#make it some kind of high fantasy medieval thing

[coopbella]

premise: the suburbs by arcade fire

main character: social climb by i don't know how but they found me main conflict: pale white horse by the oh hellos vibes: a convocation of fauns (a faunvocation, if you will) by the oh hellos ending: remember my name by mitski

music (fanfiction) writing challenge!!

use your music taste to write a fanfiction or any story in this challenge!

first open your music app of choice and make sure your playlist is on shuffle -- then the first 5 songs that pop up will determine your:

Premise -- What your story is going to be about in the first place. What is going to be the main "selling point" of the story that sets it apart from the rest.

Main character -- Your main character's personality or inner struggle.

Main conflict -- The main conflict that drives your story and becomes an obstacle for your main character.

Vibes -- Is this going to be a light-hearted story? Angsty? Romantic? Whatever matches the vibe of the song.

Ending -- How this story is going to end.

yes, this is very vague, but that is the point! this can give you some ideas of what to write while also leaving plenty of room to be creative. feel free to switch up what songs represent what or even shuffle them a couple more times!

[local-diavolo-anon]

i'm back!

ok so 2/3 days ago i found this youtube video where op turned Springtrap (or well, William Afton) into a fully build DnD character, and if i say so myself: things got out of hand fast

so here is my take on DnD Springtrap and specifically on that build (adding more infos under the cut for who is interested, i suggest to watch the video first)

starting with saying that unless you're playing in a scifi setting, this build is either not for you or to be modified, since in later levels spells are heavily centered around technomagic and electronic devices; personally when i will play him i will probably tinker around with the chosen spells and cantrips to make him less violently niche and/or more versatile

which kinda saddens me because it takes away not little of the characterization but, given most dnd stories take place in a medieval fantasy or high fantasy setting, a cantrip like On/Off or a spell like Remote Access are NOT particularly useful; so i will go for more psychic damage or necromancy oriented abilities, maybe i might take more than just 4 levels in artificier as well (especially given that again, all of those warlock spells at later levels are all technology oriented) but i need to see what those offer

however it is a kinda tank-y build given that with a shield on you can get up to a 27 of Ac, so even with low damage and not much hp you would not struggle too much to stay alive, and i like that!

as for the character himself, i put too much effort into my interpretation not to share it, so if anyone wants to play this guy as well, i fabricated a possible backstory that might come useful:

The character goes by the name "Dave Miller" (or whatever variant you want to use), and was originally a human artificier who created constructs for a living, mainly with the goal of offering aid to who needed it for whatever reason.

There however he ran into an issue, that being that a robot need a power source, and his own heart and lungs could not sustain a whole robot by themselves.

After losing part of his family to some kind of accident he became terrified of death, so with age he started replacing his own body parts with machinery to delay his last days (which made him a cyborg), until the point where he was very very close to become just a robot.

(This part may or may not involve a pact with a deity of death, this entirely depends on how you want to play him but it would make sense since the build is an artificier/warlock hybrid)

Through particular and very much not illegal experiments tied to necromancy he discovered that the life force of a living being could be shared, and used as a form of fuel. (possibly: age lived of the creature used= amount of extra months you get)

Here comes the second problem: this only worked with intelligent creatures, and more specifically, it worked best with creatures of your own race, which meant that he either went around murdering people or he found another solution. Non same-race creatures worked as well but not as good and there were not easy to find in the middle of a city and with a shop tied to your name.

And here is where and WHY he'd join a party of adventurers: after some time, his reserves or fuel were running VERY thin, and running into a group of adventurers was a god sent because by joining their party he essentially got a free pass to kill whoever he wanted, and reduce them to a dried raisin after sucking some life force out of them. Doing so you learn that the mowe powerful the creature is, the more energy it produces as well.

Your goal, that you as the player are following, when role-ing your character? essentially slay whatever powerful BBEG your Dm throws at you and suck all of that juicy fuel out of them, so that you can return to your little shop in the middle of the capital and return to create and sell whatever weird construct, doll, or robot comes to your mind for another few decades undisturbed.

And this is it. I think this might be a good backstory that could fit pretty much any setting you want to play this guy into, be it classic dnd or some scifi futuristic thing.

of course you don't NEED to use this one line per line, make up your own without looking back if you don't like it lol, dnd is the "make up shit and have fun" game after all!

Edit: also no his outfit makes no sense, i just went with vibes and decided a tanktop dress shirt, a twin tailed gilet and suspenders OVER said gilet was a good choice.

[prokopetz]

Do you ever have a passive gripe with the way trade is represented in medieval/sci-fi/post-apocalyptic fiction? I can't shake the feeling that those are societies that have moved beyond the need for abstract currency - that such forms of trade are more a concession for the viewer to analogize trade to our world instead of offering some kind of unique barter for a world.

A medieval peasant isn't gonna want gold coins for jack because the next trade caravan is two seasons away, they'd much rather a useful tool or some extra fertilizer. Credits in science fiction universes can become worthless due to Future™️ hackers setting their bank accounts to extraordinarily high values, so extra parts for firearms and spaceships are much more useful. Caps in Fallout just make no sense in a world where food and water are few and far between!

I feel unreasonably grumpy about this and I wanted to know if you have any kind of insight to this kind of thing.

There are a couple of only partly related problems here:

1. The idea that the economies of most sci-fi and fantasy settings, as depicted, don't make any sense. This is absolutely true, because most science fiction and fantasy authors don't really think about that sort of thing – their settings only have economies to the extent that the details of those economies are relevant to the plot, which they usually aren't.

2. The idea that it doesn't make sense for currency to exist in these settings because most of them logically ought to have barter economies. The trouble with this assertion is that there's no such thing as a barter economy. Yes, you can describe what one would look like, but no civilisation which has ever actually existed has operated in this fashion. It's a made-up idea – at best, a spherical-cow approximation of how the exchange of goods and services operates in a stateless society, and at worst, complete bullshit.

Consequently, whether or not it makes sense for anything like currency to exist is going to depend on the particulars of how the setting's economy operates (i.e., all the details that that are getting glossed over in point 1, above). About the most we can say in nearly all cases is that we simply don't have enough information about a given fantasy or sci-fi setting's economic structure to know whether it makes sense to have currency or not; we can't just assume in the absence of further details that things will default to a barter economy, because – again – there's no such animal.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

So, Wizarding Robes

I saw this post by @iamnmbr3 and @kittenjammer talking about wizarding fashion and I wanted to talk about this for a while, so I'm going to give my own two cents on it based on fashion history. I love history in general, but fashion history and historical architecture are two I’m incredibly passionate about. So, here we go (post with a lot of pictures ahead):

When I read the books and they mentioned unisex “robes” which function like dresses in a way (as you don’t have to be wearing trousers beneath them:

James whirled about; a second flash of light later, Snape was hanging upside down in the air, his robes falling over his head to reveal skinny, pallid legs and a pair of graying underpants.

(OotP, 647)

And described as being very colorful and billowing, often accompanied by a pointed wizard hat, it was clear to me JKR was trying to invoke the image of the classic fantasy wizard robe:

Especially when it comes to Dumbledore.

The thing is, this style is based on a real historical period and historical styles of the medieval period in Europe.

Medieval Europian Robes

When I'm thinking about the "classic fantasy wizard look" the first historical period that comes to my mind is the 15th century and I'll illustrate why.

Spesificly, the 14th and 15th centuries houppelande. It was a long over garment that looked kinda like a dress with wide, flaring sleeves available for both men and women in various shapes, cuts, and even patterns. Here are examples of some houppelandes:

(As you can also see, early 15th-century fashion comes built-in with silly hats! Just like wizards)

In the 15th century you also have a wide array of cuts of cloaks (and even more silly hats!):

Along with surcoats, that contrary to their name, weren't just for knights to signify on their armor the house they serve:

These 15th-century garments are exactly like wizard fashion is described in the books: billowing robes, colorful and eye-catching, and accompanied by silly hats.

The thing is, all these garments are from the high medieval period and as wizards broke away from muggles only when the Statute of Secrecy was enacted, I'd expect their fashion to follow the muggle trend up to that point and then start diverging. Even the most pure-blooded wizarding families of the modern day, like the Malfoys, integrated with muggle circles up until the Statue of Secrecy, something that would've forced them to dress like the muggles at the time to blend in better.

As the Status of Secrecy was first enacted in 1692, it's time to talk about:

Late 17th Century Fashion

Now, while the high middle ages in Europe had everyone wearing essentially wizard robes and silly hats on the regular, the Statue of Secrecy was enacted much later. Fashion in the 17th century was drastically different from the earlier one mentioned above.

In the late 17th century, this is the kind of dress I'd expect from women in England:

And this is what I'd expect from men:

Which is very different from what is described but would've been the historical basis the wizards would work from.

So what do I think wizarding fashion is actually like?

Well, since the books are in the 1990s and wizards don't really live in a vacuum we know some later influences in fashion did make it in. So, I think wizarding fashion is an odd mix of 15th-century and late 17th-century fashions updated to the time period the wizard grew up in, hence distinct fashion changes between generations like we see in the muggle world.

We see these distinct generational fashion changes with characters like Agusta Longbottom who wears a Vulture hat. These sorts of hats with real birds on them were a thing historically. They were quite fashionable in the late Victorian era, which is when Agusta would've been a child if she's around Dumbledore's age:

Fudge is described as wearing a Bowler Hat, a kind of hat that started catching on in the late 19th century but was still a staple in menswear into the early 20th century, hence indicating Fudge's age.

Ron's yule ball dress robes are described as old-fashioned, again indicating fashions in the wizarding world change at a similar rate to the muggle one. Note that since the 17th century, fashion has been changing quite rapidly and by the 18th century fast fashion where you need to buy new garments each "season" has already started becoming a thing. With all that, I think wizard fashion indeed changes just as rapidly as the muggle one.

Now, that's great, and all, but, what would that odd mish-mash fashion even look like?

Well, I made a few very quick sketches as concept examples for what casual wizarding fashion in the UK might look like if we're working off historical references:

(not my best pieces, it's just to get the concept across)

Note that Wizengamot robes and other formal professional wear would probably be older in style and closer to 17th-century fashions.

