#Rise of the Mage WIP

[throughtrialbyfire]

𝐖𝐈𝐏 𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 ♥

hi everyone!!!!! i finally have a little free time bc its spring break!

thank you to everyone who has tagged me over the past few weeks, including @saltymaplesyrup @captain-of-silvenar @areggo @dirty-bosmer !!!!

tagging @thequeenofthewinter @archangelsunited @skyrim-forever @gilgamish

@da3drat @oblivions-dawn @lady-iizsil and YOU! show me your wips >:3c

i bring a portrait i'm working on of emeros!! <33 i wanted to try some things with the lighting/colors lol so it's definitely a major wip, but we're getting there.

i've also got the current edit of chapter 36 for Cycle of the Serpent as my writing wip! it's definitely not the final draft, but i hope to have it done before i have to go to a conference later this month!

It was the burden of the conversation which never truly left him. The worries it revived drew over him in shadows and whispers, a crypt which he swore to exit decades ago. He could roll the warm mug of tea between his palms all he wished; he could remain in the silence; he could achieve all of this and more in the mere moments it took for the priest to surmise the Hall and its purpose, recount its history. Yet, the conversation the prior night did not tug itself from his shoulders, his black shroud, head grown heavy with the weight of it. The three Mer had entered the Hall in the early noon and, against any evidence, expected a cool reprieve from the Hearthfire day outside, but were instead met with the opposite: candles in every corner, a hearth which crackled to keep the priests' bones from any brisk chill which might fumble inside from a wanton breeze, and above them all, the chandelier. The Nord greeted them kindly: his smile pushed the fine lines of his eyes into deep crevices, the bony knots of his finger joints were surprisingly nimble as he set into motion to make the three as at-home as possible, and the voice in his throat, worn by the years, maintained a steady sound as strong as the trees which towered over the mountains outside of Solitude. It had been an idea proposed by the priests in the Temple of the Divines to come here, to see the old man, to hear the history of the city from the priest of Arkay who had lived through so much of it. He knew more than anyone the ins and outs of the ancient fortress, and he knew more than anyone its secrets. So, here they sat, chairs pulled close to the chipped wooden table, nursing a brew made from the local flowers and plants and contained within a clearly old and well-tended clay pot. Wyndrelis would only eye it. Gently drum his fingers along the sides of the mug. Arkay was the natural enemy of any who practiced the mage's specific arts, and while he no longer saw himself as a full-time necromancer - nor did he consider himself a religious Mer - the inclination to avoid pissing off the Aedra was a natural one engrained in him since birth. Growing up in Cyrodiil left its marks on him, in more ways than one, the evidence of his childhood education still marring his thoughts, even now. "You had some questions for me about Solitude, then?" The Nord asked, his beard white and his face well-lined by the years. Emeros cleared his throat and gave one solid nod. "Yes, we'd been at the Temple of the Divines, but I'm afraid we found no answers there." The Bosmer took a sip of the tea, letting it rest on his tongue a moment. The Dunmer did not repeat the action. He glanced to Athenath, who also clutched the mug, but with a much more relaxed method to the way their fingers wrapped around the vessel, evident that the only reason they didnt drink from it was that they were waiting for the mixture to cool down, steam still rising from every cup set before the three.

[illumiera]

Snippet Sunday

since I'm super late for WIP Wednesday (thank you for the tags I've received lately nonetheless! 💖) but trying my best to get into the writing groove after some low-energy weeks, I thought I'd share a snippet of my writing! here's a little something from the very beginning of the next chapter of i fear no fate (for you are my fate), featuring a trip down memory lane with Miraak:

There are no days in deathless Apocrypha, no nights, no stars, and certainly no sunrises. One could slip through the syllables and into Herma-Mora’s realm intending to linger for a month, a year, no longer, but then find themselves lured like an insect nectar-drunk to tome after tome, to the distant glittering promise of discovery, to the answers for which any scholar would have slain and stolen. One could just as easily take an off-handed glance at a date scrawled into the margins of some old spellbook and strangle themselves on a realisation that sticks in the throat like balled-up paper: the last person to remember their face has been ash or bone for a century or more, and now—now there is nothing and nobody left on Nirn for them to return to, not even if they still knew the way. Not even if they still knew their own names. Miraak has seen it unfold many, many times before. Once, eras ago, before he learned to stay away, he gripped a hapless fool of a mage by the shoulders, stared into his unfocused inkwell eyes, and urged him—in what must have been Cyrodilic, he thinks; Cyrodilic that had tripped from his novice tongue—to remember what he’d been called and where he’d come from. Urged him to remain himself, reckless enough to go wandering into Oblivion though he was. The change seized hold nonetheless, as it would have one day seized hold of him, and soon, the thing standing before him could not have been described as a man anymore. (He took to granting a few of them his mercy—when he could, at least. After all, which would any sane mortal choose if the decision were theirs to make: a thousand years of searing beneath the never-blinking eyes of the Gardener of Men, or a swift sword-strike to the juncture of the neck and shoulder before freedom, endless freedom? Perhaps Mora had dismissed his efforts at first, but when it became apparent that Miraak would not stop, or simply when his actions became more irritating than amusing, the Prince had exacted his toll. Between one heartbeat and the next, once-familiar passageways would twist and turn and lead him on without direction, burning-black waters would surge and swell and threaten to sweep him away or strip the flesh from his bones, and staircases he’d climbed sure-footed would rise and fall to chasms where extinction waited within. Lost in the library of the lost, Miraak had paced, and paced, and paced, until he’d thought he might go mad himself.)

no-pressure tags: @madam-whim @bostoniangirl21 @shadows-aflame @pinessydr @kiir-do-faal-rahhe @bougainvillea-and-saltwater @lilarus @hircines-hunter @theoneandonlysemla @miraakulous-cloud-district @elavoria @moriche and you, reader! if you have something to share, I'd love to see! 🤲

[aldisobey]

WIP Wednesday Thursday

Game Night

I was tagged by some of the loveliest folks I know. Such sweet words of lusty delight they write. Muses both of you

@ollypopwrites @heylittleriotact

WIP work remains an interesting thing. So I’m giving you fresh character work instead. I enjoyed writing this and decided to take a look at how an evening might look from lich perspective. Consider this ‘work in progress’ character work for what I’m always gettin at.

———-

Rook was yelling. Johanna had that effect. The cheerful sort of shout. Easy enough to tell the difference when mortal. Easier still with undead sight coloring the emotion of the moment. Emmrich watched the triumph spark, an overbearing pride lash towards the skull at the head of the table.

“You can’t cheat here boy, I know you’re out of spells.”

The dining table was clear of dinner. Dishes away and a detailed map laid out and littered with various miniatures took their place. Snacks to nibble, wine to sip, a lonesome whiskey bottle sat untouched. The lich kept to the darker quiet corner couch. Table before him littered with notes, questions, Bellara had left lists if he had a mind to indulge the endless probing.

“Ha! See!! Page 103, you know the necromancer class best, I can use that spirit to power it!” Worne crowed.

Emmrich kept mind there, written questions ignored, watched irritation rise like pride off the half-lich leading the game. He tilted his head that way, could feel Johanna’s attention flick against his briefly before the shouting started again.

