#fantasy stories

[savethegrishaverse]

Hey Grishaverse! We know that one of the closest things to a ball or formal celebration in Ravka is the Winter Fete. Why not reblog with what you would wear if you were invited to the Fete - a beautiful chance to get dressed up!

(shoutout to our sister fandom Lockwood & Co. for the idea!)

[witchthewriter]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐌𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞𝐬

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆

ENTJ

Slytherin

Lawful Good / Neutral Good

Capricorn Sun, Cancer Moon, Libra Rising

The Mentor: A wise and experienced character who guides and advises the hero, providing knowledge, skills, and guidance.

The Cunning Strategist: this character is known for their intelligence, sharp wit, and ability to manipulate situations to their advantage. They excel in political maneuvering and outsmarting their opponents.

The Fallen Hero: The Fallen Hero archetype represents a character who was once noble or heroic but has fallen from grace. They may have succumbed to their flaws, made tragic mistakes, or been corrupted by power. The Fallen Hero often grapples with guilt, redemption, or the desire to reclaim their former glory.

I will always see John as some type of leader. A leader of a wolf pack, or the King's Guard. Even a team of immortals. His task force would shift between each universe, but his station always stays the same. Price is the eldest and the leader of the men.

𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝑹𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒚

INTJ

Ravenclaw

Neutral Good

Capricorn Sun, Scorpio Moon, Virgo Rising

The Guardian: A character who protects or defends a person, place, or idea, often serving as a source of strength and support. I can see him taking stray kids under his wing, and taking care of them.

The Knight: Is a character archetype in stories that embodies chivalry, honor, and a strong sense of duty. I think the strong sense of duty is most previlent here. I think he would even be the King's Champion.

The Rebel: A character who challenges authority, norms, or societal expectations, often seeking change or liberation. After seeing all the pain and suffering from the villagers/those less fortunate around him, he would snap. Wanting to help them.

Simon reminds me of both Geralt and Sandor Clegane. I think he would do well both within a group setting (with his teammates) or going out and doing something indepedently.

𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏𝒏𝒚 𝑴𝒂𝒄𝑻𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒉

ESFP

Ravenclaw

Neutral Good / Chaotic Good

Aquarius Sun, Taurus Moon, Sagittarius Rising

The Trickster: A mischievous and cunning character who uses wit and deception to achieve their goals or disrupt the plans of others.

The Wise Fool: The Wise Fool archetype is a character who appears foolish or simple-minded on the surface but possesses unexpected wisdom or insight. They often use humor and unconventional behavior to challenge social norms, offer unique perspectives, or deliver profound truths.

The Loyal Companion: The Loyal Companion archetype is a faithful and devoted ally to the protagonist. They offer unwavering support, loyalty, and may serve as a moral compass or voice of reason.

I think Johnny is a bit of a difficult one, because he's both humorous - which can place him in the archetype of jokester & comedic relief. But maybe thast just makes him ... a wild card? Hence I think that' why people often give him the hybrid of werewolf.

𝑲𝒚𝒍𝒆 𝑮𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌

ISFP

Gryffindor

Chaotic Good

Gemini Sun, Virgo Moon, Cancer Rising

The Romantic Interest: A character who forms a romantic connection or relationship with the protagonist, often adding depth and emotional tension to the story.

The Underdog: A character who faces significant challenges or disadvantages but ultimately triumphs against the odds.

The Sage: The Sage archetype represents wisdom, knowledge, and enlightenment. Sages are often revered for their insights and serve as a source of guidance or counsel for the protagonist.

God this man could fit into so many archetypes. He is just ... the perfect character. He can still have character development, however, he can still be put forward as a fully formed character. Romantic, loving, intelligent, mindful. He likes to sit back and learn about others. He's diligent in that way (hence the Underdog). I also think he's so wise. Especially for his age. And he feels the most magically inclined out of the rest of the men.

𝑲𝒐̈𝒏𝒊𝒈

ISTP

Hufflepuff

Chaotic Neutral

Aries Sun, Aquarius Moon, Leo Rising

The Outcast: A character who is marginalized or rejected by society, often possessing unique abilities, insights, or perspectives.

The Beast: A character or entity often found in stories that represents the primal, untamed, and instinctual aspects of human nature or the natural world.

The Antihero: is an archetype is a character who lacks traditional heroic qualities but still engages in heroic actions. They often possess flaws, ambiguity, or morally gray motivations.

I think there are many different ways of looking at Konig. Physically he's a powerhouse - tall asf, a tad arrogant (only because of his voicelines), somewhat dramatic. But some have written him as toxic, others like to baby girl him. I think he's a bit similar to Simon but there's more distrust about him.

What would really be great is the task force as the Knights of the Round table. I think I could see Simon or Johnny as Arthur and Kyle or Price as Merlin (obviously Kyle as a young version like the BBC Merlin).

I can also see them as pirates! I actually want to write a Pirate! Task Force. Obviously Price as the Captain, Quartermaster is Simon, Kyle as Bosun (or Boatswain) and Johnny as the Gunner (makes things go boom!)

