#basically the first letter of every word is legible

[shuinami]

Part 3: How to write an MLE-based London accent authentically

Part 1: Who, What (London Accents) | Part 2: When, Where, Why (Black Londoner Culture since Windrush)

As I conclude this little guide, I'd like mention that my ask box and DMs are always open if anyone has further questions or anything 🤎

In this section, I'll go over some advice, the grammar and vocabulary and provide some suggestions for references.

Section A: Basic Tips

When to use slang

The concentration of slang is key to differentiating characters as well as writing an accent authentically. As an MLE-based speaker who is not actually a roadman (meaning a gangster, though many people misuse the term to refer to anyone who uses MLE, especially if they are working class), like most of us, Hobie does not utterly kill it with slang that would likely not be understandable to the people he’s with. There are a lot of phrases and idioms/metaphors that seem self-explanatory once you know what they mean or that seem similar to Americanisms (e.g. roadman = street/hood nigga), but of course, as someone who doesn’t use the terms, hearing it in passing, it probably wouldn’t be understandable, despite the speaker thinking it is. 

Coming from a diverse place, often with immigrant parents who don’t even speak English as a first language, if fluently at all (not in the case of most black Caribbeans from former British colonies, but remember Asians and Africans are more plentiful here), trust me, we know what we sound like 😂! Most of us code-switch, as we learn standard English in school and, until more recently, where more people are 3rd gen+ immigrants as opposed to 2nd, we actually tend to pick up MLE slang from experiences outside the home as we grow up. At the same time, some people really don’t care at all and don’t change how they speak for anyone haha. I don’t recommend trying to write code-switching if you’re not extremely familiar with MLE because you’ll probably lose the flow and also, Hobie only eases up a little bit after his intro.

My point is though, that not every single sentence needs to have slang in it. Most should, but if you’re trying to be serious or sexy, for example, and you feel the need to tack on some slang just to convey Bri’ishness, even if it doesn’t really fit, don’t do it cause it’s no more authentic than just writing plain English in those scenarios.

When talking to people from his own dimension, however, slang it up if you’d like, because the expectation would be that a (working class or ethnic) Londoner would understand him. 

For humour, mocking and teasing, we love to use slang because a lot of it is funny, even to us. Like I said, we know what we sound like. Those are the moments when more obscure slang (such as Cockney rhyming slang) might come out for comedic effect.

It’s good to have some balance, so not every word needs to be substituted. If you couldn’t read it without a fucking huge glossary, you’ve probably done a bit too much.

Writing the Accent

It’s good in moderation. ‘Luv’, ‘ain’t’, replacing the last g with an apostrophe in -ing words - you all have those things down, it works, good job. 

HOWEVER, it is very clear that a lot of you have no clue what letters we do and don’t drop/change and in what words, as well as a lot of you going OT with removing the T’s from the middle of words. I know it kind of sounds like that to you but it reads like an over-exaggeration or mockery, particularly because most London accents, including Hobie’s, are much lighter in comparison to Brits from other areas, in which such omissions and alterations of letters would be somewhat appropriate but still, in moderation. I don’t recommend typing out the accent often, just sprinkle it around for a bit of flavour but don’t consistently write in that way because your writing loses legibility and it gets quite distracting.

Content

The stereotype of British people liking sarcasm is true for most and, in general, we like to have, what we call, ‘a bit of banter’. We’re a jokey people, even if those jokes can be a bit harsh or teasing. Confusingly, even if we are joking around, it doesn’t mean necessarily we’re being friendly, joking is just how we communicate (e.g. “Oh boy, humbling reality Spider-Man has arrived”, “What does that do?” “Apart from having a great name?”, “super humane and not creepy”, “this is a great look…”). I think most people have got this down really well, so keep it up guys 😎🤙

Another thing is cussing, swearing, profanity, whatever you wanna call it. We do it a lot for no reason, mainly spamming the word “fuck(ing)”. So have fun with that if you aren’t already.

We’ll get into it more in the terms of endearment section of Section B but, basically a lot of Londoners are typically not too mushy or affectionate, as is the stereotype for big city people and, additionally, British people in general aren’t the most direct in their words. Obviously, some people are but it’s not the culture if you’re trying to write proper ‘authentic’ haha. For a lot of us, saying sweet stuff can be quite laborious when sincere or cheesy or confrontational levels of direct really 😂 We ain’t the friendliest of types through our words so I'd recommend relying more on context for the sweet factor unless it's a stand-out moment.

Different parts of the UK, even within England itself, have different slang

Idk what else to say about this but yeah, there’s some phrases I’ve seen people use that have me scratching my head cause “nobody [from my area] says those words in that order” but I’m guessing it’s down to people incorporating slang which is more commonly heard up North because it’s all classed as British/U.K. slang when you look it up so, just be wary of that.

Section B: Grammar and Vocab (the thing you’ve been waiting for 😂)

I’ll link a document here so I don’t clog up your dash more than I already have. Feel free to bookmark it or anything, I’ll update it if needed. The contents are links to the relevant section so you can just click those if you’re not trying to read the whole thing.

I only included some highlights of the things that are easy enough to explain just by writing them out with their meanings but it’s by no means an extensive list. I’ve studied a few languages but I’m not a linguist so I just did my best.

If you want to go more heavy with the Cockney slang, I’ll leave it to someone who’s more familiar with it (or not… lol) to explain those terms and when to use them properly.

Section C: References

Of course, it’s all good and all that I’ve given you instructions but to make it sound natural, you’d need a point of reference. Here are some references of black North West Londoners from the early 80s, black East Londoners, black Londoners more generally and a Daniel Kaluuya interview so you can get a better feel of how we sound:

Clip from ‘No Problem’, the first Black British Sitcom

The accents within this one group of siblings is very varied and none of them use MLE, as per the time period. The two younger sisters have accents most similar to Hobie’s. The show follows a group of siblings of Jamaican descent living in a council house in North West London, first released in 1983.

Clips from ‘Chewing Gum’ by Michaela Coel [CW: they're awkwardly talking about sex in a lot of the clips + don't listen to Candice's boyfriend, Aaron, he's not from London lol]

The show takes place in Tower Hamlets, which is in East London and was first released in 2015. Tracy has a similar accent to Hobie and also uses a mix of more general/Cockney-influenced slang and MLE, so this one should both be a fun watch and be useful, you’ll also want to pay attention to Candice who has a more MLE lean to her speech.

Clips from the Foot Asylum crew most of them are MLE speakers, see some examples of our banter with friends lol

Clips from ‘Top Boy’

Another show that takes place in East London, this time in Hackney, which is an area known for being kind of rough in terms of gang activity. Almost all the characters speak exclusively MLE in this show. If you want to watch it, TW for violence and gang activity, death, etc. (18+). You can tell based on the ones I’ve chosen that Sully’s my favourite character lmao.

Fun fact, as you might hear the character, Dushane, reference, Sully lives on a canal boat for a while as a form of refuge. I know a bit about boat dwellers in London from a lecture at uni but if anyone wants me to do more research and do a post and explain the waterways and stuff, again, feel free to drop an ask and I’ll do it :)

Clip from ‘Love Island’ just pay attention to the black islanders, Tyrique and Whitney

I just finished watching this year's Love Island UK so I thought I’d throw the clip of Whitney, Lochan and Tyrique fighting in here lmao

& Daniel Kaluuya talking about Spiderpunk to bring us full circle✨

[ferociouslycreativemystery]

I just finished the Button House Archives and it's SPECTACULAR. Here are some personal highlights:

I love Alison's additions and comments in lots of places. She is fighting tooth and nail to stay on those hinges, and we love to see a character with spunk!

Mick's facial reconstruction could be the most horrifying thing I have *ever* seen

Mary's bits are some of my absolute favourites. Her speaking/writing voice is just delicious

Pat was just a terrible group leader wasn't he XD the arrow was really just a matter of time. He should have gone orienteering with them first, then he might have lost the kids before they could kill him

HAH I unwittingly picked Kitty's "character quote" to use in my video edit :P I feel validated

Thomas with his painfully literal complaints about other people's poems OMG rip bestie you would have loved tumblr (I haven't listened to the audiobook yet but I swear I can hear his "counted them, did you?" through the page)

I really like the way you can glimpse parts of later documents around the edges of earlier ones (like with Pat's folder, where the layers are removed one at a time, p. 22-23, 40-41, etc)

Hang on, just gotta go put on One Night in Bangkok for Robin (wait, now I need to hear him say that out loud)

Cap's munitions requests and personally penned operations with their TERRIBLE hand drawn maps that he keeps sending to actual Southern Command; I am fascinated by your mind sir. I believe he suffers from the same affliction I had in school where a combination of the dunning-cruger effect regarding general knowledge and teachers not talking to you in person about what you write in hand-ins causes you to just sort of assume everything you do is brilliant and that then it simply disappears into an unknowable void, and therefore you feel basically free to confess to murder in writing without ever thinking of the consequences. Embarrassment and second thoughts are very much face-to-face kinds of emotions (as he. ahem. would come to find out). Like, is written communication even real? Did it ever really leave your head?

Also: his war diaries were published? 1) who chose to publish them and 2) did Havers ever come across them by any chance? (plus: love to see a fellow tiny handwriting person. Cheers!)

The hand lettering on everything is so well made!!! I know a little (heavy emphasis on 'little') about palaeography, and the writing styles are recognisably of their eras, if many of the letter forms have indeed been updated to be readable for modern audiences. Compare for example Arthur Pinhoe's writing from 1575 (p. 8-11) with this actual letter from 1547. Also this actual 1700s writing to Kitty's diary entries from 1779 (p. 70-71 etc). (These samples are in Swedish but minus åäö they're all the same letters.) The writing also follows the pattern of older script being generally more rigid and standardised, while the closer to present day we get the more individual the handwriting becomes, which is a great opportunity for additional characterisation—which has also been very well implemented I think. I'm devouring every page of this, line by line!

REST IN BRIEFS (also the sly tail of the 'y' from the Daily Mail title just visible above the only compassionate headline lmao)

The reason I cannot talk to people is that Fanny's etiquette rules on conversing take over my entire mind from the moment I see another person.

Oh Kitty, I am coming to pick you up—you can be my sister instead of Eleanor's. It was nice to read her final entry though; finally the trick backfired and she got something good out of it while Eleanor suffered. Bieetch.

FANNY. SINCERELY. YOU ARE INSANE. I already knew about the letter where she demands reimbursement for the unsunk 7/8 of the Titanic's journey that she was cheated out of, but to SIGN IT OFF WITH "Would be survisor/victim of the RMS Titanic". Unbelievable.

Pat write a legible word challenge

I have a slight suspicion Julian might have had something to do with the designs for the Boys Adventure Club badges...

The "pictures of the ghosts" will make excellent reference photos for the various rooms, I appreciate them very much (should we make a game out of copying them and filling in the ghosts? There is a lot of potential there)

Humphrey, my guy... do you need a hug? (Sorry.)

FLOOR PLANS FLOOR PLANS FLOOR PLANS THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH I WILL TREASURE THESE WITH MY LIFE

Robin's constellations are impeccable I say we officially replace the zodiac with these no more superstition only bum

Julian's final email was really well written; a single page yet it's oozing with character and story

The behind the scenes pictures at the end are heartwarming. I am slightly alarmed at my ability to pinpoint the precise scene in the specific episode many of them are from though... is it maybe time for a break?

No. Never!

[spectrallik]

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Parabolas

A stylized representation of Cimar's core glyphs

| ⇇ first | ← previous | next → |

Cimar's native writing system is a right-to-left abugida. It was designed to be simple to a fault. It takes maybe 30 minutes to pick up, half that if you know IPA.

Cimar has a functional typeface that I used throughout the reference grammar and dictionary. It does require a Hebrew QWERTY layout, and there are a few bugs, but hey, it works! I've found it works best displayed white-on-black though it is legible either way.

Consonants

Consonants are written as parabolic glyphs. The direction the glyph points represents the place of articulation, and the diacritic in the center represents the manner. As a result, a clear pattern emerges.

Cimar's consonants arranged into an IPA table.

Vowels

Cimar's vowels are represented by diacritics which are placed over the parabolas. These diacritics are mandatory, but they aren't fused into the letter the same way it may be in a full abugida. But there's a catch -- the vowel mark is placed above the consonant that follows it, rather than the one that precedes it like in, well, basically every other writing system. It is read in a kind of backwards hopping motion "⤺"

Cimar's vowel diacritics. Note the use of /h/ as a placeholder.

In the event that no consonant follows the vowel, an /h/ glyph is used as a placeholder. Phonemic long vowels are represented by placing a vowel diacritic on an /h/, and placing a second diacritic on the next glyph.

Numerals

Nothing too special here -- it's the Kaktovik system, but hexadecimal and with triangles. Each line on the top triangle represents a value of 4, and the bottom 1. This excludes the square/circle shapes which are placeholders for 0.

The numerals 0-F. (kor-jak). Note the left-to-right ordering. A crossbar was put through 0 in a recent revision to differentiate it from /h/.

From our perspective, these numbers are written left-to-right. In reality, Cimar does what Modern Hebrew does: it counts from lowest digit to highest instead of the other way around. So, for instance, they say and write the equivalent of "one and twenty" instead of "twenty one".

Numbers above F are always written using numerals rather than through spelling. Single digit numbers can be written either way. There is no standard, with one exception: when 0 is used as a negative particle, it's supposed to be spelled out as -kor. That doesn't stop people from writing it as -0 anyways.

Punctuation

Cimar's punctuation inventory is heavily stripped down, and multiple latin punctuation marks can be represented by one Cimar mark. There's also one small but important thing to note here: since Cimar lacks a hyphen, an asterisk (*) is used instead. This is important for things like case endings which are separated from the rest of the word by a hyphen in the romanization.

[adashoflavendermelancholy]

PenPals and Family Dinner

Yamato is dying from the anticipation of what was coming today. He usually felt this way when he waited for the letter from his pen-pal. That same pen-pal had sent them something that was supposed to arrive today. Could he have just texted Ace, yeah. However Ace was bing a jerk and not telling Yamato what he sent. Yamato could hear the smile in Ace’s voice every time Yamato asked. Ace gave him a number to use to call or text after getting a phone. They usually used discord to talk though, so they could play a vs game together once a week.

After Ace got a phone things could have changed between them. They could have just sent them a text or message. But, where was the fun in that? They had been sending letters for years at this point. They could go without the letters now, and did for most things. It just felt weird not getting a letter in the mail. Yamato felt himself waiting to see the barely legible writing from Ace. Though Ace claimed that it was neat and tidy, just poorly worded, because it was a different language. It always made Yamato’s day to see them arrive. He kept every single one of them, as a sign of his first ever friend. He didn’t know if Ace kept his letters too.