“Fool. You could do that. But you lack the proper alignment.” Hezenkoss sniffed. Sounded almost as if she could lift her chin from table in emphasis.

“What?! But Eric is chaotic evil! Says here…” Worne sputtered, flipped still in the book for another marked entry.

Johanna started laughing. Loud mocking braying that shook the table and players gathered. “Should have thought of that earlier! Change it to chaotic neutral.”

“What?! No! He’s evil!”

“Rook.” Lucanis spoke this time. Voice slow and tired. “Last scene Eric gave all his money to a beggar.”

Taash groaned in agreement, lifted their head from where it lay on the hard surface, empty beer in hand, “You shouted ‘bangles for the bangable.’”

“That was purely selfish!! Who cares about money with an ass like that around?” The rogue snapped the book shut, slammed it to the table for dramatic effect. Johanna’s description of the NPC had been too savory for ‘Eric’ to ignore.

“Uuuuh. I hate to mention. But…Eric also saved that kid from a blood mage.” Harding raised a hand from rubbing Taash’s back.

“Evil vs evil!” Worne looked hurt. Betrayed. This was his party, they should have his back here.

Davrin crossed his arms and snorted. “Eric could’ve healed poor Barnacus.” He gestured at his toppled miniature, “but he flirted with that hobo using an illusion instead.”

“Well…” the hurt faded, shame replacing for a flicker, but that never…

“Worne. Eric has been acting neutral all game.” Neve’s calm voice settled the matter. The shame settled. Rook’s face red for once. Neve shrugged, kept glass in hand and hovered over near Emmrich.

A hushed “Fuck…” settled over the table as Worne looked over their fallen minis before the horde. “Dammit. Is that a party wipe again? Where’s Bellara?”

“Her character died an hour ago, Rook. She left to work on that archive.” Davrin said with a bemused brow. Stood from the table then to take leave, “And I need to see Assan.”

Johanna cackled. Rook seemed the only one in distress. The rest had been resigned to such a fate from the start. Were clearing out like Davrin. Some to the library for book club, others perhaps to bed.

Worne remained and bickered over smaller matters from earlier in the game. Emmrich could catch pieces. Johanna argued she kept to the party’s CR. This was practically the module. Worne was checking the balance of dice again. Johanna proclaiming the enemies weren’t idiots. Of course they’d execute someone making death saving throws.

The rest of the beleaguered players exited the dining hall. Gentle talk of night’s last activities and farewells and ‘thanks I guess’ to the game master. Neve still hovered a moment.

“Emmrich. Joining us tonight?”

He leaned forward. Looked up to meet her gaze. Swirling green in skull could see the pity sprites clinging about her. A choking concern he didn’t care to stomach. The lich sighed. A mere sound lacking previous warmth.

“No.” He inclined his head towards the dining table. It had been cleared of its previous game. A new one was already taking form with terrain in place and numerous miniatures arrayed as army. “Johanna still requires some supervision. What holds her can weaken with transportation.”

A small untruth. It could weaken, but he had seen to the matter, reinforced it all before game start. Hezenkoss was as secure here now as she might be on the table in his quarters. He found it less impossible to get something past Neve these days. One couldn’t count on countenance for clues when they spoke with a skull. Still. Her brow rose. Emmrich wouldn’t have moved the half-lich at all if he considered it a danger.

Her smile and voice were soft, “Don’t let them yell too much. Alright? They’re still sharing space with you.”

Emmrich huffed. An echoing noise. Neve only laughed.

“What would the other lich lords think, hmm? You letting those two bully you?”

He’d honestly love to see them try and manage the pair. Doubted they would fare better. Might end up breaking oaths to get a moment’s peace.

Worne was already lining up his scouts. Johanna was holding back, muttering something about reserve and proper deployment tactics being key. Continued on about knowledge of enemy positions and fog of war. Worne was ignoring her and humming. Simply placed scouts along the edge of the map. Quiet enough for the moment.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Emmrich replied. “Your concern is noted Neve.” He did his best to sound thankful, pleasant, but in the moment he wanted her gone. Nascent spirits swirled especially strong within Fade, even bubbled as they were, and he felt something close to nauseous when he glimpsed the worry sprouting around her.

“Slee…” she bit her tongue, “Have a good night Emmrich.”

“You as well. See that you do sleep.”

“You got it Professor.” Neve chuckled light, kept the smirk in play as she took her leave. And the dining hall door clicked shut. Only Emmrich, Johanna, and Rook remained.

“WHAT?!?” Emmrich flinched at Johanna’s rage. Could hear Worne’s laughter rumbling beneath it, building in strength.

“Games over.” Rook had his hands on his hips. Smug grin beaming as he caught Emmrich looking his way and winked, “I win.”

“I could crush your scouts with a single unit!” Johanna sputtered. Emmrich could practically hear her thoughts turning in air. Rook was motioning him over now. Delight dancing around him and seeming to pick at the utter frustration he’d caused. The rogue let Hezenkoss think on it awhile. Then leaned in close to the half-lich skull, his eyes still locked on Emmrich as the towering mage approached, and whispered.

“Deploy then…”

Johanna was silent.

Worne reached a hand out to Emmrich as the lich drew close. Fingers grasped at the edge of coat, pulled the necromancer in by his cloak. “I’ve caught the judge. You trust Emmrich with rules right?” Rook smirked. Leaned up on tiptoe and pecked the point of chin bone.

Emmrich gathered his wits. Suddenly awash in the enveloping warmth of Worne’s mirth and blooming adoration. Spirits so strong shouldn’t be so easy to gather. But the moment Rook had Volkarin in hand, less than that, the moment his thoughts started turning towards the mage Emmrich found it overwhelming to be near.

Needed more practice with all of this…sense. But was it so bad to drown in all consuming obsession? The love might smother, but he no longer had need of air.

“Fine.” Johanna snapped. Emmrich’s head tilted, spied a tiny thought of resignation. He made a clearing noise for a lost throat.

“What happens to be the point of contention?”

“She can’t deploy. I win.” Worne giggled, swept a hand over his scouts lined along her side of the board one after the other.

“Pah!”

Emmrich knew that noise. Felt Worne’s mischievousness catch. Assessed the board state a moment…

“You…” he had played plenty with Johanna years ago, read the updated rules weeks past…Emmrich barked a laugh. Loud and full, piercing and flinching, but Worne was joining him. Smacking Emmrich’s back, hugging him tight a moment as tears filled his eyes.

“Emmrich told me plenty about your ‘deployments’ Johanna. I wondered when you’d try it.”

“Incorrigible brat!” The half-lich spit in sound. Further growls following. “Another match! That was hardly fair play.”

“Now Johanna.” Emmrich cut in. Dropped a hand when he realized he’d raised it to wipe a happy tear that would never appear. “Rook won fair and square. The rules are very clear. You have to deploy from your side.” Her growl grew in strength, “and you can’t do it so close to enemy units.”

Simple scouts covered where she might play. Deployment impossible. An entire army in reserve. Useless. The growls ended in the sound of a gnashing bite.

