#horizons fictive

[umbreonloverspinel]

I find it hilarious how no one trusts canon me

Like yes of course I have a plan

But in system that plan is just make sure Amethio sleeps at some hour and doesn’t spend all day and night worried about a friend who is going through a shitty situation

Also maybe have a host arc

I have a very strong plan

this image just looks like disappointment in myself in this context….

[operating-system8]

I like this song (plz don't repost on Pinterest I want to post it on mine later)

[chppdliver]

I need to stop speed running games I haven't played before. COUGH HORIZON FORBIDDEN WEST

look at her

[fictivecultureis]

fictive culture is the media your source is from being really comforting to the system but also really triggering to part of the system and especially you

[the-crystallized-void]

INTERACTABLE ALTS

These are the alts that are currently fine with/available to be interacted with (subject to change, sorted by category)

Main Hosts-

Blueberry

Coronis

Katsuki Bakugou

Maki O'Hara

Raspberry

Sam/Mr. S

Tenko Shimura

Co-hosts-

Karasu

Floyd Leech

MHA-

Aizawa

Present Mic

Oboro Shirakumo

Denki Kaminari

Eijiro Kirishima

Tomura Shigaraki

Dabi

Himiko Toga

Izuku Midoriya

Hitoshi Shinsou

Hawks

Shoto Todoroki

Natsuo Todoroki

Twice

Villain Shoto

TWST-

Deuce Space

Riddle Rosehearts

Trey Clover

Epel Felmier

Jade Leech

Azul Ashengrotto

Grim

Lilia Vanrouge

Silver

Divus Crewel

Kalim Al-Asim

Leona Kingscholar

Idia Shroud

Ortho Shroud

Undertale/Deltarune (+AUs-

Sans

Papyrus

Gaster

Frisk

Chara

Kris

Fell Sans

Swap Sans/Blue

Swap Papyrus

Error

Geno

Paperjam

Ink

Nightmare

Killer

Horror

Mettaton

Vocaloid/Project Sekai-

Hatsune Miku

Kaito

Len Kagamine

Rin Kagamime

Luka Megurine

Fukase

Oliver

Akito Shinonome

Toya Aoyagi

Rui Kamishiro

Tsukasa Tenma

Sonic-

Tails

Shadow the hedgehog

Silver the hedgehog

Metal Sonic

Persona 5-

Ren Amamiya

Goro Akechi

Futaba Sakura

Ryuji Sakamoto

Ann Takamaki

Yusuke Kitagawa

Obey Me-

Mammon

Leviathan

Beelzebub

Belphegor (don't expect much. He sleepy)

Simeon

Solomon

Barbatos

Sanders Sides-

Virgil

Roman

Logan

Patton

Remus

Janus

Creepypasta/Marble Hornets-

Jeff the killer

Ticci Toby

Brian Thomas/Hoodie

Tim Wright/Masky

Slenderman

Ben Drowned

Helen Otis (aka Bloody Painter)

FNAF-

Glamrock Freddy

Glamrock Bonnie

Nightmare Freddy

Animal Crossing-

Orville

Wilbur

Tom Nook

Minecraft-

Nocte (Enderman)

Ignition (Creeper)

Dismal (Ghast)

Lunos (Warden)

Honkai Star Rail/Genshin Impact:

Boothill

Aventurine

Blade

Dan Heng

Sampo? (We don't know if he's fully formed yet)

Brain alts-

Mirai Aizawa (biological daughter of Shota Aizawa)

Uta Yamada (biological daughter of Present Mic)

Unsei Aizawa-Yamada (adopted daughter of Aizawa and Present Mic)

Itami Takami (younger half-sister of Hawks. Ask for the lore)

Hikage

Mikuyumi (pokémon trainer, daughter of Professor Kukui)

Miyuki (pokémon trainer, daughter of Giovanni)

Naomi (pokémon trainer, daughter of Chairman Rose)

Ebony (ghost of Lavender Town)

Orthrukon

Zulrynth

Vanilla (red panda animatronic, likely associated with Security Breach)

Akuma (essentially the TWST MC)

Devi Crewel (Divus Crewel's daughter, has permission to stay in Heartslaybul)

Hattrene Maddaroni (twisted on the Mad Hatter, snuck into Heartslaybul and started hosting tea parties)

Sage (white lioness, Leona's childhood friend, hangs out in Savanaclaw)