Ace was the first to start sending letters. Yamato couldn’t read them at first as he wrote them in his own language. Learning more just so he could find out what Ace was sending him. Once he had the basics, he wrote back. Ace mentioned he was using the letters more than a makeshift diary. Having picked out a random address and looking up who lived there. Yamato was lucky he got to the letters first or his father would have seen them. He wrote a lot of personal things in the first letters. Sense Ace never thought Yamato was even a real person until one day a letter came back. Now that worked against him. With Yamato, using all that information to tease him.

It sucked they were in different countries. Making it harder for the two to talk or text. They were busy with work, or sleeping. Sometimes, Ace would get hurt and wouldn’t be able to answer. Other times, Yamato was striking out against his father. Making texting almost impossible. The letters were always a constant. Yamato’s father wouldn’t get home in time to get the mail, so he couldn’t throw them away. Yamato would send letters out on his way to school. Keeping the two in touch even during the worst times.

Today, though, is a special day. It was a week after Halloween. Yamato heard all about what Ace’s family did to celebrate Halloween and looked forward to hearing more about it. He was waiting for the text from Ace, talking about Luffy’s craziness. How he dragged them out to something that was dangerous or deadly. How much of a pain it was to go, even though Ace sounded proud while talking. Yamato always felt a little jealous hearing it. Just how proud Ace is in Luffy, and Sabo. He wished someone felt that way about him.

To Yamato’s surprise, Ace didn’t set in on a story about how the night went. Instead, he sent a message with very little information. “Look forward to the package I sent.” Before moving on. Yamato almost died then and there with excitement. After pressing Ace for weeks for more information, Ace let up a bit. Ace told him that there was something special coming in the mail this time. That he and his brothers picked it out. How it was to celebrate Halloween with Yamato. That last bit was everything Yamato needed to keep an eye out for it. Nothing would be keeping this package away from him. Even if he had to pry it from his father’s cold dead hands!

Yamato had been tracking the package the moment that Ace handed over the tracking number. Which he only did so that Yamato would stop asking where it was. He couldn’t watch the thing every second of every day. Yamato, though, he watching every move it made. Seeing the moment that it left Ace’s country. Watching the path it took across the water. Waiting for it to be cleared by customs to get any closer. Every day felt like a giant crushing excitement, with nowhere for it to go. When he woke up this morning, he saw it was in his town. At his post office. It would be out for delivery today. Or so he thought. It’s now 5pm, and the package was nowhere in sight. The mail carrier was going to close soon, and he was stuck waiting.

It wasn’t like Yamato had been trying his hardest to not look at it. He had gone for his daily run, worked out at the gym longer than he would normally. Did his homework for the week. Read further on the book for class. Hell, he even ate lunch with his father just to not look at the package moving. Nothing he did was making it easier not to think about the package. Just what had Ace sent him? Why was it taking this long to get it? When would it arrive?

When it arrived, it was bigger than Yamato thought it would be. It looked to be about the size of a 5 gallon fish tank. Moving the package to his room the moment he could. He stared at it. Sending a quick text to Ace that it had arrived. Then, taking a knife, he cut the tape. Opening the box to see a bunch of candy. Moving the candy aside, there was more. A smaller box that held a yellow uniform. Digging more, Yamato found a few decorations for Halloween. A skull salt and pepper shaker. A new cup, a skeleton cat, and pumpkin spice tea. All things that Yamato loved, there was one more thing at the bottom. A letter. Opening it, he smiled. There was Ace, Sabo and Luffy dressed up in the same uniform but in different colors. The letter had plane tickets for next month, from Yamato’s air port to Ace’s. The only words on the paper that came with them were “Can’t wait to see our long-lost brother.”

[ielts24x7]

Your ability to communicate about typical everyday concerns is assessed by the IELTS General Writing Task 1.

You have 20 minutes to answer a question by composing a letter to either an individual person, a business, or a company.

You are expected to write at least 150 words with an addition of 10% maximum, hence ranging  150 words to 165 words.

Your response is scored separately from the Task 2 essay and is tested on four different criteria.

The content provided below contains study guides, expressions, test-taking tactics, example questions, sample letters, and references.

Utilize it frequently to monitor your advancement and you may get more bands than your desired band scores!

Tips for GT Task 1 Letter:

Read the Question Statement Carefully: It is extremely important to read the question and prompts given to you very carefully.

This is because in task 1 you are clearly instructed about what you are supposed to write. And in order to score more it is necessary that you answer accordingly and skip nothing.

Be Clear About the Tone of the Letter: Once you have read the question, you would certainly know who the letter is addressed to.

Here comes the role of the tone in writing your answer. The letter is basically divided into 3 parts:

Formal: Written to someone in authority, a person you are not acquainted with.

Semi-formal: Written to someone who you are acquainted with, but do not know much about personally.

Informal: Written to friends, family and relatives.

Based on whom the letter is for, the tone of the letter is set and writing accordingly affects the scores a lot!

Use a Proper Format for Writing a Letter: Although some don’t consider it to be of any importance, the format of your letter makes a lot of difference.

Every letter should have a clear starting and ending and paragraphs written in such a way that all prompts are covered and written in evident progression.

Use a formal sentence and paragraph to start a formal or semi-formal letter.  Get to the point and explain your motivation for writing. Since you don’t know the person you’re writing to, resist the urge to be cordial.

Begin an informal letter with a brief, welcoming paragraph. 

Before stating the purpose of your letter, first acknowledge your friendship. 

The opening sentence could be nothing more than a cordial small conversation irrelevant to the topic of your work, just like it is in real-life settings.

Improve your Knowledge of Lexical Resource: We employ a number of standardized idioms and phrases while writing letters in English.

These not only save the reader time and effort, but also help them get our message.

To these common phrases, you can add the specific information you want to convey.

Apart from these, there are a lot of general things that can help you score 7+ in Writing Task 1 like avoiding spelling mistakes, writing in a clear and legible handwriting, and completing the task on time.

To Check How the Writing Task 1 GT Letter is Marked, Click Here!

Now let’s check a Sample Letter GT Task 1 with Answer:

You should spend about 20 minutes on this task.

Write a letter to the manager of the HR department of a company requesting information about the interview that you attended but still waiting for results.

In your letter,

Describe the position you applied forW

Why you think the interview went well

Why you need the result of the interview

Write at least 150 words.

You do NOT need to write any addresses.

Begin your letter as follows:

Dear Sir or Madam, 

SAMPLE ANSWER:

Dear Sir,

I am writing this letter to seek information about the result of my interview conducted for the post of Junior Programmer last week.

I applied for the position with my expertise being in Java and my intuition is that the interview went quite well because I was able to quickly complete the technical round of the interview with a score of 100%. Apart from this, the person conducting my interview informed me that I was the most deserving candidate on that day as compared to others. 

I am eagerly awaiting the result of the interview because I have received another high-paying job offer from a competing firm a day after the interview and have to respond to it by the end of this week. However, since I find your company to be more professional, I would like to be a part of it. Nonetheless, if you deem me unsuitable for the post, I shall accept the other offer.

Kindly let me know the result of the interview as it is extremely important for my career.

Yours faithfully,

Pooja Khanna

[jeremy-ken-anderson]

So if you’re in a computer and counting from 0 and trying to determine whether something’s even and you want to count 0 as an even number you can use

if((x+1)%2!=0)

which amuses me because a) it looks like absolute fucking gibberish even to a programmer, if you don’t space it properly. This is slightly more legible:

if ((x+1) % 2 != 0)

and also b) it just sidesteps the whole “0 divided by whatever is 0″ thing by just adding 1 and flipping the boolean around.

Anyway in cryptography we just did the 2-key Caesar Cipher, which is a little more advanced in that you probably won’t solve it in your Sunday paper for a lark. Still not remotely secure, but I can see how we’re starting to get toward stuff that takes more work to crack. Basically 2-key in this context means “For every odd-numbered character in the string offset the alphabet by this much and for every even-numbered character offset it by this much instead.”

With 1-key Caesar Cipher the phrase “I am a fool!” with a key of 10 looks like S kw k pyyv! With 2-key Caesar Cipher the same phrase with keys of 10 and 2 looks like S ko c hyqv! While certain things are obvious about the potential meaning of the lower cipher because it kept caps and punctuation, it doesn’t have the problems of the first where you can reverse engineer the key by looking at the numerical values of I and A for those single-letter words, or guess the double-O due to that being one of the more common pairs.

[ecullens1368]

Readerly Exploration #5

October 24th

Bissex (1985), “Watching Young Writers”

A Take-Away: Young students go through many stages of writing before they are able to make legible words, but each new stage brings so much knowledge and complexities than we often give children credit for.

A Nugget: Something I have noticed and found interesting through many of these class readings and especially this one, is that we should not look at our students' skills as what they lack or as a deficit, but rather at how much they are capable of and what those "basic" skills actually entail. Although a student's writing may not be legible, even then is there a whole long list of thought processes that are happening in their brain as they write. Even a 2 or 3 year old can differentiate their "scribbles" as drawings and "words"- their scribbles look different. Often the scribbles representative of words is smaller and more controlled. Lots of straight lines and focused details, whereas scribbles that are representative of drawings are more rounded and larger generally. That's so complex even for a small child.

Manyak (2011), “Phonemes in Use: Multiple Activities for a Critical Process”

A Take-Away: Phonemic awareness and phonics are the first two steps to being able to learn how to write as a young student. These skills build off of one another until a student is able to spell phonetically, even if it is not accurately spelled, a student can show their knowledge of phonics through their kid-write.

A Nugget: Phonics should actually be taught explicitly and not necessarily implied or for small little snippets every now and then. Students that are exposed to phonics and phonemic patterns early on are much more successful later in their schooling career and even well into adulthood surrounding their literacy skills.

Choose an excerpt from your assigned course reading(s) and share with a friend in another major to get his or her insight and perspective on it.

I shared the Bissex article with my roommate. She is studying applied health science with a concentration in pre-occupational therapy in hopes to work in a school someday as an occupational therapist to help students who need it. So in a way, our paths would overlap in some contexts. We had a great conversation about the different stages of kid-writing, and talked a lot about the pictures shown in the article may look like the child is regressing, but in actuality they went from letter scramble to one word, but beginning to spell it phonetically. We also talked a lot about how young writers differentiate their "word scribbles" from their "drawing scribbles" and although it may all look like scribbles to us, there is a complex process of differentiation going on in the mind of the young writer. My roommate explained how the other day in class she would encourage children in their writing endeavors to form real letters and begin practicing their writing skills through auditory reminders such as little rhymes to remember how to write certain letters, or even changing things about the writing utensils physically such as using different pencil grips. I thought it was interesting to discuss this with my roommate because our majors always seem very different currently because she hasn't gotten to any actual occupational therapy classes yet since those are all grad courses, so being able to compare a topic where we overlap and discuss something we are both passionate about together was actually a really good opportunity and we had a very interesting conversation.

[medicusculber]

SOMEONE’S HANDWRITING TELLS A LOT ABOUT THEM.

Reblog with your muse(s) handwriting (off of this site)

Tagged by: @quantumstarpaths Tagging: @lifedeathpeacewar @reedalerts

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Rhea's Curse, Pt 4

Over the following days, Lena first tries to force herself to speak. But when her most successful attempt results in little more than a wheeze, she shifts her focus elsewhere.

After asking for an internet-connected tablet and a pair of headphones, Lena throws herself into research american sign language. Within a day, she can fingerspell with clunky but consistent accuracy. Within a week, she has a first grader's understanding of basic signs.

Kara understands Lena's need to keep occupied, as well as the need to communicate, so she too takes time to learn the language. It's beautiful, once she gets the rhythm and cadence down. It takes her less time than Lena-- or any other human-- to become fluent, and though Lena acts disdainful of having been left in the dust, Kara glimpses the glint of gratitude in her eyes as they practice together.

Kara splits her time between Lena and rebuilding National City. Even when Lena is released from the DEO to return home, Kara alights on her balcony every night to talk. And sometimes in the morning too. And for lunch.

Which makes her acutely aware of the sudden change one day when Kara touches down and knocks on Lena's balcony door, only to be confronted with the visage of sadness that is Lena Luthor.

"What's wrong?" Kara says aloud, while signing with her hands. She follows Lena to the sofa, and sits on one end as Lena curls up on the other.

Lena's lips screw to one side, and one shoulder lifts. "Silly," Lena signs, wiggling her thumb and pinky at the side of her mouth.

"It's not silly if it's making you sad," Kara continues. She's careful to keep her finger movements to a legible speed.

Lena hesitates, then taps her chin once witha single finger, before mimicking the motion of placing eyeglasses on her face with the same hand.

Kara pauses. Then, she repeats Lena's signs. "You miss... your glasses?"

Lena huffs a short chuckle, then fingerspells a name before repeating the sign for glasses.

K-A-R-A

Kara.

"Oh."

Suddenly, Kara realizes that she's spent so much time with Lena as Supergirl, she's almost forgotten to be Kara Danvers at all.

She's only put in enough face time at CatCo to keep her job, relying on James' understanding that she's busy rebuilding. But for Lena... she's lost sight of the fact that Supergirl isn't Kara.

"I'm sure she's busy," Kara signs. She's acutely aware now of the sleeves that cover her wrists, the color catching her eye with every sign.

Lena's features fall into uncertainty. With both hands curled into claws, she carves them up her chest in the sign for anger.

Kara immediately sputters to correct her. "What? No! Of course she's not angry! Why would she be angry with you?"

Long fingers spell again.

Mon-el.

Add another thing Kara had forgotten to worry about. She assumes Mon-el was still on the stateship when it left orbit without a queen, no doubt perched to become the next King of Daxam. He hasn't tried to contact her, and part of Kara is quietly glad for it.

Lena has needed her more, and any word from Mon-el would have simply been a distraction.

"No," Kara says firmly. "She doesn't blame you for any of that. In fact, I saw Kara Danvers yesterday, and she mentioned she was looking forward to seeing you again. I wouldn't be surprised if she came to visit soon..."

Lena gives her a look that communicates her disbelief better than any sign possibly could.

Kara swallows thickly.

Then she changes the subject.

"Do you... have a sign for me?" she asks timidly.

Finally, Lena cracks into a small smile. She nods. Kara grins back.

"Can I see it?"

Fisting her hand into the sign for the letter S, Lena draws up and toward her opposite shoulder, combining it with the sign for flying.

A flying S.

Kara beams.

"I love it."

Lena's cheeks and the tips of her ears turn pink. She waves away the sentiment, but Kara persists.