“And Emmrich promised me rewards if I could finish a game fairly and without fighting.” Worne leaned over triumphant.

“I…” the lich had no memory of such a promise, but now that the thought occurred…no he wouldn’t correct it. Rook was carrying on anyways.

“So we’ll be off. I’m done for the night. Do enjoy the fresh view until morning?”

“A relief to be free from your vicinity.” Johanna’s voice coated in loathing. Rook laughed at the sound. And Emmrich spied again a separate delight. Not quite pride, but joy of some kind, and perhaps fondness? She was delighting in thinking of a new way to play.

“Best of luck next time Johanna.” Emmrich chirped. Checked in a glance that wards remained in place. Felt the tug on his arm as Rook led the way out. Couldn’t help but join the rolling chuckles. Worne’s voice a growl as he opened the door for them both, “I’m gonna cuddle all those bones…”

“Darling,” the door shut behind them and Rook was latching on again. Wasted no time in making his declaration truth, hands, fingers were winding into rib. Feathering a touch on clavicle. He drew in still bright and smiling, then dipped his head down low near Emmrich’s waist. Peered up into the hollow where heart once sat.

“Crawl into that ribcage…”

Emmrich sighed and pulled Worne out and away with ease. The lich paused, glanced at his hands after the action, surprised at the strength. The flicker of concern disappeared as familiar scared skin covered the linen, callused fingers entangled in the gilded and pulled the bones along. “C’mon now Lord, your beloved is owed a reward.”

The lich stumbled a moment as Worne sped off with his hand entwined, but an opening of stride kept him even with the faster yet shorter. Emmrich almost felt a ‘breathe’ enter as they hurried back together.

[changelingsandothernonsense]

WIP Whenever

Got tagged by @sulphuricgrin @skyrim-forever and @lathez

Tagging @archangelsunited @nyarevar @vehksfingerguns @firefly-factory @truth-01001001-liar @moriche @saltymaplesyrup @redyn-nerevarine and anyone else who'd like to do this.

I'm posting some art and some writing that's meant to go with said art.

Art first.

Painted Joshi's armour, so next I'll be tackling his cloak. See how many shades of black I can create in this painting... there's also about to be bead hell, too.

Writing...

I've started on the one shot that's meant to accompany the above work. Have Joshi fucking about whilst he's waiting for that pedestal to rise.

I hated the way those old gears clicked whenever I activated the controls in Nchardak’s ancient Reading Room. The sound of gears whirling and clicking, of metal on metal grinding against each other. It was loud, all-encompassing and I found myself taking out my sound amplifying earring whenever I had to use this chamber’s controls. It was something that old, decrepit bastard found amusing, I guess. The cunt would always cackle whenever I held my hands to my ears.

Of course, without my help, old Neloth of the Great House Telvanni would still be staring blankly at the finely tempered aetherium lockbox the object of his desire was stored in. Wondering why he couldn’t just break the damn thing at its weakest point. He was the bastion of all magical knowledge in Tamriel after all… well, aside from every other ancient bastard who claims the same. I’ve noticed in my travels that it’s a label claimed by pretty much any mage who managed to make it past four hundred without blowing half their face off. Doesn’t matter if they’re from the once Great House Telvanni or some fart sniffing Thalmor from Summerset. All of them pale in comparison when met with a contraption like this.

I let out a sharp sigh as the screeching of the gears started to die down, I had been meaning to oil this whole contraption so that it wasn’t so fucking offensive to start up. Though Neloth’s had his reservations on tampering with the controls… Which, sure I get that but also, I’m pretty sure I know what I’m fucking doing when it comes to this sort of shit.

I am the guy who deciphered the Vvardenfell dialect of Dwemeris after all. Neloth wouldn’t even have known how to open the damn front gate if it wasn’t for my fucking research!

You can’t surmise instruction if you don’t know what the text is actually saying, which is why Neloth called me in the first place. This ruin is from the First Council period, after all, created much of the automatons that were used on the Nords. The whole thing can be plunged into the ocean with the right switch, which is precisely why half this place is flooded. I had noticed, on my first trip to this island a lifetime ago, that these places were a little different from what I was studying back home.

The Dwemeri ruins of Solstheim looked like a strange medium between your usual Vvardenfell structures and the Chimeri strongholds that existed at the same time. A Dwemeri twist taken from their new allies and implemented in strange new ways that my ancestors could not possibly fathom.

I walked across the chamber, the sound of my cane tapping on the moist stone echoed loudly about the chamber as I made my way to the centre. I was seeking out the artifact that lockbox contained, an old, dusty tome with a strange, tentacled creature embossed into the faded, oily leather. An old book to some but for those who seek the answers to the Aubris, it is a treasure of indescribable value.

For me it meant answers about one very specific thing. I was seeking a way to reach the Nordic afterlife that didn’t involve calling a dragon to fly me to some portal in the Velothi Mountains. I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to use that portal anyway, pretty sure you need to have at least some Nordic blood in you to properly enter that place…

I am not a Nord, I don’t think my ancestors had ventured all that much outside of Morrowind until my parents fucked off to Cyrodiil. No, I’d probably be ripped to shreds the moment I stepped one foot in that swirling mess. Turning myself into a pink mist was kinda antithetical to what I was trying to achieve here. Not that I hadn’t done something that stupid before, I’m wearing the evidence on my fucking face after all.

I reached the almost golden pedestal, its edges marred by the slightest hint of corrosion. I traced my fingers over the intricately indented metal, its surface whirling with the same geometric patterns that I’ve seen further into this particular ruin. It was a marvel, really, and I hoped to study it further once I’d figured this all out. I couldn’t concentrate on shit when she’s not here, so I was going to rectify that. This book, as dangerous as it was, was the key to bringing my Miluth back to me. I was willing to suffer whatever consequence I had to in making this fucking deal. I had my bargaining chip for the Prince of Knowledge to chew on. I felt like this whole thing was a done deal.

I’ve always been a bit of a cocky bastard.

[theheartmold]

wip wthursday

i did wip wednesday late last night and i got tagged again by @heartbreakincident so WHOO two wips for u guys. this IS from chapter 3 of the contracts eight fic... slow going but i am chipping away at it! not tagging anyone today <3

"Andraste's holy cabbage, Andrea. I'm not asking you to apologize. I won't push the matter again." Andrea winced at his tone. He was right, and they were wrong, and that was such a recurring theme throughout their life that maybe they should take the lesson to heart at some point. "You shouldn't blaspheme," they protested weakly. Illario mercifully took the bait. "I thought you said you weren't particularly Andrastian." "I said I believed as much as any mage does." "Well, that hardly amounts to much, at least with the mages I've met." He only let the silent sit between them for a second. "Are you seasick?" Andrea shook their head. "It's not being on the boat that's making me ill." "That's a relief. I didn't want you to make good on your threat." They laughed, and reached up to cover their mouth with a hand. "I wouldn't actually have done that to you." "Oh, I don't know," he drawled, leaning forward more until Andrea had no choice but to look at him. "You seem like the sort that never misses a mark." Andrea rolled their eyes. "I hope so. I'd make a poor Crow otherwise." When they looked, his eyes reflected the rising sun off the water, all dark depths and glittering with light. They turned away again. "It was just a bad dream. I think being on the ship made it worse." "Well, dream aside. How do you find the sea?" Illario asked. "It's beautiful," they said. The sky was growing brighter, pinker. Their stomach had started to settle, making the admiration of the water easier to handle. "It's just like I imagined." "Is that so?" "Look at that horizon." Andrea gestured with one hand. "It's endless. I could stare at it for hours and never grow bored of it. And you can see it from any part of the ship." "You can see that from the shore." They shook their head. "Not like this, Illario. From the shore, you're still…" Andrea searched for the word. They scrunched their nose up in thought. "Stuck?" Illario offered. "Moored," Andrea said. "If we're going to stick with the nautical terms."

