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dyrewrites · 7 months ago

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Five Lines Tag

From @rachaellawrites over a-here

I am tagging @starbuds-and-rosedust @aziz-reads and @shepardsherd also YOU

Rules: Find some lines that fit these vibes, then change one of them and tag some people.

Your lines: A line with death, a line with fear, a funny line, a line with colour, and a line you're proud of

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My lines: A line with time, a line with fear, a funny line, a line with colour, and a line you're proud of

->Let's dark fantasy a bit with Weald and Wen, wherein we ignore the "line" part of this tag game<-

Time

Cycles. He ran for cycles through violet, fluttering firstlights, and each earlylight into blush and pounding midlights. Cycles soon spun to full rotations and still he did not slow, did not rest. Only in the sorrow-hued glimmer of each latelight did he pause, for a beat, a gasp, to nourish his dried bark in warm ichor rivers. Around the full belt of the Weald he tore, bounding along branch and bough, over hills and chasms, skidding under earthen bridges and flooding every scrap of moist grass with flowing falls of sweat and tears.

Fear (the whole thing! No, I kid...mostly)

Thump, thump, pop. He smelled them then, his riders, and noticed their absence. A stride behind they waited, with Lord Namael urging him to fly, to flee. And he could. So easily he could. But beyond the tunnel, mixed with the scent of the Weald, his riders and the lurking horror, was something like canopy air...and fire. The outside reeked of it and he knew it, if not by name than by danger. They would not make it from the tunnel, not without flight, not without him. Yet the rhythm pounded beneath the clay, all too close, too loud to stutter him to stagger. Thump thump pop

Funny (humor is subjective, of course, but I find it funny)

Delgrij jumped from her bright, yelping while Faerai breathed it in, the scent of heating wood somehow sweet in her snout. “What were papa and da like when Delgrij know them?” She asked him, rushing to help gather the dropped wallowood. “Beautiful,” He breathed, “They both were. In every way...” “Fyrni nots holds those bits, Delgrij,” Mitra teased over the growing crackle of her twigs. “That is not!” He snapped and whipped around to glare at her, “I never even—” “What means ‘bits’?” Faerai interrupted and her eyes darted to the little light as a slew of creaking giggles erupted over the roar of the fire.

Color

Rosy Gormwood stalks deepened to ichor-red, their delicate caps bleaching, thinning and spreading ever wider as Delgrij hopped and picked through fallen stalkwoods and massive groundcaps. While the sprout’s tail and ears poking through the tall grass offered guidance, burning heartlight kept him too far, and the caps made meager shelter from the glare of growing midlight. Its fuchsia-hot heat chased him into bruised shadows, beneath one of the caps dotting the gaunt stalks as Faerai’s tails vanished into the foliage ahead.

A line to be proud of

So sweetly it sang through shouts of what was once his name…

#writeblr #snippet #weald and wen #tag games #five lines tag #open tag #thems the queues

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farm-witches-fic-recs · 1 year ago

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Hi witches!

So I hated...well, strongly disliked the magical realism/fantasy genre in books. But the talented writers in this fandom have changed my mind quite a bit over the past week. Uhm...anyway, could you please rec some D&P fics with hints of magic/time travel/fantasy, etc. I know (at least imo), @mostlyinthemorning is like the master at this. So...maybe a couple of theirs and a smattering of everything else?

Thanks so much!!

We love to hear you're giving new things a chance! This fandom has incredibly gifted writers in all kinds of genres/tropes, we're spoiled!