[pitchblackespresso]

I feel like I'm on r/OffMyChest, but there's something I've been meaning to say for some time

I dislike the Zonai

Their execution was lackluster (there's some interesting stuff, but the environmental storytelling is too sparse and inconsistent for any sort of coherent theory-crafting), but what I despise the most is how they're retroactively shoehorned into botw's worldbuilding

The Sheikah tech ? Heavily implied to be a derivative of the Much Superior Zonai tech

Hyrule Castle? Was built to honour Rauru's sacrifice

Calamity Ganon? Leaked gloom-turned-malice from dehydrated Ganondorf's seal

Temple of Time? The ~original~ was Zonai-made

Typhlo Ruins? Actually Hylian made, but to honour the great King Rauru (again)

Rauru himself is Zelda's ancestor (and implied source of her sealing powers, retconning the Triforce)

The Forgotten Temple? Also Zonai and used by King Rauru to hide the Secret Stones

Ancient Hero? Some kinda Zonai hybrid creature

This narrative of "everything was the Zonai/Rauru all along" is one I don't vibe with, because not only does it give inconsistent backstory to things that didn't need it, but they then left us with more questions than answers due to just how little we actually know about the Zonai.

I also wanna mention how much I dislike the Gacha machines that dispense the complete eyesore that are the Zonai devices. They're a fun enough gameplay concept (tho I don't personally like it), but it makes no sense how you get functioning hydrants or rockets out of gachapons. The Sheikah tech was given ample backstory, and clashed with Hyrule's otherwise rugged wilderness for thematic reasons. The Zonai tech is just kind of an ugly reminder that this is a videogame, and that you get these pre-made devices because the devs wanted to make a sandbox, regardless of whether it fits in this medieval high fantasy setting with serious undertones and environmental storytelling. And since they're branded as Zonai-made, they add to my discontent with the Zonai

I love this game, and it's done so much right (even tho some people might say otherwise), but I cannot bring myself to enjoy much of anything related to the Zonai, which, despite being barely in the game, play a huge role in the story, environment and worldbuilding

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [2]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: oop, another addition to the story. i hope it both answers some questions and then raises more, lol. as always, mind the warnings, and please enjoy! 😊🥰

By the time someone comes to fetch you to break fast, you are already awake. Helped into your cumbersome new gown by your lady’s maids, you pace in front of the cold fireplace. You pray the prince avoids the meal entirely, you’ve no wish to face him after—

 Your face heats, and you press your hands to your warm cheeks. You don’t want to think of it, but you can’t help it, your mind conjuring images of the prince staring at you with flushed cheeks and dark eyes, his lips curved in that  cruel smile—

 Better to avoid him altogether. 

 A soft, almost nervous knock comes upon the door of your chambers, and upon opening it, you discover Kassandra on the other side. She sinks into a deep curtsy, bowing her head. 

 “Good morning, Your Grace.” Awkwardly, you incline your head in return. “Her Majesty requested I fetch you to break the fast.” She chips happily at you, and you wonder if her good mood is true, or if she has created it for your benefit. 

 “Lady Kassandra,” you say, edging out of your room and closing the door behind you. “I trust you are well this morning.” 

 “Oh yes, Your Grace.” She threads her fingers together as a blush reddens her pale cheeks. “I did dance quite late into the evening.” 

 “I’ve no doubt you must have secured many a betrothal,” you say, and she giggles, covering her smile with the palm of her hand. “You did look quite lovely.” For a moment, you are not princess and lady in waiting—it is almost as though you are friends. Friends. Here in Rivia, you are surrounded by more people than ever before, and yet you find yourself lonelier than ever.

 “You are too kind, my lady.” Kassandra seems to find her way easily through the castle’s labyrinthine halls, and it makes you wonder how long she has been here. “Twas you that bewitched the court—if you don’t mind my saying so, Highness.” Her words almost make you stumble, your foot catching against stone.

 Your cheeks smart with heat, and your brows knit together in disbelief. “I—It was my mother who married the king.” You do not take yourself for a great beauty, not like your mother, but frustratingly, Kassandra shakes her head. 

 “Her Majesty was a sight to behold,” she agrees. “But I expect, had you not retired early, Your Grace might have received another offer of betrothal.” Kassandra casts a sly look in your direction. “Or two.”  You look away, embarrassedly recalling Lord Olthar’s proposal, his skinny, red-faced son peeking out at you from behind his fathers robes. The thought of allowing him any closer than that turns your stomach, and you shake your head. 

 “One was quite enough.” You’ve no wish to be married, especially not to Lord Olthar’s spawn. “I should hope to remain in Rivia longer than a week before a match is written in stone,” you say dryly. You’re due a betrothal, that much you know—your eighteenth summer had come and gone without one, and just when your mother’s nattering had reached its peak, the fevers had come for your father. And then, a betrothal was the last thing on anyone’s minds. 

 ”I am glad the king did not accept Lord Olthar’s proposal,” Kassandra admits with a small, secretive laugh. She leans in conspiratorially. “They say his son is rather… over fond of horses.” Her words illicit a gasp from you, your hand flying up to cover your mouth.

 You laugh too. “I dare not imagine the wedding.”

 “Fit for a queen.” 

 “The Queen of Horses, perhaps,” you retort, and the two of you dissolve into a fit of quiet giggles.

 “I imagine His Majesty will have much higher standers for your betrothal, princess.” She smiles at you reassuringly. “I do not think Lord Olthar will try again.” You nod in return, grateful for her good humor.

 “Hopefully I shall not have to think on mine own for quite some time.” Your thoughts are preoccupied enough these days without adding ones of a husband to the array. 

 “Not inspired by the ceremony?” The low, dark voice makes you turn. Lead forms hot and fast in your stomach at the sight of Prince Geralt. Even during the day, the prince strikes an intimidating figure, wide shoulders and barely tamed silver-white hair. Today, it is partially pulled back behind his ears, loose strands framing his chiseled jaw. Kassandra goes red as she curtsies, blushing deep crimson from the roots of her pale hair to the collar of her dress. 

 More out of habit than respect, you bend your knees as well, inclining your head. His appearance is sobering, the jovial mood instantly darkening. 

 “Good morning, Your Majesty.” It is all the politeness you can manage. His face looms still in your mind’s eye, his hair falling across his dark eyes as he drove into her, his hand curled in the hair at the nape of her neck—

 You suppress a shiver. 

 “Apologies, Your Grace!” Kassandra rushes to appease him, striking a chord of frustrated irritation within you. “We simply—”

 The prince waves a dismissive hand. “It is only be expected, I suppose.” He says silkily. “I know few women who do not await their wedding day with thoughts of bliss.” When his molten amber eyes rest on you, you shiver. His voice takes on an amused lilt. 

“Perhaps things are different in Redania, little sister?” You do not like the way the word drips from his tongue, as if another were in its place, one you don’t know, but that makes the the flesh at the back of your neck prickle just the same. His familiarity irks you as well—Prince Geralt speaks as if he knows you, as if he has spoken more than five words to you, not counting the ones uttered while he had been… otherwise engaged. 

 You swallow against the tightness in your throat. “Perhaps,” you say. The words are clipped, as if you have bitten off their edges. You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help it, the barb slipping from your tongue before you can pluck it. “In Redania, one must wait until after the wedding to consummate the marriage. Does that policy hold true here as well?” 

 Prince Geralt does not give you the satisfaction of a reaction, his features schooled into cool impassivity.

 “I believe so, princess.” There is a dry sort of amusement coloring his words, as if to tell you the blow you’d tried to inflict was meager at best. “It appears we are not so different after all.” 

 You grind your teeth. 

 The prince falls into step beside you, setting the pace. To your frustration it is a leisurely one; walking with his arms clasped behind his back as he drags the conversation out. You wonder irately if he is doing this on purpose—you had walked with Kassandra to the hall the previous morning, and it had only taken half the time, you’re sure of it. 

 ”It was a great honor to attend such holy proceedings.” Kassandra’s voice seems to make the prince’s lip curl, and he cuts his eyes at her, sparing her only the barest of glances from the corner of his eye. You know, though, that the words are meant for you. 

 “Yes, truly.” The prince hums. “And how wonderful our Queen should be fortunate enough to experience them twice.” 

 Outrage bubbles up in your chest at the insult of his implication, and it takes all of your strength not to respond in kind. You glance at Kassandra, her passive expression evidence that the prince’s sly remark has either been absorbed without question or gone unnoticed entirely. For a moment you imagine his smile goes smug and self-satisfied as your own lips press together into a thin line. Your mind races as you try to formulate a response—this is not a game you are used to playing, one of guileful words wrapped in loose pleasantries, and you feel woefully unprepared for your part in it. 

 “Fortunate indeed,” you reply, forcing yourself to keep your tone light and airy. By now, the great hall is in sight, servants bustling through the busy corridor as you approach the hall. “A wisely made match, would you not agree, Majesty?” A gaggle of nobles surround the king and queen, their heads swiveling at the sound of your voice. The satisfaction you feel as Geralt’s lips curl into a scowl is a new feeling, one you are not sure you like. —he cannot  continue the game, not now, not without open insult. You can tell he does not enjoy being called to heel, least of all by you. 

 A chorus of good morning’s and your grace’s assail you like raindrops until you are practically dripping with them. You are familiar with only a select few of the faces surrounding the king and your mother, but not many. You recognize Lord Strom, Kassandra’s father, who shares the same sallow features as his daughter. He is flanked by a woman with a pinched, irritated looking expression; you had been introduced just before the wedding ceremony had begun, but you cannot recall her name now, only her relation to the king. A great-aunt—you think.  

 As you enter the hall, you note that it is already clean, all evidence of last night’s festivities gone, save for your mother, standing before you. Small tables have been set out for the visiting nobility lucky enough to be granted this brief audience with the king. The large table on the dais is already heavy laden with food, servants flanking the table on either side of the king’s chair as they wait for orders. Breakfast at home had been a family affair, gathered around the table in the hall. This, like every other event you have witnessed since arriving, is public spectacle. 

