition to honor the Goddesses they fought for, to honor and uphold their ideals. Song and dance, hymn and prayer, healing and hurting. The opposite of war is not life, but creation.
Patientia thought of her daughter, her shiny-brown locks in pigtails, little hands reaching up to clasp around her neck for a tight hug. She was doing this for her, to protect her, to protect their fragile peace.
Their prayers were brief, and soon the Sisters rose, scanning the beach and the burning fields beyond. They would assist the wounded and prepare to head back to their base on the outskirts of Sorellanord.
“Did you recognize any of them, Gaella?” Zanara asked.
“Fortunately, no,” Gaella sighed, a disgusted sneer playing at her lips. “I’m sure they suspect I’m long dead by now,” she added. Patientia wanted to press her about what she’d meant, but Zanara pounced, attempting to tackle Gaella back down into the sand. She’d dodged her, of course, and swiftly flipped backward out of reach. Zanara was not a woman of complex emotion, or if she was, she did everything in her power to suppress them.
“Too slow, Z!” They were laughing now, messing about like children, though they were all mothers and Warriors of high rank. It kept them young, supposed Patientia. If their lives were filled only with bloodshed and battles, they’d certainly go mad. She wanted to scold them, but thought better of it, stifling a chuckle. Gaella dodged another blow, grabbed a handful of sand with one quick motion, throwing it in Zanara’s face. A string of curses passed between her lips, and she charged.
“Enough acrobatics! Enough tricks! Fight me like a real woman,” Zanara demanded.
“Only if you can catch me, cow!” Gaella ran toward the field, where many of their Sisters were already preparing to make the journey home, Zanara right on her tail.
Patientia remained at the line where the sand met mud and watched her friends with a small smile on her face. She removed her helmet, feeling overheated. Her short brown hair was sweat-soaked. Her piercing almond- eyes, in the darkest shade of green, seemed to shine more brightly than ever before. Regardless of the speckles of blood surrounding them.
She sighed, thinking of home again.
Tears streamed down her face, and the world around her went abruptly quiet and still. Patientia didn’t react to the sudden burst of emotion, as she was exhausted. But then she felt a rather strange sensation in the middle of her chest that would not cease. She touched the spot. Felt a thick, hot liquid spreading rapidly in and around her armor. She thought about how strange the sensations were before finally peering downward.
There was a large spear sticking out of her chest. Perhaps it was the blood loss, or the rapid lack of oxygen to her brain, but she chuckled. How had that gotten there?
The spear had not been just a simple spike. It released four prongs from its tip in the shape of a square and dug in. It was a modified piton, hooking onto her abdomen. She couldn’t hear herself, but felt the familiar rumbling of laughter rise in her throat. Her arms dropped to her sides, too heavy to hold up any longer.
Everything was silent. She looked up to see Gaella and Zanara with strife-stricken expressions as their mouths mimicked yelling, but she could not hear them. She wanted to tell them everything was alright, that she felt none of it, but she couldn’t form the words to lie, or any at all.
Patientia could swear she saw the veins in their necks popping out from the intensity of their shouting. She could see other Sisters along the coast following their voices and looking her way.
Gaella and Zanara ran, but it was much too late. There was nothing to be done. She felt herself exhale, and the pain rushed in all at once. Escape was out of the question.
It felt as though her body was being ripped apart. A moment that felt like an eternity seemed to pass. They were still running, screaming for her. Blood pooled all around her and soaked into the padding beneath her armor. She thought about how lovely the red sand was, and wondered if somewhere in the world there was naturally occurring crimson-colored sand.
She’d never find out.
When she’d finally gotten dragged back by the chain attached to the piton and lost her footing, she almost felt relieved.
The world was no longer silent. She could hear the screams and the sound of boots slapping down on the mud. Dragged and pulled closer and closer to the water, sand stuck to her bloodied body and scraped her in ways she had never imagined it could. Blinding pain coursed through Patientia’s body, like liquid flames burning beneath her flesh, boiling her insides.
Faster and faster, they reeled her in like an anchor rising from the seabed. She heard Gaella shouting and Zanara’s screaming, but she could no longer see them, or anything for that matter. Sand was in her eyes, her mouth, her nose.
She thought only of lopsided pigtails as the sea’s cold, dark embrace enveloped her.
Hello fellow bloggers, humans, and alien creatures of cyber space! My name is Cristina, and I’ve been on Tumblr for a long time. Sadly, I deleted my blog by accident recently and I’m still in the process of rebuilding. Fortunately enough, this gives me the opportunity to re-introduce myself to the Writeblr community!
So... Hi there! I’m a battle-axe bi who loves fantasy worlds and Greek mythology. I love plants, deer, and binge watching lots of different shows. I’m a gamer, reader, and on occasion, I do some writing haha. I’m an anxious mess most of the time and the quarantine has been tough on my mental health, but I’m feeling a bit better now and I’d like to get to know more of you on here. I’d love to talk about writing, shows, gaming, life, and anything else that we’re mutually interested in!
I’m currently (or perhaps have always been) working on a lgbtq+ fantasy series called The Kingdoms of the Nine Muses.
TKOTNM is about Arietes Deerheart, a Warrior to be, who grew up with the Sol Warriors after her mother was killed in battle. When someone arrives and claims that her mother is very much alive and a prisoner in the Elvish Kingdom of Pueri, it starts her on a journey to save her mother’s life. Along the way, she and a few others will discover something bigger is going on in Mnemosyne. People are going missing, and the trees whisper of a mysterious Hooded Figure that might be behind it all. A truth has been hidden away by those in power, history made myth, and something has lied dormant for centuries. But what would happen if it were to wake?
Like or reblog this so I can follow you lovely people 🌙
“They took off toward the forest where Mariva had last been seen. They were going to search the area, then head to the Temple of Mnemosyne to speak with the Wives of the Goddess.”
This is the last thing I wrote in the first draft of The Kingdoms of the Nine Muses. I really have to get back into my writing :/ Anyway, thanks again!!
“Have you had better luck than us?” Vafer asked.
“Not really. What happened?”
“I found some missing posters and they led me to this house,” Vafer pointed behind her. “But the woman refused to speak with me. She didn’t trust me, and she doesn’t have a reason to, so I can’t blame her.”
“Perhaps if I gave it a try?”
“What are you going to do, Arietes? Break down her door and demand she speak with us,” she shook her head.
“Pretty much,” said Ari, parting the group and stomping toward the shack.
“You can’t be serious!” Vafer called after her.
“When am I not?” Ari yelled behind her.
Vafer sighed, but trailed behind her. “Come on boys, let’s make sure she doesn’t kill the woman.”