We've definitely got some suggestions for you:

Fall Off a Bridge, Please - @hagface

for feelings unbound - wardo_wedidit

i bury my heart (i hope it's a seed, i hope it works) - 1031

I Walked through Hell to Find Home - alldaydream (@maybewecandreamalittle)

If Dreams Were Lightning and Thunder Was Desire - houdini74 (@mostlyinthemorning)

in hell, there's no bellman - @dinnfameron

Leaning In - @dinnfameron

Make a Wish - @agoodpersonrose

Mr. Universe - @likerealpeopledo-on-ao3, @vivianblakesunrisebay

on a night like this - dessertwaffles

pivotal moment, perpetual bliss - @dinnfameron

Pot o' Gold - @ahurston

Room Nine is a Wormhole- @stereopticons

There's an Interdimensional Portal in Room One - @landofsonlali

there's no such thing - @dinnfameron

These Dreams - houdini74 ( @mostlyinthemorning)

This Town Ain't Big Enough - houdini74 (@mostlyinthemorning)

Time After Time - Sholio

the touch of your hand - @thegrayness

Tricks & Mortar - earlylight (@earlywrites), whetherwoman

warmth of your doorway - @streetlampsunset

Witches Brewer - @vivianblakesunrisebay

#ask a farm witch #sc fic rec #sc fanfic #schitt's creek fanfic #schitt's creek fic

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carolrain · 1 year ago

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9 people you want to get to know better

Thanks for tagging me, @chelle-68 @a-noble-dragon and @mammameesh!

Favourite Colour: Purple, but also big into turquoise at the moment.

Currently Reading: I finished “maybe if by magic” by earlylight this morning, and then I read the latest houdini (Wanted: Birthday Clown)—yay, so good! This afternoon or evening, I’ll start “Practical Magic Below the Waist: How to Spark Joy, or, Five Easy Steps to Master Interspecies Relations,” which, fun fact, is the longest 5+1 in the SC tag.

Last Song: “Flying Over Water” by Jason Isbell.

Last Series: I’m just flailing about looking for something now that Ted Lasso and Shrinking have ended. I don’t need anything as good or thinky as either of those, but I need something to at least half-watch in an empty house. I tried Daisy Jones & the Six and Mad About You, but neither stuck.

Last Movie: I think it was She Said, which I had on in the background a few weeks ago while I played on the computer. Planning on Barbie sometime this week, though.

Currently working on: My attitude. Ugh. I have a brilliant idea for Passions and Pastimes, but I don’t know if I trust myself to commit to and finish anything.

I don’t know who’s done this or who’s been tagged, so forgive me, but @mostlyinthemorning @statueinthestone @wearpersistencewell @smblmn @jesuisici33 (happy birthday!) @dytzyone @obsessedwithdavrick?

#tag game #currently #from the sky we look so organized and brave

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flowertrigger · 2 years ago

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Fic Rec Friday

The Rules: tag a fic that makes you laugh / smile so much your cheeks hurt and give a brief description of why it's awesome. Then tag some fellow associates. The wider the reach, the better.

Please tag @welcometololaland or tag #fic rec friday so she can see and make a master list of recs!

Thank you for the tags @smblmn @chelle-68 @jamilas-pen @ramonaflow 🥰❤️

My rent free fic from last week is here

transformative works - spelling__bee

This is one of the most meta things you'll probably ever read. Patrick and David become friends after David comments on the fics Patrick posts on AO3, but they are also IRL business partners who are unawares of their online connection. And it is honestly so entertaining, and funny and heartwarming.

maybe if by magic - earlylight

This is business fairy!patrick, with great puns and one liners and references and a very entertaining, fun read!

It's Saturday night now, so I'm going to pass on tagging but please post your recs if you haven't been tagged.

#fic rec friday #schitt's creek

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xtruss · 1 year ago

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The Tale of Ollie and Dollie, a Pair of Pigeons that Befriended a Family on Lockdown

A National Geographic Photographer finds an unexpected subject in a pair of bold pigeons that have pushed their way into his household.

— By Jasper Doest | Photographs By Jasper Doest | Published May 22, 2020 | Saturday June 24, 2023

Ollie, a pigeon who visits photographer Jasper Doest’s apartment in the Netherlands every day, perches on a plate while Doest fills the dishwasher. Ollie’s partner, Dollie, watches from the outside.

