bodhranwriting

[bodhranwriting]

A list of supporting characters who have randomly jumped into my head for another random fantastical series I want to call Gander & Kasparov:

An elderly healer who turned his whole village to stone to try and buy time to find a cure for their sickness.

A ribbon-witch locked in a feud with a clan of sentient spiders.

A student of pyromancy who just really, really wants to be a musician.

An intelligent she-wolf somehow in charge of a gang of werewolves.

Gander's missing father who is entirely convinced he is dead and trapped in a snowy purgatory. (Yetis are really mean)

A seer utterly unconvinced that she is, in fact, psychic and not just really insightful.

Kasparov's ex-girlfriend, the Queen of the Seven Seas.

A jeweller desperately trying to woo the Broonie (brownies) ambassador.

A tree turned into a human person who is not enjoying this fast-paced life.

A very minor dream demon with a stutter.

[bodhranwriting]

When You Are Noticed -

When you are Noticed, You are invited to drown in the gaping maw of the world Because you have proven yourself consumable. Every part of you is now a delicacy.

It is now a matter of pride, of points To land on you a hit. After all, you are not real. Someone new will take to the table tomorrow.

You are offered glass shards to drive into your body – So you can be the masses’ shattered reflection. To shine for them. To be feted, admired, bathed in golden light – And then devoured.

We do not even spit out the bones.

I do not know if we have become – or always were – A nation of cannibals.

I suspect the latter.

For when we were told we could no longer eat the lands of others We turned vicariously to people to sate our hunger.

We are but locusts, Stripping our chosen to the bone.

[bodhranwriting]

To the rook on the traffic lights at 7am –

You watch me with a literary raven’s eye, (an honour which more rightly belongs to you) Head tilted with a rakish air and claws Digging into your conquest of some drunken lad Who stumbled this way between the University where he hopes to become a man, And the graveyard where he will cease to be one.

A graveyard is only ever alive with your companions, Bones and soil and worms beneath the copper-tinted streets. Cities are such living things And – right now – yours and mine is still asleep.

I am too, still groggy from dry cereal and lukewarm showers, And I walk with the lead-lined steps of a workie on their way, But you, the wild thing here which makes your home so easily, Are watching me, us two – Us alone (not lonely) two – And you caw a greeting.

It echoes through the square, Bringing the clamour of a graveyard to a dark, wet morning In a place that will take another hour to come to life.

I walk on, past the lights and up the street where The shipwrecks of the night are besieged by feathers. The city is alive with birds.

And I thought, there’s a poem in this.

Bodhrán M.

[bodhranwriting]

The I Which Dies

I am not a pitiable thing, Not a tragedy, nor broken piece, I am not your puppet on a string. I am proud, proud of that everlasting I. I am, I am not. I am here and I am me. I am a me and I. A human in command of me And both part (and not) of Life’s teaming masses:

And yet my mind still rebels and clashes Against the idea that I – This thing behind my heirloom eyes – Will die. That I will, one day, not exist, Save, perhaps in the cosmos’ grit and grist, And entombed on pages such as this.

A thought pinned like a butterfly in glass, That this someday will come to pass. That I will die, and nobody will know. But yet! Another thought does show Its face amidst the swirling gale of fear and blue – When Death comes, does it really come for you?

It comes for those around you, yes, You watch the light fade and people guess Where they go, these people that you knew, Where whatever I goes next. But does it really come for you? For when it comes That’s when that I is done. That sun: It’s gone like a candle burning out, So there is no I to die and leave. You’ve gone. I will be gone. And I – The I which lives so snug behind my eyes – Will never really reach the day I die.

Or maybe not. It’s just a thought; A young man’s thought in a time Of such uncertain certainty that I – That I, that I, my I Will someday, somehow…

Die.

Bodhrán M.

[bodhranwriting]

Hyrrokkin the Frostling Opening

There were travellers coming up the hill with the purposeful stride of people with money.

Hyrrokkin haphazardly hung up the last of the washing, catching her claws in the clothespin as she did, and then bolted back up the path.

Aeolus wasn’t in the cottage, but the gleaming kitchen flagstones which nearly sent her sliding into the table meant it hadn’t been long. Hiking up her skirts, Hyrrokkin hopped over the half-full pail and flung open the back door of the cottage.

At the bottom of the small vegetable garden, she spotted him; salt-and-copper hair falling in his eyes as he bent industriously over his task on the riverbank.

