#children create gods of small things like piles of rocks and drawings on the sides of wide-ruled notebooks instead. and they're based for i

[bowenoke]

you can find the exact moment the absurd sets in by letting someone play minecraft because kids just want to mine but at a certain point a switch flips and they will start reinventing god.

[cozycryptidcorner]

Potamoi (Greek River God) x Reader (sfw)

A commission for the wonderful and kind @atalantaroars! She wanted a meet-cute with the monster match I wrote for her awhile ago. Hope you all enjoy the hunky water boi as much as I did creating him!

There are two options for you today: hike a trail, or go one more week in the stifling silence of your house and go absolutely insane. It doesn’t take much mental convincing to pack up a little backpack with snacks and water, waking up while the sun is barely more than a hint in the sky. This might not be your usual mode of operation, to drop everything and spend time out in nature despite whatever responsibilities you still have at home, but you’ve been pushed to the fucking brink lately and need to spice things up.

There’s an unmistakable scent of growth the moment you step out of your car, one that calls your body forward as if you say welcome home. You take in a few long, deep breaths, trying to let the cold morning air medicate your soul in the only way nature can, a deep sense of relaxation overcoming your mind and body as you try to clear your worries away. Only when you feel mentally ready to take on the hike, do you approach the entrance of the nature reserve.

A large, wooden board is painted with the many different trails you can take, all winding around the mountain range, labeled with various symbols that indicate difficulty levels. While you don’t think you could manage one of the more difficult ones, you also think you might not find much fulfillment in one of the easier paths, so you settle for one a bit in the middle. This trail should wrap around one of the valleys, following the main river that brings life to a neighboring town, one fed by the melting snow from the tips of the higher peaks.

Everything is quiet, peaceful, you don’t see anyone else as you begin to walk the trail, basking in the sunlight before it’s drowned out by the towering trees. Birds chirp as you continue on, sticking close to the side of the matted dirt, right where vegetation dares to attempt growing. Wildflowers dot the side of the hill as the earth swells upward, white, light blue, and yellow smattering color amidst the green. The air is almost shockingly different from what you’re used to, your body is trying to compensate for the freshness, but it doesn’t quite know how yet.

When you take a break, the sun is already high in the sky, sweat now beading down your forehead. The water you carelessly packed tastes divine, you have to be careful not to drink too much or too fast, saving most of it for later. You even eat your lunch when you get to a pile of rocks that work as a table and seat, the flat, elevated surface perfect for tossing your food onto without worrying about it falling off.

Once you are satisfied that you’ve explored the trail as long as you desire, you decide that it’s about time to head back. Even though your path into the forest seemed straightforward and easy to remember, there are suddenly several branching paths that you didn’t even realize you passed just moments before… which isn’t good, to say the least. Biting your bottom lip hard enough to taste blood, you try to logic yourself into taking the one that seems like it blends seamlessly into the trail you’re walking.

Or maybe it would be best to keep going in the direction you were already heading, after all, the trails are supposed to loop around and head back to the parking lot, the keyword here being eventually. Some of them are supposed to take a seasoned hiker a full day, and you don’t remember how long this certain one is going to take because you had decided previously that you would turn back anyways.

Letting out a breath, you decide that it might be a better option to take the more straightforward path instead of risk getting lost, so you tighten the straps of your backpack and keep walking. As you go, you think about how best to ration what’s left of your water, in case you’re in for a much longer hike than you initially anticipated because you’re not sure if you can realistically make it.

You take another well-needed rest after a long while, trying to close your eyes and chill out, trying to find the same solace in nature that you felt earlier in the morning. Instead of that same, peaceful aura that settled around your body in a soft, gentle wave, you only feel more tense and anxious as you did before. The sounds of the forest are no longer warm and inviting, the screech of cicada is now like a hard, ugly accusation, the occasional snapping of twigs don’t fill your heart up with the thought of life, and the sky’s tone seems to turn almost a hateful gray as the sun makes an almost hasty descent.

Up ahead, there’s a river, and if you remember correctly, civilization is often downstream. Letting out a breath, crossing your arms over your chest, you look down at the water, internally fighting over what you should do. After a long moment of contemplation, you decide to stick to the trail, but just as you take a step on the crunching gravel, you spot someone over by the water. To say you almost tripped over yourself to get to them wouldn’t be an understatement; you almost bite the dust before you were able to catch your balance.

After regaining your stability and taking a second look, you realize with no small amount of shock that the man appears to not only be petting a deer but also… talking to it? You can hear the voice he uses on it, soft, soothing tones, clearly offering comfort of some kind. Whatever he is doing must be working, because the deer slowly stops thrashing about, it’s squeaking cries slowly dissipating as it seems to melt back into a state of calm.