Vlaardingen, The Netherlands 🇳🇱 Tick tick tick tick tick. The sound of a creature’s nails on the laminate flooring approaches from the hallway. I look up from behind my laptop, where I’d been writing photo captions. During these times of pandemic-induced isolation, I’ve set up my home office on the couch. Across the room at the dinner table, my wife is helping our oldest daughter Merel, who’s 9, with her homework.

All our eyes are focused on the hallway now. As the sound gets closer, our 6-year-old daughter Fleur welcomes the visitor. “Hello Ollie,” she says.

With perky steps, a pigeon enters the living room. Ignoring us, he walks straight to the dinner table in search of breadcrumbs that our girls might have dropped during breakfast. He begins to feast, and I tiptoe towards the table to grab my camera.

The pigeons get bolder every day, Doest says. Here, Dollie has snuck past him and tried to land on the radiator. She didn’t take into account all the loose items, and she struggles to keep her balance.

Ollie and his partner in crime, Dollie, have been visiting our house for several weeks now and have become a welcome distraction from the daily news. I should have been on assignment in Romania at the moment, but I was forced to stay home when the coronavirus started spreading across Europe. On March 16 the schools closed, and the Dutch government called for an “intelligent lockdown,” advising us to stay home and to keep five feet of social distance. Unlike in other European countries, we’re still allowed to go outside, but we’re too busy homeschooling and keeping our daughters entertained to go anywhere.

When our isolation began, I decided to keep a visual diary to document the odd reality of this time. Soon, however, our pigeon visitors came to be my primary subject, with their freedom to expand their territory juxtaposing our limitations.

These days, the only place that offers me a breath of fresh air is our balcony. Thankfully spring has arrived early, and I’m able to enjoy my tea out in the sun every morning.

Top: Maaike, Doest’s wife, enjoys the spring weather on the balcony while the two pigeons keep watch. The Dutch government has asked people to stay at home because of the pandemic, so Doest and his family now compete with the pigeon pair for space on the 30-square-foot balcony. Bottom: Ollie visits 9-year-old Merel Doest, who’s doing her homeschooling on the couch while Dutch schools are closed. The pigeons regularly come into the living room looking for crumbs that Merel and her sister Fleur may have dropped under the table.

It was during this daily ritual in early April that I first took notice of the bird sitting on the railing, its iridescent purple and green neck feathers shining in the earlylight of day. The pair of pigeons that nested on our balcony last year had returned—as pigeons usually do—to claim their spot, right underneath my chair.

My wife was not too happy at first. Last year was quite a smelly affair. Rock pigeons—your common city pigeons—are generally despised for their droppings and are often believed to spread diseases.

“All wild birds carry parasites and bacteria,” says André de Baerdemaeker, an urban ecologist at the Natural History Museum Rotterdam and longtime wildlife rehabilitator. “I don’t consider an urban pigeon more dangerous than any other wild bird in that respect. Under normal circumstances, the chances that free-flying birds transmit a disease to a human being are very small.” The pigeon’s bad reputation isn’t justified, he says.

Top: Merel cowers after Dollie flew past her, trying to get into the house. She's still frightened when Ollie suddenly lands on the balcony railing. "I thought he was going to attack me," she says. Nonetheless, both of Doest’s daughters have started to appreciate the pigeons, he says. Bottom: Ollie, standing behind 6-year-old Fleur, joins the family for sushi takeout—an at-home wedding anniversary celebration because restaurants are still closed. Doest heard Ollie approaching in the hallway and grabbed his camera just in time to get this shot.

“Some people believe that by living in an urban world, these birds avoid the rules of nature, but the opposite is true,” he says. Not only do pigeons face predators, food shortages, and competition for nesting sites, but they’re also subject to the whims of human society. Weaker pigeons still manage to stretch their fate by begging for crumbs in the streets, he says, and it’s these bottom-rung pigeons that shape the species’ overall reputation.

But we’ve got to know them as intelligent birds and loving parents. They mate for life, and they’re one of a small number of non-mammals that can learn to pass the mirror test, commonly used to measure self-awareness.