"I mean it. I do." Kara reaches over and clasps Lena's hand in one of hers. With the other, she brings a flat hand to her chin and pushes it out a short distance, towards Lena.

"Thank you."

[quark-art]

Hey there! I read your comic and I love where it’s heading. I noticed before (can’t quite recall what page it was on) that you mentioned that you write a script in your process of creating chapters. I was wondering if you’d have any tips on script writing for someone who can’t comfortably write a script due to all the crazy formatting required for it to be “legible”. Thanks!

oh my gosh, thanks!

and yes i do write scripts for the comic! i love that you asked this because i have a LOT to say about scripts, the most important one being:

unless you are writing a screenplay, the formatting of a script does not matter.

ive worked in theatre for a long time, as an actor, a writer/composer and as a music director, so ive seen a lot of scripts in my time, and let me tell you. every single script ive read for a play or musical is written with entirely different formatting, and the further you get from film/tv, the less it matters to have Correct Formatting.

i have seen fonts from courier new to times new roman to fucking arial, dialogue might be justified left or justified center, stage directions might start in the middle of the page, be justified right, or stretch across the whole thing, character names might be bolded, they might not, or sometimes some character names are bolded and others arent. and dont get me started about continued lines.

so if youre not writing for film or tv, forget about formatting. it doesnt matter. ill show some screenshots of my scripts in this post and you can copy my formatting if you want but you also dont have to! the important thing is about expressing whats happening, whos saying what, in any method that works for you. a script is a blueprint, not a final product. it doesnt have to be pretty.

if you are writing for film or tv, i cant help you there, im not familiar with screenwriting at all. take some classes, idk

anyway. ask yourself: who has to read this?

in theatre or film, an entire production team has to read a script to put together the final product, and a cast of actors has to perform whats written. in this case, you should anticipate the needs of whos reading it*. clearly distinguishing stage directions from dialogue is helpful for this, as well as giving room on the page for people to write things down, like the stage managers cues, or the directors blocking notes.

*this is why, whenever i write a play or musical, i try to make sure every character has a different first initial, so the stage manager can use a single letter for each character.

("O.S." means off-stage or off-screen.)

im also giving some information to the actors about their dialogue. if i need a line to be said in a specific way, or directed at a certain person, or timed a certain way, i provide some information to help them out. words in parentheses like (To [CHARACTER].), ([Adjective].) or (Beat/Pause.) are helpful for this.

(its important not to do this too much, though, at least when youre writing for actors. actors know what theyre doing and dont need you to tell them everything all the time, and its good to leave some room for the actors to play around with the material.)

(formatting note: im writing in courier new with 12 pt font and single spacing. this way, the amount of pages the script is will be roughly equal to the amount of minutes it takes to perform. its more specific in film/tv.)

if youre writing a script for a comic, where the only person who needs to understand it is you, forget all that! you dont need to write for actors or a production team, youre just writing for yourself, the creator! you already know what you mean by everything, so the script is basically a very long series of notes to yourself. i dont even bother with margins, i write my comic scripts in notepad files, using the font i made for the comic. the only text that gets copy pasted into the comic is the dialogue, everything else is information for me to know and express via the comic medium.

ive developed a few convenient shortcuts for myself this way. if i dont want to describe an expression, i can just type out an emoticon. to indicate separate word bubbles or panels, ill use slashes in the middle of dialogue.

the sentence "Flynn goes >:/." appears many times in almost all my scripts.

ill still use words in parentheses in dialogue sometimes, like if a character sighs or groans, or if i need to specify that something is said a certain way.

wow this turned out a lot longer than i thought it would

to wrap this up: if you take away anything from this, let it be that scripts are not a final product, they are instructions for how to put the final product together. they do not have to be pretty. they just have to be comprehensible.

[marshmallow-phd]

Gravity

Genre: Angst, Unrequited Love

Pairing: Junmyeon x Reader

A/N: This was basically just a therapy write. 

**

What is worth? It is neither tangible nor seeable. It doesn’t have a body or a shell. Yet, the endless chase to catch it, to hold it captive, is a never ending disease that eats away at the brain and tears apart the heart. It’s only descriptor is feeling. A judgement. Something either is or isn’t. When it's an object in question, the call for worth is passive, innocent. It’s wanted or it's not. The deterioration comes into play when the worth is applied to a person. 

Kim Junmyeon was worth the world. 

With a smile that could chase away a storm and a heart too good and pure for the human populace, he was truly worth more than the world. He was worth more than you deserved. 

Not only was his face kind, but it was handsome. Beautiful, even. Candid photos were museum worthy masterpieces. There was a gentleness, a softness to his eyes and cheeks that contradicted the sharpness of his jaw and the strength of his body. His laugh was infectious and his mind as vast and deep as the ocean. The sum of his whole was worth so much. 

But you were not worthy of such a person. You weren’t as stunning as a sunset over the mountains or as extraordinary as a new discovery. You were simply… you. Staring from afar, admiring but never touching. 

You wished you could be worthy. You wished you could be special enough - good enough to be with him. Pretty enough would be something decent to settle for. But you were invisible. A person on the sidelines. Out of the spotlight. You were an admirer - not one to be admired. 

“You’re doing it again.”

You blinked, your attention torn away from the spot where Junmyeon was standing, laughing and chatting with a few of his seniors. Kyungsoo, who sat to your left at the small table in the entertainment building’s cafe, didn’t even look up from the script he was currently reviewing. He’d only been given it the day before and was still considering if he wanted the part that was being offered to him. 

Your gaze dropped to the opened yet untouched notebook lying in front of you on the somewhat sticky surface. Someone must have spilled their syprup-y coffee and didn’t do the best job at cleaning it up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Without moving his head, Kyungsoo looked at you over the rim of his glasses. Even though you were sure you were nothing more than a blur to his eyes at the moment, he could always see right through you. “If you keep staring at him like that, you’re going to give yourself away.”

The ultimate nightmare. The humiliation of being found out. The sweet but awkward rejection that you knew would follow. With his laugh still ringing in your ears, you forced yourself to tune Junmyeon out. 

Pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger, Kyungsoo straightened and closed the script. “We can go somewhere else, if that would help.”

You wanted to argue no. That you weren’t a coward. That you weren’t going to run and hide simply because you looked at him like he was the night sky while you were stuck on the ground. You used to have better control of yourself. You used to be able to hide it better. But lately, it had only gotten worse. 

And you were a coward. 

“Yeah. Maybe one of the practice rooms is empty.”

“There’s usually one.”

After gathering up your things, you followed Kyungsoo out of the cafe, stealing a final glance. Junmyeon didn’t so much as twitch in your direction. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he hadn’t even realized that you were there in the cafe for the past half hour. 

Kyungsoo settled into one corner of the worn navy blue couch while you squeezed into the other. Not speaking a word, he went back to reading the script. That was a nicety of your friendship. Comfortable silence was more than readily available when needed. He didn’t push or give unasked for advice. He was an ear to listen and a presence to take in when you didn’t want to be alone. 

You stared down at the notebook in your lap where your next story ideas were supposed to be filling the pages. But nothing was coming out. Not even the vague pictures you’d had earlier this morning. The only things being called to the paper were the sentences held in the invisible tears you refused to shed. Words of wishes and frustrations swirled around inside the tiny droplets, every letter as heavy as lead. Your cruel mind kept echoing at you the conversation that had constricted the air in your lungs. 

Two days ago, you’d accidentally overheard a drama staff worker jokingly say that Junmyeon and his current co-star seemed awfully close, more than merely friends. Stomach lurching, you ran to the nearest bathroom. Nothing came out but almost fifteen minutes of deliberate breathing had gone by before you emerged again. Kyungsoo was quick to dismiss the comment after barely three words from you. The effect, however, still lingered. 

Despite the history of your intrusive thoughts, you wanted to believe that you could be good enough. That you were worthy of being beside someone like Junmyeon. His co-costar was stunning, even in real life. Someone who didn’t need photoshop to draw out gasps of awe and astonishment. Someone you most certainly couldn’t compete with in any race. 

You weren’t asking for much. Just to be able to hold his hand, your fingers interlaced between his own. The fantasy you allowed yourself to indulge in at times wasn’t a grand gesture or a modern fairytale. You wanted simplicity. The smaller moments that could mean so much. Mundane, to some eyes. 

Warm sun rays leaked through the closed blinds over the living room windows. A clock on the wall ticked away the meaningless minutes. Sometimes soft music hummed in the background, sometimes there was nothing but silence. Junmyeon would lay across the length of the couch with you wrapped around his side. His fingers would absentmindedly caress your shoulder or arm. In his other hand was a book, held open by his thumb and pinky. Your own hand drifted through his hair while he read aloud. 

The two of you had dozens of endless conversations about books. About the ones you loved and the ones you hated. About deeper meanings and the reflections of life. His love of literature - from the celebrated classics to the obscure unknown - had been what initially drew you in. Everything else was what made you stay.

A muscle in your hand cramped. The peaceful scene faded from your eyes. The page was now filled with barely legible, ink-smeared words. You’d written the entire scenario out, along with your heart, without even realizing it. 

In a panic, you ripped the paper from its spiral hold, crumpled it up, and tossed it to the trash can across the room. It missed. 

“I doubt whatever you wrote was that bad,” Kyungsoo murmured. He read the final few lines of the script and closed it. 

“It wasn’t,” you admitted bitterly. “But I shouldn’t have written it.” You described the scene to him while your eyes stayed trained on the loose thread twirling between your fingers. 

He sighed. “You’re never going to tell him, are you?”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You’re just stopping yourself.”

You scoffed. “Why would I deliberately set myself up like that? Break me the rest of the way?”

Kyungsoo stared at you, long and hard, his expression blank to those who couldn’t read the tell-tale signs that his thoughts were in overdrive. “You’re really hurting, aren’t you?”

You sniffed, though no tears were yet forcing their way to the surface. “Most days.”

“Then walk away.”

“I can’t.” Your voice broke - just like your heart. The world blurred when you shook your head. “I can’t… simplify it. But-- It’s like I was this stupid lump of rock drifting aimlessly through space, content with my life. Then suddenly, I came across this brilliant star that shined so brightly and… we collided. And now I’m stuck in his orbit. But he just keeps on spinning while my whole world had changed completely. He’s… my gravity. I don’t know anything else anymore.”

“Maybe it’s time to find your own orbit.”

Afraid it might crack again, your voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know how.”

The door creaked open and your heart leapt. Junmyeon stuck his head inside. Had he overheard everything?

“There you are! I turned away for a second and suddenly you two weren’t in the cafe anymore.”

He’d… He’d seen you? In the cafe?

“It was too loud,” Kyungsoo lied, covering up for you like he always did. 

“It’s always too loud for you,” Junmyeon teased. Then his face morphed into that leader-esque expression. “We need to head to rehearsal. You’re welcome to join us,” he nodded to you.

“No, that’s okay,” you said quickly in response. “I have a writer’s meeting.” No, you didn’t, but space felt like the right choice at the moment. You tried not to focus on the lack of disappointment coming from the direction of the door. 

“Maybe next time.” Junmyeon slapped the side of the door. “Let’s go, Soo.”

You were actually the first one on your feet, muttering goodbyes to both of them and then walking down the hall perhaps a little too fast. 

You didn’t allow your mind to think the whole way home. Every action was done in automatic mode. Only the minimal amount of awareness was used. But when the apartment door clicked behind you, when the near darkness wrapped you up, when the silence crept in and the empty couch mocked you… you broke. 

Knees buckling from under you, the cold hard floor came closer and you didn’t leave that spot just inside the room as the tears and sobs crashed out in waves. 

This was what you hated the most. The breakdowns that came with no excuse. They were built up by your own mind, by your intrusive thoughts. You tortured yourself with what you could never have. The attacks were random and it was only recently that you had learned to hold them in long enough until you were safe within your own walls. One time, you hadn’t made it. Kyungsoo had been there to pat your shoulder. 

Kyungsoo. He was right. 

That clarity was coming through as the tears dried and your breathing evened out again. You needed space. You needed to separate yourself from what wasn’t good for you and not see him. Not even have the temptation to. 

This was going to hurt like hell. 

**

The office somehow looked smaller with the bare walls. Since the day you moved in, you tried to liven it up, give it character, make it reflect the interests you loved. How were you supposed to write if this place felt like a stifling corporate desert, dry of any creativity?

Not that you ever actually wrote in this twelve by eight space. This place had been reserved for meetings and other usually boring necessities. You didn’t know the next time a budget meeting or an email check would be conducted here. You could be back in a few months and move back in as if you never left. Or someone else could take over. Only time would tell. 

The box that currently had your attention was nearly full. You’d have to come back for the rest. There wasn’t much left, anyway. You took another look around to see if there was anything else you could do at the moment. The monitors were black, the tower underneath - so much smaller than the one you’d had as a kid - was powered off, and the chair that was aligned just so to your favored adjustments was pushed into the gray desk. Saying goodbye to this place really did hurt. 

But you needed to do this. 

And yet, you felt like you were drowning, being dragged deeper into the black water. Your lungs were screaming for relief. 

“You’re really leaving?”

Your shoulders stiffened. At first, you didn’t look up at him. You weren’t sure what to say to him. Being here… it was the last place you expected him to be today. Kyungsoo would have told him, but you wouldn’t have waited around for him to appear. 

“Hi, Junmyeon.” You folded up the top of the box, overlapping the pieces so it would stay shut in transport. 

“I thought you liked it here?”

“I love it,” you confessed. “But I- I need to go home for a little while.”

“Are you homesick?”

“Something like that.” Definitely some version of sick. 

He nodded. “Will you be gone long?” His eyes drifted over the holes in the walls leftover from the frames that used to hang in front of them. 

“I don’t know.” You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. This was…. You should go. Pushing your fingers under the box, you started to lift it to take it home. 

“Do you have to go?”

The question stalled you. Confused, the box went back down on the desk. “Why are you here, Junmyeon?”

He shrugged, though it didn’t shake off the stiffness in his shoulders. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his arms all the way to his wrists covered up by the sleeves of his shirt. Lately he had been rolling them up. You wondered what had changed today. “You’re our friend.”

Friend. 

Friend. Friend. Friend. 

The word rang over and over like a declaration of war. Our friend. 

The smart thing to do would have been to nod, say goodbye, and leave. But - instead - you opened your mouth. 

“I will always be your friend.”

That didn't make him smile like you would have thought. “So, then why do you have to leave?”

You rubbed your eyebrow, fighting within yourself. You lost. 