Luna Illumoise (moon jellyfish mermaid, was allowed into NRC due to Azul paying off Crowley, member of Octavinelle)

Risha Al-Babgaa (usually shapeshifts into a parrot and either hides in Scarabia or perches on Jamil's or Kalim's shoulder)

Ashlynn Vargas (daughter of Ashton Vargas, was told to stay in Pomefiore due to Ashton not trusting any of the other boys around his daughter)

Pandora (coder/programmer, hides in Ignihyde to get away from everyone)

Raven Crowley (daughter of Dire Crowley, only allowed to attend NRC because of that, was placed in Diasomnia)

Aine

Matsuba Zankoku

Seren Grimm

[forevertotheeventhorizon]

Why the fuck did humans name their planet dirt. All the other planets in this solar system are named after their gods or other legends, and then there’s just dirt. I am so disappointed.

[findthebae]

kind of a long shot... but i'm a fictive of beta from horizon forbidden west looking for any of the gaia gang (is that the official name?), especially aloy and varl. (no doubles, please.) i don't have any memories of my time with the zeniths, but i have everything else, and it's all relatively canon compliant/compatible. if you want i, can dm you our discord.

! ! !

[chronicreativity]

masterlist of places to submit creative writing

it's intimidating thinking about submitting your precious work to judgement, but all the rejections are worth it when you finally get that one glowing acceptance email that puts your anxieties and impostor syndrome to bed. but where do you submit? it can be incredibly overwhelming trying to find the right sites/journals/zines to submit to so i thought i'd create a little collection of places i have found to submit to and i will update it whenever i find new discoveries.

PROSE ONLY

The Fiction Desk

They consider stories between 1k words and 10k words, paying 25 GBP per thousand words for stories they publish and contributors receive two complimentary paperback copies of the anthology. (A submission fee of 5 GBP for stories which sucks)

Extra Teeth

Works of fiction and creative nonfiction between 800 and 4,000 words receive a 140 GBP payment upon publication in the magazine as well as two copies that feature your work. If your work is selected to published online, you get 100 GBP instead. A Scottish based publication that also offers mentorships to budding writers. (Free)

Clarkesworld

Fantasy and sci-fi magazine accepting submissions of fiction from 1k to 22k words, paying 14 cent per word. Make sure you read their submissions page carefully, it gives you a good idea of what they're looking for and what will get you one of those disheartening rejection emails. (Free)

Granta

Open to unsolicited submissions of fiction and non-fiction. Unfortunately they do charge a 3.50 GBP fee for prose submissions, but they do offer 200 free submissions during every opening period (1 March - 31 March, 1 June - 30 June, 1 September - 30 September, 1 December - 31 December) to low income authors. No set minimum or maximum length, but most accepted works fall within 3,000 and 6,000 words.

Indie Bites

A fantasy short fiction publisher looking for clever hooks, strong characters and interesting takes on their issues' themes. Submissions should be no longer than 7,500 words. You get an honorarium of 5 GBP for each piece of yours that they publish - it's not much, but yay money! (Free)

Big Fiction

Novella publishers (7,500-20,000 words) looking for self-contained works of fiction that play with things like the linearity of narratives, perspective, structure and language. (Free)

Strange Horizons

Employing a broad definition of speculative fiction, they offer 10 cents a word for spec fiction up to 10,000 words but preferably around 5,000. (Free)

Fantasy and Science Fiction

They publish fiction up to 25,000 words in length, offering 8-12 cents per word upon publishing. (Free)

Fictive Dream

Short stories from 500 words to 2,500. They want writing with a contemporary feel that explores the human condition. (Free)

POETRY AND PROSE

eunoia review

Up to 10 poems in a single attachment, up to 15,000 words of fiction and creative non-fiction (can be multiple submissions amounting to that or a single piece). It's free to submit to, and they respond in 24 hours (I can vouch for that).

Confingo Magazine

Stories up to 5,000 words of any genre and poems (a max of three) up to 50 lines. Free to submit to and offer a 30 GBP payment to authors whose work is accepted.

Grain Magazine

Another Canadian based publication also supportive of marginalised identities. They accept poems (max. of six pages), fiction (max. of 3,500 words) or three flash fiction works that total 3.5k, literary nonfiction (3,500 words) and queries for works of other forms. All contributors are paid 50 CAD per page to a max of 250. Authors outside of Canada will need to pay a 5 CAD reading fee but they do offer a limited number of fee waivers if this impacts your ability to submit.