It’s fascinating to me that while many of the animals we don’t interact with are our most-loved, the animals we draw into our lives unintentionally are often the most hated. Pigeons must be one of the most unloved birds around.

Top: Merel cleans the balcony window with Ollie’s supervision. The pigeons love to perch on the door, and when it’s sunny, it’s kept open all day. Even when it’s overcast and the door is closed, they still come to hang out on the windowsill. Bottom: Dollie gets ready to land on the balcony door, where Doest installed a camera. She instead lands on the lens and uses the higher vantage point to see if the coast is clear before entering the kitchen.

When Ollie and Dollie returned this year, Merel and Fleur were still a bit frightened. “Help, they’re coming straight at me,” Merel screamed from the balcony a few weeks ago. I couldn’t help but smile. These pigeons are one of the few opportunities our children have to interact with wild animals in the city, and I believe there is great educational value in that. It gives me the chance to explain the opportunistic nature of urban wildlife. Besides, the girls quickly realized there’s nothing to be afraid of.

Every time I’m cleaning their waste off our balcony, I do understand how people see pigeons as a nuisance. But my impulse to malign them evaporated last year when Ollie and Dollie raised their chicks underneath our chair.

I’ll never forget Merel’s excitement when the first egg hatched and revealed this alien-looking, yellow squab. Sadly the chicks died over the course of two spring heatwaves, and then the nest became home to a large number of ants that marched their way into our kitchen. We eventually removed the nest, certain that we didn’t want pigeons on our balcony the following year.

Top: Ollie takes almost daily walks through the living room. One day Doest noticed him go into the girls’ dollhouse, so he set up a remote camera. After waiting on the couch for five hours, Doest sees Ollie walk in. The bird knocks over a couple figurines, checks the school bus, and then flies off. “I stare at the chaos he left behind and realize this is my life now,” Doest says. ”His visit has been the highlight of the day.” Bottom: As Doest’s daughters play in their rooms, the rest of the house is relatively quiet. Dollie takes the opportunity to venture into the living room. Sometimes when the birds come this far into the apartment, they tend to get disoriented and need to be lured back outside, Doest says. This time, however, Dollie seems to enjoy a quiet moment on the couch. She stayed for about half an hour.

But the pigeons came back this April. We’d just finished dinner, when suddenly I heard a loud noise from the kitchen. There was Dollie, feasting on the rice leftovers on Merel’s plate. The bird looked up. Apparently unafraid, she continued.

Pigeons. Give them a finger, and they'll take the whole hand.

Before we knew it, Ollie and Dollie became regulars in our house. These daily visits have become a reminder of another reality: We are not alone on this planet, and we need to share it with all living beings as if our lives depend on it.

Ollie has finished his business in the living room. I follow him to the hallway from where he can see Dollie. She has been waiting on the kitchen counter for him. For a minute they both stare at me. Then they fly off through the open balcony door into the clear blue sky. I envy their freedom.

Top: Just before sunset, Dollie takes off to roost. She and Ollie will be back tomorrow, ready to spend another day on the balcony. Bottom: Ollie and Dollie keep a close watch while Doest cleans the kitchen floor. Some 60 different diseases can be spread through pigeon droppings, but as long as good sanitation and hygiene are maintained—such as cleaning the droppings and washing hands regularly—it’s very unlikely two pigeons would make anyone sick, Doest says.

Merel looks at Dollie outside on the railing. It’s cold, so the balcony door stays closed. Though the pigeons can’t come in for their daily snacks, they do have the balcony all to themselves.

#The National Geographic #Story of Ollie and Dollie #Friendship with Humans

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dyrewrites · 16 days ago

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From 'Weald and Wen' because we are obsessing for the purposes of editing, my frens, and we must remain so or we will stop editing.

When at last he could bear no more of its teasing touch, Delgrij tore his bonds with weary bites and staggered on brittle roots toward his colony.