 Your mother preens at the attention. She flits from person to person, accepting their congratulations with regal grace. Once upon a time, behind the dusty pages of books she wished you would not read, you and father had called her the Pretty Peacock, the way she bustled about the manor and clucked her orders at the matron and her staff. Here, though, it seemed less amusing, and more… purposeful. 

 Though your mother seems to move amongst these people with ease, you struggle to follow her example, weaving serpentine through the crowd of courtiers, which parts like butter to a hot knife in her wake. Her gown is of a similar color scheme as yours, pale yellow with silver and gold embroidery embellishing her hem and sleeves. The crown of delicate silver and black leaves rests atop her head, the black jewel at its center sparkling. She turns to you with a smile, embracing you warmly. 

 “Trust my daughter to appear as her name is mentioned.” Your mother’s delicate, feminine laugh makes you want to curl in on yourself as the eyes of her fawning lady’s maids fall to you. “Did you enjoy yourself?” Though you cannot see him, you can feel the prince’s eye upon you with almost physical sensation. The hair at the back of your neck pricks up.

 Why does he watch me? You chance a look over your shoulder, and your back stiffens. There are people between you still, a safe barrier, but there is no mistaking it—the prince’s eyes are locked on you, and he makes no effort to hide it. You turn quickly back to your mother as he produces a slim knife from somewhere, and spears an apple from the table with it. The crunch as his teeth break the skin rings uncomfortably in your ears. 

 “T’was fine,” you answer her quickly, hoping your small, curt smile is enough to convince her. “I danced, some.” It is a lie, but one she either does not recognize or one she cares little about. One set of eyes is appeased, and falls from you. The others bore hot holes in the back of your dress. The king approaches, and you note the affectionate pass of his hand over your mother’s arm. You curtsy low, again, more out of instinct than conscious thought. 

 “Come now daughter, we are family now, are we not?” He laughs. “Rise.” His expression is warm, but you feel the word roll inside your skull like a loose marble, or a pebble in your shoe. It is unfamilitar and uncomfortable coming from his lips, but you bear it as best you can. 

 “Y-yes. Family.” The king walks with his hands folded behind his back, a habit you cannot help but note that he shares with his son. You have dreaded this, the game of getting to know one another over the cold corpse of the man who had raised you. It stings, as you knew it would. It feels insane to you, to behave as if all the years of your life prior to this were but a footnote, and this the true story. Perhaps it is you who are insane, the only madwoman adrift in a sea of sensibility.

 “Your mother tells me you’ve a great love of books,” he continues, unaware of the rolling turmoil that rocks your stomach. He casts a long glance sideways at you and at first, you cannot tell if there is reprisal or approval in his words. Then, he offers another smile, this one warm, genuine. “I trust you’ve found the archives enjoyable.”

 Your mother’s laughter cuts through the moment like a knife. “Oh, don’t encourage her, my love,” she says. “We shall surely lose her in yellow old pages.” The gallery of painted faces behind her titters with amusement, and at the same time, you feel your cheeks begin to smart. Perhaps it is the syrupy sweet my love tacked to the end of her sentence that makes your eyes burn with hot, frustrated tears, or her casual disparagement, you are torn for choice. You shake your head, forcing another smile as you blink them back. Perhaps you are simply being oversensitive, seeing what is not there. 

 “Thank you, Majesty.” You fold your hands together as you follow the king and queen up to the dais, and move to take your seat. “I shall have to bring Kassandra along with me. Perhaps if I am buried in parchment, she may yet dig me out again.” 

 You are relieved when the conversation shifts from you, allowing you to stare sullenly at the spread before you in peace. It is startlingly familiar, your mother’s need to ensure that every eye is upon her at all times, and you find that you are perhaps glad for it. It is exhausting to play at happiness and not feel it, and every second you do not have to keep up the pretense is one you are grateful for. Even if it comes at the expense of a little of your pride. 

 That gratefulness dissipates like smoke in the wind as Prince Geralt seats himself next to you. However intimidatingly large he had felt as you and Kassandra had made your way through the halls, he feels doubly so now. Though he has his own chair and place at the table, it feels as though it is too small to contain him, and he spills over into your seat anyway. His thigh is pressed tightly against your own through your gown, and no amount of subtle shifting on your part seems to remove him. You grimace, and the servant who is pouring water into your goblet gasps, and bows her head quickly. 

 “Apologies, Your Grace, I have offended you!” Her distress begins to turn heads, and you hurriedly attempt to placate her, shaking your head with a weak smile.

 “No, no, it’s nothing—”

 “Yes, princess,” the word drips from your stepbrother’s lips like black honey. “Whatever is the matter?” 

 You glare at him. He is pushing you, trying to force you into a confrontation for no reason you can discern—other than his own blasted amusement. You are tempted to give him what he wants, your own accusations waiting eagerly at the tip of your tongue. And you have your pick of poisons to dispense; his foul behavior the night before, his insult to the queen—

 But as you look down the table, you see few allies. King Vesemir looks at you with an apathetic sort of curiosity. And your mother… her doll-like expression appears concerned, but you can read it for what it truly is. The way her eyes narrow, her mouth tightened just so at the corners—

 She is angry. 

 You can hear her without her speaking, and your mind conjures her reprisal  perfectly, even without her input. 

 You are making a scene. You know that is what she would tell you. Be silent. Be seen, not heard.

 “Nothing.” You wish you could slap Prince Geralt, slap the concerned facade right off of his wretched face. “Nothing at all.” 

—

 The grass beneath you is brittle, and you can feel it crumbling into dusty nothing as it crunches beneath the soles of your bare feet. The low-cut hedges have grown out crooked and gnarled from neglect, their roots erupting thirstily from the baked earth to choke the narrow pathway. The garden is different now than it was when you had left, but you know it still—home. The manor looms gloomily above the garden, sticking out of the barren hillside like a jagged tooth, glaring angrily down at the cracked flowerbeds and baked earth. 

 Everything is dead here. 

 The icy wind that whips at your cotton shift, tangling it about your legs is dead, carrying with it the sound of grinding bones and last breaths. From the parched fissures in the dead, hungry dirt, you can hear whispers, and you press your cold, shaking hands to your ears to block them out. You do not know the reason, but nevertheless the knowledge remains in your bones as if you were born with it—

 I mustn’t listen. I mustn’t hear the dead.

 You press your palms against the sides of your head until it aches, dragging your feet through the dead, overgrown grass as you make your way through the garden. You want to leave, to turn around and leave this place, this terrible mirror, but your body will not obey. Instead, your unwilling legs carry you further and further into the spiral of dry, overgrown hedges and cracked pavement. The ghostly voices continue to rise in pitch until they are screaming, tortured cries leaking up from below as you approach the center of the garden. 

 It, like everything else here, is wrong, gleaming as if polished in the dim light of the dead sun. It is white like bone, and black, sluggish muck leaks from the trumpet of the nymph carved there. The sly, mysterious smile carved on her marble lips has been replaced by a grimace of abject terror, and when you follow her stone gaze, your eyes widen with the same emotion. Your hands leave your ears then, covering your mouth to try and dampen the horrified gasp that leaves your lips. 

 Your father stands before you. 

 He is still a distance away, walking slowly toward you through the garden. His eyes are blacked out, but not completely, black wriggling over the whites like a child’s scribble, black thread weaved through the skin of his lips, suturing them shut. 

 He is horrible. 

 He begins to open his mouth, and it yawns wide, the threads snapping—

 You sit up, a hand clutching at your chest. You stare around the room, panting as your mind attempts to place you in your still unfamiliar surroundings. Your heart is still races from the dream, your hands clammy and trembling. The taste of dry earth coats your tongue, and your throat feels cold and parched, as if you had walked the cold gardens truly, and not only in your dreams.

You can still see it, the rotting black threads holding your father’s withered lips shut, the black writhing ink scribbles across his eyes—

 “No.” You mutter the word softly as you press the heels of your palms to your closed eyes, pushing hard until colored spots dance in your vision. You do not want to think of your father that way, his body moldering in the earth, rotting away like he had never been in the first place. It had felt so real, the cool distant glare of the white sun, the arid earth beneath your feet—

 “A nightmare.” You say it aloud to no-one. “Nothing more.” 

 The morning sun paints a bright stripe across the blankets through the curtains of the four poster bed, and you tug them further open, squinting. Everything in your chambers is as it was the night before, though the fire in the hearth has gone down to cinders, and a copper tub has been set before it. You step out and into your slippers, noting the steam that still rises from the water. They must have brought it in as you slept, though you had not heard them do so. 

 I slept… unusually deeply. 

 You disrobe, stepping into the water with a grateful sigh. You sink in until you are mostly submerged, your nose hovering above the surface as you stare pensively at the window, studying the gray, muddled shape of the buildings beyond it. You do not want to think of the dream, or your father, but both seem intent at crowding at the forefront of your mind. 

 You know your father would tell you not to ignore it. Dreams mean things, he would say. What did it tell you? But there is no meaning you can discern from your nightmare, other than that you miss your father, and you wish he were still here, with you. 

 After you finish in the bath, you dress yourself. Instead of the multi-layered gown set out for you by your lady’s maids, you rummage through the wardrobe for one of the loose, flowy dresses more typical of your warm countryside home. You find one at the back, and as you slip into it, you feel more settled, more yourself. The creamy, peach colored fabric has one long, bell sleeve, and drapes modestly across your chest, exposing the top of one shoulder. It is less cumbersome than the heavy, three piece set they chose, and when they enter to help you, you can see the surprise written on their faces. 

 To their credit, they say nothing, simply helping braid and pin your hair, before setting the small silver circlet you wear at your mother’s insistence upon your brow. 

 It is long past time to break fast, but nevertheless, your request for a scone with butter and sweet cream is met without fuss down in the kitchens. As you eat, Kassandra marvels at your dress. 

 “I quite like it, Majesty,” she says, clapping her hands encouragingly as she circles you. “No corset? I do wonder if my father might permit me to have one made in its likeness,” she moans rather piteously. “Though I doubt he shall be pleased by my asking, it is quite bold, if you do not mind my saying so, Highness.” You look down at yourself, and then raise an eyebrow. 