BTWN

An up-and-coming lit mag looking for diverse works that play with genres, breaks the rules and is a little weird. They want what typical lit mags reject. Stories up to 7,000 words, non-fiction up to 7,000 words and up to 4 poems totalling no more than 10 pages, hybrid work, comics/graphics up to 5 pages, original periodicals up to 14,000 words of prose or 20 pages of poetry. (Free)

Gutter

Accepting submission in spring and autumn work that challenges, re-imagines or undermines the status quo and pushes at the boundaries of form and function. If your contribution is chosen, you get 30 GBP for your work as well as a complimentary copy of the issue. Up to three poems (no more than 100 lines), fiction and essays (up to 2,500 words)

Whisk(e)y Tit

This one's worth checking out just for their logo. They're looking for fiction whether it's short stories, flash fiction or novel excerpts up to 7,000 words, up to 5 poems, up to 7,000 word essays, screenplays and stage plays (can be full works or excerpts up to 20 pages). (Free)

FOR QUEER AND MARGINALISED WRITERS

Plenitude magazine

A queer-focused Canadian literary magazine accepting poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction. They define queer literature as create by queer people. (Free)

Lavender Review

Poetry written by and for lesbians. An annual Sappho's Prize in Poetry takes place every October. (Free)

AC|DC

"A journal for the bent", always open for submissions from queer writers of all experience levels. They lean towards dark and raw writing but are open to everything as long as it's not over 3,000 words. (Free)

Sinister Wisdom

A literary and art journal for lesbians of every background. They accept poetry (up to 5), two short stories or essays OR one longer piece (not exceeding 5,000 words), as well as book reviews (these must be pitched before they are submitted, (Free)

Queerlings

Open annually from Jan 1st to March 31st they publish short stories of any genre (up to 2,000 words), flash fiction/hybrid work (500 words), poetry (up to 3 poems per submission with a 20 line maximum on each) and creative non-fiction (2,000 words) written by queer writers. (Free)

underdog lit mag

Based in the UK, they focus on amplifying emerging and underrepresented writers. If you're female, POC, LGBTQ+, working-class or all of the above with a story of 100-3,500 words that fits their flavour of the month (the last flavour was Magical Realism) send it their way! (Free)

fourteen poems

London-based poetry publishers looking for the most exciting queer poets. You can send up to five emails to them within their deadlines and you get 25 GBP for every poem published.

Froglifter Journal

A press publishing the most dynamic and urgent queer writing. Poets send in 3 to 5 poems (max. 5 pages), writers send in up to 7,500 words of fiction or non-fiction or three flash fiction pieces, and cross-genre creators send in up to 20 pages within the submission windows March 1 to May 1 and September 1 to November 1. (Free)

OTHER SOURCES

Short Stories: X | X | X

Poetry: X

[fictivecultureis]

Relationship status: taken <3

Favourite colour: yellow

Favourite food: changes constantly (though the alter in co-con wants me to say gingerbread + chocolate milk)

Song currently stuck in head: Christmas Kids by Roar

Last thing googled: Kyle Fuga: melodies of steel (..but..the tab was open on a picture of boron. So. What.)

Time: 1:55 PM

Dream trip: Australia

Something I want: access to headspace goddamnit. Also to see my bf irl, that’d be awesome.

Someone we follow and frequently submit asks to is aware of our existence- what- (I’m so excited about this, I have no idea why.)

@number1villainstan @bigironsystem

tag 10 people you want to get to know better (I started a new post cuz the other one was long haha)

I was tagged by: @geckosquid

Relationship status: In a relationship :3c

Favorite color: blue

Favorite food: Caesar Salad or my twins spicy Mac and Cheese

Song currently stuck in my head: The Kids Aren't Alright (my friend watched FOB in concert the other day and this was their 8ball song)

Last thing I Googled: Tales of Xillia 2 protag name

Time: 11:19 AM

Dream trip: I'm a basic bitch so Japan, but also I'd like to go to like the Great Lakes, Washington, New Zealand, or Alaska

Something I want: A ceramic wheel

People I’m tagging: @vidramon @stuckinthewrongworld @i-can-kazoo @inkycorvid @mewi-or-lara @subtleshenanigans @sanitys-rebellion @mewnia @yasmeensh @marenwithanm

[chantsdemarins]

New Fic: Breath of the Æsir ⚔︎🏰 (Loki X Reader)

Formally (Collapsing in the Arms of Chaos) I changed the name. 😬 I know Medieval stories aren't everyone's fav but heck, I hope you like it! It has been brewing in the coffee pot that is in my head for over a year. I feel slightly self-conscious that after my first time with COVID, my brain is not the same. I hope I still have my ability to write! My last story published a few weeks ago was written while I was falling ill and I know it wasn't my best!