If I had to give the men shapeshifting abilities (into one mythical animal) I would go: ▪️ John Price | 𝑫𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒏 or 𝑪𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒖𝒓 ▪️ Simon Riley | 𝑮𝒓𝒊𝒎 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓 or 𝑯𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 ▪️ Johnny MacTavish | 𝑾𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇 or 𝑷𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒙 ▪️ Kyle Garrick | 𝑴𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏 or 𝑷𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒔 ▪️ Konig | 𝑩𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒌 or 𝑯𝒚𝒅𝒓𝒂

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Dragon’s Hoard

The first one appeared in the middle of a storm. Lightning broke the night sky and rain pounded the earth. The dragon, as most, was asleep deep within his lair, exhaling plumes of ashy smoke and warming gold beneath his belly. A violent sneeze woke the dragon, he reared his great head and snapping his barbed tail. A second sneeze followed.

Mallow the Destroyer stalked down his mound of gold and swept across his caverns. He gave a wordless roar and his breath steamed in the chilly night air. The cave echoed with his threat: “None who enter here may leave.”

A small bundle sat on the floor next to a number of black-steel swords. A little hand seemed to be curiously poking at one.

The dragon roared. “WHO FORFEITS THEIR LIFE TO MY CAVES?” Mallow thumped his mighty tale against the ground and the bundle jumped.

The thing turned and snot ran down its face. A child, no more than seven. And they were staring up at the dragon with a starry-eyed confusion. The little creature rubbed her sleeve across her snotty nose a few times and blinked.

Mallow blew hot air in her face and her blonde curls swept back. 

A ratty scarf was tied around the girl’s neck, she was bundled up in several layers, a blue coat was far too large for her. Packaged like a stuffed ham, the girl’s arms stuck out at stark angles and she toddled more than walked in a pair of secondhand boots. 

“I am Laurel,” she announced in a voice that was far too loud. She wore a pair of thick earmuffs and two sets of bandages wrapped around her head. 

Mallow narrowed his eyes, he bared his terrible teeth, and thrashed his tail and the little creature wobbled and fell onto her behind. The girl’s eyes became even larger somehow, but she didn’t weep. Didn’t flee. Didn’t run. 

“What are you doing? Tell me how you wish to die!” The dragon sneered, but it was no use. The child’s ears were stuffed and she could not hear him. Mallow was forced to dig out a cursed notebook and write down words in the common tongue.

Instead of answering, the child wiped at its snotty face and shrugged. She pointed at herself. “I am Laurel.”

Mallow might’ve eaten her or burned her to a crisp, but there was a note pinned to her overstuffed coat: for your hoard.

—-------

The first one's name was Laurel. The second was Rowan. They were sisters with black hair the texture of crow’s feathers and large eyes that made the youngest look constantly in awe and the older like she was lost in a composite maze.

They both had the same note pinned to their chest. And Mallow couldn’t eat something of his hoard– it could be valuable.

“Who approved this foolishness?” The dragon Mallow perched in front of the eldest. She held her young sister in her lap and exposed one pink ear to the draft. 

“My mother sent us,” Rowan said with a quick nod toward the mouth of the cave and a bit too loud. “She’s a witch.”

“Good for her.” 

“She’s says you’ve met before.”

Mallow narrowed his eyes. “Oh?” He gave a terrible grin with a terrible puff of his chest. “And she sent me unskilled tiny servants in response. How lovely.” “Don’t be daft,” Rowan said frankly and bounced her baby sister up and down on her knee. “Do you have any kindling?”

“I should turn you to splinters for asking,” Mallow narrowed his cat-like eyes. He enunciated slowly, “I only collect valuable things. Things worth more than your life. Things you cannot burn.”

“Aye,” the girl replied absently.

“Perhaps you should offer me something of the like in exchange for your life.”

The younger sister tugged on her sister. “Scary.” 

“Yes, yes.”

The dragon puffed up. “Your sister seems to have some sense.”

“Not you.” The sister’s eyes flicked to the dragon’s pile of whittled instruments from the Year of the Elder Crow. “We have something mum says you can’t say no to. Do you have kindling now?”

The dragon’s eyes went wide. He was a creature of want after all. “Something I can’t say no to? A Witch must like to gamble.” He repeated, smiling and leaning forward. The girl held his gaze.

“But I can’t show you ‘till tomorrow.”

The dragon circled around the children and thrashed his tails and made his threats, but Rowan was already putting her headgear back on and curling up around the other child. Mallow knew he was being played, but retribution could wait until morning.

The children were unarmed after all and he could spare some ancient tomes on taxation for their fire. 

—--

An older child named Ralph arrived in the night. A mealy child who had pick-pocket hands and a lean-dog frame. 

“No! Absolutely not,” Mallow growled. “I am not here for the village’s lost scoundrel children.”

Ralph was wearing a gauzy series of headbands and sat down next to the others, sucking in his lower lip. Mallow bared his teeth and Rowan held up something wooden and boxy in front of the dragon’s long snout.

“It’s inside.” 

He delicately picked up a box with many indents and moving parts.

“A treasure from the Witch Hazel,” Rowan said loudly, one ear exposed. “If you can solve it that is.”