[jyae23]

Weep Wednesday

Happy WIP Wednesday! My WIP is not happy. Or I guess it's bittersweet. I like what I wrote, but I'm having doubts whether or not I should continue writing it.

I'm switching up my content for today. Please carefully read everything before proceeding under the cut.

I like to save tags that have zero results for Carry On to feature in future WIPs. The memory loss fics were amazing and I wanted more, so I did what anyone would do and looked up the dementia and Alzheimer’s disease tags...

10k words later and—I don't think I can finish it, so I might just cut out the context and make it a one shot of Simon passing first. Which is why I can confidently share half the ending here.

Major Character Death: Simon:

I look at my golden ring on my right hand. The one you gave me with an etched sun. I feel it in between my fingers. It reminds me of your warmth. It reminds me that you were alive.  I’ve experienced the Chosen One’s life twice now. Once when we were kids. The second during the last moments of his life. Both times felt just as magickal. I’ve watched him when he saved the World of Mages. Saw him with his wings and tail, lose his magic, and saved the day time and time again. We’ve crossed the Atlantic Ocean to kill vampires and came back a week later to dissolve a cult. No matter what shape or powers he possessed, I was able to trust him to make the right decision. With Simon, anything was possible.  I wouldn’t mind talking about Simon for the rest of my half dead life. If I’m going to be thinking about him everyday, I may as well be paid for it. And so here I am retelling that same story once again. The first of many more times. So that no one will ever forget your accomplishments. So that no one can deny that you saved the World of Mages. And that everyone will feel your warmth hearing your name. You were alive and you will continue to live on through everyone's memories. Simon, my love. I love you and miss you so much. Although your story has come to an end, I'll spread it far and wide. I'll scream at the top of my lungs if I have to. To the point where my throat is dry and I have to drain all the rats in the Catacombs. Because that is how much I am hopelessly in love with you. That way, you will never burn out even after death. “Welcome to The History of the Chosen One. Open up your textbooks to chapter one: The Rise and Fall of Simon Snow.”

I think it's very fitting for Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch Salisbury to become a professor at Watford to talk about Simon's life. Simon may have forgotten, but that doesn't mean the World of Mages has to.

Simon's story has ended, but thankfully we can keep his story alive. After 10 years, I see you all have done exactly that.

Thoughts? Opinions? Experiences? Full stop?  Keep going? Stay in my lane? Wtf?

You've already earned your place exalted in the sky; it's reserved with your name on it just for you! Have a seat. Today, you're the guest of honour.

@jazzydl @gonzalesfreecs @catthehappy @lovelettersto-mars @thewholelemon @bookishbroadwayandblind @roomwithanopenfire @the-beard-of-edward-teach @rimeswithpurple

If you saw me post this and then delete it and then post it again, no you didn't :D

[grymm-gardens]

WIP Whenever

never in my life will i do these in a timely manner lmao <3

Was tagged by @lucaanis (i think)

This is the beginning to a Rook/Neve/Lucanis WIP featuring my named rook, Odrune, that i am particularly fond of at the moment

no pressure tags to @feaches @antivan-sprig @cursed-candlehop and anyone one else who may want to participate

the fic itself will be explicit, but this opening bit is not, just flirty <3

Summary: they are going to torment him over pie and peg him i dont know what else to say about it truly LMAO

The aromas of freshly-brewed coffee and baked fruits crept throughout the kitchen of the lighthouse. Lucanis smiled softly as he listened intently to the idle chatter of Odrune and Neve at the kitchen table. The two women sat nearly intertwined as their voices wove together in a clumsy chorus of laughter. He'd fully lost focus on brewing the coffee before him as the two women indulgently enjoyed the dessert he had prepared for the evening.

Spite stirred within him as he watched Neve raise a fork full of gooseberry pie to Rune's lips. She eagerly took the offering, allowing her tongue to linger on the extension of Neve for far longer than she needed. She lifts her eyes to meet his as he stands frozen across the table from them. A mischievous smile settles across her face while she licks the leftover berry from her lips, the deep red a stark contrast against her skin.

He swiftly turns back around, clearing his throat and returning to the brewing coffee. Neve's amused giggle only served to fluster him further as he felt Rune's eyes still fixated on him.

'They're watching us, Lucanis.' Spite whispers from within their shared body. He braces himself against the countertop, trying to regain some composure and ignore the demon. He hopes the warm candlelight is dim enough to hide the flush creeping to his face.

"If you two are going to stare, you could try and pay attention to how I am making the coffee, since I've never seen either of you make anything resembling a decent cup."

"I like my coffee exactly how I make it, thank you very much." Neve retorts with her delightful crooked grin.

"I was paying attention." Rune stated matter-of-factly. "You could show us how you ground up the beans again, I do think that was my favorite part." He choked up at the crude double meaning of her words. She always took pleasure in taunting him like that. He never knew if she meant it, or if it was just a cruel way of entertaining herself. Spite seemed to revel in it almost as much as she did, as if toying with him was a game between the two of them.

Neve snorted a laugh and slapped her on the arm playfully. "Stop, you're going to make the poor man blush."

"You two are impossible." He sighed as he poured the coffee, feigning annoyance at their taunting. He'd never admit how he longed for it.

"And yet here you are still making us coffee and pie at midnight," Neve teased, her voice dark and mischievous. Spite chuckled at her retort.

'She's right. Pathetic behavior for a mage-killer. Waiting on them hand and foot.' He ignored the demons remarks as he fixed his focus on preparing the drinks before him. "Only so that you and Rune aren't making your own abominations in my kitchen." He deflected before picking up the mugs of coffee and turning to make his way to the table. Neve gave him an amused hum, watching him closely. He tried to ignore the sensation of Spite stirring even further at the sound as he sat next to the detective.

'Liar,' Spite sneered at him. 'Why hide from them? Why hide from the way they make us feel?' He focused his on the steam rising from the mugs in his hands in weak attempt to disregard his demon's rising frustration.

"You know I have a hard time believing that." Rune's lips curled into a mischievous smile. Lucanis's blood ran cold when her eyes met his. there was something hungry, almost malicious, in her gaze. "I seem to remember you had a very different tone before dinner, didn't you Lucanis?"