Thank you for reading!! If you want to comment I would be so happy and reblogs are like the most precious thing to me. All art is mine, it's a Photoshop-crazed situation.

Summary: Disenchanted with the Danes' misuse of Norse gods to sanction their brutality, Loki finds himself ostracized. Stripped of his divine powers and bearing a severe injury, he wanders into the realm of the conquered. By a twist of fate, he arrives at your manor, where you await your husband's return. However, destiny has other plans.

Warnings: Blood.

Words: 2,471

Smut rating: Not yet...but there sure will be!

Posting schedule: Every Saturday! I am going to stick to this!

Chapter 1 The Embroidery of Destiny Chapter 2 The Stranger Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

@lokis-little-fawn @lcolumbia1988 @thesoftboiledegg @anukulee @mochie85 @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @nildespirandum @caffiend-queen @mochie85 @maple-seed @mischief2sarawr @kikster606 @thedistractedagglomeration @glitchquake@simplyholl @holdmytesseract @holymultiplefandomsbatman @wheredafandomat @fictive-sl0th @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @muddyorbs @vickie5446 @trickster-maiden @grymrayven

Before your family settled again, you had been travelers, moving from one darkened patch of earth to the next. Soil on your boots muddied your paths, creating difficulties in finding a home. There were many things to see, some horrors, some things magical and unfounded. Shapes shifted in the forest where you camped at night. One day your father showed you where they lowered men into the bogs, decorated with bronze. These were not the ways of your people. They did not worship like that. It might have been too much for you to know where some ended up when they were no longer living, not in graves or on pyres. Something else.

By the time you reached the northern lands, your family had negotiated your belongings down to just what the pallid horses could carry. Your croft was built into the very earth you had struggled to cross, with bedrooms burrowed into the side of a hill. It was not built for so much rain. Buckets and sluices were not enough to keep out the floods.

So, when your husband came to marry you, you packed your things neatly, placed them in a pack, and left your parents’ home without drawing a breath. You walked a distance far greater than any you had as a child to his family's land, your new home. The way your family had negotiated the marriage remained a blind spot in your mind. You couldn't fathom it. From a croft to a manor.

Over time, nothing in your marriage seemed to flourish. The land, though beautiful, yielded nothing you sowed. Too sandy or too chelated, perhaps unfortunate timing. You became a wife in the loneliest ways. No spinning of yarn would produce a cloth finer than the wool you began with. Hours of practice composing embroidery resulted in nothing more than half completed sea escarpments, knots, and birds with no flight.

The elegant window that surveyed the tenants' labors only deepened your isolation. They carried on with their duties, and you retired to your quarters, curtains drawn. The chill from your childhood followed you here. The stone walls held a dampness no fire could dispel. You knew somewhere across the hills where your parents still sleeping too close to the earth. Rooms still flooded. Though your loyalty never wavered, even as your husband wandered afar, absent for days at a time, his pursuits as obscure as the horizon beyond your room filled with half-finished tasks.

In kindness or disappointment, he had ensured your education extended beyond your lowly beginnings. Through travels and courtly audiences, barons and other titled men and women recounted their lives' poetry over each glass of mead or wine. You listened for moments when they forgot their lines, most days this was more interesting than their images they wanted you to see.

Although had you not met Isolde of Easting, you would not have thought to plant the spiky yellow gorse along the manor's borders. When the proper conversation waned, you had discovered the titled people still spun tales of their lands. The places they had come or been uprooted from. In the best conversations, you gleaned knowledge of the plants, herbs, and tokens from the first peoples, their ways overshadowed by the new cultures but nonetheless seeming to flow from them to you during the quieter moments—the men away hunting, the embroidery thread running low, the teapot empty. These things were spoken of in hushed tones so the servants would not get ideas.

You spoke of the hawthorn tree, the ravens' work, the swords warriors cast into the cold estuary, found along all the lakes' shores. The Roman merchants who brought tales of Jesus and his cross. The god Woden came from the Angles, and Odin, from the North. Their wars and bloodshed filled the spaces between village homes and now the courts. If asked if you prayed to the Christian god, you couldn't say. You longed to speak of the place where they lowered men into the bogs, the place your father once showed you. Later, in the quiet of your room, you would pull out a relic from beneath the blankets in your chest, and it would look unrecognizable. It once held meaning, but that meaning didn't travel with it.