“There is no manmade contraption I cannot master.” The Dragon sat back on his haunches. “I'm sure your people say that's what dragon's traded our souls for."

The new boy, Ralph, folded his arms over his chest. “Lotta good souls do us.”

“Don’t say that,” Rowan hissed at him and clutched at the Witch’s holy hawthorn around her neck.

The dragon laughed. “Perhaps he can stay. Tell me, boy, how attached to your soul are you?"

Ralph crossed his arms over his chest. "Depends on what they're offering."

"Don't humor him." Rowan met the dragon's eyes and they seemed to burn. A challenge. “Our mum says you have a soul. She sent us here. And she is the cleverest and most revered lady–”

“Bragging doesn’t suit meals," he cut her off. Mallow turned the box around in his claws.

Rowan set her jaw. “We’re using the canvases as beds.”

“Don’t you dare. You’re leaving in the morning.”

The boy that was mostly ribs sniffed, “If you can solve that thing, aye?”

The ancient dragon griped, and snarled and eventually lay down to twist the small box into different shapes. Children’s play, it had to be children's play.

—--

The children might be trying to trick that dragon. Mallow came down from the top of his pile of gold to ask for a hint on the puzzle box the next morning.

Naturally, there were five more children in the small camp. Some of these kids wore rags tied around their heads in long strips that made them seem bulbous. Two of the kids wore almost nothing at all and walked around with fingers jammed in their ears.

They all had something different clutched in their puny hands or tied to their wastes with a note. For your treasure. For the dracon. Foyr yur horde.

The Dragon reared up. “I do not collect children.” He shook the cavern. Two of the kids stumbled forward and shoved puzzles made of hoops or stones at him. One presented a wooden jewelry box with a riddle.

Rowan batted her eyes and said very simply, “Can you not solve these? My mother, the witch,” she emphasized, “said you could.”

Mallow settled down in front of the older child, “Are these even solvable you urchin? Provide a hint to let me know they are not an impossible task.”

Rowan pointed at where to place his fingers.

The cave became far too lively and far too much singing and running filled the space. But some good came of it. After a great deal of twisting and complaining, Mallow conquered the cleverest of Witch Boxes.

He plucked a ring from inside the contraption and rotated it against the light. There seemed to be a small rainbow caught in the center of the jewel. “What is it?” “It’s a mood ring. A ring that can detect your mood.”

“Magic!” The dragon purred. He slipped it on the very end of his tail. “A gift indeed. What does it say, young witchling?”

“Purple means passion.” Rowan shrugged and went back to a kind of flower arrangement. “Or something.”

Mallow flicked his tail and grinned. Passion was indeed what he felt in the contest of wills with the box; proper magic.

An eerie-looking child, ghost-like and pathetic, stumbled toward him and held up a game of colored tiles. A player must “connect four” to best their opponent.

He settled down in front of the phantom child, Sally, to challenge her wits. “Very well, you may stay another night. My little hoard.”

The children ran in circles and seemed to acquiesce to the ideal through their cries of delight. —----

Dragons avoid spending time with their own kind, much less that of other species. Juveniles even worse. Which was why Mallow decided to turn them into an adequate army instead. Provided with creaky wooden swords and dinner-plate size shields, he rallied the children to prepare to do great battle.

“Yes! Yes, we will unleash the seven furies of hell and overtake the kings of the mountaintops and queens of the oceans. They will cower before us, lament their fates, and relinquish their gold to our cave."

Shrieking laughter and whooping answered Mallow. Laurel appeared to be making her wooden sword and wooden dagger kiss. Ralph was making one of the younger boys hit himself. Sally fell down, scraped her knees, and started crying. No matter, Mallow collected every medicinal wonder of the world.

His troops continued to train as Mallow dug through one of his herbal collections. He didn't see the figure appear.

Music began to play. A jaunty, slippery sound from a panpipe. The lullaby, sickly sweet and unnatural, filled the space and seemed to muffle the air itself like a blanket.

“Get off! Get off, you wanker!” 

Mallow turned in place. Ralph and others marched across the cavern, stiff-limbed and empty-eyed toward the opening. The other children were in chaos. Sally, bleeding knees and all, bodily tackled Marco to the ground and wrenched the gauze from out of his ears. The twins Lucas and Abigail wrestled on the ground, trying yank fingers out of ears.

The dragon flared his nostrils and stepped forward.

“Stop, stop!” Tears streamed down Laurel’s face as she held her sister back. She clawed bloody ribbons down Rowan’s arms, but the elder girl wrenched the earmuffs off her head and threw her to the ground, face empty.

A pair of yellow eyes glowed in the dark. The children were walking. The music played on.

Mallow leapt toward the front of the cave and let his fangs dripped molten hot. He roared, “You think to disturb the sanctity of my treasure?!”

The Pied Piper blew a sharper note, but Mallow was beyond such tricks and tore through the night with his claws. The Trickster was faster and ducked. He smiled something sour and cruel and blew a series of musical notes. The Trickster’s yellow eyes were swallowed by the dark.

A note was left in his place that simply read, PAY UP.

The dragon’s chest heaved and his breath steamed against the air. He threw himself into the sky and flew across the mountaintops, searching and lighting up the night in flames. But Pied Piper’s were not easily caught. 