"Rune," He warned, his voice a low growl. "Not another word." Lucanis steeled his gaze as he hurled silent threats at the woman. Neve sat between the two with an entertained expression. He lost any hope he had that Rune might concede as her smile only twisted further, clearly emboldened by his protest. "See, I seem to remember finding you in the kitchen neurotically fussing over a fresh pie." She paused for a torturous moment, relishing in his panicked expression before turning to Neve. "You should've seen him all covered and flour, hands stained with berries."

[galluslonging]

WIP Wednesday

thank you for the tag @biowaredisasterbisexual !! i’m always happy to see you mention me ❤️❤️

tagging @splaat, @chimalliwrites, @dymme and anyone else who wants to share their works! (@ me if you see this and want to share and i will reblog!)

ive got some very rough lines from the latest chapter in the “turning tables” series.

romantic cheese below the cut:

The rising sun’s rays crept into the sitting room, tickling Rook’s face until he came to. A smile tugged at his lips as he remembered where, and with whom, he laid his head to rest.

Rook was convinced no one had ever slept more beautifully than the woman next to him.

Was the sofa too small for him to fully stretch out on? Yes. Was the temperature in the ice mage’s apartment colder than a Nevarran winter? Sure. Would this new, awkward crook in his neck be permanent? Undoubtedly.

Was every bit of discomfort worth this single, indefectible moment? Absolutely.

[carnivalls]

— bio.

inverted greek-american, currently studying in the uk 🚬

writer of new adult fantasy, hopefully some scripts (audio & theater), and character-centric narratives. alternatively, everything involving unhealthy devotion and loss of identity/autonomy.

my redbubble

— wips.

(lmk if you want to be added to any tag lists).

GOOD INTENTIONS.

genre: NA fantasy

setting: fantasy greece x industrial revolution

features/themes: state-sponsored codependence, a religion built around dysfunctional family dynamics, low empathy love interest, anger as a form of healing/catharsis, complicated grief, that toxic formative homoerotic girlfriendship that leaves you worse off for life, body horror, emotional (+ some physical) incest, lgbt characters

summary:

As a Core, Espera 'Hess' Nefelou has made a home in being hated.

She knows her lines by heart: she's unpredictable, dangerous, with too much magic coursing through her veins and no control over when or how it rises to the surface. She's been memorizing them for sixteen years now, and fashioning the world's fear of her as a guide on how to be.

So when a horrifying new institute threatens to undo all her efforts, siphoning her magic away from her and into a form more useful to society, Hess knows she needs to do something– before her hard-earned identity is erased altogether, and she's turned into some rich kid's magical battery for good.

As a Mage, Juve Marzani would love to see what 'something' looks like.

Being enrolled at the first-of-its-kind Institute for Attunement, with the aim of drawing the raw power out of Cores to be shaped by an artificially created class of magic-users entitled Mages, Juve should be delighted– both at ushering in a new era for magical relations, and at living her dream of leaving her stifling home town.

But this dream isn't technically hers to live, and Juve finds her own interests a lot more caught on the angry Core girl she's been partnered with: the one who refuses to lend her her magic, and will do anything to bolt for the door.

Attuned, it's push and pull– can pride be put aside long enough to accept help? Can it be called 'help', if it hides another face? And how do you know you've gone too far, when you want someone to hate you?

&

HAMMERSPACE

a portal fantasy narrative podcast, featuring a group of the worst new adults you've ever met thrown into a genre they are dreadfully unequipped to handle. hopefully coming soon to a blog near you 👍

[ar-ghilas-vir-banal]

WIP WEDNESDAY

“There are reports of a mercenary cult of sorts coming in known as the Blades of Hessarian occupying this area. They are fearsome warriors who follow their leader’s word like scripture. I fear they will be “visiting” us. I wouldn’t ordinarily encourage the taking in of another apostate, but… if she is strong enough to rebuff a giant…”

Ar’Sulahn nodded, hearing sense. “You’re right. I… I like her too. Poor girl’s probably seen much too much.”

Cassandra nodded, disliking thinking of an obviously powerful, and therefore dangerous, mage as being just a child. It… grayed areas that Cassandra preferred to keep starkly black and white. “Do you think Harel was part of a Circle? She is… highly skilled to be just a fledgling mage.”

“I don’t want to imagine a girl like that enduring a Harrowing.”

That brings Cassandra up hard. She hadn’t even considered that. If Harel was as skilled as she was now, so young, it could warrant an early Harrowing. But how long ago? One year? Three? The prospects of a child facing down such a fate made something sour and cold rise in the Seeker’s throat.

It was necessary. But… but. “I… don’t either,” she admitted.

[sleepyheadincoulds]

hey guys it’s been a minute 😛

so I’ve recently started working on chapters for each book that all fall under Emmanuel’s perspective. This is just a short excerpt of the first chapter in book 1, and it’s unfinished. Hence, due to my little retirement, I have been working on things.

and please, if you have any recommendations of what platform I can use to publish each book and chapter so it’s organized and quick to find, that would be nice!

tags:

@boopshoops @nyx-of-night @oya-oya-okay @starry-night-rose @prince-kallisto @cheerleaderman @cherrytreegrove @shrinemaidenmajime @distant-velleity @thehollowwriter @br3adtoasty

Chapter 1, The Morning Sun **WIP**

I naturally woke up, it was 6:34 AM—according to the clock on the wall. The sun was rising from the hills of its grave, and I had to get up—carefully—without waking up Grim—like a responsible girl. Or a student at a magical school. Well, apparently I am now and defying all norms. I don’t have an ounce or atom of magic in my being. I almost laughed at the student orientation, but of course, I am not rude. First impressions do matter, like Father said. 

As I was watching my green tea steep, I thought back to the dream I had. Simply, I was Eve in the garden of Eden. Except there is no talking snake or Adam. Just me. But the flowers had eyes, and they stared at me. There were tulips, daisies, sunflowers, even the reddest roses. Daffodils, pansies, sweet peas, and violets. They all had eyes, or at least an eye for each blossom. I thought to kiss each flower’s eye, and each one closed their eye and droop to sleep. There is more time in dreams, so it could’ve taken me a few minutes or hours or days. If flowers had eyes, we should kiss them good night. After I was done kissing each flower, a mourning dove was perch on top of a tree. It’s neck—strangely—extended down to me. Only its bones of its neck did. The sound of bones chatting and jingling. It then spoke, “You have lovely eyes, like jewels.” I was charmed, but that’s when my dream ended. I know, how terrible! My dream should’ve lasted longer.

My tea was finally done steeping. I took the tea bag out to discard it, and stirred some lemon juice in my tea. Personally, I would’ve had ginger and honey mixed in as well, but I’m using my money from being a janitor at this school. Well, used to, until Crowley was surprised by my capability of having the characteristics of a “leader” and a “model.” Which made me and Grim students. Today is my first day of being a student of this school; it was almost like K-12 all over again, except my parents are not here to cheer me on. 

As I consumed my tea, the warm liquid flowing through my limbs, I thought about my father and mother. Oh, I am sure they miss me and wondering what I’m up to now. Out meeting new people again and making friends (even though they can be idiots), or hey! I fought a monster for a mage or magic rock or whatever you call it. That helped Ace and Deuce not get expelled. I heard a yawn and footsteps behind me. “Em, you’re up this early?” It was Ace, I forgot he slept over.