“Have you ever had a friend so head over heels for someone that won’t even look at them twice? But they don’t care? Because as long as the person they’re looking at is happy, then they’re happy. Even if your friend is completely miserable in the process. Because they no longer care about their own self. They just keep looking at the other person, doing anything that entails that they’re still happy.” You swallowed thickly to try and keep your voice steady. By your sides, your hands were trembling at this roundabout confession. “And you want to shake them. You want to tell them to get out. Because as long as they stick around, they won’t look at one else. No one else exists. Well, this is me. Getting out.”

The frown on Junmyeon’s face deepened as he let your words sink in. “Who is it? Will you tell me?”

No. Because this was enough of an admittance. Because it was time to find your own sense of gravity. 

So, without a word, you picked up the box and left the office. 

Waiting for you when you came back was the scene you had written in the practice room that day, flattened out but still wrinkled as it laid on the desk. 

[mordoriscalling]

Secret pt.2

A follow up to my fanfic about Geralt talking (and eventually confessing his love) to Jaskier in Polish, thinking that Jaskier doesn’t understand. @artistsfuneral came up with that glorious idea in this fic! Now, pt 2 is about how Jaskier learns the language, as requested by blue_midnight on AO3. Hope you enjoy! 

(This fic also includes background, brief Lambert/ Aiden)

At the beginning, Jaskier suspects that it’s Geralt’s way of being as rude as possible. Why on earth act like that, he has no idea, but one thing is for certain: the rustling sounds leaving Geralt’s mouth, which Jaskier thinks are supposed to be words, are set to drive him insane.

It must be some kind of language. Geralt uses it when talking to his horse a lot. Jaskier almost finds the behaviour endearing but then the witcher speaks in that tongue when answering many of his questions. Jaskier just wants to get them better acquainted but Geralt couldn’t care less about the offerings of friendship, apparently.

Even though the witcher can be a right bastard like that, one thing is clear from the very start: Jaskier can only wish to be half the man Geralt is, but the world thinks it’s Geralt who is less than human. Jaskier finds he can’t stand by and let it happen.

It’s a simple exchange. They both need each other to prove that they’re more than what everyone thinks they are. The transaction is uncomplicated: Geralt fights monsters for Jaskier to sing about, Jaskier softens the hearts and the minds. As time passes, however, it changes and becomes more complex: they share food, rooms and coin, start caring for each other in all the small but significant ways.

Five years pass and it’s a friendship in full bloom, but Geralt still often talks to him and snaps at him in that damned tongue, like he doesn’t think Jaskier worthy of knowing his thoughts. It’s never stopped angering him but at this point, he’s also intrigued in what Geralt wants to hide and why the hell it seems to concern him so often. (A certain feeling that shall not be named blooms in his chest at the thought and he squashes it).

Then there’s that one bath. Geralt looks at him as if he was the most fascinating puzzle in the world which, fair, Jaskier is interesting if he does say so himself, but not that much. It’s on that day that he decides to learn that bloody language, even if it’s the last thing he does.

Jaskier goes to Oxenfurt that winter and searches the vast library through and through. The librarians shoot him looks indicating their suspicion about him being a maniac but Jaskier is simply a man on a mission. In the middle of winter, his madness finally bears fruit – he finds an ancient book written in a language he has never seen. “Wiedźmiński bestiariusz” the title says. Inside, there’s a loose piece of parchment with the first few paragraphs of the book translated, including the title – “Witcher Bestiary”. The book is full of sketches of monsters and descriptions, the words containing several strange letters. Many passages aren’t readable anymore because they’ve faded with age but Jaskier treasures the book anyway. He spends the rest of the winter copying all the legible pages, indulging in life’s pleasures much less, which only fuels the rumours of his insanity. All the while, he hopes that this is the language Geralt has been using.

The answer comes surprisingly quickly in the surprising shape of another wolf witcher. They stumble upon each other in late spring in Redania. It’s such a funny coincidence that there’s no way Jaskier’s not going to make the best of it.

“See, master witcher,” Jaskier says as they drink ale together, “When I rummaged through my university’s library, I stumbled upon an interesting volume.” He forgets to mention the translated passages as he pulls out his copy of the book and lays it on the table in front of Lambert. The witcher’s eyes widen when they rest upon the title and Jaskier knows this is it. He grins and carries on, “It seems to be full of precious knowledge and wisdom, yet it’s written in a language I don’t understand. It concerns monsters, so I was hoping a witcher could assist me in decoding this tongue.”

Lambert says nothing for some time, only regarding Jaskier with suspicion. “Why would you want to learn it?” he questions.

“Call it academic curiosity.”

The witcher’s eyes narrow. Hadn’t Jaskier spent so much time with Geralt, he would certainly squirm under the hot, searching gaze.

“It’s not a secret language of your guild, is it?” he asks to break the tense silence.

“It’s not,” Lambert answers, “But no one really bothered before, is the thing. Dunno what to make of you.”

Jaskier sighs and decides to reveal the malice of his intentions because, from what little Geralt told him of his brothers, he knows that Lambert will appreciate it. “Listen,” he says as he leans in towards the red-haired witcher, “just imagine how it’ll freak Geralt out when he finds out.”

Lambert lets out a delighted laugh. “Fuck, I wanna be there when it happens.”

Jaskier can’t make any promises of the sort, so he says nothing to that. Instead, he asks, “Do we have a deal, then?”

“We’ll see.”

Lambert’s reserve didn’t make sense at that moment but Jaskier almost wishes he didn’t find out why the witcher was so cautious about his enthusiasm.

It turns out the language is a demonic creation. Lambert starts explaining some basic words and phrases to him and it already makes Jaskier’s head spin – there are so many forms and conjugations that Jaskier’s task of achieving fluency in that damned tongue suddenly appears almost too daunting. Almost.

He still wants to see the look on Geralt’s bloody beautiful face.

Lambert lets Jaskier join him on the Path for a few weeks. Throughout that time, he teaches Jaskier a bit more, especially how to read in the language. The wonderful thing about it is that, once he knows all the rules of pronunciation, he can read everything out loud. The dreadful thing is that the pronunciation itself is so tough and tongue-twisting that it may as well be a form of diabolical punishment inflicted upon Jaskier for all the transgressions he committed.

Lambert laughs when he voices his frustrations. “Przyzwyczaisz się.” You’ll get used to it, the witcher answers, his voice producing the mad consonant clusters with ease.

“I doubt it,” Jaskier grumbles under his breath.

The two of them part ways as Jaskier pays for Lambert’s services with a song. Jaskier saw the wolf witcher take down a vampire in a truly spectacular manner, so it was no hardship. After Lambert leaves, Jaskier starts learning on his own. Whenever Geralt hunts, he reads out loud from his copy of the bestiary (and how Geralt never overhears it is truly beyond him. Melitele likes him calling upon her tits so frequently, it seems). He tries to decipher the words in the book using all knowledge he has, translating some more passages. He and Lambert also exchange letters but Jaskier fails at writing in the tongue miserably. The last one he wrote returns to him with a multitude of Lambert’s corrections and a short note from the witcher himself:

"Cały list do przepisania, skowroneczku." The whole letter needs rewriting, little lark.

Jaskier huffs at the nickname, ruffling his figurative feathers in indignation. Although a lark’s voice is beautiful, very much so, its plumage is too plain. Jaskier could never. He would be a blackbird at the very least. Or a siskin. A bullfinch, preferably. If Jaskier was honest, a peacock would best fit to describe his exterior, but the sounds peacocks make aren’t pleasant, so he would be willing to settle on some colourful songbird.

Damn Lambert, in any case. The witcher knows far too well how to rile him up. It’s a bit unnerving.

"Skowronek to nie jak ja." Lark doesn’t sound like me, Jaskier answers in the next letter.

"Rzeczywiście, tak ładnie nie śpiewasz." True, your singing isn’t that pretty, Lambert writes back.  

Damn him indeed. Jaskier responds to that comment with a simple, efficient “fuck you”, to which Lambert replies “chciałbyś” you wish.

Jaskier can’t exactly deny this. He would certainly show his appreciation for Lambert’s fiery spirit if not for one little, tiny problem. The problem is so minuscule that Jaskier does everything in his power not to think about it. He seeks out lovers constantly and falls into the Countess de Stael’s arms almost every winter. She wants his attention now, as it’s a puppy love no longer, but during his stay at her palace, someone else always catches his attention. She kicks him out the moment she finds out. And so their romance goes, rinse and repeat.

No matter whether Jaskier winters at the Countess’s court, Oxenfurt, or some other place, he always devotes much of his free time to search for any book containing the Witcher tongue, as Jaskier started calling it. There isn’t much anywhere, and Lambert’s letters are few and far in between. Jaskier can feel himself getting stagnant in his learning and he can’t afford it. Not now, after six years of gargantuan effort that he’s put in already. Not when Geralt sometimes says something to him in that quiet, warm voice, and he still doesn’t understand.

Jaskier seems to enjoy more of Melitele’s blessing than he really should because, just when he’s getting desperate, there’s a godsend dropped on his way on a lovely spring day.

Quite literally dropped, since that witcher falls from a tree Jaskier’s about to walk under as he’s on his way to find Geralt. There’s a cat medallion around the witcher’s neck, and his body is gravely injured. He’s unconscious and Jaskier takes the liberty to use his witcher potions to help him not die. After he finally opens his eyes the next day, he introduces himself as Aiden.

It takes Aiden two more days to stand back on his feet. Soon after he manages that, Jaskier makes him trip when he speaks in the Witcher tongue to him, and the poor Cat witcher actually falls to the ground when Jaskier mentions Lambert. Sensing some story there, he sticks by Aiden’s side for a week or two. They make fast friends and promise to write to each other frequently.

Aiden’s letters are just what Jaskier needs to improve. The witcher is more expansive than Lambert and a touch flirty, which is perfect. As their correspondence goes on, Jaskier grows to like him only more and more. Not that much, though; he’s still stuck in the merry old mess of admiration and friendly affection getting out of hand. At least he’s not the only one – the story that Aiden and Lambert share is there in the letters, between the lines, and Jaskier is clever enough to see it.

Jaskier and Aiden meet for a drink in Novigrad once. When they’re deep into their cups, they start whining about their predicament.

“Cholerne wilki.” Damned wolves, Aiden grumbles.

“Cholerne wilki.” Damned wolves, Jaskier agrees wholeheartedly.

Ten years of learning the Witcher tongue have passed when Jaskier finds Geralt fishing for a djin in the lake near Rinde. He’s known Geralt for sixteen years now, so it takes him exactly one moment to see through the sorry excuse of insomnia. Destiny can’t be trifled with like that, he knows, so he doesn’t let it happen.

When Jaskier sings his friend to sleep, Geralt wonders about deserving him, that silly witcher. As if it wasn’t Jaskier who could only dream of deserving Geralt. As if Jaskier wasn’t a cheater, a homewrecker and a bastard who shouldn’t even deserve to look into those warm, gold eyes that allow a peek into the heart of gold.

As they meet Yennefer, the chemistry between her and Geralt is so strong that Jaskier can almost see the sparkles fly. Jaskier holds his breath all throughout their stay in Rinde. After they leave and nothing happens, there’s no relief. Now the witcher and the sorceress can get together any time and Jaskier turns bitter at the ripe, sweet age of thirty-four.

He lets go of many things after that. The silly affair with the Countess, caring about what the educated think about his works. He lives, breathes and grows, at last, fuelled by the one thing that he’s driven by best – sheer, absolute spite. Jaskier’s learnt the Witcher tongue out of spite (among other motives that he refuses to think about), and out of spite he will survive now, no matter how much he worries about a purple-eyes sorceress being such a great match for the White Wolf that even he wants to write a ballad about it.

Jaskier doesn’t ask, of course, and Geralt doesn’t say. They keep travelling together and Jaskier basks in the glory of knowing exactly what Geralt says about him when the witcher thinks he doesn’t understand. It’s wildly satisfying indeed but only up to a point – until the day Geralt calls him beautiful. Jaskier accepts the compliment with a smile, since it is the truth after all, but he can’t trust his voice to answer. He tries to fight the idiotic hope blooming in his chest and blames the warmth in Geralt’s gaze on the firelight. He reminds himself that Geralt doesn’t see him that way because it’s only women that the witcher’s ever been interested in. Life goes on.

Then his world crashes around him as he hears the words about love leaving Geralt’s mouth. That is when he can’t hold it in anymore and his secret is out. Or both his secrets, really.

It’s so freeing that he’s heady. Or maybe the giddiness can be all on Geralt. Or perhaps on the fact that, when Jaskier bares his heart in the Witcher tongue, it touches the witcher’s heart to its very core. He can feel it, in the way Geralt clings to him, and he already knows he won’t find any words to describe it properly in any language he knows.

That's how he knows it's something worth living and loving for - it means too much for words.

***

A/N: Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it! This fic is also available on AO3. Part 3 is coming, hopefully soon. It will be a 5+1 kind of thing about Geralt and Jaskier using the language. 

Part 3

[salt-warrior]

WHEN EARTH TURNS TO ASHES

Masterlist

Chapter Eight: Incidents and Accidents

Rain poured outside of the school building, despite the fact that it was snowing back in Colorado. Olympia's weather was much more constant— remaining at a cool, rainy temperature year-round. Kai couldn't imagine living in a place where seeing the sun was an uncommon treasure. He needed sunshine almost as much as he needed air, but maybe that was just because he's grown up in constant sunshine.

The door to the principal's office swung open, and out stepped a large, smiling man resembling the Wolf on his door placard. Kai turned wary; he didn't much fancy going into a principal's office after all the time's he'd spent in his own.

It was always Thorne, coming up with a stupid plan and getting them sent to the principal. Kai tried fruitlessly to convince him to stop, but in the end they would always be back up in front of Principal Konn.

"Kaito Crown?" The man's voice came out as something close to a growl. "I'm Alpha Strom." Kai bit back laughter as the principal extended his hand politely— the things that some hippies did. Kai shook the man's hand, and found that he had a pleasantly business-like firm handshake. It reminded Kai of his father.

"You can just call me Kai," Kai said. "Only my dad ever calls me that; and my old school principal."

A bark of laughter split the air, and the two grinned. "I take it you don't have fond feelings for your late principal, then?"

"No, I got along with him fine. He and my father were childhood friends, and he was like another parent to me." Kai thought back on Torin. He was a kind, wise man. He had been there for Kai every moment after his mother had died. "My friend was a major troublemaker, though, so I always had to go and talk with Principal Konn."

"Ah, I see how it is then." Principal Strom winked, gesturing for Kai to enter his office. "Come in and take a seat. I imagine that for whatever reason you're here, it's important."