Sometimes when you were awake much too early, the nightingales still singing, you would dip your quill into the small pot of black soot. You would unroll a small piece of parchment, discarded by the cooks, and write down your dreams. Which had room in your sleep since they were so often unimpeded by the presence of your husband. You wrote in the lais of the Frankish people, counting eight sounds to the line, braiding your dreams with your words.

Had I found a small shell, not rope I would have held it to my ear The ocean's song would have come to me Instead, I was swallowed wholly

This was how things proceeded until the day they did not.

As you came to learn, in the void and closeness of life, nothing is reliable enough to expect its continuation the next day. You should allow for change to slip through the crevices of even the dampest chambers. It just had not happened in so long you almost did not recognize it when something remarkable unfolded at your manor.

On this day, as you sipped your tea, with half-finished yards of cloth draped across your lap, and the unopened book of hours on the small, worn table, your gaze was fixed on the wind billowing the emerald curtains—silk from an era long past, traded by hands unknown. Like much of the decor in the manor, these were vestiges of your husband's family's trade in finery, symbols of their stature akin to that of minor kings.

Elinor, your companion for the last 10 years, rapped on your door abruptly, breaking your contemplative gaze.

“My lady, please excuse me,” she croaked, as the door opened before you could arrange a pretext to delay her entry.

“What is it, Elinor?” you asked, not wishing to dwell on the trivialities of the manor that day. Clearing her throat, she reported urgently of a man in a bad way, injured and lying on the steps. She hastened to your window, the portal to the land beyond your manor, and pointed to the makeshift courtyard where a man lay seemingly lifeless if not for the faint moan you heard.

“Why have you not sought my husband or some other man of decisions?” you questioned with a twinge of fear edging into your refuge of solitude.

“Lady, your husband has traveled beyond into the land of the Scots, and the aldermen are not present either,” she informed you.

“A household of women only, then? How did I overlook such an event?” you pondered.

“Lady, you are often engrossed in your own pursuits within these walls. How could you have noticed your husband's departure?” Elinor reasoned, her words not easing the panic now fully upon you. The thought that your husband had left you unprotected added another layer of anguish.

“At such a time, Elinor, how shall we defend ourselves?” you barely articulated.

“I suspect he gave little thought to the matter,” Elinor replied, her head bowed even lower than her subdued voice.

“Then it falls to me to act in their absence,” you reasoned. Not wanting this conflict or the talk that may ensue you knew you must act quickly. This man perhaps knew your husband, or perhaps it was only a small political scuffle that may have resulted in his injuries. You thought of the many reasons he could have ended up at the steps of your manor of this day. None of them added up entirely.

As you navigated the long, narrow corridors, your thin morning jacket provided little relief from the chill as Elinor aided you with the heavy door. You both stood in awe of the man at your feet. Having seen men before, chiefly your husband. This man’s appearance was now shocking at close view. He was unlike your husband in all ways you could imagine.

“Holy Jesus save us,” Elinor yelled through her missing teeth.

“He will not assist with this, Elinor,” you responded, your eyes surveying the severe wound from his stomach to his chest, the dark blood pooling around his lean form.

The man’s hair was a shade darker than the darkest night. Had night possessed more depth, it would resemble the hue of his locks. His attire suggested nobility, which only intensified the chill you felt. He had clearly been bested in whatever skirmish he had come from, and with no healer at hand, it seemed likely that a burial might soon follow—until his eyes fluttered open.

A striking blue that drew your own darker gaze, hinting at his foreign language or origins. His hand reached out feebly before falling back to his side.

He whispered faintly, “Ásjá.”

“He's alive!” you declared, as if the statement itself could reverse his fate.

“Yes, lady, he lives, I told you. Now what shall we do?” Elinor asked, concern evident in her voice.

“We save him. It is the right thing to do,” you answered.

“But without a healer, we risk much by sheltering him,” Elinor’s voice trembled.

“Then we shall tend to his needs ourselves,” you declared, your courage unusual, unfounded, drawn from the same well that had seen men saved from death at a distance. An instinct came over you. You directed Elinor to gather wood, cloth, herbs, and other necessities that seemed more from your imagination than any practical experience. You quickly cut away his clothes, exposing the dire wound more fully.