To beg, to grovel, to burn it all to ash, he knew not which.

Gorebarks raked at his naked bark, grasping and tossing him backward and forward whenever he dared employ his tattered wings. A turn through the bright and dim of heartlight, fighting his less mobile cousins, came and went before he reached what should have been a colony. Not his, but one of his brood.

What he found was eerie silence and blankets of rot-black seeds. Red-soaked nuru down glared at him from brush and leaf and bough and the trunks bore bright stains that reeked of rot.

A smattering of intricate, gray-hued statues littered paths and pool alike but no Napyr greeted him. Not with song or branch, or fang…and the sculptures.

Broodmaidens, Broodmaidens alone, too detailed and real to be mere carvings. With a tentative touch his veins puckered, his roots raged and despair swelled to beat a broken litany within his seed.

Fleeing the impossible, the confounding, Delgrij found the trees allowed it, aiding his hoofed roots as he bounded across trunk and bough for another copse—another colony.

And each blanched colony held the same. Each nest within their mountainous gorebarks reeked of sorrow and spilled over with bloodied bark and dismal light.

Nothing. Only nothing left.

->Weald and Wen Taglist<-

~Lemme know if you want on/off~

@sapphicwizards @tragedycoded @rowanmgrey-author @watermeezer @badscientist

@hyacinthslibrary @olliexwrites @wyked-ao3 @ashlovesfiction ^.-

Daily Sip 11/12

You can reblog this post.

You can make your own post.

You reblog someone else's snip!

Just tag it sipofsnips so everyone can find each other. ^.-

#sipofsnips #daily word game #writeblr #weald and wen #snippet #i should really draw his wings #i am afraid they don't make a whole lot of sense

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antonykozz · 2 years ago

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Get ready for some tremendous tropical shoots at 🌴 @bambooandorchidgardens with some of the most beautiful men of South Florida ☑️💪🏼📷☀️. #photoshootlocation #antonykozz #kozzphoto #heliconia #heliconias #morninglight #morninglight☀️ #morninglights☀️ #tropicalheat #photoshootideas #photoshootday #photoshootsession #photoshootday📷 #photoshootdays #photoshootdays📷 #earlylight #tropicalflower #tropicalflowers #tropicalflowers🌺 (at Bamboo and Orchid Gardens Since 1991) https://www.instagram.com/p/CfwwHIRrEWU/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#photoshootlocation #antonykozz #kozzphoto #heliconia #heliconias #morninglight #morninglight☀️#morninglights☀️#tropicalheat #photoshootideas #photoshootday #photoshootsession #photoshootday📷#photoshootdays #photoshootdays📷#earlylight #tropicalflower #tropicalflowers #tropicalflowers🌺

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guenthergroup · 3 years ago

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What a difference a day makes. Sunrise departure yesterday. . . *** #seattlelife #seattlesunrise #sunrisephotography #watercommuter #opticflare #ferrylover #earlylight #pugetsoundlover (at West Seattle) https://www.instagram.com/p/CWJdCXNvgzP/?utm_medium=tumblr

#seattlelife #seattlesunrise #sunrisephotography #watercommuter #opticflare #ferrylover #earlylight #pugetsoundlover

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schittscreekficrecs · 4 years ago

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holy sick divine by earlylight

Rated: T

Relationship(s): Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & Patrick Brewer

Additional Tags: Alexis Rose, Johnny Rose, Moira Rose, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, canon remix, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Food Porn, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Drinking, Strangers who Met in a Field to Coworkers to Friends to Lovers, Paperwork - But Make It Sexy

Summary: He looks up to catch David watching him, a soft smile on his face, golden-cast in the warm light that’s suddenly filling the office, dust motes wheeling a scintillating symphony around him, and Patrick can’t help but let slip a kind of hushed, reverent, what are you?

In the space of a second, the room is back to normal. Almost as if he’d dreamed it. David cocks his head, puzzled, evidently considering the question. “Hungry,” he decides.