Even though his back is towards you, he seems to sense your presence, because there’s an underlying tenseness in his body posture. Once the deer doesn’t seem too anxious anymore, he says, without so much as turning around, “I know you’re out there, at least do me the service of showing your face.”

“Um,” you say, after a moment unsure of what else to do, but introduce yourself, “hi. I’m very lost right now.”

When he doesn’t immediately respond, you wonder if he maybe was referencing some other person that is also hiding in the woods?

“I suspected,” he pets at a deer you hadn’t noticed prior, glancing up at you only after he manages to calm the creature down from its initial panic, “we don’t get a lot of your kind out this deep in the forest.”

“Er,” you look over at the deer, who seems to be regarding you with the utmost suspicion, “yeah, I wasn’t really planning on coming this deep into the forest, either. But, like, if you could point me in the direction of the parking lot, or literally any major highway, that would be absolutely fantastic.”

It takes you a moment to realize that he’s a massive, as in, you knew he was large for a man when you approached him, but you’re just now processing it all. He very well could be some kind of action movie star, his muscles, face shape, and stature all suggest that he’s very, very important, and you should pay attention to everything he says. As you watch him, he seems to look upwards at the sky, brow furrowed as though doing many mental calculations, then sighs.

“You won’t be able to leave this pocket of the forest until morning,” he says, releasing his steady hand on the deer’s flank.

“Um, what?” You aren’t sure if you heard him correctly, but you’re pretty certain he did not tell you that you can’t leave. “How is that even supposed to work? I came in through the main trail, surely there’s a way back.”

“Not once the sun is no longer in the sky.” He picks up a stick from the nearby banks, and now you realize that while his lower half is in the water, it’s not… it’s not human colors, more like… a kaleidoscope of some kind? Like he’s wearing those fancy mermaid tails, the kind you can buy off the internet, except what reason could he possibly have to wear one in the middle of a forest? “You will have to wait for night to run its course before you can return.”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s not how basic geography works,” you say, tensing at the thought of spending however many hours the sun is gone out in the wilderness.

“It has nothing to do with basic geography, and you will do well to heed my words,” the man almost snaps, only marginally restraining himself from sounding rude. “This part of the forest encloses once the sun sinks below the horizon, and opens when it returns. It is this way to protect what little of Gaia’s children are left from your kind.”

You swallow nervously, not believing him in the slightest, so you think over your options in the meantime. There isn’t a lot for you to work with, your phone has no signal, and using your flashlight will eat up the battery fast than you might be able to find your way back to the main trail. Still, you’d rather be apart from him, even though he hasn’t given you any weird vibes beyond the obvious, you don’t want to be stuck here with him overnight.

So you do what you think is best, turning around and heading back for the trail, except there isn’t any trail. And by that, even though you were just walking on a gravel pathway barely more than five minutes ago, and you know it was in this direction, it’s nowhere to be found. Sucking in your breath, you close your eyes and count to ten, then whirl around and march back to where the man still lounges, halfway in the stream.

Trying to keep your voice from wobbling, you ask, “can you please point me to the regular trail? I think I… um, misplaced it.”

He pokes the water with the stick without looking at you, “you won’t find it until sunrise.”

Swallowing thickly, you try to say without trembling, “I don’t understand.”

With a sigh, he turns to the sandy banks, using the stick to draw a rudimentary chart, and in the dying light of dusk, you can manage to make out what he’s trying to convey. “This is the land of Gaia,” he draws out a circle, “which is the world you are familiar with. It is the physical plane at its most fundamental levels, meat and bone and blood grow and churn within the earth mother and her offspring. This land- this forest, is not a part of Gaia’s form,” here, her draws another bubble, halfway in the larger circle, halfway out, “halfway physical, but able to separate as it needs to. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” you say, trying to be truthful, and still just as anxious and frightened as ever.

He lets out a frustrated breath and tries to reiterate, “this separate pocket of world that can be hidden away or entirely separated on its own, and closes itself off once the sun sets. You must have stumbled over the boundaries while you were wandering, did you end up seeming to go around in circles on paths that don’t make any sense?”

Oh, god. “I- yes.”

“Exactly what I thought.” There’s a shimmering glimmer in your periphery, and you realize that his lower half is, in fact, a tail. “I’m sorry to inform you that you’re just going to be stuck here overnight.”

You feel absolutely defeated, miserable, broken, because how the hell are you supposed to be handling this now? Apparently, you’re trapped in some sort of fucking pocket dimension, and you can’t do anything about it, and the only other person here to help you is some sort of merman who seems less than pleased to be in your presence.

“So I just… wait here?” You’re doing your best to not cry, goddamnit. No fucking tears. In the meantime, you’re digging around your backpack for your can of bear spray, of which should completely wreck the man should he try to make the wrong move.

“I suppose,” he softens, just a bit, “you can stay here with me, because there are things roaming these woods that wouldn’t dare approach you so long as I am here.”