Apparently, he managed to anger his dorm leader, Riddle (I believe so, my memory of people isn’t the best), by eating a tart. Which I found both funny and ridiculously confusing (my humor is awful, I know). Of course, I let him sleepover for a couple of days, I am not cruel.

“Yes, I am up.” I responded to his question, taking another sip from my tea. “I almost forgot you slept over, but how was your rest? I hope the ghosts let you.”

Ace scoffed, the poor boy still had that odd collar around his neck. “Beats better than Heartslabyul.”

“I figured, anyways, care for some morning tea? I only have green tea and some lemon juice.” I offered. Of course, you muse offer tea to your guests.

————

Later we were walking down Main Street. Grim was showing off his new collar with pride. A magic gemstone nested in his collar. From what I learned, every student typically has one, it’s where their magic is possessed. I was walking behind Grim, and some eyes were watching me, as if I’m some new exotic species.

I was fairly dressed; presentable enough for my first day. Crowley gave me a new uniform, which I managed to style. It was a long black skirt with a white button-up blouse; and the school uniform blazer along with a black and white, stripped tie. I was wearing my black Converse shoes; not the typical, professional-dress store, but they’re only two years old and still in perfect condition. I used a blue ribbon as a hair band to keep most of my hair out of my face, but I was lucky enough to buy hair products to keep my curls under control. My satchel from home had most of my makeup; my lipgloss, mascara, and eyeliner. Oh but I wish I had at least my foundation and concealer, and my favorite eyeshadow palette—very beautiful pink and brown colors. I can hear the whispers and hushed tones from other students, as if my ears are deaf to them. I find it funny as well. Imagine, me, a fourteen-year-old attending an elite magical school for mages and doesn’t meet my qualifications to be one. But I was taken in out of pity, which I find it somewhat amusing.

[hawkeshep]

re that ask me stuff post, who are your canon pcs in the dragon age games?? what are their names, what class/race, who did they romance?? I love learning about other's pcs!

HOOHHHHHHmygod thank you for asking this 🥹

I was actually going to make a separate OC sheet on my pinned post where I go into more detail and share screenshots, and you’ve just pushed me to actually finish that! But in the meantime...

DAO:

Admittedly, I have not played DAO in a hot minute, but...

-My Warden’s name is Cliodhna Amell, and as you can tell by the last name, she is a human mage! I have yet to fully flesh her out, but she is a blood mage who romances Alistair. Her main party is Alistair, Zevran & Morrigan. She puts Anora on the Fereldan throne, and stays a Grey Warden searching tirelessly for the cure with Alistair.

trips and falls and 7,373,839 pictures of Hawke fall out

AHEM—

DA2:

-Next up is the actual light and love of my life my Iris Hawke, my favorite local idiot. She is my Fereldan-Tevene special mage rebellion princess and she romances (this word seems pale in comparison to the depth of her feelings for him) Fenris (think rivalmance but with me laughing maniacally in the background while manipulating the game to make it so I don’t ever have to be mean to him). Iris genuinely does not have a main party in my headcanon, as she takes the whole merry band out with her to do Kirkwall's dirty work. She predominantly utilizes fire (maximum chaos) and specializes as a force mage. Later, after Kirkwall has beaten her, her friends, and her family down enough, she dabbles with blood magic. Yes, this goes Extremely Poorly™️. More at 10!

Post DA2, and with her family now scattered across Thedas, she decides to go on the run (with Fenris, and soon their son, close behind) to protect Kirkwall from the Exalted March that never came.

(I actually have her entire story mapped out and could talk about specifically her for hours on end, I have stopped myself)

DAI:

-Miss Vaenera Lavellan the woman that you are. Unfortunately, I am predictable as hell so she is also a mage (what can I say? I love fire). As Clan Lavellan's Second, she straight up wasn’t even important enough to attend the actual Conclave, standing juuust far enough away that she just barely heard the cry for help from the Divine inside (war flashbacks to the wrong voiceline playing: what’s going on in here 🧍‍♀️) But genuinely, the worst case of wrong place, wrong time as the spare to the heir. Her rise as Inquisitor is a rocky one, leaning heavily on the advice of her advisors and Enchanter Vivienne. To keep that amazing streak of luck going, she romances Solas! What started out as reluctance to trust, followed by frequent visits to hear of his amazing stories and abilities as a dreamer mage, turned into regrettably, a lot more than either of them had bargained for. She is a predominantly storm magic Knight Enchanter, with a party mainly consisting of Solas, Sera & Blackwall.

Post-Trespasser and Pre-Veilguard, she actually joins the efforts of the Shadow Dragons, freeing slaves and fighting corrupt mages alongside Dorian, my Hawke and Fenris, as well as the occasional stint as a Red Jenny with her good friend Sera.

DATV:

(tbh she is a total WIP, but I will do my best)

-Visenna de Riva, EASILY the scrappiest Antivan Crow there ever was, and the bane of Viago's existence. Not too much info on where I want to go with her just yet, but she (YOU GUESSED IT!) is a mage with a spellblade specialization who romances Lucanis. Her main party is Davrin and Lucanis!

Aaaaaaaand let me stop myself so I can finish my nicely formatted sheet!

Thank you so much for asking and I would really love to hear about your OC's as well, if you'd like! 💜 Please tag me if you have any writing on them!

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tags @mysticstarlightduck @theink-stainedfolk and probably many more!

Wip Aesthetic Tag

Rules: Make a moodboard for your WIP, a playlist (3+ songs/music will suffice but it can be as long as you want) and describe the Vibe of your WIP.

Oh god, I'm really bad at aesthetic stuff. No clue why, I just feel like it's never cohesive. That said, here's my best stab at Mystery of the Mortal God.

⚙️Moodboard🌿

🎵Music🎶

Instrumental (pulled from my character playlists):

Flight of the Silverbird

Ponyo's Sisters

HUNGRY!

Exclusive Coupé

A Murder of Crows

Wings (Aether 2)

The Quiet Earth

Vocal:

I Want to Conquer the World - Bad Religion

Supersonic - Bad Religion

Harlan Road - NewTown

Black Lipstick - Chicano Batman

The Reckoning - Dom Fera

Norwegian Wood - Buddy Rich Big Band

Call me Call me - Steve Conte

🩸Vibes🏵

A walking, steam-powered vardo lurches over a yellow-flowered marsh and under a sky of curious stars. Red, sparkling smoke rises from its chimney. Muddy footsteps are left in its wake like the trail of a mechanical dragon. It seems like a place of magic, which is fair, as it's the home of a witch. She sits with a lit pipe and a tabby cat purring on her lap, quietly contemplating a distant, stolen song. Even in the peace of the moment, her mind is alight with grand schemes and dreams of adventure.

In the capital of a thousand peoples, there stands a detective office lit by golden lamps. It's busy - goblins, elves, and lizardfolk rushing every which way in hopes of managing the many crimes wrought by rogue mages. At its heart resides a beat of calm in the eye of the storm - an opulent office out of place for its cushy decorations and color coding fit for a palace. This is also fair, as working at its desk is a prince of sorts. The prodigal heir to divine contracts and a deadly curse. He shudders at the knowledge of his bloody fate, yet pursues it nonetheless.