AU. One fateful night, Patrick meets a boy who’s literally out of this world. Unfortunately, winning David Rose’s heart involves entirely too much paperwork – but the pen is mightier than the sword, and by god does Patrick know how to use it.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Recommendation by: Anonymous

THE. ROSES. ARE. HILARIOUS AND SEXY ALIENSSSSSSSSS

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Submit a rec!

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hallow138 · 4 years ago

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#salmonlake #lake #water #nature #hike #early #earlylight #morning #landscape #summer #July #tahoenationalforest #plumasnationalforest (it’s close to the border of both forests) #forest #wilderness #takeahike #island #reflection #mountains #yellatnature I have about 44 pictures sitting in my drafts ready to post...should I just post a lot? I mean I already do, it’s kinda ridiculous. (at Upper Salmon Lake Trail To Deer Lake and Summit Lake) https://www.instagram.com/p/CCRUSYYBnzx/?igshid=1h7174kg0wiip

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dyrewrites · 1 year ago

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Weald and Wen - snip - a howl in the whispers

Mitra was fast.

Fastest wings in all the Shell! She told any who asked.

But the Weald stretched far too wide round Mar's middle for one as slight as she. Especially one made of such light-thirsty crystal, who had ventured out into open woods during Full Bright–without protection. And, though the grim purples of the Wallows canopy provided a modicum of cover, the Lady’s Heart speared freely through its cracks…and onto her surface.

Mitra groaned at its shimmer along the far too translucent pinks of her glossy flesh. She groaned at the way it glimmered on the warm gray trunks she passed and at the way it glistened along hungry blossoms–even the smoke that rose from the pallid flesh of fleeing skitters could not muffle her dismay. Then she groaned louder, her squeaky voice scratching through the gentle whispers in the air. She groaned at her eagerness and the weight of it pressed her lower in her flight.

“Couldsa roll’d out in cooler lights, ‘stead a hottest lights of the roll roun’,”she creaked, mocking only herself.

Ans coulds rolls back now ans wait for Bright to pass, her thoughts offered.

While the idea of a full cycle in her brother’s tower spread to itch too rough beneath her surface, the known punishment of returning empty-handed dimmed the fuchsia of her molten core to panicked violet.

“I’s rolls back alls glimmers ans gloss!” She resolved, shouting it to the canopy, wings clicking louder as she rushed headlong through the weeping purples and warm grays of the Wallows.

Their thick, hanging leaves twisted and bled to virulent reds as she flew further, deeper into the Weald–far from her brother’s Dreadmire and the memories that itched–and their trunks soon fattened, paling to sickly white gorebarks as she entered an Ichorbed.

Fresh and dripping, the Ichorbed welcomed Mitra, and the glare of heartlight that chased her, with eager arms. It scattered the burning fuchsia of fading firstlight and amplified it, speckling all beneath in redder pinks. Unlike the cooler dim of the wallowoods before it, the gorebarks of the Ichorbed held no bent canopies or fallen trunks for shelter. Its raging red rivers were as reflective as she and Mitra fought to keep within the slim shadows of the dripping leaves, far from the Heart’s rabid glare.

But that shade came few and far between and soon the final pulse of firstlight bore down on Mitra's rigid flesh, unbroken by leaf or branch, and the click of a thread-thin fracture through thick glass came shortly after. It pealed the air as loud and harrowing as any shriek and her core flared.

“Nots needs powders, I says. Fast roll roun' belt, I says. Well, peeks now, ya cracked crag, you's all full'a splin’ers ans fixin’ ta shatter!” She cracked to herself.

Then she flailed and stuttered in the air as whimpers rose to replace the familiar drone that gave the Whispering Weald its name. The whisps–gasps of memory that drifted about the trunks and leaves of the myriad wood in orbs of gentle pinks–flickered an electric blue before stuttering to deep purples to smother Mitra’s concern for her surface in shiny new terror.

“What shakes whisps?” She asked the trees.