Oh, wonderful. “That would be nice,” you mumble, plopping yourself onto a rock, folding your legs up and making yourself seem small.

The woods are never really silent, so even though the two of you share no conversation, there is a background filled to the brim with dozens of different noises. Nocturnal creatures begin to creep out of their homes, an owl hooting just close enough for you to make out its specific call, crickets still chirping despite the descent of the sun, and the crunching of stray twigs and leaves upon the ground suggests a silent stalker. You’re suddenly thrilled to have accepted this odd man’s offer to stay by his side for the night.

The stars blink down, twinkling in the sky, almost like each individual eyes staring down at you from above. You remember that Ancient Greeks believe that each cluster used to be a living thing- Caster and Pollux, Cassiopea, Orion, and so on, people who died and then ascended into the sky to watch the earth below. You wonder if they are like guardians, keeping the inhabitants of the ground safe from anything that lurks in the depths of the void above, or if they are merely passing observers to whatever happens around them, trapped in time.

“So,” you swallow almost painfully, trying to make some conversation, “how do you know so much about the way this, um, pocket dimension thing works?”

“I told you that Gaia herself is protecting her children,” he says, not impatiently, nor unkindly. “The last effort to keep Prometheus’ biggest mistake at bay.”

“Right, of course,” you say, not believing him in the very slightest. “And you live here, then? With the blessings of Gaia?”

“Of course,” he says it like there’s no other possibility, “she looks after her children.”

“And I’m just a spawn of Prometheus?” You say it with some amount of humor, poking at his weird explanations, but he takes it seriously.

“Even if there are those here who would have you killed, just to chew your bones between their teeth and taste your blood. I will not allow that to happen.”

“Oh,” you say, trying not to sound awkward about it, “thank you.”

Silence follows, and you hear some crunching of leaves accompanying the water trickling through its creek. Still, you’d rather not spend the night in awkward silence, so you chew your bottom lip and try to quickly come up with something else to talk about. Anything. You wonder if he might know about modern devices, or if he would even care, but you need to reassure yourself now that it’s too dark to see that he’s still there.

As though reading your thoughts, he speaks first. “Tell me about your home.”

Relief fills your veins, so you do. You spill your guts like you’re at a confessional and it’s your death day, opening up every single crevice of your life back in reality and letting it pour out of your mouth like a broken dam. Where you were born, where you lived, where you moved, school, the people who went to school, friends, families, enemies. Not necessarily in that order, the night goes so shockingly fast that you barely keep track of what you’ve already said. You tell him about cities, about corporations, about countries, about charities. Humanity at both its best and its worst, and even what happens in between.

He’s a good listener, too, offering questions here and there, following your train of thought even though sometimes it doesn’t even make sense to you. He seems to be able to pick up on any gaps of logic you’ve forgotten to say, asking for clarification on some things, wishing for more detail on others, even requesting information about kingdoms you know haven’t existed for hundreds of years. And… better yet, he seems to enjoy talking to you.

“So,” you say, putting on your jacket to fight the biting night chill, “does this part of the forest happen every single night?”

“Yes,” he says, and you may be imagining it, but you think there might be some kind of tone of relief in his voice. “Yes, the forests merge every day, only to part during the night.”

“Theoretically, then,” you fan your fingers out, folding them together, “I could come back. To… like, visit, or something.”

“If you wanted to, then yes, you most certainly could.”

You close your eyes tight, shutting out the stars and the moon. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose or anything, but like, if you’d want to know more about the modern human world, I could come back prepared. With like, an iPad and a PowerPoint ready.”

“Would you?” He sounds a bit mystified, and you realize you probably didn’t cover those two things during your talks. As he mulls it over, the first element of daytime bashfully pokes out from the trees, the sky lighting just enough to swallow up the stars.

“If you wanted my company.”

“Yes,” he says very firmly, “you’re…. Fascinating, a very fascinating specimen of your species. I do not sense any bloodlust that I’ve heard is so very common in your kind.”

That’s the nicest thing he’s said about you, and you find your chest thundering in response. “Tha-thank you, I guess.”

“And I would also like to see this iPad and PowerPoint.”

You feel your cheeks redden slightly. “Okay. It’s a deal.”

[blooddrinkingbartender]

Of Mer and Men | Elder Scrolls Verse

I finally caved and made an Elder Scrolls verse for my lads on here. You’ll find all their profiles beneath the cut (if there is one.) I took a bit of creative liberty with the vampires in this as well, I hope that’s all right. 

Bilmae ‘Bill’ Golden-Smith 

Name: Bilmae ‘Bill’ Golden-Smith  

Age: Appears 31, but is over 800 in reality  

Birthday: 7th of Evening Star

Gender: Cis Male (he/him/his pronouns) 

Powers and Abilities: Resistance to disease, resistance to poison, harder to detect while sneaking, and illusion spells are more powerful than average, resistance to frost. Shadow abilities; creating tentacles made out of shadows, usually to grab/restrain an opponent, or do things like snap limbs. He can also leap an abnormally long distance and summon an orb of shadow that explodes into spikes. Battle Cry (Nord Ability) and a higher resistance to frost because of his Nord Heritage as well as his vampirism. 