 “Why should he find your request offensive? I mean no insult, but I do believe our dress more…modest than those of fashion here in Rivia.” Even Kassandra’s low cut gown exposes the tops of her breasts, the bodice molding to her body,pushing them out and up before rising back up to play at covering her shoulders. She laughs behind a hand at your ire.

 “I suppose it is all a matter of personal opinion, my lady. I do find Redanian fashion quite lovely, if this dress should be a fair representation.”

 “ ‘Tis.” You reply, finishing your biscuit. From your place by the windows, just outside the kitchen, you can see down into the gardens. Though the sight of them is sullied by the memory of your stepbrother’s wanton behavior, the glint of colored glass catches your eye. “What is that?” You ask, pointing at the colored shafts of light as they seemingly beam upward from the ground, the source blocked by lush greenery.

 “The roof of the chapel,” Kassandra says. “It is made of stained glass.” At your confused look, she continues. “The chapel is beneath the keep, Majesty, it’s roof is the center of the maze. It is quite beautiful, should you wish to see it, my lady.” Intrigued, you nod.

 “Yes, thank you. I would.” 

 Kassandra leads you down into the bowels of the castle, and you feel the walls grow cold around you as daylight through the arched windows is replaced by the soft glow of candles. The construction looks much older down here, the stone pitted and smooth not from polish but from the passage of time. Upstairs, the corridors had been crowded with courtiers, lords and ladies all seeking the king’s approval, or waiting for their opportunity to serve at his request. 

Instead, you take note of the priests in their pale robes, black ink sigils drawn onto the skin of their foreheads and the expanses of their cheeks beneath their eyes. They keep their heads bowed and shoulders stooped as they shuffle through the halls in penitent silence. 

 “Why do they paint their faces?” You ask quietly. 

 “So that the gods might receive their prayers.” 

  The chapel’s carved doors bear images of the gods you do not worship, the wood branded with the sigil of the king—the head of a wolf, it’s mouth open in an eternal snarl. Inside, the air is thick with incense, and it takes you more than a few labored breaths to grow used to it. The inside of the chapel is long and narrow, its walls lined with alcoves featuring enormous statues of the gods. Kassandra gestures to the ceiling, trailing her fingers through the shafts of colored light that stream down, bathing the sullen atmosphere in muted color. 

 “Is it not beautiful, lady?”

 “Yes, it is.” You speak truth—the glass is beautiful, unclouded and the colors  true. Images of faith are splashed across the colored surfaces; a great wolf standing beneath a full moon, devouring a beautiful maiden, the three-faced Mother bathed in the golden light of the sun, and the Spider, sitting in the center of her silver web. You watch as Kassandra makes a sign with her right hand, her middle finger and thumb pressed together. She brings it reverently to her forehead, before dropping it to her chin, and then the center of her chest. 

 It is a quiet, sullen sort of reverence, one you see mirrored in the bowed heads of the priests, and in the quiet, droning chants the monks at the pulpit continue without pause. But there is no joy here. No voices lifted in worshipful, devoted song, nor dances with arms stretched to the bright and brilliant sky. Those are the rituals of worship you know, the ones your father taught you. This place, like the garden in your dream, feels dead. 

 If there ever were gods here, they have certainly gone, now. 

 “Who is this?” You ask, pointing to the wolf. It’s golden eyes seem to follow you around the room as you trail after Kassandra, and it makes you think uncomfortably of the prince. She stops in front of it’s stone copy, and she makes the sigil again, finger on thumb, forehead, chin, chest. 

 “Father Wolf.” She says as she rises. “It is said that he devours the moon each night, so that it may be reborn in the morning, as the sun.” She cocks her head. “Do you not know the stories, Majesty?” 

 “She would not.” You turn to see one of the priests. In his hand, he holds an incense box, sluggish white smoke pouring from the gold painted slats. “Her Majesty hails from Redania. They hold to the old faith there.” You watch his eyes narrow as they drop to your gown before traveling back up to your face. His lips curve into an unfriendly smile. “I did not think to see Your Highness here.” 

 You raise an eyebrow. “In my experience father, it is a poor monarch who expects to rule people she knows nothing about.” Kassandra ducks her head, covering her mouth to hide her smile at your diplomatically worded impertinence.

 His cheek tics. “Of course, Highness.” He bows his head in a manner you know is meant to be respectful, though the acid that drips from his words is anything but. “The people shall be pleased that you are so…familiar.” He drums his fingers against the incense box, before fixing you with another small, curt smile. “They do not react well to the southland’s…” He pauses to search for a word.  “Heathenistic rituals.” 

 The words fly to your tongue before you can swallow them back, flying from your lips with righteous indignation. 

 “Are you quite sure the heathen rituals you fear are not your own, Father?”  His mouth twists with anger, but you do not cower in the face of it, jutting your chin out stubbornly. You have taken little pleasure in the shifting of your station, but his brazen disrespect sets a blazing fire in your chest. You are a princess, and you will not be spoken to this way. 

 “Father Rame.” Your belly fills with hot iron at Prince Geralt’s voice, his tone warning. So irate were you with the priest that you had taken no notice of his approach. The prince leans against one of the stone pews, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You would do well to hold your tongue, lest my father remove it.” The priest drops into a low bow, his lips curling into a scowl. “I do not think he would take kindly to your… implications.” 

 “Apologies, My Prince, I meant only to—” Geralt raises a hand, and Father Rame’s words die in his throat. 

 “Go. And perhaps I will… forget to inform the kingsguard of your offense today.” You can tell the priest is unsatisfied, his hands clenching into tight fists in the sleeves of his robe. Nevertheless, he issues you another stiff apology through his clenched teeth, before he turns on his heel, his robes billowing behind him. 

 “Thank you.” You spit the words out as if they have burnt you. “For your assistance.” Geralt’s amber eyes dip the way Father Rame’s did, and you hate the way they drag across every inch of you before coming to rest on your face. Instead of scornful disapproval, you find something else there. Something darker you refuse to name. 

 “My pleasure, princess.” He purrs the words, and you feel them like a physical caress. You try to hide the shiver that travels down your spine, gooseflesh erupting on the back of your neck and arms in its wake. He glances at Father Rame’s retreating back. “I would pay him no heed. The good Father can be… Zealous.” 

 “That is certainly one way to put it.” You remark dryly. 

 “He will not bother you again.” He says it with a finality that makes you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. 

 “I hope not.” You brush a speck of imagined dirt from the bodice of your dress, and the prince’s eyes follow the movement. 

 “Your gown is lovely, sister.” He says, and you swallow against the sudden lump in your throat. “I have not seen its like since last I was in Redania.” 

 “Thank you.” You stiffen as he moves towards you, slow steps carrying him in a small circle around you and Kassandra. You force yourself to endure his inspection. 

 “Oh yes.” He fingers the hem of your sleeve before you step back, a little. “I hope you do not mind me imparting a bit of… Rivian wisdom?” 

 Do I have any choice? You force a smile. “Please.” 

 “This is a married woman’s color, Sweetling.” His eyes are molten honey. 

 “W-what?” You do not know which words you were expecting to fall from the prince’s smug lips, but it was not these. “I—”

 “I hope you take no offense,” he drawls, though the expression on his face says otherwise. “I only mean to inform.” 

 “H-how interesting.” You force a small smile, before turning quickly to Kassandra. 

 “My head aches from the incense,” you say, turning away from him and striding toward the door. “We should take our leave.” With a stiff, reluctant bow, you turn from the prince. “Excuse us, please.” 

 “By all means.” 

 Kassandra squeaks, hurrying after you with her skirts gathered tightly into her hands. As you push angrily through the entering group of priests and out into the corridor, you can feel two sets of eyes on your retreating back—

 Geralt’s, and the wolf’s. 

to be continued…

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

[petermorwood]

I was wondering if you could answer a question about armor, especially the solid/articulated types - how much did it need to be personalized or fitted? I ask because I often see people criticizing fantasy/gaming armor for being too heavy or cumbersome, but rarely for perfectly fitting everyone between five and seven feet tall regardless of whether they're built like Legolas or Gimli.

So I'm curious about whether and what kinds of armor might have been mass produced vs what needed to be customized. Was it easier to produce broadly applicable armor or to recruit your army by height and weight?

Non-custom-fitted mass-produced armour ("munition grade" as some modern repro makers call it) started becoming more common when workshops where everything ran on muscle-power became ones whose hammers, grinders and polishers were powered by a water-wheel.

Making armour to fit a range of average sizes now took less time, effort and wages, so could be sold for less and be afforded by more people.

It would have been made in the period equivalent of S, M, L and maybe XL, with buyers either paying extra for custom adjustments, or DIY-ing for better fit with padded liners to make it snug or extra holes punched into straps for more space.

*****

Top grade plate armour on the other hand was almost like a second skin - a common term is "exoskeleton".

This post from a few years back has a lot more information, including what was done to ensure a good fit when the wearer couldn't be measured in person: for instance sending close-fitting garments or even wax model limbs to the armourer.

It definitely wouldn't have fitted anyone but the original owner anything like as well. In particular, if a non-original wearer was longer or shorter in arm or leg, the armour's knee and elbow joints might pinch at distracting moments or simply not flex through their full range.

"Is increased protection better than reduced mobility?" was a question where the wrong answer could prove fatal.

*****

Perhaps that's why medieval art shows a lot of partial armour being worn:

arm-harness - sometimes just vambraces on the forearms, often all the parts from gauntlets to pauldrons (hands to shoulders);

brigandine - a cloth or leather jacket with small metal plates riveted inside; this wasn't concealed armour, the rivets arranged in rows or patterns were an obvious decorative feature;

haubergeon (or byrnie, though that's more a Saxon / Viking term IMO) - a short-sleeved, short-bodied mail shirt, usually worn under something else;

plackart - front or sometimes front-and-rear lower-abdomen torso plates;

poleyns - knee-guards, worn on otherwise unarmoured legs.

The one thing everyone wore is the first thing Hollywood armour leaves off - a helmet - while the archer below has not just a helmet, haubergeon, brigandine and poleyns, but also something equally important, a brayette or breech...

...which is a pair - or at least the front half where It Matters Most - of well-padded mail and indeed male underpants.