A howling breeze answered, whipping through the understory, hot on the heels of earlylight. The plump, white trunks of the gorebarks shivered with it, shaking their branches and raining hot red ichor–and surprised skitters–to the ruddy grass below.

Mitra's core cooled then, cooler than the later lights she longed for, to match the glow of the whisps as she followed their wavering trail. She zigzagged through anxious trees and dripping leaves, ever-vigilant for what frightened the whisps.

And it did not take long to find.

Splashes of vibrant blood were laid bare on grass and bark and leaf, not a stride through balmy, crowded wood. The sight of it staggered her, slowing her flight to a wafting speed so that she might take more of it in, might eye it more carefully without alerting the whisps–their fear pulsed too bright, electrifying the air and she knew too well the sting their touch carried.

Viscera stained the gorebarks in her path. Wet and stark blue against the meaty gashes through their pallid bark, those vile remains dripped and swirled down the length of every tree to settle in purple pools on the red-soaked grass. Mitra’s fingers ached for it, twitched toward it, curiosity burning brighter in her …but a wet, squelching rhythm caught her.

It drummed through the growing whimper of the whisps and she froze with it. Then she hid from it, flitting behind a wide blossom and dulling the clink of her wings and burn of her core.

An amorphous shape lingered in the choked grove ahead, so black it appeared a hole in sight itself, convulsing beside the murky waters of a lazy ichor stream. It rippled amid cracked bones and bloodied meat, each bubbling pulse of its lurid form heard in torturous clarity.

Core quivering, Mitra flit higher and bit her stony lip so tight she cracked clean into it. As the molten, sickly sweetness of her blood burned down her throat she stifled a curse and steadied her eyes–and her core–on the shape.

Its nothingness filled then. It swelled with cold, white eyes that shifted to hunt the leaves she hid in and an echoed chittering pierced the whimpers on the air.

Mitra's core dimmed near to blue as she flew further up the gorebark, toward a fatter blossom to bury in.

Another chitter, a louder squelch and the living darkness finished whatever foul deed it had come for and disappeared into the lesser shadows around it. In place of its emptiness, there stood statue; a gray-skinned figure glistening in the bruised burn of earlylight.

The crackle and tink of Mitra's crystalline wings shattered the silence then, adding fresh jitters to her core as she edged from the safety of her branch. Below her it waited, tall and gray and impossible. Her eyes twitched with her wings as she zipped around the statue, hungry for each and every intricate detail.

Well-carved in soft clay, the statue’s stretched ears, oversized paws and thick, numerous tails were recognizable but implacable and so Mitra locked in on its face. The expression on its short snout was stretched taut, pained with agonies unknown–and undesired. But something more rested there, nested there, something that squirmed beneath those terror-swollen eyes, just prickling the surface. Mitra drew nearer still and her core flashed with the sight of yet more eyes blinking within the statue’s; pin-small, bone white and gleaming.

A touch too many eyes.

Her core pulsed in grim purples as she urged her fears deeper, and pressed an ear to the statue. So warm it was, warm and inviting as any skin. Then she flickered. A discordant mass of giggles fluttered there, beneath the warmth, faint but unmistakable. And it heard her as clearly as she heard it, reaching outward, clawing for her, filling her with its mad tittering. It sharpened in timbre, stabbing through her surface and flaring her core and Mitra squeaked.

She shoved and then she dropped. Her frantic wings flapped too slowly and she fell, like the rock she was, into a pile of oozing remains on the forest floor. Slapping at the ground for dry blades of grass, Mitra wiped the offal from her surface, lips tight and eyes fixed on the statue as her core rekindled and her thoughts raced.

There had been neither antler nor tail to mark the passage of Auru hunters through the Weald for full rotations. Yet Mitra heard of hungry shadows from the few of their traders—those yet willing to deal with her—as they packed up and headed for the relative safety of the Wen. They spoke of fewer creatures skittering along the trunks and grass and far fewer hunters willing to seek them through the Weald's deeper woods, or the Dreadmire that split it from its Wen twin–her brother's Dreadmire.