On the side of a lonely road, in a lonely land, under stars that are not curious, but disappointed, lays a wreck of bronze and steel. It bleeds black on green. It is confused by this. Where is the red? Where is the pain? It remembers another place - gray and icy and riveted. It remembers two eyes surrounded by shadows and a grin hanging in the dark like a half-moon. Hate closes in like a frigid wind, piercing through any amount of heart or compassion. It will have revenge.

Tropes include slow burn romance, revenge quests, magic as a science, and mad scientists. Genre is fantasy steampunk.

Snappier character descriptions include a braggadocious redneck mage with a chip on her shoulder the size of a mountain, a prissy, gossip-loving detective with a deadly curse, and a sweetheart of a maybe-robot with some terrifying instincts hidden behind a fog of amnesia. All of them, due to personal quests, will end up banding together to defeat a would-be demigod, facing cunning traps, summoning ritual shenanigans, and their own conflicting personalities. Will they survive? Will they join the villain? Who's to say? All I can assure is that if they fail, it'll at least be in a blaze of glory.

Heavily inspired by the Foundryside Trilogy and Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood.

I'll tag @spideronthesun @kaylinalexanderbooks @ominous-feychild @galactic-mystics-writes and anyone else who wants to play!

[urlocallesbiab]

wip snippet game!

rules: tagger gives a word, then for each letter of that word you share an excerpt from your WIPs that start with that letter.

@bookwhimses tagged me (thank you, dearest!) with the word TAILS

i, meanwhile, tag @agent-p-writes, @lavinialost, @sacred-algae, and @clockworkcheetah with the words SHARK or KITTY (pick the one you like!) also, if you see this post and want to participate in the game, consider yourself tagged by me :3

bookwhimses said, when tagging me:

(i know you have wips [eyes emoji] [heart emoji])

my friend, i have SO MANY of them goddamn wips, it's not even funny. lird help me! so, here goes:

T:

[from "Seattle Skies, Montana Blues: A Fool's Guide To First Dates" — the multichap farina slowburn about farah eating shit at dating apps and refusing to acknowledge her feeling for tina, while tina refuses to acknowledge her adhd or the desire to move out of her hometown. it's a year and three quarters old, and i still haven't finished ch1...]

The word ‘family’ is like sand on her teeth when she thinks it. Tina doesn't have one of her own, and her folks are growing older and more disappointed with each year; Jacob did, but he's gone now, and so are, in a way, his widow and kids, two thousand miles and two time zones away. Their old house stands still, hollow-eyed, like an empty nest, holding the anxiety of loneliness and dying out that hovers over the rest of the Tevetinos. Clock's ticking, time's flowing, and Tina is draining it away. She is not cut out for long-term relationships: her strategy is to kiss, bone, and bounce, before she could be discovered for the fuck-up that she is. It's not much, but it served her well over the years, given her some party stories to tell and some nights to remember. That's enough — that should be enough, because anything more is too hard to hold in her hands, too heavy.

A:

[from "The novel, horrible taste of consequences" — a narumitsu reunion fic set in the beginning of the 7 year gap, "in which Phoenix Wright loses control of the situation, makes everybody cry, gets engaged, and adopts a child, not necessarily in that order." the first draft is from 2020!]

An utterly unfamiliar girl greets Miles. For a short, bewildered moment he wonders if, in his delirium, he's gotten the apartment number wrong. "Is, uh… Is Phoenix Wright home?” “Aw!” She bows, little arm flying out, then springs back up and swivels away, announcing in a gameshow host's voice into the apartment at large, “A visitor for Mr. Wright!” The visitor stills, taken aback. It feels like a farce, like he's being pranked, or winning a lottery, or all that at once. From the other room, Phoenix laments. “Trucy, how many times do I have to tell you? Don't open the door,” he steps out, shaking his head in disapproval, “to strangers…” He trails off. Miles looks at him.

I:

[from "The mage, the astronomer, the warrior, and a shooting star" - a "yuri on ice" fairy tale au. it's about the half-human royal mage, victor, losing himself in his quest for power, and the first receiver of his magic, yuuri, saving him. the first draft is 8 fucking years old!]

It was a sight to behold, both gorgeous and dangerous, and it attracted many fools and even more rumors over the years. A story had it that once, a magician, mad with love, caught a flying nymph into his arms, and held on so tight that it became his wife; some say he died shortly thereafter, but a child of the union survived him; some say, none of this happened, for nymphs are only spirits. Fools say nothing, and come see for themselves. That night, Yuuri saw: it was a figure like no other. It burned hot and moved fast, dancing joyously and shining loudly; he could not tear his eyes away. The stars it sowed were warm and honeyed, like sun-shards; too big to rise and too thick to melt, these embers scattered wide across the lake and shore. One got into Yuuri’s eyes, and he was blinded; another — into his heart, and he hardly noticed it.

L:

[from "take it easy / floor it / stop / begin" — the rimster gay chicken wip that's nearly a year old and hasn't seen much progress in that time]

Lister's not having any of his bullshit. "About what happened, man!"  "What happened?" Rimmer manages most innocently. He doesn't stoop so low as to bat his eyelashes, but it sure feels close to it. Lister feels close to bursting a vein.  He snaps, "The game! The gay chicken!" Something shifts like a landslide. Rimmer pushes past him in one violent movement: whole body stiff, forceful, face distorted. It's a sharp, vitriolic expression, one that hasn’t been directed at Lister in some time — not truly, not like this. For a confused, terrible moment, Lister's lungs freeze like he's falling. He didn't actually expect Rimmer to act with hatred towards him. Rimmer always does, and Lister never quite expects it.

S:

[from "Naked in Seattle" — a faranda smut one-shot about a casual one-night stand between girl best friends, set somewhere in the middle of SS,MB. started this one half a year ago…]

She makes her way over, strangely steady: moving as if in slow motion, every step cinematic, deliberate. She lowers herself onto the bed by Farah’s knees, putting a hand right next to hers, but not touching — inviting to touch.  “Is this going to be your first time with a girl?” she asks.  “My first time,” Farah amends. “In general.” Amanda's eyes — warm, brown, beautiful — widen just a bit in worry. “Will it be alright? That it's not going to be… well, as special as it could. I know it can be a big deal for some people. I don't wanna ask too much from you,” she speaks earnestly. For all her easy-going attitude, she always cares a lot.  Farah closes the distance between their hands, fingers interlocking. “Yes, I think. When I find ‘the one’, whoever it is — it should be enough to just feel loved by her, and to love her back. I don't want to keep myself for someone, to wait for no reason. I am,” her voice falters, “tired of waiting.”

among other wips, i have:

a kurlish pre-romance wip that i was supposed to post for the big bang 2023, but still haven't finished (shame on me)

a languishing gattaca vincent/eugene semi-fix-it fic that hasn't seen new words since july 2024

a jotatak fic that i had *technically* started back in 2018, didn't finish, have rewritten into english, and then didn't finish that version either...