Mallow returned and counted their heads. There were seventeen. Just as the number they had started with. The children looked up at him with enormous shining eyes and the younger ones threw their arms around his leg. Mallow tried to push them away and tell them of the nature of dragons: They don’t lose things.

Like many young, they didn’t seem to listen. The children slept at his feet that night.

—----

The Piper tried to lure the children away from the cave several more times. All it took was one note and one pair of ears, sometimes the Piper brought in outside children as well and laid traps and schemes. Sometimes he simply grabbed one child under his arm and ran.

“They must pay,” he repeated like a rabid man. “They must pay their debts.”

Dragons however, did not pay prices. And he did not tolerate being stolen from. No matter how far the bard ran, the dragon was faster. He plucked Ralph back from the man’s arms and almost lit the ocean on fire. Marco and Laurel rode on his back from the dark forest.

Rowan learned to light Witch’s Fire and The Piper gained a new scar when he tried a fourth time. And a fifth.

That was the first year where no children drowned from the Town of Hoppling. Families from Bernick and Wastings and city children from the Skid Row and the fish monger districts that couldn’t pay the Piper, all arrived at the cave of the Dragon Mallow. They only had to bring a simple game and perhaps a clever riddle to share around the fire.

The Dragon gained a new name in the years he guarded his hoard and scared away the Piper. Dragons don’t have souls. But if they did, there might be one named Mallow, Saint of Children. Saint of Safety in Fire.

------

If you enjoyed the story please consider donating to my ko-fi or supporting me on patreon (even a dollar helps!), check out my Sapphic fantasy book as well!

[cephalopod-celabrator]

In fantasy fiction, I like stuff with immortals, but it seems like most things today focus on immortals who can't die (or usually who can't die unless you try really really hard), whereas I find much more interesting immortals who can die but who always come back. Be it through reincarnation, or finding another host, or just respawning after a while or what have you, I think someone who you can kill but who you can't stop from returning has a lot more narrative potential to it than just someone unkillable.

[nateconnolly]

These are epigraphs for chapters in a fantasy story. 

Image ID under the cut.

Sorry about using a picture for original text. I did it because Tumblr’s line and paragraph spacing is fucking massive, and it would ruin the flow of the poetry, so I took screenshots of a Google doc. Here’s the ID. 

[Image ID: Three screenshots of poetry in Times New Roman. The titles are bolded. There is a line break between each poem.

The first picture says,

The Book of Frenzy 2:10-12

“How many have died upon the Earth? God ought to be executed for letting them die.”

And the Sons of God answered, How many have died upon the Earth?

That is how many times God has been executed for letting them die.

Psalms 129:4-5

All murder is deicide 

All murder is holy wrath 

The Book of Frenzy 2:20-28

“If the Road circles back upon itself, how should I reach the end of it?” 

The Sons of God answered, With eagerness and great haste.

“Then the Road must be nothing more than travel upon the Road.” 

The Sons of God answered, No—the Road is the traveler.

“If I am the Road, then surely I do not need to travel at all—for a road does not walk upon itself.”

And the Sons of God answered, If no one walks upon it, then it is not truly a Road.

“What is the reward at the end of the Road?”

And the Sons of God answered, This is the reward:

At the end of the Road, God will hunt you for sport.

The second picture says,

Psalm 1/First Hymn to the Ravenous Lord

O my holy Mother, you are utterly beyond measure

But all things must be measured against you

O my holy Daughter, you have brought light to the horizon

And you will bring darkness unto the light

You are wholly without equal, and all things equal you

When you sowed the fields, you made the fields

Where you do not step, no one could ever step 

You are unbounded because you are your own bounds

O my holy Neighbor, I sent a boy out to hunt

He brought back the sacred and glorious corpse of God

You delivered God into the hands of my son

You are an incomparable hunter: you perfect the art of catching

You are incomparable prey: you perfect the art of getting caught

Mantra 11

To commit suicide is to poach on God’s territory 

Mantra 23

God is a cage and the key to the cage is God

The final picture says,

Psalm 42

O my holy Son, I sent a boy to go hunt in the forests

He dragged back a fat and bloodied boar

We skinned the beast and roasted it on the fire

With salt and garlic we roasted the beast

The boy and I drank sweet wine and together we ate the meat

The meat was the boy who I sent to go hunt in the forests

Mantra 51

Only God is so swift that she could capture God

Only God is so swift that she could be captured by God

Psalms 232:10-11

The boy said, “By catching God, I became him. 

God turned me into God; that is how he escaped me.”

/end ID.]

[blessthishouse]

🫣 Are there any other fans of the Goblin Emperor here?

[lenaleviosa]

You know how in fantasy stories it’s always like “oh you don’t need to hide your magic from humans, they will just convince themselves that what they saw was something else” ?

Well, I make it a point to actively go against that. Like just this morning I saw a guy with one eye. And no, Gwendolyn, the prescription of my glasses is just fine (it’s not, but that’s beside the point), I absolutely just saw a cyclops.