Weaknesses: Fire, sunlight.

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual.

Race: Nord/Vampire

Faction: None (at the moment)

Current Residence: No fixed place of residence, wanders Tamriel. 

Mother: Gweene Golden-Smith (Deceased)

Father: Bilmae Golden-Smith. (Deceased) 

Height: 6’3" 

Weight: 200lbs 

Body Type: Mesomorph/Muscular 

Hair: Red, as is his beard. 

Eyes: Grey.

Skin: White 

Languages: Tamrielic, some of the Dragon Language, and Ayleidoon.

Distinguishing features: He has major burn scars on the right side of his abdomen, chest, part of his right arm, and just above his butt. A hunter managed to set him on fire. Luckily, before it could kill him, he managed to put himself out. That Hunter paid with her life.

If he doesn’t drink blood for a long time, he starts to age and look more monstrous/corpse-like. Drinking blood reverses this effect.

He has three scars on his chest that are either from arrows or crossbow bolts. They’re all under his left pec muscle. 

He has a birthmark on the back of his left hand that’s shaped like a crescent. He often jokes that it’s because one of his ancestors was a werewolf. 

Hobbies and Interests: Dancing, astronomy (might as well enjoy the stars if you’re nocturnal), origami, drawing, mythology (he has met some figures of myth, or so he claims), and smithing. He’s also pretty good at playing the lyre, the ocarina, and the accordion.

Occupation: No set occupation.

Skills: Smithing, Sneak, One-Handed Weapons, Illusion Magic, Light Armour, and Alteration 

Personality: He’s friendly, he’s confident, and he can be rather eccentric at times. He’s far from shy and he enjoys the company of others. He lives to entertain, laugh, spread laughter and merriment, and give and get validation.

However, he can come across as conceited, arrogant, a show-off, a bit of a large ham at times, and/or a little bit too full-on for some people. That said, he honestly doesn’t mean harm (not anymore at least) and if you’re his friend, he will kill for you and do what he can to keep you happy.

He’s usually quite hard to anger. He can laugh off most insults or even attempts to hurt him physically. However, if you do make him mad, it’s your funeral, or at least your mind’s. He does try to keep himself in check however. He has no plans to go back to the sadistic bastard that he used to be.

Basic Backstory: Starting out his life in Skyrim, Lord Bilmae Golden-Smith IV was the only survivor of the eleven children his parents gave birth to. His father was a lord and his mother was a blacksmith’s daughter who was married into the family.

Bilmae lived a fairly easy and unremarkable life with his loving mother, not-so-loving father, and a few servants. His father made sure he worked hard however, not wanting to hand him everything on a silver plate. That said, he was fairly well off, and spent his childhood and adult years getting ready to take on his father’s estate. On finding out his bloodline’s wealth and notoriety was founded on thievery, murder, extortion, and other crimes, he was not so willing to do so, but he was unsure of how to find a way out of it. 

However, at the age of 31 years old, he contracted Sanguinare Vampiris. He was infected on purpose, by a vampire who had lost his family to Bilmae’s legacy. Bilmae managed to hide the condition from his family, and when his parents died, dismissed his servants, left the estate to his distant cousins, and faked his death before going to wander.

He continues to travel around now, learning new things and trying new stuff to keep himself busy. He still drinks blood to sustain himself but he doesn’t kill unless it was someone he felt ‘deserved it’. He also kept up with all the changes in the world. He even adapted his speech as needed, keeping up with slang and staying savvy with the times.

Antonio Lombardi

Name: Antonio Lombardi (formerly Enriquo Giordano, as far as you’re concerned) 

Age: 38

Birthday: 8th of Last Seed 

Gender: Trans Male (he/him/his pronouns) 

Powers and Abilities: .Dragonskin ability to absorb magic. Natural higher resistance to magic. 

Sexual Orientation: Homosexual 

Race: Breton

Faction: College of Winterhold (sort of)

Current Residence: Has a home in High Rock, but travels.

Mother: Gertrude Giordano

Father: Benito Giordano

Siblings: Emily Giordano(Older sister) and Sophia Giordano (Younger sister)

Height: 6’2" 

Weight: 170lbs 

Body Type: Ectomorph

Hair: Black, shoulder-length, and slightly curly 

Eyes: Green.

Skin: Light brown 

Languages: Tamrielic, and some of the dragon language.

Distinguishing features: A benign mole underneath his left eye, and a slash scar across his cheek.