"You have no idea," Kai muttered. He had planned what he was going to ask the Principal on his five hour flight to Olympia. He had brainstormed about it as he had tried to sleep in his hotel. He had thought about Selene, and how much she was counting on him— or maybe Kai was just counting on himself for Selene.

Strom walked around his large, beat-up desk to sit in a high-backed chair. The seating arrangement looked uncomfortable on his large frame, even though it would have drowned Kai. The room was plain, barren. The only decoration was a flag with the wolf mascot stamped across and the bold letters of OHS. "What would you like to discuss with me today then, Mr. Crown."

"Selene Linh." Kai sat straight up in his chair, mirroring the man across from him. His father had taught him that presenting your best self was one's greatest asset in getting a business deal; Kai hoped that the same applied to gleaning information from an old High School principal.

"She went here about two years back, before–"

"Before she ran away." Principal Strom rubbed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. "I remember Selene. A brilliant girl with a tragic story."

Kai shivered at Strom's words. He didn't appear to hate the girl judging by his demeanor, but he may have just been good with facial masks. "Yes, you see, Selene recently got into a bad car accident. She lost part of her left leg and has severe nerve damage. I just– I'm trying to find someone who cares for her."

The principal stared at Kai, his dark eyes piercing. He was a kind man, but not one to be messed with either. "You may have a hard time with that," Strom said. "Before she ran away, she was constantly bullied, though she never admitted it— too proud to admit. All sorts of rumors were spread about her, and no one ever knew whether or not they were true."

"Were they about how she killed her sister?" Kai asked, his burning curiosity getting the better of him. There was something mysterious about the young girl's death. Something covered up and suspicious.

Principal Strom's face revealed nothing, but his hitched breath showed that the question was shocking. "Yes, they were about Peony Linh."

Kai sat forward in his seat. "How exactly did Peony Linh die? Do you know?"

"No one knows. No one except for the family— they were under strict orders to keep things related to Selene under the wraps until the final adoption papers were completed." Principal Strom looked grave. "Selene and Peony went somewhere; Selene came back alone. No one talked about Peony after that, except for the rumors that spread about Selene having killed her; most of them spread by Pearl Linh."

"Do you think that Selene killed Peony Linh?" Kai asked urgently.

"Personally?" Strom shook his head. "Selene was a fierce girl. I knew her well. But I do believe that she would never have harmed Peony— at least not intentionally."

"Did Selene have a violent past?" Kai cringed as the words slipped out of his mouth. He felt guilty for digging into Selene's past, but he needed to know what was going on. He needed to know her.

"Technically, I'm not supposed to tell you anything about Selene," Principal Strom looked uncomfortable. "But I am willing to tell you what I do know, as long as it's just between the two of us."

Kai nodded fervently.

"Okay, so I don't know much, except for the basics. Her Social Service worker, Liam Kinney, worked his butt off to help her, but trouble always followed Selene. The family before the Linh's, they had wanted to adopt Selene as well, but then there was an incident. I don't know what happened," Strom put his palms flat against the table, cutting Kai off before he could ask. "Kinney kept things tied up very tightly. I would give you his contact information, but I lost track of him about a year ago."

"Like I said, Selene was a kind girl, but dark things always seemed to follow her. Not many people would be willing to tell you much about her; especially not the Linh's. I can, however give you one person who might give you your best shot." Strom pulled out a piece of paper and began to write something down.

"Who would that be?" Kai asked, feeling despondent. He had hoped for more than 'she has a dark past' and 'I can't give you much information.' He wanted answers.

Strom paused from his writing. "Selene's friend. Well, someone who was once her friend." Strom glanced at his computer, clicking a few tabs and keys before he finished his note.

"Here," Strom said, handing Kai the paper. It had an address, a phone number, and a name written in barely legible writing. "She stayed here local since graduating. She was a star pupil, but and outsider; like Selene."

"Thank you for all of your help," Kai stood, and extended a hand to Strom. They shook, and Strom had a melancholy glint to his dark eyes.

"I do hope you can do something for Selene. I always– I wish that I could have done more for her." Strom patted Kai on the back. "I knew that she was being bullied, and I did nothing. I knew that she was drowning, and never did I throw her a life raft. I hope that perhaps you'll be able to accomplish what I could not."

A burning sensation filled Kai's chest. He simply nodded his head, and walked away before he had to look at more of this guilt in the old man's face.

Selene may have caused a great amount of anger and heartbreak, but she caused just as much guilt and sorrow. She was a burning pathway of destruction and loss. She was a magnet for bad luck, but also for people. She was a forest fire: calamitous and deadly, but impossible to ignore. She was a fallen angel, causing the Heavens to weep at her downfall and Hell scorn the beauteous creature in fear of her being the greatest of them all.

Kai read the note again, launching the coordinates into his phone. He would figure out what happened. He would track down Liam Kinney if he had to. But for now, he would talk to Cress Darnel.

***

"Why?" Selene's words were harsh and bitter. "I thought you were my friend. I trusted you." Betrayal twisted her words into a comfortless whisper.

Cress's big blue eyes widened, and Selene would have felt guilty under different circumstances. "You know that I didn't do it— I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't think–" Selene choked on her words. "We– I– she was my sister. I loved her. You know that."

Selene had cornered Crescent after class, needing to speak to her one last time. She had to know if the betrayal was an act of free will or forced. She wanted nothing more than to believe that Cress didn't mean it. The look in her best friend's eyes, however, was answer enough.

"I thought I did." Cress squeaked. Her eyes were brighter than usual. "But Pearl, she told me the truth. She told me, and now the whole thing makes sense. This wasn't even the first time you've killed someone." Cress looked sick as she said the words. "Ran Kesley–"

"Don't," Selene spat the words like fire. "Don't you dare. That was–"

"An accident?" Cress cut through, her voice rising with nerves and mockery. "You and I both know that an accident like that doesn't just reoccur. You planned it all. You're a freak; a sociopath. Do you even know what love is?"

Selene flinched as if Cress had caused her physical pain. It wasn't the first time she had heard the words, but hearing them come from her best friend made then sting more than they had coming from Adri or Pearl or even Mr. Kesley.

Cress's face softened, but less out of sympathy than horror and sadness. "You tore apart families, Selene. You may not have intended it to happen, but you still caused it. You– you–" Cress covered her eyes with her small, delicate fingers.

"I don't even know why you stay here." Cress murmured, her posture hardening. "No one wants you." Cress hissed. Selene had never heard such unkind words come from the girl. Cress had always been so sweet; now she was ice and a cruel knife in the back.

Bile filmed in Selene's mouth. There were so many things that she wanted to say. Thousands of comebacks, dozens of betrayals; but nothing came.

"Me neither."

[the-magnus-backlogs]

Statement of Suzanna Harkness regarding a manuscript she reviewed for publishing.

Statement taken direct from subject, 27th December 1993.

You wind up stumbling down a lot of weird rabbit holes when you work for a small press long enough. Niche genres you’d really rather remain oblivious to, arts majors trying to break the mould by submitting something they swear up and down you’ll have ‘never seen before’. Never mind if it’s actually legible, but that’s…that’s another matter, I guess. I’m not here to talk about the subpar sci-fi erotica or whatever, I’m here because I found something weird.

I’d like to say right off the bat that I’ve got a strong stomach. Wouldn’t have lasted this long in the company if I didn’t. We only publish a couple hundred books a year, but we take in all sorts around here. Sometimes it feels like our only real submission requirements are ‘unmarketable to the general public’, and it seems like anybody with a half-baked idea is willing to try their luck at tossing their unedited manuscript into the ring.

That’s where I come in. Wading through the mountains of unusable garbage, hunting for hidden gems. I’ve even found a couple, but mostly it’s just about finding something readable. Or something we can pass off as being readable for those rare readers capable of ‘comprehending the author’s artistic vision’. Yeah, the marketing team winds up throwing phrases like that around a lot.

Maybe I’m being unfair. I was a lot more patient about that sort of thing when I started. So preoccupied with not coming across as judgemental, but I’ve worked in publishing over ten years now.

It used to be more common for us to get manuscripts sent in through the post, back then. Nowadays it’s pretty much all done online. A couple we get from literary agents, but most are just emailed in by aspiring writers who stumbled across our site, usually after receiving their rejection letters from the two dozen publishing houses that show up above us on pretty much any search engine.

Every once in a blue moon, though, a manilla envelope will find its way onto my desk. Some bright spark who thinks they’re above using a laptop decides to send their manuscript in the old fashioned way. Sometimes it’s just a precaution in case we somehow miss the half dozen emails they’ve already sent out to every listed staff member on the site. Hell, sometimes it’s written by typewriter.

You know typewriters require special paper to print? Special ink, too. They probably spend more writing the damn thing than they’ll ever see in royalties, but to each their own, I guess. I even got one handwritten, once. The idiot sent a follow-up a month later anxiously asking if he could have it back if we weren’t going to consider it because it was his only copy. Can you imagine? Mailing off the only copy of your handwritten manuscript to some backroom small press without any insurance.

By comparison, this manuscript was relatively normal. It had been typed, I think. The paper was…I guess it was sort of crumpled, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. The postal service isn’t always the most careful about this sort of thing, and it wasn’t really packaged properly. Just shoved loose in a box and shipped out.

It was pre-bound. Just a bundle of papers held together with a few strands of red string. A little unusual, but not exactly throwing up any red flags. Even when I started reading it, I didn’t know. How the hell could I have?

It was good, though. Maybe that should have been my first clue. The prose dragged on a bit, but hey. There are plenty of successful writers out there who probably could have benefited from a harsher editor. They made up for it, in my opinion. Even just skimming those first few pages, I was hooked. Didn’t even really realise it when I was due my lunch break. I was so focused on that damn book.

The visuals were the thing. Plenty of writers can pour out half decent prose, but something about this writer…they had a way of making it feel real, you know? All the little touches, the scenes they crafted from the ground up. It felt…it felt like I couldn’t stop reading. Even if I’d wanted to, and trust me, back then I didn’t.

I didn’t leave my office that day. Barely noticed it when the phone rang, ignored all my emails. I really, really thought we’d accidentally stumbled on a gold mind. Not just a passable debut novel, but an honest to god genuine talent.

The funny thing is, I can’t even really remember what it was that drew me in. Couldn’t tell you what genre it fell under. The plot itself was practically non-existent. A girl who dreamed of being a dancer and crept out of her house to practice under the moonlight in a clearing in the forest behind her house.

Then, one blissful night, illuminated by the full moon, the forest provided her with a partner. The partner.

Nothing too out there, right? Your basic fantasy-romance type stuff. Pretty tame compared to a lot of what we publish, but I was enthralled from the first description of their first dance. Barefoot and so light on her feet her toes barely skimmed the dew-slick grass. They loved each other, and in that moment, I think I understood that. Really knew what it was to love someone so much you’d offer them your still beating heart if it would mean holding onto them for just a second longer.

Except it wasn’t love. Not really. It was an obsession.

I couldn’t stop devouring page after page as their budding romance grew and spiralled, twisting into something unrecognisable. Those whispered words of I can’t live without you became their mantra as they clung to one another so tightly they left bruises on one another’s skin. Soft kisses turned sharp as they came to understand what it was to need to consume and be consumed. They needed one another in a way neither could truly provide. Not really.

In their despair, they begged the forest to offer them a solution, and it gave them one. A way to lie in the sweet summer meadow forever, and in their glee they didn’t think to ask what it would cost.

Not until they began to rot, anyway.

My memories around here get a little hazy, or maybe the words were just less clear. The writing seemed…hurried towards the end, but the couple didn’t seem to mind much when the insects began to burrow through their skin and make their homes inside. They had so much love to give, literally brimming with it. As sickening as it was, it sounded almost…fond. Like the writer truly wanted to give them the happy ending they deserved, but somehow couldn’t think of anything more befitting than allowing their decaying corpses to be infested with creepy crawlies.

It was sick. The concept was sick. Everything about it was sick, but even now I can’t truly convey how vividly they described it. The picture they painted was so clear. Even the affection the insects lavished upon them as they crawled and burrowed through their decaying flesh. It was…God, it used to make me sick just thinking about it, you know that?

Because it wasn’t enough that I had to read it. That I physically couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had to see it. The idea of it…It got its hooks in deep.

By the time I got to the end, I was at a loss for what to do with the manuscript. On the one hand it was probably one of the best written pieces we’d ever received, and there are plenty of twisted readers out there looking for something to churn their stomach.

Somehow it didn’t feel right to publish it, though. I’ve read body horror before, but this…It wasn’t right. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just inflict that on people. How do you make someone understand, truly understand, when they’re signing up to read something that won’t ever let them go? How do you make them understand that the words they’re paying you to read will imprint themselves against the backs of their eyelids? That they’ll grow and spread and fester.

I dream about that dancer in the moonlit meadow. The descriptions of her actual appearance were relatively scarce, but I can still see her face when I close my eyes. I see her intertwined with her dance partner, caked in a mossy fungus that failed to disguise the living hive crawling beneath their skin. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, anymore. Not even sure if I could tell them apart looking at them, what with their withered skin being so covered in filth and grime.

That damned book made it sound like something beautiful, but their beauty decayed with their childish notions of romance. They chose to become hollow husks of themselves to make room for the love they could no longer contain, but that’s…that’s not love. It can’t be…right?

So why can’t I stop thinking about the way their fingers intertwined before rigor mortis set in and cemented their bond forever?

I can’t concentrate on anything else anymore. At first it was just a niggling seed of doubt at the back of my mind, but it’s grown so much since then. That image burrowed so deep inside my mind turned its hungry mouth towards the parts of me which were most vulnerable, eating and eating and eating and eating until I could think of nothing else.

I don’t know why I never thought to burn it. Maybe I was worried it would make it worse. Maybe it felt too much like sacrilege. I never read it again after that first time, though I considered it often. It sat on my desk while my other assignments lay scattered around it, disregarded without a second thought. After all, there was no room left in my mind for anything else anymore. Every other passage I tried to read just seemed so…dry. So false. I used to get so invested in the lives of paper people, but now I know what true love is, how could the half-baked notions of romance ever compare?  I tried at first, but by the end I just…stared at it. Waiting.

Maybe if I’d tried to destroy it…Too late now, I suppose. I never let it see the printing presses, but I did let it go in the end. Some old man came in asking for it specifically. Something about it being a collectable.

I don’t know how an unpublished manuscript could be considered a collector’s item, and frankly I didn’t ask. I’m not sure if I even really cared about what he’d do with it by that point. Did it bother me that I might be condemning him to share my fate? It doesn’t now, I know that much.

It’s…I was hoping this might help me clear things up, but I just couldn’t see any of it straight. I can’t see anything, anymore. Not really. It may have started in my dreams, but once I let her in…They’re everywhere, now. I saw him in the faces of my colleagues before the press finally let me go… I don’t remember how long ago now. I think the power company cut the power at some point. It doesn’t matter now.