“Aeolus!”

Her mentor jerked in surprise and dropped the pot he was scouring into the water with a loud curse. Immediately, he plunged his arm in to retrieve it and snapped, “Someone better be dying!”

Hyrrokkin skidded to a halt beside him, grinning broadly and panting out tiny frost clouds. “People – coming up the hill.”

“Unless they’re attacking us, there’s no need to shout.” Aeolus lifted the pot, wrinkling his nose. The movement caused his glasses to slip, glinting in the mid-afternoon autumn sun.

“Aeolus, you promised.”

“I do not promise, I proposed. There’s a difference.”

“You said that the next expedition was when I could go solo.”

“I said, if I think they’re decent people, you could go solo. And if it’s an easy enough route.”

Hyrrokkin snorted and scratched her snout. “Most of them are easy enough. I handle the winter better than you anyway.”

Aeolus raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.

The bell at the cottage door rang out, echoing off the hillside. Hyrrokkin turned a mournful gaze down at the human man, long ears twitching back pleadingly.

Aeolus sighed heavily and held out a hand. Beaming, Hyrrokkin took it and hauled him easily to his feet. She was small for a frostling, but still had half a head on her teacher at least and muscles were strung like beads on a string up her arms. Sta/nding next to him still felt odd – human proportions were so… tidy. So regular.

Nodding at Hyrrokkin to take her share of the pots and pans, Aeolus raised his shoulders in a casual shrug and said, “Well, let’s go see if they’re decent people, shall we?”

[bodhranwriting]

(A Poem About Crowns and Royalty and How the Little People Take and Hold the Power with More Thought Put into the Title Than the Poem Itself)

By Bodhrán M.

Crowns are heavy, so they say,

And placed with such devotion,

But a peasant’s scythe is heavier,

And swung with such emotion.

[bodhranwriting]

The City of Dunbar

By Bodhrán M.

Imagine a rising city encased in glass.

The sunlight bent and broken

And filtered through a cage of clarity.

A climber can take three routes

Up, and higher, into this nest of

Locks and keys and silver chains.

First the dreamer –

The artist, actor, dramaturge –

Rises on the wings of change.

Amidst the glitter and the colour

Of histories and fantasies of life,

Making keys of multihued and

Satin, starry skies.

Then the traveller –

The merchant, trader, artisan –

Floats up on a fountain of coin.

Silks and spices, metals and mores,

Bringing the outside world inside,

The keys glimmering and huge,

Earth-rich artifacts.

And finally, the wolves –

The smugglers, thieves, killers –

Circumnavigate the gates and

Claw their way with bloodied fingers

Up through the sewers and grates,

Keys fashioned from splintered bones,

A life for life.

And so the city tumbles

And turns with relentless grace.

Top-heavy from climbing folk,

Spinning the slums to the skies,

And, perhaps, in time the city turns

And shatters the glass cage.

[bodhranwriting]

Let Me Speak of the Grief of Horatio

By Bodhrán M.

Let me speak of the grief of Horatio,

A young man bereft of every tie and tether

On that cold stone floor of Death’s bloody hall.

The last ghost of that Danish court –

Shackled by a brother’s word

To the pen which bleeds with ev’ry stroke.

That last, greyed ghost.

Cobwebbed in mourning clothes

The first and last link in the chain

Which madness forged

And wove into nooses for all his loves.

Condemned by some uncaring wraith

To be alone and last.

For what? For what?

For trying to be kind? For trying to be brave?

No. For being in the path of retribution.

Pity the grief of Horatio, his tears black ink

And his hands shake in the memories of hope

Where once he was a brother,

Now condemned to be a ghost.

[bodhranwriting]

What happens when you cross an obsession with the Terra Nova Expedition and the French Revolution in fantasy land?

[bodhranwriting]

I think I should start being more consistent with snippets and updates in the writing department so I think once a week I’ll give you guys a list of titles and you pick the one I tell you about.

[bodhranwriting]

Of Doctors and Dragons by Bodhrán M.

It eats people.

The assurance kept bouncing around Six’s head as he climbed up the grassy slope. The man had looked quite serious as he’d said it but had added with the wisdom of a scholar that he didn’t think that was going to dissuade him.

And he was right, Six thought with a touch of pride, he’d never been stopped by the threat of carnivorous creatures before. And he had a lovely scar on his left leg to prove it.