Due to scoliosis, his chest and back are slightly tilted to the side. This isn’t easy to see unless his shirt is off. It does cause him pain and also makes it harder for him to walk longer distances. 

He uses a cane to get around. He actually owns three canes; one has a sword hidden inside of it, another is extendable, and the last is a normal cane. He weaponised them after a bandit attacked him, causing the scar on his face.

He has habits of nodding his head, rhythmically tapping his foot or hand against the floor or the table, blinking at the same time as whoever he is speaking to, and gesturing with his hands while he talks.

He also has synaesthesia, seeing certain colours and shapes whenever he hears certain noises ‘connected’ to them. He also experiences smells on rarer occasions. 

Hobbies and Interests: His magic skills. He has dabbled in sleight of hand, misdirection, and mentalism (including hypnosis, which he uses his magic for), and he is very good at those too. 

He has also dabbled in Escapology, and is able to get out of most rope bindings, straightjackets, and pick locks. He also likes to read, cook, practise his tricks, and tend to plants.

Occupation: An administrator in a library and a stage magician. Currently working in Winterhold. 

Skills: Illusion magic, Speech, One-handed, Lock-picking, Sneak, Destruction Magic, and Conjuration. 

Personality: While he’s on stage, Antonio speaks with confidence, authority, and even some glee. 

Off-stage, he’s quiet, jaded, and very cynical. He prefers to just be left alone for the most part. He doesn’t have much faith in humanity. He also pretends to be a massive sceptic.

That said, he isn’t a complete asshole. He secretly has a lot of compassion and empathy for other people. He performs at orphanages and hospitals for free and donates a portion of his earnings to charity. 

If you can break past the guarded shell, you have someone a bit on the nicer side.

Basic Backstory: Antonio was born in Summerset to Benito and Gertrude.

He often found himself entertaining or at least occupying his own mind with various tasks. He also grew up in a strictly religious household, which he found himself hating as he grew older and it eventually put him off any kind of faith or servitude to the gods. He found himself interested in magic tricks and illusions after one of his neighbours showed him a few.

He started to teach himself when he was in teens and became very good at it, especially as he grew older. He also dabbled more in his Breton magicka, figuring out what else he could do with it. He also realised he was gay, much to his dismay. Even now, he keeps that firmly under wraps.

Eventually, at the age of 17, he had a falling out with his parents over his lack of religious belief. He went on a tirade on how their beliefs (or the fact that they hid behind them) were, in his words ‘a big steaming pile of shit’.

After being told his synaesthesia was a sign that he was being influenced by the daedra and he punched his father for it, he was essentially kicked out. Uncaring about that, he changed his name and went to High Rock to make a name for himself, remembering his mother’s stories of when she lived there. 

He started very small at first. He was able to find a place to stay. He worked as much as he could and performed his magic on the side. He was eventually invited to taverns and inns to perform and that got him attention and more money. He also witnessed a vampire feeding on a person, and this terrified him, but he remained determined to continue going and not let it get to him too much.

When he turned twenty, symptoms of his scoliosis started to become prominent, coming with pain and finding it harder to walk or run for longer distances. Luckily, this didn’t affect his magic shows too badly.

At the age of thirty, he started to wander to other places and live long term and do work. Where he officially became known as Lord Enigma when performing. He’s currently in Winterhold, helping in the Arcanium. 

Leofric Lawford

Name: Leofric Lawford 

Age: 35

Birthday: 10th of Rain’s Fall 

Gender: Cis Male (he/him/his pronouns) 

Powers and Abilities: Immune to Vampirism and most other diseases, Beast Form. Voice of the Emperor, and Imperial Luck. 

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual.

Race: Imperial/Werewolf 

Faction: Companions, also does bounty work and has affiliations with Dawnguard. 

Current Residence: Whiterun. 

Mother: Unknown. 

Father: Unknown.

Height: 6’5" 

Weight: 240lbs 

Body Type: Mesomorph/Muscular 

Hair: Light brown and slightly wavy

Eyes: Dark brown .

Skin: White 

Languages: Tamrielic, and Ayleidoon.

Distinguishing features: He has many many scars from his days of battling. He has a slight beard. It’s not as full as Bill’s, but it’s definitely fuller than basic stubble. 

He doesn’t smile very often. If you see him do it, take a picture; you’ll never see it again in your life otherwise.

He has dyslexia. It hasn’t been identified yet, so he’s been suffering in silence about it. He also has some slight shortsightedness, but makes up for that with his other skills.

Hobbies and Interests: Reading, raising butterflies, plants and botany (he also researches how to better weaponise them (such as by using sachets of herbs to cloak himself, or make oils and decoctions for better damage output) or heal with them, history, boxing, and surprisingly, painting. 

Occupation: Companion

Skills: Alchemy, creating potions and poisons alike, heavy armour, two-handed and one-handed weaponry, which he’s trained himself in since a very young age,blocking, and hand-to-hand combat. 