The funny thing is, I really thought they cared about me. They did, at first. I think. It all sort of blurs together, but I remember how they used to talk about me when they thought I couldn’t hear. The nervous looks they’d send me when I zoned out at my desks. Then they staged their first intervention, and I saw it. I saw her. It was the man I saw painted across the features of everyone I knew, in the arches of eyebrows and slants of cheekbones, but it was her I saw reflected in their eyes.

It was her I saw in the mirror, before they ran out of space inside my skull, and the maggots took my eyes…or maybe I imagined that part too.

I’m pretty sure it’s too late for me now, but when I heard about you guys I figured it was worth a shot. I’m full of it. Whatever that feverish contagion that claimed the couple was. That sickly, rotting thing they mistook for love. I can feel it now. I can understand it now and it’s so much. Already I’m on the brink of bursting with it, I think.

I just can’t wait to share.

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Trinkets, Books, 8: An eclectic library of dusty tomes, fictional textbooks, pocketbooks, paperbacks, hardcovers, booklets, leaflets and magical manuals. Paper leaves and the binding surrounding them can help define a character, kick off a subplot, fuel a fetch quest or simply serve as a generic macguffin. Commonly seen in video games such as Baldur’s Gate, Neverwinter Nights, World of Warcraft and Skyrim, book items are a way to subtly world build while still handing out sellable loot. A wizard has a spellbook, a cleric has a holy text and now you have a trinket list.

The Seventy Maxims of Maximally Effective Mercenaries: A compact handbook detailing 70 concise sentences of wise words to prospective mercenaries. The first rule takes up the entire page and simply says: “Pillage THEN burn.”

The Tome of Furion: An unholy volume of dark magic bound in obsidian with pages of flayed Orc-hide. The inscribed letters writhe and shift like living creatures and the pages are warm to the touch even in the dead of winter. Reading the tome is excruciating, as even its most basic precepts are corrosive to the mind, body and soul.

Tales from Within: A leather-bound research and saga book of Garren the Bravefool, it details the pioneering efforts by the individual of killing giant creatures from within by being eaten by them and cutting his way out. Although the author notes Garren’s zeal leading to his death when he attempted his trade on a gelatinous cube, he is apparently credited (At least in this book) for the death of three dragons.

A fey made tome bound in sheet of smooth bark gilded in silver entitled “Lexicon of Stealing Mortal Babies”. The text is a guide to obtaining newborns from humans with tricks. The book is written in sylvan and the pages are transparent sheets, made from giant insect wings with text painted on.

A holy gospel of a fictional religion. The only god seems to be a tentacle monster formed of pasta, meatballs and eldritch power. Although the book is a paperback it has been design to appear as a hardcover.

A depressing but oddly romantic novel entitles “Wed to a Mortal” which tells the sad story of a lovestruck elf who loved a young mortal and how they spent 80 years together until he died of old age, leaving the elf a widow in the prime of her life.

A wood bound tome with the symbol of a tall black tower branded into the front cover. The volume is a true account of one of the first members of the Black Tower an order of male mages who served as soldiers and guardians of a world rocked by chaos and darkness. The book is partly historical but leans heavily on accounts taken from personal journals and reliable word of mouth stories from that era. According to all sources, the use of magic damaged their sanity and stole from their lifespan, making each solider a martyr in his own right. The sheer power they would wield astounded even themselves and the war they fought in preyed heavily on their souls. An anonymous poem that is attributed to a member of the Black Tower is etched into the inside of the front cover; “We rode on the winds of the rising storm, We ran to the sounds of the thunder. We danced among the lightning bolts, and tore the world asunder.”

A pulp romance book entitled “Secret Loves Of Dryads, Kiss And Tell Love Diaries Of Immortal Magical Seducers”. The paperback text has a number of dog-eared pages at some of the more stirring passages.  

A discrete brownish book the size of a deck of cards without decoration or title. Its contests reveal themselves to be a Changeling training manual and guidebook on how the fey train the supernatural shapeshifters to infiltrate humans, live among them and carry out their nefarious goals.

Skin-bound Ledger: A small lined notebook bound in supple, tanned leather, with a dedication in the front cover reading "Binding from Reijek, RIP." Touching the ledger produces a deep sense of revulsion strong enough to prevent the weak-willed from looking at its contents. Inside is written a detailed list of transactions, with columns for Name, Quantity (g), Surface Area (m2), Skin Quality, and Police Inquiry (y/n?).

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Click Here for additional Book Descriptions to give these objects even more personality.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

The Seventy Maxims of Maximally Effective Mercenaries: A compact handbook detailing 70 concise sentences of wise words to prospective mercenaries. The first rule takes up the entire page and simply says: “Pillage THEN burn.”

The Tome of Furion: An unholy volume of dark magic bound in obsidian with pages of flayed Orc-hide. The inscribed letters writhe and shift like living creatures and the pages are warm to the touch even in the dead of winter. Reading the tome is excruciating, as even its most basic precepts are corrosive to the mind, body and soul.

Tales from Within: A leather-bound research and saga book of Garren the Bravefool, it details the pioneering efforts by the individual of killing giant creatures from within by being eaten by them and cutting his way out. Although the author notes Garren’s zeal leading to his death when he attempted his trade on a gelatinous cube, he is apparently credited (At least in this book) for the death of three dragons.

A fey made tome bound in sheet of smooth bark gilded in silver entitled “Lexicon of Stealing Mortal Babies”. The text is a guide to obtaining newborns from humans with tricks. The book is written in sylvan and the pages are transparent sheets, made from giant insect wings with text painted on.

A holy gospel of a fictional religion. The only god seems to be a tentacle monster formed of pasta, meatballs and eldritch power. Although the book is a paperback it has been design to appear as a hardcover.

A depressing but oddly romantic novel entitles “Wed to a Mortal” which tells the sad story of a lovestruck elf who loved a young mortal and how they spent 80 years together until he died of old age, leaving the elf a widow in the prime of her life.

A wood bound tome with the symbol of a tall black tower branded into the front cover. The volume is a true account of one of the first members of the Black Tower an order of male mages who served as soldiers and guardians of a world rocked by chaos and darkness. The book is partly historical but leans heavily on accounts taken from personal journals and reliable word of mouth stories from that era. According to all sources, the use of magic damaged their sanity and stole from their lifespan, making each solider a martyr in his own right. The sheer power they would wield astounded even themselves and the war they fought in preyed heavily on their souls. An anonymous poem that is attributed to a member of the Black Tower is etched into the inside of the front cover; “We rode on the winds of the rising storm, We ran to the sounds of the thunder. We danced among the lightning bolts, and tore the world asunder.”

A pulp romance book entitled “Secret Loves Of Dryads, Kiss And Tell Love Diaries Of Immortal Magical Seducers”. The paperback text has a number of dog-eared pages at some of the more stirring passages.  

A discrete brownish book the size of a deck of cards without decoration or title. Its contests reveal themselves to be a Changeling training manual and guidebook on how the fey train the supernatural shapeshifters to infiltrate humans, live among them and carry out their nefarious goals.

Skin-bound Ledger: A small lined notebook bound in supple, tanned leather, with a dedication in the front cover reading "Binding from Reijek, RIP." Touching the ledger produces a deep sense of revulsion strong enough to prevent the weak-willed from looking at its contents. Inside is written a detailed list of transactions, with columns for Name, Quantity (g), Surface Area (m2), Skin Quality, and Police Inquiry (y/n?).

Perfection Attained: A delicate handbook in immaculate physical condition. The work serves as a reference to personal grooming, hygiene and good manners for elves.

Summoning Demons and Befriending Fiends, What NOT to Do: A musty volume bound in flaky, deteriorating black leather, its title being barely legible. The author of the book draws from his vast body of knowledge and experience in courting creatures from the Abyss, the Nine Hells, and beyond to provide the reader with a comprehensive list of do's and don’ts when attempting to contact, summon, or otherwise deal with such creatures.

Sources of Magic: A basic textbook bound in tanned leather that is commonplace to nearly every institution of magical learning. The book, written by a powerful and long-dead sorcerer, is every spellcaster's go-to resource for studying the origins of magic as well as serving as a jumping-off point for researchers in any area of magical study. Much of the information in the book is widely-known and somewhat fundamental, but a good grasp of the fundamentals of magical knowledge can be a powerful thing.

An unsuspecting handbook entitled “Rogues Can but Thieves’ Cant” that serves as a dictionary for translating common into the secret language of the criminal underworld and vice versa.

Gras: A book entitled simply "Fat" in its original language, this is the definitive cookbook of the Sovereign Isles, a land known for its creation and embracement of fat-frying and buttered everything. Croissant, steak chips, liver, cheeses, oily fish: All served with bread and wine and defined by their buttery richness.

Arcane Trickery and Dastardly Deeds: A shoddy paperback that is written partly in Common and partly in Goblin. This text gives detail and step-by-step instructions on carrying out multitudes of pranks, tricks, and traps using various forms of low-level magics. While the average magic-user may not learn anything new or practical in the realms of spells and rituals, they may find that some of the author's applications of well-known and widely-used spells are supremely creative; although, perhaps a bit mean-spirited and sadistic at times.

A thief’s memoir entitled “The Art of the Steal by Ronald J. Rump aka Ronny Rump”. The book is an exhaustive treatise on all forms of stealing, from picking pockets to running a loan bureau.

Lessig's Guide to Northern Beasts: A book penned by Field Sergeant Artr Lessig, of Pyle, distinguished as the Ward Rangers' most senior active officer, has over four decades of ranging seen nigh-every animal and monster to roam the moors, forests, and mountainous fjordlands of the North. Lessig recalls in its sketch-illustrated pages encounters mundane and incredible, including with such beasts as stryge and pool-nymphs. All of these he escaped, often barely, unscathed. His ability to survive the monstrous is rivaled only by his luck in encountering it.

The Cognitive Nature of Magic: A book that claims magic is limited by the mind only. It states that we as a society place limits on spells, without these limits even a lowly cantrip could have wish level effects. It presents "experiments" it claims proofs this such as how a simple mending spell cannot repair living skin yet it can repair leather. It claims this proves societies perception of things effects magic. A knowledge PC will find that the author's ideas actually do have some merit but the wording or the argument and the style of the author's rhetoric is abysmal and worthy of a pulpy political debate.  

The Book of Numbers: A book that contains every number in existence, even those ones that shouldn't exist. The text is at the same time, mind numbingly boring and ridiculously confusing.    

The Predator. A rare and insightful work published by renowned anthropologist and natural philosopher Dr. Wallace Piedmont, of Lastreshire shortly before his disappearance. A treatise compiling all his research and case material on the Feywild, a realm he classifies as a "dominant and predatory ecosystem" and frequently refers to as simply "the Predator." A world naturally bent on influential expansion, composed of a network of species both familiar and alien, all of which, even the sentient ones, exist in unnatural symbiosis. Piedmont, supported by evidence retrieved on his many expeditions to feywild portals, diagrams the biology of the fey in detail never before seen (As these diagrams were gleaned by performing untold vivisections and autopsies), including detailed analyses of its sentient species, including pixies, redcaps, and dryads; topics fearful, forbidden, and folkloric in their mystery, broached with candor and method not before attempted. His book is banned anywhere where the fey are considered allies. It is uncommonly available in other countries, although very expensive.

A journal kept by a king's personal valet, which contains a complete record of the lineage of the current King, complete with all mentions of affairs and bastard children.

Wyrm in a Bottle: A book containing a detailed account of how one with proficiency in magic could create an enchanted container then bait, ensnare and place a draconic creature within. However it consistently references seemingly made up or unheard of spells and materials.

The Redwater Journal: A collection of notes that has recently become popular reading in port cities. The notes, now reprinted and bound in red linen, were found two decades ago on the waterlogged corpse of a sailor, who was spotted, floating, on open water midst the Trackless Isles. His notes tell of the fearful last days of the whaling ship Spineback. They describe how its course became lost in a fog bank, how it’s first hand was first to go mad from whispering song. How its crew were eventually stolen from the rails as they stared, transfixed, at the reddened water below.

No Nose for Nonsense: A novella presenting a spirited epic about a Dwarf called Bra'al the Nosebreaker who is exiled from his homeland. He moves to the coast to poach Merfolk and sell their components to exotic nobles. It ends with a small band of strangers visiting the fishing village. Who, coming together to solve the series of curses and problems his poaching caused, removed his ring of water walking and let him drown as he sunk to the merky* depths of the ocean. (*A pun because it was merfolk waters).

Eight Ate and Ain't; An unsuspecting handbook whose pages are stained with brown and green liquids. It seems cryptic, meandering and at times nonsensical. Those fluent in Thieves Cant (The language of rogues and scoundrels) are able to read what is truly says; A poisoner's guide for creating for eight different ingested poisons with different crippling or fatal effects.

The Clever Folk: An old and out-of-print collection of original children's tales, all of which concern the fearful and enigmatic fairy creature that is the black-eyed spriggan. Its publisher ceased all production after certain allegations of actual fey communion emerged concerning the author, who reportedly lived in a cottage surrounded by strange charms and little-toed footprints. It remains a desired book, not by children, but by magicians and adventures: Practitioners interested in the ways of the fey’s servants.

The Blessing of Bone Smoking; Osteomancy for Beginners: A detailed exposition of the funeral ritual prescribed by Secrund (The aspect of death). An important bone of the deceased is alchemically processed and smoked to infuse the imbibing person with some of the powers and memories the deceased had in life. Certain bones have different stores of powers and memories and the book strongly cautions against doing too much of one being or any of something too powerful.

Incurable Curses of Mimetic Transference: A book filled with incurable curses, jinx’s and hexes, some benign and others malevolent with their afflictions in an array of varying degrees. Upon viewing any curse, the reader will suffer an immense compulsion to read its entry, with the farther they go the more difficult it is to stop. If read far enough then the reader will learn about the nature of the curse, how to make it, safeguard against it, and how to detect it but never how to cure it. However, if they read it to completion then they themselves will be afflicted by it, and in any attempt to share the information they've learned will in turn "infect" the listener with said curse.

The Collected Works of Merrill: A book of poetry penned by Merrill, an antique poet of mysterious origin. Whoever he or she was, they wrote a substantial body, mostly pastoral, sweetly rhymed, and finished by flat, disturbing notes. Scholars have observed many of Merrill's works reference fey phenomena: a field of study that is fearful and poorly-understood, at best. As a result, to those who care for such a thing, Merrill's Collected Works have become a useful, if vague, reference in understanding the Feywild and its black-eyed denizens.