Full plate armours had full plate ones which were even more emphatic. Boob-plates may be (mostly) fantasy, but obvious gendered armour was A Real Thing.

*****

Flexible armour like mail, scale and lamellar wasn't tailored for fit; being flexible it didn't need to be. That said, if the size was really wrong one way or the other, it could be reduced or enlarged by removing or adding sections, similar to a modern tailor taking in or letting out a garment.

I have a vague recollection of a photo showing a late medieval haubergeon with tailoring darts inserted under the arms, but I can't remember where or when, so "vague" has more weight than "recollection". ;-P

Genuine mail is rarer in museums than plate armour, because at the end of its working life mail armour was often chopped into pot-scrubbers for the kitchen. You can buy the same sort of thing today.

Finally, while some looted high-grade armour, or at least parts of it, might fit the looter straight away, it's more likely that after any battle there was probably a brisk trade in swapping what didn't fit for what did.

Hope This Helps! :->

[faislittlewhiteraven]

Been having some ISaT tech level and timeline (as in 'when backstory things happened') thoughts and want to ramble a bit:

Tech

ISaT's setting is based on your classic sword and sorcery fantasy JRPG so its easy to assume that tech wise everything is 'fantasy medieval' and call it a day but consider:

Body Craft is at bare minimum is magic sex changing surgery (earliest known equivent in our world dating to 1930) that any old person can learn to do safely on themselves in only a few months, and more likely has many many broader applications like regular old surgery, the 'combat healing' Mira and Sif use, etc.

Cameras and photos are rare enough that Odile comments on it (namely she's happy the group get a photo in the House due to them being 'so rare') yet are also common enough that everyone in the party knows about them and doesn't question the existence of a camera beyond being surprised that the mirror was one. (In our world cameras date back to the 19th century, with the earliest manufacturing of them being in 1839). 

Printing presses and ways to make plenty of paper to feed those presses given absolutely everyone in this game can read, expects everyone else to know how to, and both mass produced book series and newspapers are a thing. (Note: Printing presses have existed since waaaay back but it's the mass paper manufacturing that makes newspapers and The Cursing of Chateu Castle possible that really has my eyebrows raised here, especially since neither Siffrin or Odile find either odd in any way, indicating such things are common everywhere, and while newspapers have been around since 1604 in our world, mass produced fantasy books didn't really take off until the start of the 20th century).

Food production and storage: despite being in the middle of a national disaster that almost certainly cut off trade networks and access to most suppliers for literal months now, Bonnie, a small child, is able to easily get their hands on fresh Pineapple, curry ingredients (for samosa), potatoes, plantains etc with no issues or anyone commenting on this being unusual or lucky. Oh and the only character who even brings up the concept of potential starvation is the Fishing One, and only in a sort of 'we're not at risk now but sooner or later...' kinda way due to noticing that the fish they fish up for fun are disappearing and likely being frozen. So yeah, that heavily implies Vaugarde has very good food storage tech/Craft (possibly better than ours), and likely also good food production and harvesting tech/skills also.

The Island's incredible knowledge of the stars: while the oldest known orrery in our world is dated from around 205 to 87 BC (ancient Greek, earth centric model), the fact Sif -who would've learnt this as a child/teen- is so very certain that stars are big balls of fire made up of gas is interesting as that's something our world couldn't prove the theory of until around the 1900s (note: it'd been theorized a LONG time but Sif talks like its complete facts to them . Additionally the earliest existing record of a telescope in our world dates to a 1608 patent and we see one of those in game.

Post posting EDIT: A wonderful user qds-place pointed out that Mirabelle has anti-anxiety medication in her room. This is in both ISaT and SAaP and though we're not sure what form the medication takes (pills? Valium? Megitech esc Craft boosters???) the fact they specifically have 'anti anxiety' medication at all (as opposed to idk dragging Mira off and drugging her through the gills) is kind of impressive and if it IS modern anti anxiety pills those could be as recent in creation as the 1950s! So um. Some high levels of tech implied in chemistry there <3

So... yeah. All this, plus the fact that the highest tech implied area, The Island, literally specialised in the study/Craft of turning wishes into reality (for a long enough time period that Wish Craft is culturally so ingrained in the King and Sif that they do it without thinking and it seems intertwined with their nation's religion) has been completely erased from memory to the point anything heavily associated with them has been forgotten, and also we only ever see Dormont aka a little village well away from the cities, it's not hard to conclude that you can basically justify giving the ISaT world any level of tech you want, so long as you lock any of the truly 'setting breaking' stuff like planes and rockets behind The Island's forgetting curse (I would've said trains too but thinking about it trains were invented in 1802 so it's honestly easy to imagine that they totally exist in the ISaT setting/Vaugarde but aren't ever on screen because rail is way too dangerous to consider using while the Curse is active and potentially time freezing things on the tracks).

Side note: We know absolutely nothing about Vaugarde's transport system but as a fan of fantasy RPGs it is honestly a travesty I have yet to see a fic that has flying dragons/wyverns or other fantasy mounts in setting. Like, ok yes, the party would probably have wanted to use those but maybe they don't like the Curse and fled? Maybe the King's Curse targeted them first? Maybe all their handlers dropped the heroes off in Dormont and said 'Well Saviors it's been fun, but well me and Scales here are off to Poteria until things wrap up so best of luck to you' before buggering off?

This isn't really a serious complaint just. Me reminding myself/potentially other fanwork writers out there that there's a lot about the setting we just don't know about and limiting all travel to walking, horse drawn carriage and boat is not actually required. (Also please mix up travelling to the Island. Boats are a wonderful classic and have great thematic vibes for Sif's original leaving of the Island but like. Imagine the sheer in-universe wtf of the memories of The Island suddenly coming back and people on the north coast suddenly realising there's a massive bridge, subway or underwater tunnel leading there that everyone just forgot about - potentially filled with all kinds of Sadnesses that need taking down. Or Warp Panels in a House of Change, idk XD).

Timeline

Canon notes first:

Bonnie is a preteen (8 to 12), Mira and Isa are in their early to mid 20s (with Isa slightly older), Sif is late 20s to 30, and Odile is 40+ Nille is stated to be around 18 to 20.

Siffrin ran away from home when they were a teenager (13 to 17? 18?) and this is heavily implied to be when the Island was Forgotten.

Bonnie (in ISaT specifically*) says that Nille told them that when it happened all the adults were talking about it, hence why they think The Island is close to their village. *In Start Again a Prologue, Bonnie says that they themself remember the adults talking about the Island disappearing, which er. Is a bit impossible given they likely weren't even born yet when that happened but that can be explained away by AU differences, InsertDisc5 still finalising details between SAaP and ISaT, and/or OG Siffrin having been in the loops so long they weren't actually listening when Bonnie was talking and just 'scripted' in their head something 'close enough' to what Bonnie was saying to get the idea (note: mentioned that idea before in my post here on the differences between the House and King in Start Again vs In Stars and Time for anyone curious so er please feel free to give that a read if you haven't already).

Odile mentions remembering 'when it happened' as well and has been 'travelling for years'.

The King 'appeared out of nowhere' sometime in his adulthood, and lived in the city of Corbeaux for a few years before he became the King.

The King became the King as was freezing people in time long enough before his attack on the House of Dormont that everyone inside knew he was coming, there were a wall's worth of newspaper articles about him, and everyone was expecting Euphrasie to defeat him.

Mirabelle's quest began 'almost a year ago' and Sif lost their eye 'recently'.

Thoughts on the above:

Calculating when The Island was forgotten:

Sif being mid 20s to 30 and having run away from home as a teen means that The Island has to have been forgotten somewhere between 9 to 17 years ago with nine only possible if he ran away at age 17 and is only age 26 now, and seventeen being the far opposite if he ran at age 13 and is currently 30.

To narrow down the timeline: Given Sif ran away from home because he 'didn't want to eat his veggies' and 'just wanted to scare [his] parents a little bit' it's probably safe to assume Siffrin was likely on the younger end of the teen spectrum (teens run off all the time sure but with loving parents and over veggies? That screams 'kid who has not yet learned that freaking out the parents will get their ass grounded and/or yelled at a LOT and is therefore best saved for doing fun forbidden stuff that ideally the parents will never find out about' XD) Additionally given Siffrin can't remember his age/birthday etc but Isabeau outright says near the beginning of the game "But you're older than most of the people here?" meaning Sif must be visibly older than Isa or Mira, so he's probably closer to 30 than not.

Those alone would imply the Island likely disappeared closer to the '17 years ago' side of things BUT Nille (tops 20 years old) told Bonnie that "[the Island's disappearance] was all the adults would talk about for ages" and kids usually can't remember anything prior to 4 years of age so with that in mind...

I'd say The Island most likely disappeared between 13 to 16 years ago.

Nille stuff:

This is more a general mention but. Nille is tops 20 years old. Bonnie is between 8 and 12 and doesn't remember their parents at all.

This means Nille ran away with Bonnie and gained emancipation and custody of Bonnie (if Vaugarde has formalised that kind of legal stuff) while she was at most 12 years old herself and could have in theory been as young as 6..!

Regardless, it's very likely the original home situation was that bad, Nille deserves a ton of credit for raising Bonnie as well as she has and I'd say it's very VERY likely she had a lot of help from villagers in Bambosche and/or the local House of Change in doing so. ...But also Bonnie is very adamantly 'my sister and village' and not 'my sister and [specific names who live with us]' so there's clearly by the time Bonnie was 4 or so they were living in their own place so... Yeah. Lotta drive for independence there too it seems (so the party might have more trouble adopting Nille into their group post ISaT than Bonnie might expect).

King stuff:

Already an adult 13 to 16 years ago so at bare minimum 33. Given his vibe probably much older though.