Personality: He is rather stoic, and guarded, but still kind, brave and benevolent.

Although a werewolf and harsh on criminals and other monsters, he has a soft spot for humans, pacifistic supernatural creatures of other species, and animals, rescuing them and treating them with a distant sort of kindness. He is also incredibly loyal to those he makes friends with. 

He also prefers to be fair in a fight, giving his opponents a fair chance to defend themselves and fight back. That said, he believes underhanded tactics can be a tool to use only when necessary. 

Basic Backstory: Leofric was born in Cyrodiil, and left at an orphanage soon after as a baby. He was looked after by his guardians and taught the skills he needed. It was believed he would simply become a member of the imperial watch when he was older.

However, he became fascinated by stories of the companions and what they did. He left the orphanage at the age of sixteen years old and honed his skills, eventually making his way to Skyrim.

He had already shown a lot of the qualities of the companions during his travels, and he had actually been noticed by some of the travelling ones. He was accepted after some trials and has been with them since. 

He eventually became a werewolf when with them as well, and has not regretted this choice. He sees this as a blessing and a privilege. 

[thenerdinthecorner994]

Given, part 1/3

-This is a “short” story I’ve been working on for over a year. It’s more of a novella really, and gives good insight into my fantasy world, which I've been working on for two and a half years. This is very high fantasy and has a lot of world building in it, there isn’t any action in part one, but the stuff you learn here will explain everything in parts two and three, which should come out in the next few weeks.  With that, enjoy!-        Wind blew softly through the forest clearing, rustling the leaves of the squat trees that guarded it. Carrying with it the scent of pine,  ashes, and blood. A massive grey wolf sniffed at the carcass of an elk. Baring his teeth and snarling as it pulled away. “What could have brought something that big down? I don’t see any wounds...” A man with green hair mused to himself. The elk soon drew attention, as more men gathered around it. Many with the same dark green hair as the man inspecting it, and others with golden blond hair, muttered quietly to themselves.        The elk had no wounds, no evidence of bite or claw marks, or even holes from being gouged by another horned beast. The wolf continued to pace around it, sniffing. This was a disturbing sight. An elk, dead right in the middle of the village. Something was clearly wrong here.        A small boy squeezed his way through the crowd. His Pumpkin orange hair was not shared by any of the other men, and the shadows the trees cast upon his skin seemed to shift and move with him as he approached the elk. The wolf snarled, as did some of the green and golden haired men. “We’ve already inspected the carcass boy. Nothing more to see here.” Voiced a stern, green haired man.  The boy seemed to pay them no mind as he placed his hands upon the elks stomach and grunted. “What do you think you’re doing boy!” Snarled the man. The orange haired child said nothing, grunting , heaving, pushing, until finally he managed to roll the carcass onto its other side.         A single, tiny red feather was flattened against the beasts skin. The boy pulled on the feathers, a long slim dart coming out bloodstained from the creature. “Night shallow makes excellent tranquilizers.” the boy explained. He slipped the dart into a pouch at his waist,  then pressed an ear against the creature's stomach, right up to where its heart would beat. The wolf's ears perked up. Blood still flowed through this creatures veins. The dart had just put it into a deep sleep. “You Fallborn are cowards. A true man would have brought the creature down with an arrow, or hunted it as one with the beast.” The man with green hair spat. “Are we not already beasts ourselves? Using the gifts the Watcher gives us is just as honorable as taking it down with arrows or claws.” The boy retorted. He unsheathed a small, curved dagger from a sash at his waist.  “Thank you, great Watcher, for this blessing, and for all those to come. “ With that, he drew the blade across the beast's neck, warm blood gushed out from the wound and painted the grass it lie on red.       A few hours later, after the boy had skinned the beast and stepped away from the bloody work, he fell back to the well to wash off the blood that covered his arms and torso. As the sun began to fall from its zenith, The elder tribe members stepped in and began to cut thick venison steaks from the creature.

      Born in the autumn, the time of death, age, and change, he was the weakest and most despised of all his tribe. The Autumnborn, or Fallen, his kind were called. Or even worse, weaklings, runts, or omegas. Willow watched his brethren cut the steaks and portion the meat as he poured water from the wooden pail over his arms, scrubbing with his hands to get the blood off. For killing the beast he would receive the largest steak, and kept its horns as trophies. The small rack was tied against the sash at his waist. The buck had only been about 2 years old judging from the size of its antlers. As he was inspecting them, a sudden chill ran up his spine.       He immediately looked ahead of him to the left. A pair of cold, white eyes stared back at him. Their owner a tall, muscular man with a close cut  white beard and hair down to his shoulders. Harsh red scars covered him all over, his arms, his face, his neck, his bare torso. They stood out like blood on snow, as this man was unnaturally pale. His eyes were pure white, no pupil, no iris. He watched from afar, eventually turning his gaze to the Spring and Summerborn preparing the meat.