Aio's Political Manifesto: An old slightly singed manuscript from a book written in squid ink by a Lord Aio. It argues against feudalism and monarchies and promotes a more ideal magically selected government.

A guidebook exploring and explaining the nature of demons and their biology. It explains the different types and has various speculations from the author as to how they all relate to each other. It attempts to put them in a hierarchy of which is superior proposing each demon is a step closer to what the God's intended than the previous type.

The Limit of Man: An inflammatory journalistic expose on the traditions, cruel alchemical transformative processes, and totalitarian institution of holy order of Alagóran knight-paladins. It describes, in no lack of gruesome detail, the ways in which a young human is broken down, both in mind and body, and reassembled into a dubious paragon of "humanity." Unavailable in its subject-country, this short book has thrown the methods and ethics of some knight-orders continent-wide into question.

A Material Realm Fling: An erotic romance novel about a demon and an angel being sent to stop the others deeds and ultimately falling in love. It's told from the perspective of a farmer who helps hide their love and the author claims to be the farmer. It ends in heartbreak as the demon must leave back to the hells. At the back of the book are angrily scribbled comments with two clear identifiable handwriting claiming the book is false and full of lies.

Arcanium of Outsider Entities: A large leather bound book, with a silver clasp and electrum leaf writing on the front. It is dated to 1562 in an unknown calendar, and the book holds faint traces of magical protection. It details a variety of outsider entities, and how both to interact as well as protect oneself from them.

The Los Karkinos Letters: A bound series of correspondence between two prominent statesmen on one of the most fractious issues of the last century: The restructure of government houses and agencies following a recent war. Regarded as a masterclass in diplomacy in the face of seemingly insurmountable partisan tensions, but also reviled as a prime example of systemic corruption within the state, whether related to the church or the principality.

Black Book of the Hunt: A Hunter’s journal of the process of fighting both undead and beasts, it provides both a list over common knowledge on a few of these creatures, as well as handwritten notes on specific weaknesses, and properties of metal for hunting use.

Chronicles of the Wolf War: A drake-skin leather tome, imbued with faint magic to protect it from wear and tear. The book is dated back to the year of 1102, in an unknown calendar. It contains the history of a great war between Orcs of Gruumsh against a coalition of Elves and Dwarves, in the distant lands of the West. The book contains names of some great lords of the war as well as a few heroes, and refers to a battle known as “Blackfire Pass”, a great battle against vast armies where the elves and dwarves managed to beat back hordes of orcs.

The Mersdotr Medical Manual: A small, red book sturdily bound. Favored by adventurers, who swear by its simple, reliable advice in times of illness and injury. Many a life has been saved by its perusal, by little pages turned under bloody fingers and frantic eyes.

The Life and Death of Necromancy: A smallish, black, leather bound journal filled with the scribbling notes of a past wizard, a skull of silver is set on the front of the book. The text concerns itself on the exact nature of necromantic effects and how to turn such effects to beneficial energy. The writing are imperfect theories and require years to decades of extensive testing before yielding conclusive results.

Mez’kadan’s Ouroboros: A large tome, bound in leather and clasped with gold. A closer inspection of the volume reveals that each page is perfectly preserved drakeskin inscribed with black ink. It describes the scientific use of most metals, and the properties these metals can contribute to a concoction, making it a useful reference tool for any alchemic project.

The Book of Knives. A book penned by an enthusiast of dangerous penchants that catalogues the blades of the kingdom. Stilettos, soap knives, messers; all are accounted for and described in form, history, and purpose.

The Works of Warding: A dark blue book set with silver runes, its pages written in a special silver ink which shines whenever the book is opened. The book is a compendium of abjuration and protective magic, with a specific focus on the research and development of creating new arcane barriers and shields. This specific volume is part of a regularly published series with multiple authors.

A heavy old tome with yellowed pages and a blank cover. The book does not match the design of any other books in the area and has a somewhat homemade feel to it. Nearly all the pages are filled with impressively lifelike sketches of an assortment of common folk, each with a smile on their face. All the drawings seem to be situated in the same village, with a single family and house appearing more frequently than any of the others. Extremely knowledgeable PC’s will be able to discern that each of the members of that family bear a slight resemblance to the physical description of a notorious witch who resides in the surrounding area.

Tales of the Yawning Portal: A great leather bound book, from the hide of some kind of red and orange colored monstrosity, inside inked on the pages are stories of the Yawning Portal, a mythical tavern that supposedly appears for tired travelers in times of need. Inside they find safety and rest, but when they awaken, they discover that they have been transported great distances into the far off places of the world.

A wizard's spellbook bound in copper plates, filled with silk pages that have been written on with golden ink.

A well-used copy of Danver Teth’s “Of Blazing Glory”, a religious volume honored by the church of the fire god. Inscribed on the opening page is the following written in a flowing, red script: “This foretells of the coming fire. When the Flame ascends, all glory comes to the Pitmaster!”

A large tome bound in thick bison-hide that is a common-orcish language primer, as well as a primer on orcish culture. The author of the primer, Darius Woodherd, seems to have added a lot of information on orcish heraldry and politics, as well. The foreword mentions that Darius spent almost twenty years amongst the orcs of the north, and eventually married an orc before being killed a score of years ago in a rival tribe’s ambush.

A strange bestiary that details all the different creatures from another world, though you have never seen nor heard of any of them and neither has anyone else.

Tome Of Neverlife: A book infused with strong necromantic energy that is so palpably evil, it radiates a feeling of dread to every non-evil creature within 30 feet. The grimoire’s pages contain a selection of rare necromancy spells and decoded within its pages lies a method to becoming a lich.

A manuscript of military outpost construction, the plans are quite detailed and might be worth something to a military or mercenary leader. The fort is meant for 100 soldiers and is thus far too large for adventuring groups. The book has descriptions and pictures of wall and ditch fortifications, siege defense measures, sanitation facilities, tent and building layouts, watchtowers, digging wells, and underground storage. The book has options for building and maintaining temporary (A week or less) outposts as well as permanent and semi-permanent fortifications.

The Trade of Blades: A series of historically based, fictional tales of various infamous blade-runners (Weapon smugglers) throughout a series of civil wars. The stories focus on the charm, ingenuity and quick sleazy thinking of the various criminal protagonists as they sell weapons to both sides of the conflict. Many of the war profiteers have hearts of gold despite their illicit affiliations a common theme through the stories is minimizing civilian casualties and making sure children and innocents are spared from the ravages of war as much as possible.

Fundamentals of Terrible Destruction: A primer of war and siegecraft focusing only on offensive strategies and the complete annihilation of the enemy at every cost.

The Thrill of the Chaste: A religious text of a group who worship the ideals of cleanliness and sexual abstinence. It details the extremely strict dietary, sexual, and clothing restrictions which followers must follow.

Cipher Book: A compact pocketbook that contains numbered grids on each page which simply and easily catalog random lists of words. This allows a user to write messages which substitute letters and numbers that reference the page, row, and column of a particular word found within the cipher book. These books are always sold in pairs to allow two different creatures to pass coded messages over long distances, however this book's mate is nowhere to be found.

Book of War Prayers: A small, leather-bound collection of war prayers written on pages of fine vellum. The prayers are interdenominational and seem to only have war in common than any specific god, religion or specific alignment. Secular readers could easily adapt most of these prayers into rallying speeches to inspire an army before battle.

Book of Puzzles: A book containing two dozen puzzles made to test the mind and stir the intellect. The nature of the puzzles vary from math, logic, critical and abstract thinking as well as cryptic. Answering each puzzle gives the reader part of a final secret riddle. The secret riddle at the end can only be answered when all the previous ones have been solved for their piece of it, and it if far more complex that the others.

A book made of thin glass plates bound in copper. When held, it fills itself with treasured illustrated fables that the reader heard in their childhood.

A book describing the history of the evil God Tash, an enemy of the Great Lion whose father is emperor-over-the-Sea. Tash is described as an unclothed humanoid demon, much larger than a man, with four arms and the head of a vulture with a cloud of pestilent insects that surround him constantly. His presence brings cold and the sickening stench of death. Tash’s followers are a warring people and often invade neighboring areas in order to capture men to sacrifice on the altar of Tash. The war cry of his fanatics is enough to make the blood of a brave man turn to ice in his veins: "In the name of Tash the irresistible, the inexorable--forward!"

Tome of Remembrance: A small, leather-bound book whose first few pages are filled with assorted prayers. Knowledgeable PC's know that these books are created empty with each page filling with the prayers of its owner as they are offered to their god. The owner of this tome should be careful that their less-than-pious prayers and wishes may be recorded as well.

A fairly simple leather-bound book filled to the brim with the hand-written history of the Church of Bahamut written inside, in Draconic. According to the first few pages, it belonged to a dragonborn cleric of Bahamut, Plynic Loremark, who was convinced that coded in the text was an ancient prophecy.

Book of Fel Names: A grotesque book bound by the stitched together hides of several demons and fiends. The entire text is written in the language of devils and must be deciphered to be understood. The book appears to be a ledger of sorts written by a middling devil and contains the true names of a few dozen minor imps and the favors they owe to the author.

Collection of Legendary Tales: A leather-bound book containing a collection of the most awe-inspiring, captivating stories sung at taverns and told around campfires across the land.

Beginner's Guide to Dimensional Rifting: A small book containing a seven step process for mastering dimensional travel in one week, provided all the knowledge is there. *Disclaimer: The knowledge is never there.

The Big Book o' Beards: A small pocketbook containing dozens of beard grooming techniques complete with instructions and images. It features such favorites as the 'Thundermar Triple-Fork' and the 'Blammenhammer Chin Strip.'

Wildhammer Book of Verse: A small pocketbook of a collection of the filthiest limericks ever penned to parchment.

Diary of Balldir Deeprock: A travel journal filled with waterlogged pages that have mostly faded. Careful reading near the end reveals some lines about field testing a poison immunity. There are no entries after that.

A small songbook containing a complete set of sheet music and lyrics to the bawdy tavern song “The Hedgehog Can Never Be Buggered At All ”

A small handbook of baby names for males and females of various races and cultures, arranged in alphabetical order.  

A well-kept travel journal bound in black leather. It is completely filled with an indecipherable script that disappears when a shadow passes over it.

Book of Cults: A strange leather-bound book containing erratic handwriting. The words within it appear to have been translated from Gnome into Common (and perhaps some other language before Gnome). It contains notations of strange cult practices, disturbing rants about ancient godlike beings, and confusing diagrams resembling summoning circles, with many parts crossed out or obliterated with ink or fire.

Interview with Some Vampires, by Ena Neric: A black leather bound book with a symbol of a fanged mouth colored a blood red on the front cover.  The author spent extensive time meeting with a wide range of known vampires. Her precise question-and-answer style writing has become the definitive work on the subject of these cursed undead.

St. Aubert's Book of the Damned: A vile work that contains detailed descriptions of all the evil private demiplanes of existence, as well as the summoning rituals for every denizen. Knowledgeable PC’s will know that to protect the information from evil hands, a hundred copies were made, each with slightly incorrect information from the original. Using the information found in one of the copies to summon a demon, would result in a quick death at best and the loss and eternal torture of your soul at worst. There is no way to know if this tome is the original or a copy.

A hand-written memoir of an ineffective bureaucrat who never managed to do anything noteworthy over his extensive career.

A mage’s spellbook bound in copper and trimmed with hippopotamus tooth. When the tome is opened, it flashes with bright light. According to the inside of the front cover, the original owner was one Darward Zelus.

Scry Hard; A Good Way to Scry: A particularly edgy and bombastic work of literature that aims to equip the reader with a deeper knowledge of arcane scrying.

Astraldynamics 101: A beat-up and heavily-used leather-bound textbook that provides the reader with details on cosmological history and structure, the fundamentals of Astral projecting, what risks are entailed in traveling by Astral means, and how best to prepare oneself for taking such a journey.

Tome of the Southern Sigil: A leather-bound book written in Draconic, in a delicate handwriting. It describes the specific motions and practices required to train monks in the Quivering Palm technique. Rather than a primer, it assumes that the reader is already an accomplished martial artist, in good physical condition and able to focus and direct their inner chi. While an interesting topic, the overwhelming majority of readers would not be able to execute the Quivering Palm technique in any form.

Stranger In My Dreams: A nondescript journal that talks about the author recalling a depraved creature who over time got closer and closer to her in her dreams. The book seems to be a diary and was never finished. In the last passage, the author says that the monster has finally come within arm’s reach of her. Upon reading the entire volume the reader immediately suffers psychic damage equivalent to a dagger.

Patterns of Behavior: A small hardcover anthology of mood affecting quilt work and fabric designs. Inside is dozens of pictures and instructions to create a variety of patterns that slightly affects one’s mood when looked upon.

Income Management and Financial Assessment: A book containing several long chapters detailing ways to horde, hide, and invest gold. Hidden within are several nude illustrations of females of the common races.

Learn To Read: An incredibly dense book that details the process of learning the art of reading Common, almost impossible to understand, even for those fluent in Common.

An Almanack of Practical Mortis: An exhaustive collection of tables detailing how corpses decompose under various circumstances, along with an appendix that explains step-by-step how to remove maggots, close large wounds, and reset broken bones.

Crying Laughing: An alchemical reference guide which details a large number of funny and entertaining uses of tears, outlining their magical and alchemical properties.

Hilarious Knock-Knock Jokes to Say Out Loud: A thin and surprisingly old-looking book containing a few genuinely good knock-knock jokes. At least one punchline is actually the true name of a powerful demon which attracts her attention when said aloud granting her an opportunity to break through into this plane of existence.

The Next Hunt - Volume I, Wyverns: A ranger’s guide bound in lizard skin that is the first in a series of installments detailing an abundance of methods for finding and hunting various monsters. Each volume covers a different creature. This text details the highly aggressive yet simple minded dragon species known as the wyverns.  

Our Friend the Cactus: A black wood bound tome written by a dwarf wizard by the name of Daven Wraithmail. This treatise explains the growth and upkeep of a Gulthias Tree as well as several manners to corrupt seeds of other trees in order to create a suitable vessel. An entire chapter is dedicated to the domestication of the resulting blights which sprout from said tree and their training to better protect your new sapling.

To Cheat A Devil: An autobiography of a man who tricked dozens of minor devils, and even a few archdevils into doing his nefarious bidding. It seems like this man should be much more well known if the events described in this book actually took place.

The True Rulers of Our Countries: A controversial document in and of its own right, this book talks about the creation of the Prime Material and Inner planes. A thin volume which only contains four pieces of paper, however these papers are magically enchanted to pass through the thousands of pages of content which this book holds. The author of the document seems almost too knowing on the subject, almost as if he were there...