The news of fewer meals scrounging his fog had sent her brother into a clanking fit. He blamed gasps in the Breath, or magics running rampant and demanded she find the Touched responsible. A task she was certain would prove fruitless. The Weald was vast and flush with dark places for things far worse than shadows to dwell. It was more likely that the hunters were lost to Naemit webs or Fiori mists than shadows, no matter how hungry they might be.

But at the sight laid bare before her, at the carnage in shades she had not seen for ages, all of Mitra's assumptions rotted away. What left that statue could not be the work of Weald predators, wayward gasps of the Lady's Breath or even a wielder of its magics.

That horror, which squelched into deeper dark, had been cold, empty...and familiar.

Yet, despite how disturbing the revelation, it was the thought of the impending visit with her monstrous brother to report it that shook Mitra's core as she took flight.

A flight the trees did not agree to.

They whipped their slender, blanched vines up from the grove to grasp for the tinkling tendrils of her hair. And their thick thorns, finding no purchase, teased instead with scratches against Mitra's glossy surface. She dropped and twisted, cackling with the escape of each attempt but her efforts would prove futile. Shallow though the nick to her shoulder was, a vine yet caught and threw her into an oncoming branch.

”Lady's eyes!” Mitra snapped, fluttering to her feet and flaring purple at the massive eye of the offending tree. ”Din'd trees! You's peak'd that fiend, ya? Yous whisps roll's me right for it! Holds is rollin’ rounds for clinks ans giggles? It's is cracked, empty ans hungry! I needs'a tell Parni.”

Her voice cracked too loud for so slight a creature, and far too shrill for the tree to bear. Its eye bulged with the sound, its pupil shrinking to a dot, and gathered whisps blinked between fuchsia and glaring red, their whispers growing to a roar of laughter. A strong wind followed, whipping through the leaves and spinning Mitra full around and flat onto the bough she shouted on. Splayed along the bark, a hint of glittering purple rump peeking from her mess of iridescent hair, Mitra fumed. Her core pulsed in brighter purples and a thin stream of smoke began to rise from the bark beneath her.

The tree winced in the burn of her anger, slamming its eye shut. But the wind died down and the whisps dispersed, their color cooling, whispers held fast. It had not meant to upset the gem, only to play, as it had many lights before.

A deafening crunch stabbed through the absence of the whisps as willowy branches descended from the canopy. With practiced caution they corrected the heated gem, stood her up, reconfigured her hair and plucked from their crown a tiny, purple bud. Nimbly, the branches tucked the gift in her hair, snug and sticky behind one long, pointed ear.

But the bark smoldering at her feet suggested it was not a kindness. Not enough to appease, to grant them forgiveness for their slight.

Mitra clenched her jaw. The tips of her razor teeth began to chip and she cooled her core to a softer violet, snuffing away the fire threatening the bark. Then she tried to soften her face. It took a beat, and then another, but she managed something like a smile.

”Holds Parni’s not trees shine,” She soothed the trees. “Nones shine, not rilly. Not mine, ans I's his blood!”

Sighing, creaky and high-pitched, she lifted herself off the branch to hover at eye-height of the tree. It blinked and the breeze pushed her backward, but a few wing flaps kept her afloat. Yet Mitra moved no closer as the great eye narrowed again.

Another sigh creaked from her lips before she spoke again, “I's shine, rilly I do. Parni’s a mount'nous crag! Cracked deeper than any, but...” Her voice faltered then, creaking all too soft, “he's alls the shine I holds...”

The whispers returned to the cramped cluster of trunk and leaf. They grew in volume as the whisps blinked brighter through the leaves, but the wind remained calm. It blew gentle, if too warm, as the tree’s great eye rolled up. Then it closed its lid and pulled the eye back into its trunk, wondering why it bothered with the dusty gem at all.

#writeblr #snippet #novel #writing #nonhuman #darkfantasy #weald and wen

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