I currently can’t find my keys, even though I’m absolutely certain that I put them by the door. No, this is not my adhd, this is the poltergeist living in my attic.

You magics can’t fool me.

[dnschmidt]

Darkness Under The Stars - Urban Fantasy Story

Aleister Stephens flicked off his flashlight and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The moon slowly shed its blanket of clouds and shivered in the cool, autumn night.

The crypt had been erected a hundred years prior, despite the protest of local churches. It was covered in runes and sigils, the ancient signs of alchemy and dark magic. The man buried there had ordered the engravings, believing that they would protect his soul from the baneful devils that he had called up so often to serve him. Unfortunately for him, the mystical carvings did nothing to stop grave robbers...

[pulpsandcomics2]

Fantastic Novels Nov 1949

[themousefromfantasyland]

I need help.

For those who don't know, I have a WIP about fairy tales, both the original fairy tales and the post-Disney versions.

It's about a fictional world called Nemolia where fairy tales and children's stories tropes are just a part of day-to-day life.

Princesses are elected officials and academics, Fairy Godmothers are princesses with an extra degree, Prince Charmings are members of the military, wishing upon stars is an official religion, and magic is studied as a science.

In my world there is a specific kingdom called Avamoor, that is meant to be the main setting.

The idea is that this kingdom was founded by what is essentially, a retelling of a fairy tale. The problem is, I have no idea of which tale to use.

So, I ask this question: Which Fairy Tale is iconic, universal, and foundational enough to be the founding story of a fairy tale kingdom?

I have some ideas of my own, but I want to hear other opinions.

Cinderella is universal and iconic, but I want to use her in the current era of this setting, so I can't use her as the starting point of Avamoor.

Snow White is another possibility because some of my main characters do have ties to dwarf-like beings. And because Snow White is the first Disney movie ever, it would be a nice little Easter egg. But I wonder if using Snow White as the founder of Avamoor is too Disney-like.

The Frog Prince is also another possibility, as a homage to Grimm's Fairy Tales. For those who don't know, editions of the Grimm's fairy tales always start with the Frog Prince. But I doubt if there's enough material to make an interesting retelling.

As I said I need help with possible tales.

It also helps, if the tale is about princesses, princes, and curses to tie in with the themes of the actual story.

@ariel-seagull-wings @princesssarisa @tamisdava2 @angelixgutz @amalthea9 @the-blue-fairie @adarkrainbow @theancientvaleofsoulmaking

[theadventuresofgarlandodra]

The Adventures of Garl and Odra Manyboots- A Rough Introduction

It seemed the Eswa Adventurer’s Guild was the place to be tonight. The music was playing, the beer was flowing… And at the bar, Sterling Van Broom, a broomstick of a man with a curled handlebar mustache and a haughty expression was discussing some more sinister work with the guild master.

“So, do you have anyone for the job?”

The guild master sighed, rubbing his right temple and cursing the god that brought this man into his guild. He glanced over the adventurers in the room, the happy go lucky halflings singing about their latest heroics, the cheery gnomes playing cards, the delighted elves and humans mingling together after the successful defeat of a red dragon… and then his gaze stopped at the table in the far corner, tucked away just out of sight from anyone casually entering the guild.

“For something like that, you’re gonna want Manyboots and her friend,” the guild master said, pointing towards that table.

Sterling looked at the table, where a person was having an animated conversation with a statue. He couldn’t get a better look, all he could tell was that whoever they were, they were quite… small. “The little one over there? Did you not hear me? I need-”

“I heard you plenty fine,” the guild master snorted, “and I told you who you’d need. No one else here will take something like that, so she’s the best you can do. So either talk with her or get the fuck out of my guild.”

Sterling huffed before he headed for that corner. This close he could hear the grating, shrill voice of this ‘Manyboots’, chattering away to apparently no one save the terrifying statue she was sitting next to, so clearly she was crazy.

“Excuse me, I’m here to-”

“HOLY FUCK, DO YOU MIND!?”

The chair spun around and Sterling was more than a little taken aback by the sight of a hideous goblin sitting there. She had a hood over her enormous head, disproportionate to the size of her body. Even compared to goblin kind in general, she was small, probably would be barely two feet tall while standing. Her massive red eyes glared at Sterling as she shook a dirty finger in his direction. “I’m in the middle of a conversation! You can’t just waltz up here and interrupt!” she said.

“I- um-” Sterling managed to recover from the shock and he straightened himself up. “I’m here to hire you for a job, but if you keep talking back to me like that-”

The goblin cackled before taking a long swig of her beer. Wiping the foam off her mouth, she leaned in, grinning from ear to impressively large ear. “Okay, you’re forgiven. Whatcha need? Robbery? Arson? Murder that looks like suicide, or just flat out murder?”

“W-well,” Sterling cleared his throat, “my father is the great Governor van Broom, but he will not recognize me as one of his heirs as my mother was one of his maids. She died of a broken heart, and I have nothing but a pitiful clock shop to my name. I have been robbed of my birthright, and I seek revenge upon the man that abandoned my mother and…” he trailed off as he realized Manyboots had tuned him out and was back to slurping from a mug that was over half the size of her torso. “Do you mind?!”