Newspapers get printed pretty quick though for there to be so much speculation and research done into his background so quick, either Vaugarde has some form of fast messaging system (something like a Chappe telegraph on top of the Houses of Change? Odile I think does mention that they'll have a message sent to let Nille know they'll be returning Bonnie...) or the King was freezing stuff for IDK around a month or two before reaching Dormont? Alas can't find out how long it takes to walk across all of France out very easily (I'm sure the numbers are out there but my brain is pudding rn) but if we had those numbers we could probably make some guesstimates based off the rough sketched map of Vaugarde InsertDisk5 did... Which I would link but apparently the tumblr post I had it linked on has been deleted???? 'wails at this very unhappy development'

Mira's journey and Sif's eye:

We really don't know a lot but almost a year ago gives us somewhere around 9 to 11 months to spread the journey out along and after eye removal surgery the patient can out and about as soon as 2 to 6 weeks after, maybe sooner with magic healing (though full recovery/growing used to the changed spacial awareness -which Sif clearly does not have- probably can't be sped up and takes around 3 to 6 months) so um. I'd guestimate Sif's eye injury is really recent; like two months ago tops recent. ...Which sorta explains a lot of why Bonnie is not dealing with it right now and also why the others might be trying to avoid bringing it up (since Sif clearly loves avoiding the issue but they haven't yet realised that maybe they really should bring it up even if it annoys them anyway?)

Odile with some Ka Bue speculation:

When it comes to The Island, how did Odile, presumably living in Ka Bue at the time, remember 'when it happened'? Was the Island well known enough even on the other side of the world that it's disappearance made waves? Or was Odile herself or someone she's close to paying attention to the region? (Like maybe her dad or a friend is/was into politics or trade, keeping up with overseas news and got concerned it could happen to Ka Bue? I'd say 'I remember when it happened' line implies it was more immediate knowledge than being informed by a messenger much later though...)

As for Odile's 'years of travel' I have to wonder, what's left behind for her in Ka Bue? She brings up going back there quite a bit, might just miss home and possibly her father if he's still alive, but given it took her years to get here for something so personal rather than idk 'materially rewarding' I think Odile might have some kinda family estate or something back in Ka Bue... Something she wasn't worried about potentially losing while far away, but solid enough to want to return to, beyond her father who she'd definitely want to see again if he's still around. (...But given how open she is to chilling about Vaugarde a few more months with the others, I really don't think he is alive, since well, given their respective ages and travel between Vaugarde and Ka Bue apparently taking years, there'd definitely an uncomfortably high chance of him passing away while she's gone and that seems like the thing that'd stress Odile out so... Yeah. Probably got an estate in Ka Bue she'd like to take the Family to visit/possibly sell off if she decides she'd like to live with them in Vaugarde so... Just my off the cuff headcanoning here and hoping that gives others ideas or something).

---

Anyway that's all the ramble I've got in me so... yeah! Hope this was interesting and useful for those needing a bit of a 'possible tech'/timeline calcs breakdown for the Island + a few more vague things and um. Probably will post a long winding ramble about my attempt at a ISaT Selkie AU fic I've been working on next <3 (Not to be confused with looped-140-and-counting's already existing and quite wonderful Selkie Siffrin AU which already has a completed oneshot fic, a snippet of sequel, two snippets of prequel/Sif flashbacking and I believe a comic too, all of which I highly recommend <3)

[the-ellia-west]

INTRO POST!!1!!!!!1!

Hello! I'm Ellia! Welcome to my weird-ass writeblr blog! Here's some things to know about me:

I am an Aspiring author and Devoted Christian Woman. I live in the USA (CDT time zone) I am a minor, and the only other language I know is some very spotty spanish.

I mainly write Fantasy, and I'm working on four main projects (Listed Below)!

I like: Jesus, Bright Colors, People, Writing, Reading, Cats, Music, Warm Weather, Rain, Flowers, Dresses, and my Moots!

I Dislike: The texture of wool, Heavy Lifting, Baked Beans, Sin, Satan, Demons, and the Time Travel Trope

Hey! Pst! Before you continue! I have a side blog! Check out @jakkon-and-rose-topic if you want to read some stuff!

Tags:

Ellia Writes - Any talking or sharing of any aspect of any of my WIPs

Ellia's Construction Company - How I make stuff, tutorials, ect.

Ghost Party - Chatting and geeking out with my friends/Moots

Ellia answers - Answering questions

Ellia's Rambling - Me talking about stuff (a little too much)

Ellia's Haunted house - Any posts that I could slot into my story and character/world building. And my pile of creations (Including shitposts)

Ellia's mind palace - Stuff I'm adding to my mental Library :]

Ghost gardens - Aesthetic Pictures and stuff

Ghost scribbles - Art/Drawing Practice

My Wips:

TCOT - (The Cursed One's Throne) - TCOT is a low fantasy Novel Series I have been working on for 5 years, and I hope to publish in the next year, and the Main Wip I will work on and talk about on this blog (Tags: #elliatcot, #ellia tcot, #ellia's tcot, #the cursed one's throne)

J&R - (Placeholder Title) - High fantasy Adventure with Sass, spunk, and a heck of a lot of conflict (To be turned into a comic one day)

StF - (Steel and Feathers) - StF is a High Fantasy project about a Chosen one And stuff (Tags: #stf, #elliastf, #ellia'sstf, #ellia stf, #ellia stf)

Fallen - (That's the title) - A High Fantasy Romance between a Runaway Noble and a Disgraced (probably Criminal) (Tags: #elliafallen, #ellia'sfallen, #ellia fallen, #ellia's fallen, #rustpearl)

StF Short story Masterpost!

Alkain - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Raavas - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 3.5

Old Pinned post Copy-paste below (followed by my moots)

------------------------------------ Hey there! Hi! You! Tumblr user!

Are you a fan of epic fantasy? Want a story with romance, action, and sassy heroes and villains? How about some good old-fashioned ANGST?

If so, you're in luck! Get ready for the upcoming release of The Cursed One's Throne (TCOT for short), coming... well, eventually!

A story of trauma, war, recovery, trust, and love intertwined with curses, magic, sacrifice, and a few too little hours of sleep. Who needs a release date when you've got me, the very entertaining author, right?

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

Wtf is TCOT?

TCOT sneak Peek

Worldbuilding

Music

TCOT Ships

Post this comes from

✨��Moots✨️💫

@agirlandherquill - HER WORDS ARE ART, GO FOLLOW NOW

@aredeemantagonist - Fun to talk to! AMAZING IDEASSS

@artsandstoriesandstuff - AWESOME ARTIST WITH AMAZINGLY CREATIVE IDEAS, FOLLOW THEM NOW!!!

@bigwipscholar - Yes

@bloodmoonloveletter - Slay

@blue-kyber - READ IT ALL

@corinneglass - Why is she so amazing and sweet?!??!? I do not deserve her 😔

@cosmolumine - Extremely Creative with wonderful ideas you can't help but get hooked on :]

@cybercelestian - I don't talk to her as much as I'd like to, but I live her <333

@darkandstormydolls - AN AMAZING WRITER, Her research on medieval clothing and settings is really cool and useful too! <3

@fantastictrashpolice - I need to talk to her more often too because she is very sweet and wonderful <3

@homelessnerdwrites - Very kind and wonderful, and I don't think I've seen any of her writing yet but she still ROCKS!!!

@i-hate-happy-endings - A wonderful author with FANTASTIC ideas that you all should check out!!

@illarian-rambling - ALL OF HER IDEAS MAKE ME WANT TO SCREAM, I WISH I COULD BE THIS CREATIVE AND WONDERFUL

@lunaeuphternal - A wonderful friend who I don't speak to often but is an amazing person you should check out!

@pastellbg - A Wonderful artist and friend all of you Need to follow!!!! (Slay Queen)

@phoenixradiant - His ideas and writing is amazing and poetic in EVERY SINGLE WORD he chooses

@rivenantiqnerd - YES

@savepoint-has-died - ALSO YES

@sl-vega

@somethingclevermahogony

@sunflowerrosy - Why does she follow me, I am so LAME?!?@?@?

@sunglasses-in-the-bentley - My beloved adopted daughter who deserves all the attention :]]]

@supercimi - A WONDERFUL friend with ALL the Amazing ideas you could wish for

@thecoolerlucky

@thelazywitchphotographer

@thepeculiarbird - Amazing Artist, I deeply admire her every word and movement

@urnumber1star - The author I can only wish to be 😔✊️ Follow Her

@vyuntspakhkite-l-darling - THE MOST CREATIVE AND WONDERFUL AND AMAZING IDEAS I THINK I HAVE EVER SEEN

If you made it all the way to the end, have a wonderful day, don't forget to drink water, have a little snack, sleep, take a walk, and Don't forget that I love you :] <3333

[sabine-smitten-obviously]

and now i have to find myself a tower in a forest near a wall ...

... and look for a black, dark sorcerer !

You love fairy tales? You love Good Omens? You loved Aziraphale and Crowley in medieval clothes? Then you will love this not so little fanfic i dearly recommend to you!

Villainous by @ineffablepenguin

What it is about:

Once Upon A Time…

There was a red-haired sorcerer who lived alone in a high tower, and a blond prince who lived in a palace full of people. And they were both of them desperately lonely.

The Kingdoms of Empyrion and the Sorcerers of Apollyon have hated each other for hundreds of years, ever since the Great War. They do not interact, other than to occasionally try to kill one another. And they certainly do not make friends.

Crow is an exhausted sorcerer who just wants everyone to leave him the hell alone: for the Sorcerer’s Council to stop harassing him to live up to his potential, and for wannabe Empyrion Heroes to stop attacking his tower to try and kill him. Until one day when he meets Prince Azra of the High Fells, who doesn’t behave anything like he’s supposed to…

Part fairy tale, part fantasy, all love story. There’s magic, and grand romantic gestures, and Heroes and a handsome Prince, and a Villain. There are even some wild heroics, though not necessarily from who you would expect. At its core it’s simply about two (relatively) sane people living in a mad world who find each other.

What i love about it:

🫅🏼 I mean - fairytales? And a lot of them? I found it very nice to guess all the tales when stumbling upon a hint. Nice touch: in the epilogue there is a list of all the fairytales which have kind of flown into this fanfic and i am quite proud that i only missed 1 i actually know (and of course those i dont know).