Come to think of it, he also had a scar in the small of his back from a manticore… and another under his third rib on the right side from a gryphon��

Ah, well, that was life. Couldn’t expect to get through it without some bruises, right? Besides, he’d quite enjoyed all three of those excursions.

Apart from the actual getting mauled, of course, but you couldn’t have everything.

Anyway, Six had heard a lot of stories about dragons and he’d never actually come across a confirmed case of a human being devoured by one. It was always a case of someone who’d heard it from someone who’d heard it from a merchant who’d known of someone vanishing mysteriously near a dragon’s lair. You never got to the source, exactly.

Sometimes, he’d wondered if the story had been made up by the dragons themselves just to get some peace. That made some sort of sense, he lied to himself.

But then again, those devoured didn’t often get to tell the tale.

Six shivered, half from horror and half from delight. This was the fun part, the little moment before all hell broke loose and things got really interesting.

And this was when things got really interesting.

Cresting the hill, he was suddenly met with the vaguely disturbing tableau of four heavily armed, thickly padded figures all levelling nasty looking rifles in his direction.

He froze where he was, lifting his hands high into the air.  “Oh,” he said, trying a charming grin. “I think I may have gotten a bit lost.”

They didn’t lower their weapons. One – the smallest – ratcheted the pin of their gun in a meaningful manner. “State your business.”

Six’s grin got wider. “My name’s Six,” he said, “an’ ’m lookin’ for a dragon.”

The tallest lowered their weapon and stepped forwards. Their face was completely concealed by a black hood and scarf, but they dug in their pocket and retrieved a cigarette of some kind. Some careful manoeuvring of the various materials later and they had it stuck in their mouth and lit.

Six thought about applauding, but he also quite liked having a head and all his limbs. So, instead, he just waited to see what they’d do.

“Well, you found it,” the tallest figure said. Their voice was quite high for their size and Six suspected they might be a woman. They gestured behind them to a gaping shadowy maw of a cave, leading into the hill and – presumably – underground.

“So, I am in the right place. Can I go inside?”

The smallest guard – he was guessing, but he felt confident enough about that title that he would have bet money – shook their rifle threateningly. “Why?”

Shrugging, which was surprisingly difficult to do with both hands above your head, Six said, “I just wanted to see if the rumours were true. Talkin’ to a dragon – that’d be somethin’ to tell the grandkids, wouldn’t it?”

The end of the cigarette flared red as the tallest guard inhaled. “And would you,” they said, smoke curling around each level word, “be concerned if I told you that it eats people?”

He thought about it for a moment. “I dun’t know,” he replied, honestly, “’cause I dun’t know if that’s true. What you just told me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well,” Six began, “you asked if I would be concerned if you told me that the dragon eats people. Not whether I would be concerned that it eats people. Can I put my arms down now? They’re gettin’ tired.”

The guards looked over at each other, seemingly in a bid to work out what he’d just said.

Normally, this would be the point where he ran away, but they didn’t seem like they were going to shoot him immediately. Or at least, shoot him anywhere immediately fatal. It was an important distinction to make in times like these.

And also, he was having tremendous fun.

“Well, it doesn’t matter what I tell you,” the tallest guard finally said, “because it doesn’t change the fact that it eats people. And yes, you can put your arms down.”

Sixsmith pulled a face and let his arms drop to his sides, careful not to reach anywhere near his pistol. “Who’d it eat?”

“What?”

“Who’d it eat? Presumably, someone from here, right?”

The smallest guard lifted their gun again, shaking it in his direction and said the very words he was hoping to hear. “You ask too many questions.”

He shrugged, secretly rejoicing. That phrase was only said when the speaker either didn’t have – or didn’t want to give – the real answers.

Six liked mysteries. They did usually mean he had to cross a town off his internal map after the locals chucked him out on his ear, and he typically picked up a few physical mementos, but they were usually worth it.

But a dragon who ate people (but never anyone the accusers could actually name), a mafia of doctors and armed guards seemed just exactly the right amount of unexplained madness to be interesting.

He thought it was about time he did what he did best.

It was time to stick his nose in and see who tried to cut it off first.

Six slipped into the busiest pub he could find and took his subtlety off at the door.

[bodhranwriting]

Tocktick by Bodhrán M.

The gas lamp flickered disconcertingly. 