“Lady, he may not survive this,” Elinor observed with a somber tone. The unhinged flesh flapping against the seemingly unended torrent of blood emerging from him. How could there be so much blood.

“Silence, Elinor,” you hushed her. Your hands, though failed in the art of tapestry, were adept with needle and thread. So much failure had given you courage.

“We must stem the bleeding before we can stitch him up,” you instructed, asking for a branch from the fire.

“Lady, you cannot—” Elinor began, but you had already pressed the smoldering wood to the wound. The man awoke suddenly, thrashing in pain.

“Hold him down!” you ordered. Elinor, small but determined, restrained his arms.

You envisioned repairing his injury as if it were the "Galley of the Titan’s Moons," a rare piece of embroidery from the northern lands.

“I shall map the night sky upon your body, sir,” you said, speaking into the silence as he drifted further from this world. You sensed the ancestors gather, ready to welcome him, but you were not ready to let him go.

“No, not yet” you whispered, a soft rebuke to the invisible presence.

Elinor looked at you, puzzled. To whom were you speaking?

You were determined. This man would not die. Though you had sent for a proper healer, your task was to keep him alive until they arrived, hoping they would be sober enough to be of use. Much worse would be a drunk priest should your help not find any healer available.

It was not until you had finished suturing his wound that you noticed how his body appeared in the dim light of the great room. Your loneliness resonated with the landscape of his injury. It was a peculiar reaction, but there was something else broken within this man, beyond the sword wound. It was something familiar to your own. You held you own stomach for a moment, it felt as if you were the one almost slain, not him.

Eventually, his bleeding ceased, and the healer arrived, tended to him with poultices and what looked like grain spirits. You wrapped your furs around his sleeping form. He did not pass away. The stranger in your home survived. You had been told he might still not make the night. You watched him for as long as your eyes could. His faint inhalations mirrored in your own. But the exhaustion took over, and before you could retreat to your own chamber, you found yourself lying at his side.

“How improper, Lady!” Elinor’s voice pierced the quiet as dawn crept in and your eyes, heavy with sleep, opened. You hadn’t realized you had fallen asleep beside the stranger. Startled, you rose, wrapping a blanket around yourself. Quickly finding a reason that you had slept at his side.

“He remains unconscious, Elinor. The healer was unsure if he would wake,” you confided in the servant who had been by your side for so many years. She looked briefly placated. Yet you knew her mind was racing. The healer would tell the burgh folk of this strange man. Your husband was nowhere to be known. Northman had recently been subdued with heavy piles of church silver, and that arrangement was delicate at best. They would be back and this time they would perhaps sack the village since you knew the last of the silver had been promised away to visiting bishops and clergy. The wealth had run its course.

“He must stay until he awakens, until he can speak for himself,” you quickly decided.

It was better to know who he was. He would surely tell you since you saved his life.

“But what if he is a demon, my lady? Have you considered that he may have come from Hell to bring us further misfortune?” Elinor ventured, instantly regretting her words as her face contorted with shame.

“I apologize. I did not mean to imply you are cursed,” she hastily added.

You felt pity for Elinor, she was not as traveled as you had become. Had not the stories you knew, but you also could not see beyond, you had no way to know if it was safe to keep him with you. If your husband should arrive back, there would be no way to convince him that this man had not abused you in some way, but you did know something of him. There was something you did recognize.

“This man is no curse, no demon,” you affirmed, your gaze fixed on his hair, as dark as the ink with which you wrote.

“How can you be certain?” she queried.

“He spoke in the old tongue, asking for aid. Did you not hear him, Elinor?” you questioned, your voice steady.

The woman stepped back, tossing another log onto the fire, her confusion apparent. “I did not recognize the language, nor do I understand how you did,” she admitted.

The language was familiar to you, it was the tongue of your people from so long ago. From the place of your birth. The place that was destroyed till there was nothing but darkness.

Chapter 2 below!

[deathlesssaints]

DEAR LITTLE BIRD

inspiration : gossip girl pour les secrets. outer banks pour le côté nuits d'été avec les potes.

Le soleil brûle les épaules des rêveurs, tandis que les rires des insouciants résonnent dans les rues animées. L'océan attire ceux qui cherchent l’évasion, tandis que les vans caressent le macadam brûlant, en quête de nouveaux horizons. Tout semble paisible, idyllique, comme si le bonheur avait trouvé refuge ici-bas.