👑 This story is RICH - and i mean really rich. It goes into details over everything and sometimes it reminded me of books written bei Hermann Hesse because of all the little things that kept coming and being mentioned. On my e-reader it was 566 pages! And yes, it took them about 200 pages for their first kiss 😅 That said, its always drawing a picture and reading the story is kind of seeing in your imagination. Obviously nothing is ineffable for @ineffablepenguin 😉

💪 The action scenes: oh my, its like a Schwarzenegger-movie, you cant stop reading, its fast, its furiuos ... oh, thats another movie, ngk.

🩷 The character development: both of our beloved angels start out being insecure of their roles, their place and their worth. But - this is the first fanfic i ever read, where both of them get to be BAMF !!!!

🩷 The plot: i love being suprised - i mean we do know a lot already, diving into a GO-fanfic with the tag "happy ending", right? So there were some really interesting turns and sometimes i wondered "ok, just how will this play out? How will the author get to unknot THIS?" And i have to admit, sometimes i really didn't see it coming. Very nice!

🩷 The healing: i dont know if it was on purpose or the author just felt like our ineffables needed to hear and think stuff, but actually the way their characters develop and how they help each other with it, what they are thinking etc ... reminded me a lot of trauma-therapy. So as one of those few (ähem) people who really spiraled after the big 15 of S2, this was such a nice feeling.

💫 the epilogue - this story doesnt end at happily ever after. Instead we get to know, how they make a living for themselves and sneak a little into their daily lifes. I truly appreciate that, its a nice way of comforting the Reader out of the story.

This wonderful art is from @pinkpiggy93! 🩷

Most beloved quote:

"And i love you too, my dear," he said firmly. "You are so very easy to love."

And isnt this quite a sentence, we all need to hear?

So if you are into good omens, fairytales, long fanfics to really dive in to for several hundred pages, some surprises and of course a happy ending - this is quite the story for you.

🩷🤗

Reading is not a hobby, its an attitude.

[legendofzoodles]

What guns do you think the Chain would have? This has been bouncing in my head endlessly for the past day and I can't pick a solid answer for any of the chain. At most I've gotten that Wind has 10 flintlocks strapped to him at all times.

Why was I asked this? Why did I research for this? This is probably the closest I'll ever get to the other side of the Atlantic without physically going transatlantic. Anyway I've played a few horror games, lemme take a crack at this:

The Chain's choice of Firearm

Time, making sure most of the targets are taken out before any of his boys needs to pull the trigger, suites a grenade launcher.

Imagine some kind of archaic medieval fantasy assault rifle for Warriors. I was thinking maybe a simple more elegant gun but then I remembered this guy wields a broadsword not a rapier for a reason. He duels yes, but more so clears huge waves of enemies in fights. This gun has a high firing rate for just that, allowing him to lead the charge.

Twilight gets the shot gun. Simple as. It's been used by farmers anywhere and everywhere to protect their crops and animals. As a excellent marksman he has the skill to use its large spread with precision.

The simple pistol for Sky. He'd carry it on him but would only draw it as a last resort. He doesn't strike me as the type to shoot...in any context really.

Legend wouldn't have a gun. I mean, he'd have maybe a PDW for emergencies, but I see him as the ammo guy who also have all the extra parts needed for repair or customisation.

Sniper Wild gets a sniper rifle. Stays out of the way, backing up the rest up with his perfect shots, in both timing and placement. He's also able to quickly change his location when he may have been found out or when he needs a better lineup.

Four best suits the revolver. He's very good with this weapon; keeping track of how many bullets he's working with and the slow reload requires him to think ahead and not shoot blindly.

Not sure if such a thing exists but Hyrule would have a kind of gun that's able to be customised on the dime. A scavenger used to variety wouldn't have the patience for just one type of weapon.