“Huh?” Manyboots looked up. “I’m sorry, I was waiting for you to get done with the boring backstory shit.”

Right. Now he was pissed. Sterling raised his hand to slap the smirk off this stupid little beast.

“Listen here, you little-”

In a blur of gray stone Sterling’s wrist was grabbed by… the statue.

That was not a statue.

It looked like a statue, but on second look Sterling could see it blink its glowing green eyes, how it glowered at Sterling as its claws dug into his arm.

Manyboots shrieked with laughter. “Your faaaace! Man, your faaaaaaace!” she said, wiping a tear away from her eye. “Oh man, that never gets old. Garl, let him go.”

Garl cocked his head to the side and Sterling felt cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck. Even if Garl wasn’t actually a statue, he had a clutch like one.

“Try hitting her again, and you’ll lose more than your birthright, bitch.”

The statue released Sterling and he jumped back, clutching his bruising arm to his chest and trying to say anything, only for meaningless stammering to babble from his lips.

“Right, let’s start from the beginning.” Odra slammed her mug down on the table and stood up on the chair. “I’m Odra Manyboots, and this is Garl the Gargoyle.” She leaned in uncomfortably close, Sterling trying not to gag on the smell of rotten meat on her breath. “Listen, we don’t care why you want us to do this. All we need to know is what needs to get done, when we need to get it done, and how much you’re going to pay us. Got it?”

Sterling cleared his throat. “I get it.” He sat down next to Odra and Garl, keeping an eye on the menacing gargoyle. “There’s a caravan coming into town next week from the west, bearing my father’s insignia. There will be guards, do what you have to in order to deal with them. I don’t care what you do with most of the belongings- burn them, keep them, sell them, but I only ask that you retrieve a necklace and give it to me. It’s silver with a large sapphire at the throat. I’ll pay you one hundred gold now, and another two hundred when the job’s completed.”

Odra twisted her face before turning to Garl. “Sound like a plan?” she asked.

Garl only grunted.

Odra turned back around and gave a thumbs up. “Got it. Now scram, Like I told you earlier, we were in the middle of a conversation, and you were fucking rude to interrupt.” She shooed Sterling away before turning back to her friend, who was back to looking like a nearly normal statue. “Where was I? Oh yeah, you were inside passed out and getting your face doodled on by a bunch of bards. Which you really shouldn’t have gotten so drunk, I’m eighty percent sure a few of them wanted to jump on your stone c-”

Right, time to go. Sterling threw the initial payment on the table and practically bolted out of the door. Odra waited until he was gone before she leaned in close to Garl.

“Sooooo… how much you want to bet that the necklace he’s talking about is worth way, way more than two hundred gold?”

Garl smirked. “Safe bet, since it’s for the governor,” he agreed.

“Goodie. I’ll work on the story about not being able to find it, you’ll back me up with your scary face.”

“And what is my scary face?”

“Your scary face is your face all the time.”

Garl rolled his eyes before grabbing on Odra’s ear and roughly pulling on it.

“OW! Ow, lemme go, I’m sorry! Ouch! You’re gonna make me spill my beer, lemme gooooo!”

Next Chapter

Author's Note: Hello! If you're reading this story and you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging it to share with others. Tips are also appreciated!

[phoenixofthestars]

I made a poll and no one answered for nearly two days straight so I’ve decided I don’t care what you think, you’re getting the lovechild of an undiagnosed autistic goblin and an otherkin fantasy.

I’m making a side blog for it, but I don’t know what the title of the series is yet. For right now, it’ll be @nezhaasel-archives (the blog’s active, but I can’t tag it for some reason, so I’ve reblogged this post with the blog)

[mdpthatsme]

Happy launch day Scarlet Paths!

Earth After a blood ritual goes wrong, Tatiana defends a serpent falsely accused of murdering one of the members of his den. While digging through the case, she uncovers a conspiracy that may lead all the way to the Grand Den. Will the serpents tell the truth to save one of their own, or will Tatiana need the Underground's help to prove her client's innocence? Arda Between a Corrupted blight and civil war, all Vaiden wants is to return to Earth. He's tasked with killing the rebels' leader, but he still hasn't found his mark. When a blood mage destroys a fort, Vaiden races to inform the crown, but what he finds changes everything. Can the kingdom come together to stop the Corrupted, or will they end up killing each other first?

Amazon (ebook and paperback) Barnes & Noble (ebook only)

To my website for all my published works.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

In the Age of Beasts

The Apothecary knows the age of beasts is upon them. A chill seeps into the land and the northern lights creep further and further south. Dancing green and purple light that send messages to those that can read it. Eyes in the dark, howling, music on the breeze that is far too lovely.

Time ticks forward to the same place it has been before. Her grandmother warned them, Father Earth is a restless thing. Releasing things from deep within and rejecting the sleeping. June had been preparing for her whole life.

The Lycanthropes prowled since she was a babe, called by the moon and lost inside themselves. They remember faces, they say, but not “whys” or “hows” or “whos.” Men and women are often found crying over carcasses in the morning light. They beg to be imprisoned or given second chances. Next time, I’ll remember.