Mais, au creux de cette prétendue sérénité, Gossip susurre son venin. Aucun secret ne résiste à l’œil aiguisé de l’inconnue, celle que personne ne connaît mais dont tout le monde parle. Et pourtant, les habitants refusent de se laisser abattre. Chaque jour est une célébration. Malheurs et bonheurs s’entrelacent, et la vie continue, vibrante et imparfaite, au rythme de ce paysage aux allures éternelles.

Informations supplémentaires

Dear Little Bird est un forum qui se joue sur Twitter. La mise en main est simple et rapide. L'administratif se fait sur Discord! La ville de Crestbird est une ville fictive, entre le petit patelin et la grande ville, c'est un coin bien connu et réputé sans avoir l'allure des grandes capitales ou encore les villes populaires. Tout est fait pour que chacun.e y trouve sa place ! Le forum est ouvert depuis longtemps, a connu des changements au niveau de l'administration, de la ville, du contexte, mais le forum tient bon et reste vivant. On vous le présente aujourd'hui dans l'espoir que certain.es d'entre vous craqueront, même si nous savons très bien que la manière alternative aux forums dits "classiques" peut être intimidante ! Mais promis, membres comme administratrices, seront là pour vous guider à travers vos découvertes. ♡ Pour nous rejoindre, c'est ici : DISCORD DLB

Vous pouvez aussi venir me voir en DM si vous avez besoin de plus d'explications ou si vous avez des questions dans l'ensemble. Je suis à 100% disponible pour vous répondre et vous aider ♡

[fictivecultureis]

Ok I’m explaining the system to my bf and he’s so cute I can’t even

[fictive-culture]

fictive culture is not understanding other older people in our system complaining that food kinda sucks nowadays because i haven't eaten this well and had so many good food options in like. ever i think

- an Aloy (horizon zero dawn) fictive

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[spoogster]

Tobias.

(This is literally just rambling, please don't get mad for any of this. Hes literally me (Im a fictive, but talking from a viewer point of view))

Headcanons and what not.

-Doesn't work for slenderman. Never wanted to. It was Slenders mind control, his heavy influence. The people he killed? Not as many as you think. But the people he did kill, it wasn't his fault.

-Hates Slenderman. Like absolutely despises him. The only thing Slender was good for was giving him a place to stay, even if it wasn't much.

-Slender mansion? Slender manor? No. Abandoned campsite? Log cabins in the woods? Yes. He shares a cabin with Cody (X-virus), and Jeff used to be there until he got kicked out (literally) for trying to cut a smile into Cody and Tobys masks and faces. They got Liu to replace Jeff.

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-Decent friends with: Cody (has to because they live together), Nina (she likes him more than he likes her but its okay), Natalie (they've always been chill), Liu (they're buddies, not like besties, but still friends), Helen (they do art together), Kate (guitar + mission buddies).

-Meh: E. J (has helped Toby recover(multiple times)), any of the animals (some of them bark too loud(one tried to bite his finger off)), Ben Drowned (gaming buddies), Jane (shes nice but doesn't really talk to him), Puppeteer (from their very few interactions, he's alright), Sally (forces him to have teapartys, though sometimes he enjoys it).

-Get away respectfully: Jeff (many reasons), Nurse Ann (shes pretty but too tall and scary seeming), Smile hd pinkie pie (sometimes fun but a little too murderous for him), Splendorman (a bit obnoxious sometimes).

-Get away. Like now.: 0ff3nd3rman (uhmm), Slenderman (ruined his life), Sully (no), Laughing Jack + Jill (too loud, annoying, jack gave him poisoned candy one time).

-No opinion: Sonic. Exe, BEN, Dina, Trendorman, Candypop, Jason, Lulu.

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-Music taste is The Front Bottoms, Mindless Self Indulgence, System Of A Down, Panic! At The Disco, Get Scared, Bring Me The Horizon, Greenday, Blink 182, Lincoln, Three Days Grace, My Chemical Romance, Pierce The Veil, Lovejoy, TV Girl, Mitski.

-Clothing is usually whatever he has that still fits him. Some of it is from an emo era he went through and is still in. So like, band t-shirts, studded belts, raccon tail clips, chains, ect. But sometimes he goes for more casual which is usually sweaters and baggy pants.