       His people, the Yl’vori were all so different. The appearance of the Yl’vori reflected the seasons of their birth; Those born in spring, the time of rebirth, growth, and beginnings, had dark green hair. There eyes and sometimes their skin favoring the dark green shades of leaves.        Those born in Summer, the time of toil, fertility, and dedication,  had eyes of gleaming yellow. They always had beautiful blond hair, lighter skin, and had an unnatural charisma about them. Out of all of his people, the Summerborn looked the most similar in appearance to those not native to the forests.       The majority of all his people were Spring, or Summerborn, Willow knew. Even as he looked around he saw the dark greens and golden yellows of his brethren. But the harsher seasons, Winter and Fall, were far less common to have children born in. One born leaders… and the others ignored and rejected.      Willow looked again at the pale eyed man. It was said Winterborn had white hair from the day they came into the world. Their skin was pale as snow too, so pale that he could see the man's dark blue veins beneath his skin even from this distance. So pale that it seemed to bother them when they were out in the sun too long. Winterborn were always the strongest of the Yl’vori, their appearance reflecting the attributes of death, rest, and finality. A Winterborns word was law, and no one questioned it.      One Winterborn entered the world every generation, and one only. Born naturally into the role of a leader. The Cheiftan of their tribe, chosen from amongst the strongest of the winterborn would become a Sentinel. Undergoing a strange, secretive ritual that made their eyes lose all color, but in turn let them see all. 

      The Sentinels were the ones that decided the Attributes; the things that reflected what each Yl’vori was a part of, and what the season he was born in meant of him. When a new Sentinel was created, should they ever wish, they could change them. However, this had not been changed for thousands of years.

      The Attributes had been a long founded tradition, mother had told him. Ingrained like the roots of old trees, they held strong and would not bend or break to a change of  generation. The Attributes were what made them who they were, and what shaped their society. Without it they would be no more than savages.       The Winter, Spring, and Summerborn all had places in the tribe. And while Autumnborn technically did, they hadn’t received those rights until just a decade ago. Autumnborn reflected the attributes of change, weakness and age. One of the main reasons they were dismissed so much was because of the attributes. The other reason being a long found tradition of using the Autumnborn as sacrifices to appease the gods.       Appearance wise, Autumnborn had a much larger template to draw from. The Autumn born were the only Yl’vori that were able to change their appearance at will, a blessing gifted to them by the Watcher. Summer and Springborn saw this as deceitful and cowardly. He could make himself look like one of his brethren, but sooner or later they would find out, most likely through a Sentinel.       A Sentinel was never fooled by a Autumnborns change in appearance. Their colorless eyes saw all.  They saw the panthers hiding in the night, the leopard blending in with the trees, the pythons that could be mistaken as loose vines, or the adder that looked like a pile of leaves. No trick of light or camouflage could deceive the Winterborn’s chosen.       Willows kind were often called ‘The Fallen’ and were never given names. If one wanted to refer to a Fallen, or grab their attention, the only names ever used were ‘Fall’. Of course, Autumnborn gave themselves names, like Willow had himself.       After scrubbing off all the blood, he placed the bucket back into the well, and headed back to the Given’s hollow. The trunk of a massive tree had been carved out, with a spiraling staircase going up and up and up for hundreds of feet, leading into the carved out hollow where he lived.      The space inside the hollow was wide and dusty. the wood dry and smooth from years of other Given using it. A wicker rocking chair was in one corner, a small shelf held many books, their titles read in the common tongue. Their leather bound edges were well worn, and many of the pages were torn or even missing. These were the books that had been used for generations.      The shelf was on the wall next to an open window, beneath which a pair of sleeping mats were set out. Willow was so high above the clearing, he could see the entire tribe bellow him.    “How did that go?” A soft voice called out of nowhere. Willow flinched momentarily, heart racing as he feared he might fall. He turned, looking for the source of the voice and seeing the rocking chair move.      Slowly the form of a woman appeared sitting on the chair. Her skin reverting from an oaken like appearance that matched that of the chair. Her hair was the same pumpkin orange color as his. Willow untied the antlers from the sash at his waist, gently setting them on the ground beside his bed mat. “I see. Did the Night Tallow work?” “It did. They seemed surprised at the use of tranquilizers… although I suppose we did stop the practice of using them about a decade ago.” Willow mused. “Alchemy and History, we’ll make a Given of you yet.” His mother laughed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” Willow replied, eyes downcast.        Every decade, The Yl’vori tribe would send an envoy to their sister tribe the Yl’vora. Similar to the Yl’vori in practice, but opposite in nature. The Yl’vora were a female only tribe, while the Yl’vori were obviously all male. The two tribes had their differences, and it said that they broke from the one tribe they all used to be a part of, The Yl’voran. When that was, no one could remember.       Clearly the practice of separating sexes would leave both tribes to die off in mere decades. So, every ten years the tribes would groom one of their own for the duties of a Given. An offering to the other tribe so that the bloodline of the Yl’voran could continue.      The Given were the only people of opposite sex in the respective tribes. Given were exchanged when the children were each of age ten. Prepared for ten years since birth by their own tribe, and then exchanged to the others. The previous Given, who had already been in the tribe for 10 years, would then train the new member of the tribe for 5 years. Some trained longer however. The last Given exchange hadn’t happened do to a feud of the tribes, but soon the exchange would happen.      Willow had thought the extra 4 years he had been given were a blessing, but he was quickly realizing the more time he spent with his mother, the more he grew attached, the harder it would be to leave her. 