Emmett Askren, captain of The Iris, groaned and rubbed a large, brown hand across his face. The blinking light ignited shards of pain in his retinas, the ebb and pull of the chatter in the tavern threatening to wash him out to the sea of a meltdown. 

Carefully, Emmett placed his hands on the table and closed his eyes, pulling all his concentration down through his arms in the half-forgotten method from his childhood. While the Sturm Islands were hardly the seat of Suliland decorum, certain traits were unacceptable anywhere. 

Even as the thought passed through his head, guilt flooded him. Tapping unconsciously on the table, swaying just slightly in his seat, he offered up a silent apology to Kizzy. The idea of his daughter being ashamed of something they had no control over froze him to his core. But rules were rules and society was unforgiving – a tocktick child had time. An aeronaut with debts did not. 

An aeronaut with debts and no ship had even less. Emmett scowled to himself and opened his eyes again, brushing a strand of greying hair behind his ears and then scratching his stubble. He should shave, he thought helplessly, to make himself seem more trustworthy to potential clients, but the idea of running a razor over his chin made his stomach turn more than the beer behind the counter.  

Five pounds… it was an impossible ask and the deadline was approaching at the speed of one of those new-fashioned locomotives which had driven him to this place. And that wasn’t even counting the coin he’d need to spend on the broken ship once he had it back. Emmett swallowed convulsively and glanced up at the clock on the wall, peering past the premature and garishly coloured banners proclaiming loyalties for the upcoming Throgmorton Aeronautical Contest. 

Quarter past four. 

Li was late, as usual. Later than usual, actually. His heart thudded faster, frissons of anxiety shooting up his spine as he tried to relax back into the chair – feeling every splinter of it – and wait. 

Somehow, he doubted she was going to solve all his problems. 

But it wasn’t going to stop her from trying. 

[bodhranwriting]

hi!! i love your writing and your characters (specifically from arcane skies) are living rent free in my head. do you happen to have any concrete physical descriptions on hand for fanart purposes? my deepest apologies if you've already posted this and i missed them!

I have a few.

"Kizzy had never been mistaken for her father’s biological daughter. They were a study in contrasts: he was brown-skinned and tall with a narrow face, prominent nose, and stiff and exacting in every movement. Kizzy was Fristian-pale, fidgety, and loud when speech was possible. Once a week, she ‘borrowed’ – in her very characteristic way – a razor from an unguarded drawer and shaved off as much of her hair as she could, usually leaving her head resembling a half-blown dandelion clock."

*

"Sixsmith had changed. It felt stupid to be surprised in the moment – five years was a long time when a man was approaching, no, just on the cusp now of seventy – but he’d been holding in his head that last image of Sixsmith standing at the corner, with a bag over his shoulder and flashing a cheeky salute. The last thing he’d seen before his oldest friend had been swallowed by the marketplace.

This Sixsmith’s hair was completely white and hacked close to his head, more an attack than a haircut. His stance was different: his left shoulder hanging lower than the other and he’d lost enough weight that his ribs showed eerily through his dark shirt, not helped by the prominent chest and shoulders characteristic of Taiyeks.

But it was his realising that it wasn’t paint on Sixsmith’s face which knocked the breath from his lungs.

Three long, puckered scars raked down the right side of his face, crossed by a shorter, thicker one from his eyebrow to his hairline. It twisted his face into a strangers’, a jigsaw not quite put back together right. It was almost as if someone had tried to keep a tally on his features and miscounted."

[bodhranwriting]

Can we say trauma?

[bodhranwriting]

Arcane Skies is a wild ride.

[bodhranwriting]

One of my favourite descriptions of a character ever :)

Orion grinned and stuck his hands in his pockets, letting his coat fall open fully.

Isabel couldn’t contain her gasp.

The man was a walking chemical factory. Slung across his narrow chest was a bandolier overstuffed with flasks, test tubes, and little vials all filled to the brim with mysterious liquids of eye wateringly bright hues. On his belt hung a multitude of bulging leather pouches, a bag of black powder, what appeared to be a jar of dirt, and two pistols with worryingly large chambers.

In short, Isabel got the sense that, if he tripped, he was going to take out everything within a five-mile radius.

“What… did you say your nickname was again, Orion?”

Orion’s guileless beam grew wider.

“Oops,” he said.

“And... why’s that?”

“I’m bad at keeping secrets.”