The cities build silver gates and hire marksmen to patrol their walls. As the disease spreads, they'll create webs of informants. People will report on neighbors growling at flower beds or itching hairy knuckles.

June doesn’t live in a city. She keeps a large glass jar of scraps. Elbow patches and hair ribbons and a pair of worn slippers. Some of them are from the living. A scrap of apron from the truly charming baker who makes everyone feel like crying, just a bit. Several pleats from the skirts of the cemetary poet. She likes the dead, she says, someone has to. June wonders if she knows how many people write poetry for her.

The school house teacher. The church Gardner. The scruffy man that maintains the swimming hole and plays the fiddle until everyone is dancing. They are all asked for bits and bobs in the hopes it will be the right one, though they know not why.

June counts the fabrics and thinks absently, it would be nice to fall in love. But love is sometimes just a thought, the memory of itself trapped in a hair ribbon.

Whenever the howling shakes the night, June goes outside and ties the scraps to the trees. The wolves circle it. They snuffle and draw close. And, if the summer moon is high and the people are brave, they’ll hand them a shirt or jacket or apron. The wolves are helpless to that. They quiver, then shake, and finally convulse on the ground, turning human again.

Her grandmother always warned her, shooting and slashing and cutting can be impractical. People forgot how a bullet wound will just make them angrier. Summon their kin to howl at your gates.

So they don't shoot their wolves. They give them scraps, pieces of memory, love if you are prone to such words. And June prepares for the next age.

-----

Wolves aren’t the only company in the shifting times. On the nights with no moon, a mist gathers across the land, snaking and slithering between the trunks. If you focus on the shapes too long, they reach out a hand to you. The dead are always cold and they will suck the warmth from your body if you let them. Becoming just another shape in the fog.

Cities are chalk full of priests and nuns carrying pots of incense. Needle-pointed bone daggers and books of dead languages. Children with The Sight are often sent to live with them behind the cathedral walls and raised to stab the misty shapes.

Outside the city, here is only one boy The Sight in their town. June tells Samuel the same thing her grandma taught her. There are more than just whisps.

And the season will tell you many things about ghosts.

Wisps that fall like snow in winter, feed them fire honey from a wooden spoon. Do not follow them under tree branches laden with snow. Figures in the rain splattered with mud in spring, offer them bits of good bread to take home with them. Do not step in their muddy tracks until the rain has ceased.

Heat shimmers from the baking ground, offer them cool cups of water from the spring. Do not stare directly in their eyes or tell them where your . The darkest autumn leaves falling from above, go to their trees and water the roots with cups of warm milk. Do not follow any trails of acorns on the ground.

Her grandma likes the ghosts the very least, June never knows why. Perhaps it’s about grandpa. Grandma Lindy never would answer questions about grandpa, though she may hover by the window and count shapes in the mist.

-----------

Worst of all, there are things beyond beast or man, the openings. Father Earth may let out sickness through the cracks, turning children to wolves. May rejects spirits, making them walk the earth. But the minotaur, those are parts of him.

With so few alive to recall the tales, people often forget minotaur are more than bulls. What do we have to fear from fairy tales of a long-dead empire? We don't live in such places.

But time repeats itself, moving backward as it moves forward. June had seen it herself.

There are many openings to a minotaur lair. A door in a library that wasn’t there before. A warmth breeze from a cellar window– and maybe you might just climb through. A garden path that appears new and smells sweetly.

The minotaur don’t tempt you themselves, but curiosity will. June likes that the very least.

In rumors, they talk of never-ending bookshelves tall enough to entomb. Doorways that lead to only more doors. Garden hedges with no end. A maze in the damp with the sound of lapping waves down below– if only you could reach it and swim out.

The minotaur are creatures of their labyrinth, extensions of it. Paper cranes in the library that are twice as tall as any man and will swallow you whole. Foxes standing on two legs among the garden paths, wearing tailcoats and making promises. Lichen-covered toads in the caves with milky white eyes. And the bull-headed men at every turn, them too.

Her grandma says there is a way to unravel the mazes, a way to solve the foxes riddles or kiss the toad into a princess. June doesn’t believe her. June’s mother was a lantern carrier. She had that knack for cardinal directions and could picture every map in her mind. A young woman came looking for Grandma Lindy, and they find June's mother instead.

Cynthia went out to find a missing child. The days passed. June went out looking too, a silly child at the time. One who wanted to play in the mud more than learn how to collect fabric scraps or study who loved who in town.

The lantern was shattered on the ground. Young then, foolish then, she gathered the shards and begged the nearest wisp to tell her where she went. Where her mother was. The ghost pointed to opening that cracked the earth in two. A new age promised in that dark doorway.

She would have been lost, or turned into a frozen under the ghosts touch, if her grandmother hadn’t swooped in. She picked her up and told her it was time to learn.

Learn June did, when other kids went and skinned their knees, she cracked open every book on mazes. On beasts. On what it all meant. She became an Apothecary.

Since then, June has instructed everyone she meets to carry balls of yarn with them. Or small black kittens with green eyes that could slip between the reality of things and guide you back. Carry a single candle in their pocket soaked in buttermilk. Or a lantern. You could carry a lantern if you know how.