The Night's Embrace: A book about the primordial titans, mostly legend and myth, collected by an eccentric young wizard who traveled the planes looking for information about them. This book is highly frustrating to scholars because the last entry is the beginning of a summary of an actual historical document, which has never been found. The book is unfinished and the wizard has not been seen for hundreds of years.

The Story of Graye: The story of a slave forced to be a pit-fighter who turned to meditation as an escape from his violent life. This book is not well written, and is probably an earlier work of a novice author that never reached widespread fame.  

A large, weather resistant guidebook entitled “So Your Son Is a Centaur”, written by Wiltlin Lorearthen. The book contains minor translating magics and can be read and understood by any human, horse or centaur regardless of what languages they do or do not speak.

A leatherbound guidebook bound with expert stitching entitled “Something I Cobbled Together: A Guide To Shoe Repair”. The author mentions that her dedication to her profession is unmatched and that no matter who you happen to be, if you come into her shop in need, she will heel you, she will save your sole and she will even dye for you.

A small black book containing names, descriptions, and important information about hundreds of politically or socially significant individuals written in neat, tight script.

The Enchiridion of the Evoker: A grey book, though covered in a thick gold leaf, that appears mostly plain. When touched by a creature capable of casting magical spells however, the books shines brightly in a myriad of colors. The book is a compendium of evocation magic, with a specific focus on the research and development of creating new offensive spells. This specific volume is part of a regularly published series with multiple authors.

Bali's Folio: A flawless tome written upon silk pages and bound in monstrous hide trimmed with bone. A map of the local area, with several landmarks drawn in red ink, has been added in the middle of the tome. Knowledgeable PC’s will be able to determine that the areas in red are good sources for either harvesting or purchasing alchemical and arcane supplies.

So Long, and Thanks for All the Ale: The humorous tale of Tarvish the dwarf, who had unpaid bar tabs worth a total of 10,000 gold all across the country before being arrested.

Backstage: A tell-all book detailing the more mundane dangers of the adventuring life, like insufficient supplies, inappropriate gear, public reactions, illnesses and the common lack of money. The text has tips and advice on how to prevent and deal with the issues as they pop up, which usually all boils down to travel three days march in any direction and kill things for money.

Every. Accomplished. Recognizable. Sentient. by Tommeltop the Gnome: An encyclopedia of anyone who accomplished anything of moderate note ever, however most of each page is dedicated to greatly exaggerated, suitably cringy and oddly romantic paragraphs about how great each person’s ears must have been. Any brave soul who actually reads the book through is suddenly able to recall in perfect detail the ears of anyone they’ve ever seen before for no apparent reason.

Liber Daemonicum: A religious book, sacred to a chapter of holy warriors known as the Grey Knights that contains prayers, battle rituals, litanies, funeral rites, and lore on the nature of Chaos. While it may appear to be a normal book, opening it will reveal a series of flickering paper-thin sheets of unbreakable glass that contain interactive information that can be brought to focus or enlarged. Page after page discusses tactics and how to fight the denizens of the nine hells, as well as, listing the True Names of a great many Daemonic entities; information collected from the Librarium Daemonica. The book pulls no punches; it includes an extensive discourse of when to terminate allies under demonic influence and a whole chapter discussing the moral implications and appropriate use of purifying entire cities by the use of razing them to the ground by sword and fire, exterminating the guilty and the innocent alike.

[falseroar]

((Abe, a monster hunter, is distracted from chasing down a particular Colonel when he hears a rumor that he can’t let go without looking into it for himself.

Based on today’s prompt for Trail 5 of the Ten Trails Whump Challenge, “Muzzle”, this sort of went off track. Like I mentioned yesterday, think of this as a sort of in between story, after ITYC but a few years short of the present day.

Warnings: mentions of blood, animal cruelty, and light swearing))

Abe knew he shouldn’t be here. He had his own leads to follow, his own personal monster to hunt down, but he also knew that as soon as he heard the rumor, as soon as he heard that single word, he had no choice but to come and check it out.

Not that he bothered to share why he was so invested, when he came to this little village out in the middle of nowhere. He barely even had to ask any questions, as the people recognized him as a hunter as soon as they saw him and were excited to share what was probably the first interesting thing that had happened here in years. A couple of guys he didn’t bother to learn the names of immediately offered to show and tell him everything.

Everything about the werewolf.

“When did you say they showed up?” Abe asked as they led him deeper into the woods outside of town. The way they jumped at every crack of a twig and hint of a shadow, he guessed the village probably already had its own stories about the place before the recent arrival.

“Not sure exactly, but three days ago is when it came into the village looking for supplies,” one guy, the taller one who walked with a swagger when he wasn’t nervous, said. “Bought normal stuff for a traveler, but the butcher noticed when it came in and put in an order for meat, a lot of meat. More than one person traveling on their own should need.”

“How did you know that they were alone?” Abe asked, ducking under a tree limb and noting that despite the recent signs of multiple people passing this way recently, they weren’t following a normal trail.

The other guy, who had a way of smiling that made Abe check to make sure his gun was within easy reach, shrugged and answered, “Because there wasn’t anyone else with it? Some of us weren’t sure if it even knew how to really talk to people, the way it mumbled and wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. First sign something was off about it.”

Abe took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying hard to rein in his always short temper. He could save what he wanted to say to that until after he didn’t need these two anymore, although he felt his fingers twitch every time they said the word “it.”

“So how did you go from ‘there’s a new stranger in town’ to ‘werewolf’, exactly?” Abe asked, already prepared to learn that this was a wild goose chase that ended with him nursing a drink and hopes so dashed it was a wonder they kept coming back.

Again.

“Well, at first we were thinking it was a witch,” the taller man said. “Because it started asking around about herbs and plants and that night some of the teens spotted it walking outside the village walls at night, picking something in the moonlight.”

The other man smiled again and added, “And then their parents had a lot of questions about what they were doing out at night themselves, like we all didn’t know the answer to that.”

The two snickered, but the noise gradually died away into an awkward silence when the hunter didn’t join in until the taller man continued his story.

“But then old Mercer remembered that a farmer out near Wayforth told him that he’d seen a big beast back at the last full moon, and three of his cows had been killed by something big, and it would have got into Wayforth if their wards hadn’t held. And wouldn’t you know it, there was a full moon coming up the next night.”

The other man looked over his shoulder at Abe and said, “Well, it didn’t take much to put two and two together from there, did it? Us and a bunch of other men in the village talked about it all night and came up with a plan on how to deal with it.

“The butcher’s wife knew where some of those wolfsbane flowers grow, and they came up with a way to sort of test it, you know? Basically, she ground up some powder, and he mixed it into one of the packs of meat it was supposed to come and pick up. Lo and behold, when it came in the next day, it immediately snuffed out something was wrong and asked about that one pack, and when they said it was just some seasoning that must have got mixed in, it wouldn’t take it.”

The two men stopped when they realized Abe wasn’t following them and looked back to find the hunter staring at them in disbelief.

“Wolfsbane is poisonous, and not just to werewolves,” he pointed out.

“Well, yeah, but they planned on switching it out if it wasn’t a werewolf,” was the answer he got. “Sure, it was a waste of meat, but we had to know, didn’t we?”

The taller man added, “It didn’t want to stick around after that, but a group of us were already set up to follow it. We had planned on figuring out where it was holed up and coming back with something to take care of it for good, maybe a fire or something, but it realized we were after it somehow and took off running.”

“Not surprising,” Abe said. “A werewolf can hear your heartbeat and catch your scent long before you have eyes on them.”

He strode ahead of the two men, eyes on the less than subtle markers from yesterday’s chase. “So you tried to chase down someone you believed to be a werewolf. How’d that go for you?”

“Followed them all the way here,” one of the men answered him, just as Abe found where the trail ended.

It was a cave, or more like a tiny hole under a large rock outcropping, that looked like it could have been home to a bear or some other wild animal except most wild animals didn’t leave a store of chopped wood and gathered stones in neat piles outside.

Abe pulled a lighter from one of his many pockets and looked in before ducking under the low stone ceiling. The small light caught the circle of stones around the cold remains of a campfire, a worn pack resting against one earthen wall, various bags of recently bought groceries, and the mounds of wrapped meat hastily thrown to the other side.

“Why would they come back here when they were being chased?” he asked aloud, only to realize that he was alone. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the two guys standing at a distance from the mouth of the cave with their hands in their pockets, slouched as though they were just waiting around and not scared to come in here.

He rolled his eyes and looked back at the meager possessions left behind. He was surprised the food was still here after an entire night, but then he doubted any animal would be brave or desperate enough to come in here while the scent of a werewolf was still hanging around. The herbs they had been so interested in gathering were carefully sorted and bundled together in separate stacks, and after identifying a couple Abe suspected he knew what they had in mind long before he started looking through the pack.

A change of clothes, barely any money, a piece of paper folded and refolded so many times that it was soft to the touch, and at the bottom of the pack, a tiny drawstring bag that was so tightly knotted that it took one of Abe’s knives to get it open.

A single silver ring fell out into the palm of his hand, the letters inside barely legible with just his lighter to see by.

It took Abe so long to come back out that the two men were visibly relieved when the hunter reappeared and leaned heavily against the rock wall. He blinked a couple of times before remember the paper in his hand, which he carefully unfolded and began to read in the sunlight.

“What’s that?” the man with the uncomfortable smile asked.

“A recipe,” Abe said after a second. “Seen it around a few times, it supposedly makes a werewolf docile if taken on the night of a full moon.”

“Really?” the taller man asked. “Never heard of anything like that.”

“Because it doesn’t work,” Abe said. “Trust me, I’ve seen every so-called remedy or cure out there, and every one is concocted by a con artist or someone desperate enough to try anything. I heard of one guy selling a brew that didn’t so much cure a werewolf as leave them too weak to stand for half a month. Would have killed anything else that drank it.”

There was that smile again as that one asked, “Wouldn’t happen to know where we could get some of that, would you?”

“Not anymore,” Abe answered. “Someone else got to him before I did.”

Abe still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. By the time he got there, there was no sign of the crook, and every note and sample of his “cure” had either been destroyed or taken with him. Just as he wasn’t sure what the man’s fate might have been if he had caught up with him first.

So, one dud recipe to keep a werewolf calm during a full moon, enough meat to keep the wolf occupied for a while, and, judging by the stones piled up nearby, a plan to temporarily seal the entrance to the cave. They were setting up to weather a full moon, and instead these stupid wannabe vigilantes had chased them off.

By the time he was finished swearing, the other two were standing at a distance and looking ready to run themselves.

“Which way did they go?” Abe asked, stepping forward as they took another step back. “What did they look like?”

The two shared a look before the taller man said, “You mean you don’t know?”

Abe led the way back to the village, not outright running but apparently walking fast enough to leave the other two breathless and barely able to point him in the direction of the blacksmith’s workshop. The blacksmith saw him coming and had enough of a sense of self preservation to unlock the door and get out of the way long before the hunter reached him.

Abe slammed the door open and immediately regretted it when he saw the creature on the other side of the room flinch and cower away. The clink of iron chains didn’t quite drown out a weak whimper from the massive wolf that tried, and failed, to stand up as he moved closer. The full moon was gone, but it was possible they either didn’t have the strength or the will to change back.

The hunter stopped short halfway across the room when his eyes adjusted to the light, the crashing disappointment of realizing that the shade of the wolf’s coat and its eyes weren’t the one he desperately, stupidly hoped to see twisting and tangling itself up in the twin ache of seeing the muzzle wrapped around the wolf’s snout and head, the straps so tight after they changed that they were cutting into the skin in some places.

Funny, how quickly those feelings could turn into barely restrained rage.

Without turning around or looking behind him, Abe gathered enough control of his voice to say, “You put a muzzle. On a werewolf.”

The men seemed oblivious to the tone in his voice, but the werewolf’s ears twitched and one tired, bloodshot eye opened to look at him.

“Great, isn’t it?” He could hear the smile in the other man’s voice as he continued, “It was my idea for Blake to grind down some silver into dust, we coated the muzzles and chains in the stuff. Still thought it might escape when it went all hairy on us, but it worked!”

Silver dust. Abe could hear the labored breathing, see the short spasms as each of the wolf’s breaths brought in a fresh dose of poison. There were broken handcuffs on the werewolf’s front legs, below the heavy leg irons that must have been added afterwards to match the pair on their hind legs, both sets clearly old, but what he had mistaken for rust before was actually dried blood. A thick chain connected the leg irons to a ring on the wall which looked one or two more pulls away from being torn off. If not for the silver, they would have been able to escape easily, and under the influence of the full moon slaughtered who knows how many in the village.

He tried to keep that in mind, he really did, but then the man kept talking.

“Silver’s really the only stuff that works on these monsters, isn’t it? We tried all kinds of stuff last night, but nothing stuck. Probably a good thing though, since Mercer talked to his farmer friend and found out the Bronsons will pay out in exchange for a monster their institute can practice on. We just didn’t expect you to get here so fast, or I would have had a little more fun. Although if you want to give it a go, that fire poker over there—”

The crack of Abe’s fist against that stupid smile stung, but it felt good to see the guy crumple to the ground and finally stop talking.

He looked up at the guy’s buddy who was too shocked to do anything and said, “We have a strict policy against...you know what, just generally being an asshole.”

“Uh…”

Before the taller guy could catch up, Abe flashed his hunter’s badge with the assurance that no one in town would know the difference between him and the institute’s employees and started talking quickly. “Right, lucky for the institute I was already in the area. You got the keys that go to these cuffs and locks?”

“They’re on the anvil, but don’t you have a cage or something you need to bring in first?” the guy asked.

“Don’t need it,” Abe said, reaching into another pocket and pulling out a small drawstring bag. “You can’t cure a werewolf, but with the right stuff a good hunter can keep it under control.”

He made a show of holding the bag near the werewolf’s snout, who looked from him to the clearly visible outline of the ring inside the fabric and then back again. This close, he couldn’t tell if it was fear or hope in their eyes, but he knew that they could hear the words just under his breath that failed to reach the other man in the room. They didn’t have a lot of time before Smiles McGee over there woke up, and more importantly before the hunters who actually worked for the institute showed up, but at least he could give them a head start.

“Play along, and don’t make me regret this. Please.”

((Thanks for reading! I do plan on picking up the Traces of Silver series, and I’ve been working on the next story that I am dangerously tempted to title “Dog Days.” Please, someone, anyone, talk me out of this.

Also, it’s been so long I forgot to add a taglist. Oops.

Tagging: @silver-owl413 @skyewardlight @withjust-a-bite @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate @missksketch ))