-Appearance. He had a fringe at one point but grew it out. Never cuts his hair, so it gets in his way a lot (ponytail is the solution). Curly hair but straightens it a lot of the time. Piercings galore. Hazel eyes ((note: sometimes I give him heterochromia cause it's cool)). Pale skin but not like the original Toby kind of pale. Has always been tall for his age but stopped growing around 18-19 because he was going through a tough time and food was hard to come by, he was too scared to steal, the food Slender gave him could have been poisoned, who knows? So hes left as about 5'10-5'11. Hes pretty thin but is slowly building muscle as time goes on. Has some chub in the stomach but he isnt too worried about it.

-His mask is made of a thick fabric on the outside and has metal bars on the front of the mask to almost represent a mussel (canon).

-Doesnt actually like turtlenecks, they make his neck feel trapped and weird. But he wears them anyways because they hide his proxy symbol that was permanently engraved in his skin (by Slender).

-Fingerless gloves? Yessir. They help cover his scared hands. As well as they just look cool. And whenever he kills someone it's less likely he'll get his dna on the body.

-Raccoon person. Collects things he finds that others would consider trash. Like pop tabs, broken glass pieces, shiny things, rocks, ect. Messy hair. Just like his personality gives off raccon.

-Cheek gash is because he chewed the inside of his cheek so much that the skin tore. And he didn't really care so the hole kept getting bigger until eventually he got himself to stop chewing it. But now the gash is too big to heal.

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-Has a couple guitars that he stole from music shops. The only one he didn't steal was one he got When he was first taken in. Slender gave it to him as "something to do" when he's bored. At first he didn't want it and never touched it. But he soon realised that it was really boring there. He tries to forget that Slender gave it to him. It's really beaten now, has worn down spots, and a bit of old blood dried onto the wood near the bottom of the strings because he strums too hard.

-Acoustic guitar: The really old musty beaten up one that Slender gave him. Almost turquoise in colour. Electric guitar: Black guitar that almost looks like something a rock star would have. Also kind of old. Doesn't use that one as much.

-Likes singing but gets nervous around people that arent in his cabin or Nat.

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-Likes cuddles, hand kisses (platonically), head pats and pets, people playing with his hair. But he doesn't like asking for it because he finds it embarrassing.

-Not as childish as people think. Just clingy to people he enjoys.

-Drawing is something he really enjoys doing if he's not playing the guitar. He'll draw people from the other cabins, characters from movies and shows he likes, and even characters from the Slenderverse. Not really that good at drawing anything else.

-Always too nervous to show people his drawings or things he likes.

-Doesn't like being called "Ticci" Toby. He never liked it. Will probably get mad if you call him it more than once.

-Has terrible memory. Not even from Slenderman, he's just always had bad memory, and Slender didnt help at all. He will probably to get basic things like birthdays or people, even his own sometimes.

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-Has never met anyone from the Slenderverse. But wants to.

-Feels bad for the others affected by Slender and the Slender sickness. But also enjoys the series. Even if the people go through literal hell.

-Would like to meet:

Tim, Brian, and Skully

Evan, Steph, and Jeff

Patrick and Michael

Chris

Milo/Mr scars and the Observer

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-Things hes interested in include other muderers, weapons (has a journal for writing the information), horror (analog horror + args), music, art.

-He really enjoys watching the old slasher movies and he probably has them for cd and vhs. But also enjoys Tim burton movies. As well as Spider-man movies and series.

-As for shows. South Park (enjoys the humour), Superstore (enjoys the humour), and just any paranormal show (finds it interesting).

-His favourite weapon (axe) is a Tactical Axe or more widely known as a Tactical Tomakawk Axe. But theyre too expensive for him too buy. There was one time where he stole one. But someone from another cabin stole it and he hasnt gotten it back.

-Food. He likes pizza, usually cheese or pepperoni (or cheese with black olives, tehe). Also enjoys fruit, like watermelon, baby grapes, apples (galas or green apples), and pineapple.

-Smoking? Vape? Drugs? No. Alcohol? Sometimes. Its just for a relief sometimes or cause he needed it. But he's not an alcoholic and never will be.

-Knows how to use bow and arrow

(Im probably gonna hate this in like a day or two so yeah)

[forevertotheeventhorizon]

Gonna decorate our Christmas tree today and just realized I can’t fly to hang ordaments anymore. Now I’m sad :(

[nexus-nebulae]

rost, wandering near front: *smells the buffalo wings we ordered* what is that

beta: it's Old World food!

rost:

rost: that's food?