      His mother was the only person that he could empathize with. She did not have a name either, but she still held much higher rank than an Autumnborn.     “Who are the two current leaders of the Yl’voran?” His mother questioned suddenly. She liked to do that, give him random questions to answer on the spot.  “Tydrin the Winterclaw and Dalaina the Morning Lilly.” Willow replied, “Easy.” Mother raised an eyebrow.  “Very well. Who are Tydrin’s daughters and Dalaina’s sons?” That gave Willow pause. Those were much more than two simple names. He honestly didn’t know. Witnessing his pause, his mother smiled in triumph. “Trick question. Given only produce offspring of the opposite sex. Tydrin only has sons, and Dalaina only has daughters.”    “Funny. He doesn't treat me like one.”

      It was difficult for Willow to recognize Tydrin as his father, but no matter how much he despised it, he was still his parent. Willow shook the matter from his head.   “Why do Given only produce offspring opposite of their own sex?”    “No one knows exactly. Perhaps it's the Watchers whims, maybe an aftereffect of the great plague perhaps?”       Willow had heard stories of the great plague. A sweeping disease that spread across the entire continent. Leaving women infertile for years and nearly wiping out humanity itself. Infertility was seen as a curse to the Yl’voran.   “No plague could be greater than the Autumnborn are to the Yl’vori.” Willow said, “Everything is going to change. I’m going to leave behind everything I know, my entire life. The only thing that’s going to stay the same is that I’m still Autumnborn.”       That, was what made Willow so strange. He was Given, a title often respected and honored. But yet he was also Fallen. A thing it seemed almost everyone had to despise. A Spring or Summerborn Given would be honored among the Yl’vori, but Willow… he was just ignored.      His mother eyed him sternly. “Being Autumnborn is not the worst thing in the world, Willow. You have received a far better treatment than others like you. Years ago Fallen were thrown into the Deepwoods straight out of the womb. Until one day when the gods had enough of these murders. Do you remember the story?” Another one of Mother's questions. Willow sighed, taking a deep breath and reciting the story.

   “Toris Stormbane was the only Sentinel the gods have ever punished. As he turned his back on his screaming child that he just left in the woods, The Watcher sent a murder of crows as black as Toris’s heart to tear out his eyes. From that day forward, The Yl’vori waited until the child reached his tenth nameday.“ Willow recalled the story with perfect clarity. It was one that he liked. It showed that the gods were not as one sided as his tribe was. Even those of the highest rank could be punished.       As much as he hated it, Willow could understand why his brothers ignored him. Ten years ago, all his kind were good for was appeasing the angry spirits of the cursed Deepwoods.       Suddenly, a roar, loud as a crack of thunder echoed through the forest clearing. Sending shivers up Willows spine. It continued on for what felt like minutes, slowly echoing away into nothingness.    “Be glad your not a Winterborn. Their trials may seem easier than yours at times, but you never have to face those creatures. “ Mother said, gesturing out the window towards the source of the sound.       The sound seemed to have come from the Deepwoods, a section of the forest that few dare entered. It was said the ghosts of the dead, starved, craven, and deserters haunted those woods. The angry spirits of animals were trapped there. Seething for eternity in their hatred against the one that hadn’t perform the ritual to release their spirit into the afterlife.  It was said the angry souls of all the Autumnborn left their generations ago found their vengeance on any fool  that wandered to far into the woods.      If you slept close to the Deepwoods, you could hear whispers, and rasping and muttered cursing and screaming and it would turn your dreams to nightmares for a month. Those woods were cursed, but they were what guarded his people from outsiders.       He was to be Given within the week. And they were supposed to travel through those woods. Mother said the Yl’vora didn’t treat their Autumnborn with hatred. That might be nice, if he survived the trip there.       He would leave behind everything he knew. He would go from hated and rejected to honored and respected.  Willow didn’t know how to feel about that.  -Thank you so, so, so much for reading all of this. If you have any questions about writing or just want to talk, please feel free to message me! I should have part two out within a week or two, please tell me your thoughts if you have any, I love to hear back from you!- -The nerd in the corner