a couple of snippets for the sequel to the sequel to "hands off" (i gotta write the first sequel first, i think)

a big old worldbuilding thing for a original story that grew out of jotakak fanfic that is going incredibly slowly

and a few other drafts that are neither works in progress nor finished works: - the "once upon a time in hollywood" cliff/rick fuck-and-cry snippet; - the imaginary dirk au that has only 500 words of prose that might not end up canon to the fic; - the alt!hugo au that has a bunch of snippets but nearly zero plot, so i've no idea what to do with it; - a rough first draft / outline for the sequel to "birdwatching"; - the outline for a "i shan't spoil it by naming it" todd-centric fic that hasn't seen any progress in a year, let alone any actual prose; - the android dirk au that's a couple of years old, has a *very* confusing and shabby plot, and lives entirely in my telegram saved messages; - and probably some other stuff that i chucked somewhere and forgot about

woe is me!!!!!

also, tagging @gallantrejoinder — not for the game itself, because you've already done it, but just because i know you'd love to take a look at the rimster and farina stuff :3

[everlastingday]

wip wednesday

i am sending all my love to all my american friends, especially my queer and bipoc friends. i have no words for how truly awful this all is, and my heart goes out to everyone who is affected by this in any way, shape, or form. please be kind to yourselves, and stay safe 💜

i wasn't sure if it was appropriate to share anything today, but @heartstringsduet's post inspired me, and i hope that this can at least distract you from everything else for even just a minute, so here is a snippet from the prologue to my tarlos dark academia au.

--

Carlos remembered the day that he first stepped off the bus and onto the grounds of the Valentia Institute as if it were yesterday. The crisp autumn air, the sun peeking through the foliage, the smell of fresh-cut grass — it was as if he'd stepped off the one-way bus and into a different dimension. One that was trapped in time, and never seemed to age along with the rest of the world. No matter what happened over the next few years, he could never bring himself to hate the place. It was truly magical, both figuratively and literally.

The Valentia Institute was a place where mages were created. Anyone could attend, in theory, as long as they had enough magic running through their veins. That was the deal — give the Institute three years sequestered away from the rest of the world, and the world would be your oyster. It wouldn't matter what your socioeconomic status was before you entered the Institute; once you were an Institute graduate, it unlocked almost every door in society for you. 

Carlos never wanted to learn magic. He had the affinity, sure, and sometimes it came in handy when he needed to light the fireplace quickly, but he never yearned for it the way that others did. He liked his life —he had a steady job working in the city as a social worker, and while it wasn't the most prestigious job, he liked it a lot. He liked feeling like he could make a difference in other people's lives. His life was simple. Uncomplicated. Perfectly fine.

His life irreversibly changed four years ago when his best friend, Iris Blake, got accepted into the Valentia Institute. He was happy for her, truly. They grew up together, and even studied to become social workers together, but while he was content with working directly with the people on an individual level, he knew she always wanted more. She wanted to be the one making laws, changing policy, and making widespread changes. 

The Institute's rules were public knowledge. Three years without any contact with the outside world, and after that, its students entered back into the world as fully-formed mages, instantly rising to the upper echelons of society. Magic played a strange role in society. It was ultimately still secondary to the curse of capitalism, but if you weren't born wealthy, it was the fastest way to climb up the social ladder. There was, of course, also just the inherent prestige that comes with wielding magic; its powers are undeniable, and a mastery of any magical affinity automatically made you a valuable member of society. 

Three years passed, and Iris never came back out, and Carlos just knew in his bones that something wasn't right. In the initial months, he tried to investigate what happened to her on his own. He'd filed a missing persons report, but the police weren't doing anything about it. His friends and family told him that she probably just found a better opportunity somewhere else, and that three years was a long time. Maybe she just moved on in her life, and forgot to look back. 

But Carlos never believed that for a second. He knew Iris. She wasn't the type of person to just leave without a word, and when applications for the Valentia Institute opened up, he knew he needed to take matters into his own hands. The Institute was notoriously secretive. Sure, everyone knew it existed, but beyond the most basic knowledge? It was a locked vault. Nobody even really knew where it was located, though it was widely speculated that it was likely somewhere in New England. Carlos had a lot of questions, and he knew that the only way he was going to get some answers was to find them from within the Institute itself.

--

open tag for anyone who feels up to it, and please feel free to tag me as well 💜

[trevelyawn]

WIP: cullen visits the prisoner.

Cullen moves through the hastily assembled camp. Soldiers stand with straight backs and tense muscles, fists clenched over their chests, waiting for their superior to pass before they continue about their business. The Commander reaches the prison as Solas, the mysterious elven apostate that had approached their encampment and offered help, strolls from the building. Hands behind his back, he acknowledges Cullen's presence with a nod and steps aside to allow him to pass. “Any change?” Cullen asks. He is uncomfortable around the apostate but given what he has heard from Leliana, knowledge of the Fade and its machinations is an expertise they cannot afford to dismiss right now. Best not to make him feel too uncomfortable. Solas shakes his head. “She is stable, as is the Mark. I cannot say when or if she will wake.” Head held high, he moves to pass Cullen. He stops. “She is a Mage.” When Cullen doesn't respond, Solas continues, “I know of your past with the Order.” It sounds like an accusation; judgement. That life was gone. Cullen was unlearning prejudices and hatred, and he vowed that things would be different.

Squaring his shoulders, he makes no reply. Old hinges creak when he pushes the door open and enters. He follows lit torches to the isolated chamber. A lone guard sits bored in a chair, the two front legs hovering precariously as he leans back against a stone pillar. At the sight of the Commander, he startles, chair clattering as he jumps to his feet to stand at attention. Cullen acknowledges him with a nod and moves towards the only occupied cell in the dank room. It takes a moment for Cullen's eyes to adjust to the dark as he looks into the cell. He can make out the shape of a woman laying on a bedroll. Her chest rises and falls with even breaths and Cullen listens to her soft exhales. It's surprising how calm she is in slumber, as though she hadn't just fallen from a Fade rift at the site of an explosion that had killed hundreds and left a gaping hole in the sky. He lifts his gaze to her face. Her features are soft, lit by the orange glow of torchlight, and cuts and grazes mark pale skin. Her hair looks almost black; short, loose waves resting on a straw pillow. Realisation washes over him in a wave and his stomach lurches, heart skips a beat. He knows her. Shaking hands reach out to grip the cold bars separating them. “The Seeker and Spymaster. Retrieve them,” he manages to say. When the guard hesitates and doesn't move, Cullen fixes him with a furious glare. With waning patience, he barks an order. “Now!” Red in the face, the guard sputters a panicked yessir! before tripping over clumsy feet in his haste to depart. Hurried footsteps quieten and Cullen waits for the creak and loud thud of the door to let him know that he's alone. He thinks back to when he had last seen her. Kirkwall crumbling, the Circle ablaze, and mages, apostate and Circle alike, forced to flee at the risk of their lives. She didn't want to leave, didn't want to run and have to start anew, but Cullen had forced her to go. Meredith may have been lyrium-mad and consumed by her fear of mages but she had amassed a desperate following teeming with those that believed that the threat of blood magic was too great and that all mages needed to be put to the sword. He had come to terms with never seeing her again.