The people in cities, June heard, often disappear without warning. There are rumors, many rumors of doorways. But they don't carry kittens or candles in their pocket or other silly balls of yarn. Besides, what is the point of a city other than to disappear?

----------

On the eve of a new era, one of teeth and hunger, June prepares herself. There is one too question too, she can never seem to answer.

Her mother disappeared, yes. But there was someone else, she never met him. But the people whispered of how he went out looking for a corpse.

June sits across from her grandma, on the eve of another spring. Stars poke through the cloud cover and the lights of the aurora dance at the edges of the sky. “What do you do about the walking dead?”

The dead are trickier than ghosts. It’s not their souls that have been rejected from Father Earth, but their flesh. They do not seek warmth or love. They only wish to eat like for like, flesh for flesh, until they are full.

“What do we do about the walking dead, grandmother? I must know. The lights are growing brighter. Samuel says he hears angels sing in the dawn. They are afraid.” Her eyes grow hard. “This is what I’ve been training for.”

Her grandma blinks her crusted eyes, leaning forward with a groan. “Come child.” She reaches out. “Give me your hand.”

June flattens her skirts and sits next to her grandmother by the stove. Spring thaw had already broken the ground, but they kept the fire roaring.

Her grandmother took June's hand in her own. Her skin is paper and cool to the touch.

“You are a good girl,” she wheezes. “This is your final lesson."

Her eyes go wide. A scent lingers in the air like chill mixed with rot. She had never was very good with The Sight.

June’s voice comes out as a plea, “Why?”

The old woman’s head bows forward. Her hands are shaking–at least, one of them is. “My final lesson.” She lets June’s hand go and pulls out several finger bones. Polishing to shining, they almost glow in the low lights.

"No," she croaks the word. It’s only then, June rubs her eyes and sees the wavering outline of her grandmother’s other hand.

June remembers how Samuel had refused to visit for many weeks now– she thought it was the angels.

Her grandma’s edges begin to smear.

“What have you done?” The horror washes over her in waves, crashing higher and higher, threatening to wash her away. Not again. “Let me get you milk. Honey. Something warm, or, or.”

“You are a sweet girl.” Her grandmother begins to fold into herself. The smell of chill became sharper. How long had she been holding on? “I have raised you to be practical. Like your mother. Shrewder than me too. Greater than your father.”

How can you leave me alone again? June wants to shriek but all that comes out is the cry of a child, a whimper. She curses herself. Her grandma holds on tighter.

“I’ve been good. Won’t you stay?” June wants and wants.

“It’s not about being good,” Grandma Cindy wheezes. “It’s about what you have to give.”

Tears stream down her face, mixing with snot. Where was her mother now?

“Give them rest.” Her grandmother slides the bones into her hand and closes her eyes. She folds inward like a magic trick, disappearing into a wisp. Evaporating, she oozes under the crack under the front door. Perhaps going to join someone who she had given up herself.

How long had this been? And for what? Bones sharpened into points, given freely. Left to protect those that her whole family had left.

Born for this.

The world was changing, as it always did. Father Earth was restless and the age of beasts was upon them. Perhaps it had never left. Time repeats itself. Yet, the young change, for better or worse.

June moves to the city after that.

------------

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the story please consider buying me a coffee, and checking out my Sapphic urban fantasy book 🌸

[gwen-tolios]

My second fantasy anthology is coming out next week!

You can snag a copy from Amazon today if you want. There are 22 stories in this collection, most are fantasy but there are a few other genres (I'm really fond of the SF horror one about humans adopting an alien species). Some of the stories you might have already seen around Tumblr (like Siren Screech) but jazzed up a bit, others are brand new!

Give her a few months, and you'll find her in library systems too.

[savethegrishaverse]

Our next twitter party celebrates the #Fantasy genre, and discusses how our favorite Grishaverse fits into that genre. Let's talk soft magic systems, the Grisha and their small sciences, and what makes fantasy worlds exciting and interesting!

#SaveShadowAndBone and #SixOfCrowsSpinoff TWEETING PARTY 12/12 at 12PM and 8PM EST! At https://twitter.com/savethegrisha/status/1728974702562124078

Remember to:

Only use three hashtags.

Enjoy and be engaging with your tweets! Keep sharing!

Timezones under read more.

If you cannot attend, you can always schedule tweets ahead of time on desktop in order to help out still!

Our Linktree is here, to sign the petition, donate to the Kickstarter, or join the Discord!

1ST PARTY, ALL TIMEZONES:

Tuesday Dec 12: 9am PST 10am MST 11am CST 12pm EST 2pm -03 5pm GMT 6pm CET 8pm MSK 9pm +04 10:30pm IST Wednesday Dec 13: 1am CST 2am JST 4am AEST 6am NZST

2ND PARTY, ALL TIMEZONES: Tuesday Dec 12: 5pm PST 6pm MST 7pm CST 8pm EST 10pm -03 Wednesday Dec 13: 1am GMT 2am CET 4am MSK 5am +04 6:30am IST 9am CST 10am JST 12pm AEST 2pm NZST