Apparently flamethrowers are classed as a firearm? Wind gets one of these; sorry anon kid isn't getting a gun...but, hey if he's able to steal a flintlock from Legend's stash um sure.

~~~

Thanks for reading. I hope I don't get put on a watchlist...

Masterlist

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Promises Five: The Hunt

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.

A/N: I'll offer song recs to folks who are interested in asks! Still dealing with some mental health issues, but pushing through. HOLY SHIT THE NEXT CHAPTER. 0,0 Liking is sweet, commenting is divine. Talk to the lonely hermit, people. Her dog is tired of her shit.

The hounds sang after the hinds, and their masters followed them under the trees.

In the distance, the high castle sat like a toy house from which all the dolls had escaped, spreading their games and pageantry through the forest with bells and horns to warn away the deer and fox. Huntsmen released other deer, fox, and fowl from prearranged cages out of sight of the king and his swarm of courtiers, so the dolls could play pretend at feats of skill.

The bard kept to the back, holding a tight rein on her grey mare – who didn’t understand why she couldn’t stop and graze if the bard insisted on moving so slowly – in the company of the ladies Alder. Eilwyn, who’d visited the bard’s chamber two nights past, glimmered and glowed, illuminated like a piece of art in the dappled sunlight and the eyes of a few dozen would-be suitors. Officially, no one could pay court until the Endless had his pick. Unofficially, Eilwyn had received six declarations of love, five bad poems about her eyes, one good poem about her hair, and an uninspired puzzle box containing a gaudy necklace without a single gem of value.

Eilwyn loved it all, of course.

But as the younger woman amused herself snaring hearts for her collection, the bard conversed with the Dowager Alder, Eilwyn’s grandmother.

“The city lights are unbearable,” the elder Alder insisted. “My eyes are bad enough as it is, but when every street and tavern glows like the moon, I can hardly make out the planets with my telescope, let alone the fainter stars. With the travel time, I’ll lose whole weeks of work, and gods know if I’ll be alive to note my calculations this time next year.”

Manly shouts and howling dogs suggested something ahead had died, or was about to. The bard wondered how many of these fools in their fine furs would discover the material cost of bloodsport when they couldn’t scrub the stains from their velvets in the morning.

“You say that every year.”

The Elder Alder, on her aged palfrey, squinted at the green canopy shielding her beloved sky and tutted.

“And one year I’ll be right, like I always am in the end.”

The woman was an astronomer, a mathematical magician, and the idea of death hadn’t scared her since the bard first met her as a young maid. The wheel of the heavens moved before her, and it would move after, and that was well enough if she could just understand the damn thing before she shuffled off this mortal coil. She’d written books, and papers, and more books, and the bard wondered if Death would really hold off until the universe held no more mysteries. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Of course, Lady Alder.”

Arthritis had long-since gnarled the lady’s hands, and they twisted over the saddle pommel and a hank of her horse’s main like knobby cypress knees, straining with the roll and sway of her palfrey’s gait.

“How far is the damned camp?”

Another lady – one of the fools hoping to wed her daughter to the Endless riding very far ahead near the king – seized the reins of her precious child’s horse and passed the odd trio. She did not look to the side. She did not look at anything. She lifted her nose far too high. And she nearly trotted over her own servants in passing.

The bard waved, and the daughter gawked with wide eyes as she was spirited away from poor influences and dangerous words. Really, any damage was already done, and fleeing the scene of battle only showed weakness. What kind of lesson would the girl really learn besides the fact that her mother enjoyed making a spectacle of her piety? Parents really had the strangest ideas about children.

“Grandmother!” Eilwyn exclaimed, clearly delighted.

The bard, equally delighted, couldn’t help herself. “Such language from so fair a lady. Shocking.”

The Dowager shifted in her saddle, face puckered in discomfort. “Hush, the both of you.”

Oh, if only she could. She laughed to imagine how much pain and trouble might’ve been saved. And how many adventures missed. They never would’ve been friends at all if the bard kept her own counsel.

“You expect a bard to hold her tongue?”

“The sun will freeze first.” The Dowager made a point of staring down her granddaughter, though, and her granddaughter made a point of smiling very prettily in reply. A lord several lengths ahead called for Lady Eilwyn’s attention, and she brokered an armistice by riding out of her grandmother’s line of sight entirely, leaving the two old companions to fight their own wars.

“My old bones are not made for riding.”

A jolt of pity seared the bard’s belly like the pain after eating a rotten fish. She’d rather purge it and be done, but the prickling discomfort would only grow with age. There was no course but to swallow it down and imagine it hurt much less than it would in time.

“Why didn’t you take the coach then? It could’ve brought you in comfort.”

Swollen knuckles flexing, the lady scoffed. “With the rest of the invalids? Don’t insult me.”

“But it’s so much fun, old friend.”

“Old,” Lady Alder muttered. “Yes. I am that.”

The bard shifted in her own saddle, wondering if she could stomach any of the inevitable banquet awaiting them.

“That wasn’t the word I’d hoped you’d echo.”

An eye sharper than any hawk’s pinned her from the side, and she felt like a child caught sulking. “If you need reassurance as to that, then you are not half so clever as you make yourself out to be.”

She seized on the opportunity for levity and smiled with all her teeth. “You’ve known me for a fool many years, have you not?”

“Aye, but a clever one.” The lady considered. “Most days.”

“Such praise you give me.”

“You fished for it so often the lake is empty.”

“Unfair but not untrue.”

The lady hummed her affirmation, welcoming in a moment of calm as they road in the wake of the hunt’s chaos.

Ahead, those most eager to prove themselves brought down smaller prey on their way to the day’s camp. Once all had a chance to refresh themselves with wine as their horses grazed, most would sally out again in the name of dead beasts. Dusk would bring them back, and they’d spend the night drinking, feasting, and debauching one another just outside the safe ring of torchlight, pretending to be very daring and wild for fucking someone in a bush.  A bit more hunting in the morning for those who could still sit straight in the saddle, and then all would return bloody and victorious to the castle.

The bard struggled to understand those who found the prospect of a royal hunt… thrilling. None worried to go home hungry, and the creatures they met in the wood came hobbled, with teeth filed and tusks blunted.

Rushing down a winding stair risked greater peril.

Bored by the day’s excitement, she let her thoughts spin out in wider and wider passes, circling the crux of the drama.

What did the King of Dreams dream of?

Revenge, she suspected. Vengeance on the king that may boil over on the land he ruled, and she must guide her favorites out of the flood’s path. Those practical answers satisfied the part of her that always craved a direction, a purpose, the next challenge to conquer, but the Dream King’s retribution sat like a wax seal over a longer letter. She would very much like to read that letter, even if it was dangerous, and unwise, and entirely reckless.

The Prince of Stories must have depths unfathomable, millennia upon eon of secrets and experiences carved into his bones. She wanted to dismiss her curiosity as nothing but interest in a vision of her future. Would she be like him in another thousand years? No. She’d still be human, and he was Endless. All the lifetimes of the Earth couldn’t teach her to understand one such as him.

But that didn’t mean she had no desire to try.

From farther up the line, a runner came jogging, peering up at the faces of the mounted company. He looked from one to another, seeking the right address to receive his message. The bard paused, recognizing the Everard house colors on servant’s tabard. Her horse stamped, whickering around the bit as her rider leaned out of the saddle to catch the young man’s eye. He saw her and darted to her side quick as an arrow.

“Is all well?” the bard asked.

“My lady Alis Everard and my lord Tomas Everard request you ride with them.”

The bard looked to Lady Alder. She hardly needed her friend’s permission, and none of the Alders were the sort to cherish grudges over perceived slights. But the bard didn’t want to leave her to ride alone, either. She needed good conversation and someone who cared enough to notice if she swayed on her horse.

“Oh, go tend to your nervous foal.” Lady Alder waved her off. “My own proud filly will see you pass and return to keep me amused. We favor different arts, but she has a sharp enough eye to see trouble riding by.”

“Thank you.” The bard pulled out of the column of riders, careful to avoid the servant at her side. “I’ll see you at the camp.”

Whatever Lady Alder replied was lost to the wind. Finally given her head, the bard’s mare leapt into a canter, her hooves thumping a second heartbeat that rattled up and through her rider. Old loam and the sharp green scent of freshly broken twigs gathered around her like a cloak as she moved just left of the path, removed from the rock and dust of the road.

The bard knew what colors to look for, and she let all definition blur as she moved past lords, ladies, knights, and their scores of attendants. They all looked so strange and out of place in the tunnel of green woods, dressed to stand out in a part of the world where blending in more often preserved life.

Near the front of the cavalcade, she found the Everards. Alis stared with wide eyes as the bard pulled even with her, mare prancing and snorting in frustration as her run came to an end. Her dramatic entrance pulled other eyes, and the king – only a few riders ahead – glanced back with frustrated disgust. Perhaps she should apologize that she wasn’t a stag. For all of the ruckus she’d heard from afar, she saw precious few carcasses dangling from the hunters’ belts.

“Thank you for coming in such haste,” Lord Everard said. Stifled amusement plucked at his lips, trying to lift them into a broad, laughing gale. It would be bad manners to laugh too loudly too near the king over a jest to which he wasn’t party, but Everard clearly struggled.

She answered with the grin he’d tried to school away. “Best way to travel. Now, what is the matter?”

Lord Everard gestured to his daughter, and she in turn tried to sink into the mud of the forest track. She hunched low, like she could melt into her boots. Her complexion had gone pale, despite the flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, and her gloves creaked as her dainty hands squeezed into fists. The bard let the merriment fade, looking and listening beyond the girl’s silence.

Alis’s doe eyes flicked towards the shadow who rode beside her king, and the bard understood.

Dream of the Endless wore his customary black, with the blood-red ruby shining on his breast like a heart he’d ripped from his prey. His nightmare mount had teeth where it ought to have eyes, and it laughed with a man���s voice. He carried a raven on his shoulder rather than a hawk on his glove, and anyone who hadn’t met his sister may mistake him for an aspect of Death. Or something worse, perhaps.

Lord of Nightmares indeed.

“He frightens me,” Alis whispered, leaning close. “I’ve had nothing but bad dreams since I came to the castle.”

As she should. A glance at her father confirmed he thought the same. Just because he’d been forced to bring his child to this storm didn’t mean he didn’t fear the lightning. He had too much sense for this farce and too big a heart to let the girl suffer. If his wife were not busy running the estate, she’d be here to shelter and comfort their little girl, but in her absence, he must ask the bard to fill the role, and she gladly pulled Alis’s attention from bad dreams to simpler truths.

“And you’ve never had a nightmare before?” She didn’t chide. She reminded. Even in the security of her own bed in her own home, the girl had touched the darker shores of the Dreaming. Its king would not reach out to swallow her now, even though he prowled so near in the Waking. “Alis, believe me, you are safe.”

Alis pulled her spine straight, taking a deep, intentional breath that shuddered on the way in and trembled on the way out.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise that if I’m wrong, I’ll find a convenient sword to fall on, and you can say you told me so. Does that make you feel better?”

“A little.” Realizing what she’d said, Alis blanched and rushed to add, “But only because I know you’d come back!”

This time her father did laugh, and the bard reached to reassure her with an honest to gods giggle, when chaos erupted at the front. The king and his companions came to a dead stop, and without warning or order, those who rode behind struggled to halt in time. Rearing horses and shouts of alarm rolled down the line like a breaker, and in the wave of confusion that followed, the bard once again left the road to circle forward.

They’d reached the camp.

A glory of golden stitching over swaths of emerald, the vast tents might cover an entire town, and smoke rising with the smells of rosemary and stewed venison hinted at the delights within.

The display paled behind the entity waiting at the edge of the woods, however.

Golden eyes like licks of flame from the sun’s heart smiled over ruby lips. Welcoming and menacing and all-too pleased with themselves.

Power perfumed the air, like honeysuckle and ambergris, clashing with the winter-cold snap of Dream’s clear displeasure. The King of Dreams had lost the veneer of humanity, and he set himself against the intruder like the deepest hour of the night resisting the dawn.

Few creatures could stand up to the king’s guest. Even fewer commanded the presence of function beyond personification. The bard did not know who the stranger was, but she knew what they were.

Another fucking Endless.

Every inch screamed of passion, romance, obsession. Golden hair and loose-fit silks that flowed like water into a garment that was neither tunic nor gown inspired sensual curiosities. They rode a unicorn, a bay mount with cloven hooves, a lion’s tail, and a goat’s beard. The russet horn glinted with flecks of gold, like treasure winking through a smear of blood.

The King of Dreams sneered, lip curling as he shared a frigid greeting.

“Sibling.”

The Endless in their path laughed, bright as bells and smooth brandy. It sounded to the bard’s ears like trouble. “I hope you don’t mind if I join in your hunt. Big brother.”

[seth-whumps]

you mentioned that you like knight characters and i wonder if you have any tips on writing knight caretakers and whumpees? i like medieval, fantasy and knight whump but i have trouble creating ocs who are knights. i love the aesthetic, armors and whump potencial but i can't relate to them and figure out their motivation cause i'm a pacifist from modern times

Hi anon! I do love me a good medieval knight setting. Here's some tips for you!

-> Ditch the black and white.

Morality is a complex son of a bitch. Don't focus on a pillar of "normal" expectation, like "killing wrong, charity good". Try something more layered. For example, I have a knight character who will kill anyone in his way--however, he will do his utmost to send them to the afterlife with respect (leaving a flower on their chest, giving them a kind word, pressing a kiss to their forehead, etc). Don't be afraid to let a "good" character do "bad" things, and don't be afraid to justify the morally grey.

-> Make them like you.

If you're having trouble relating to your characters, a trick is to give them something of yours. For example, if you have a sibling, model their relationship to their siblings like yours--whether it's a love-hate or a die-hard loyalty--and reference that. Then, their thought processes have a point of reference, and you can feel for them.

-> Relax into the genre.

Explore the parts you enjoy of the aesthetic. You like armor? Make your OC from a blacksmithing family. You like fight scenes? Have them train classically in a sword-style you enjoy. Is the royal-servant dynamic a favorite of yours? Design them a prince friend, and develop their relationship. Delve into the parts that intrigue you, first and foremost.

-> Symbolism!

I said it in my previous advice post and I'll say it again--assign your characters opposing symbols. The ocean and the sky and a sailboat between them, and how they interact, gives a flowery poetic description between them all. It's definitely a stylistic choice, but even just keeping the symbol in your head will help with interactions.

-> Do some research.

Watch a relevant show (might I suggest Merlin?). Take a rabbit hole down Wikipedia pages. Scroll a cosplay account. The things you find might inspire you, and if not, the stuff you like can make a very fun small detail!

*Also: there are different kinds of settings to play in. You can go high or low fantasy, high or low magic (LOTR is high fantasy low magic; Percy Jackson is a medium between the two). These terms are from a different post, I'll endeavor to find it. If magic doesn't inspire you, don't include it. If it does? It's everywhere now. Go wild.

-> Hypeman it.

Just have fun with it. Choose the things that excite you, and then get really fucking excited about it. Anything that bores you gets tossed out the window. You really can just say "it's three weeks later now" and move on--classic authors did it all the time. Go crazy and do it shamelessly. Don't care about the things you don't care about.

I hope these help! If you'd like, I can do a series of medieval prompts to help you get started. Thank you so much for the ask!

[mi-i-zori]

Writing Resources - Masterlist

This masterlist will host the links to the posts and threads I've saved as writing resources. None of them are mine - all the credits go to the amazing people who made them.

Characters

Author, Narrator, Protagonist, Hero... Who is What ?

Creating Black Characters With Intent

Describe Your Main Character Sheet

Emotionally Reserved Characters

Flaws to Give to Your Characters

How to Introduce Your Character In 3 Steps

How to Show Emotions (They have a whole series for this, please go check it out !)

How to Write a Character Who's in Pain

How to Write Trauma With Humanity

Open Letter from a Poc for People Who Are Writing Characters of Colour

Questions for Crafting Problematic Characters

Tips : Nail Your Character's Mannerisms and Speech Pattern Down

Top-Tier Villain Motivations

What Will Your Character Do If...

Fantasy

Fantasy Guide to Education

Make and Interesting Wedding Dress in Your Fantasy Setting

Reasons Why Can't Your Characters Use Magic To Fix Everything

Some Locations and Structures to Include in Your Forest

What No One Tells You About Writing Fantasy

Good to Know

A quick Guide to Animal Symbolism

An Introduction to Small World Theory

Differences Between UK and USA Military Dog Tags

How Boat Pronouns Work

Medical Facts that are Commonly Overlooked

Medieval Dyes

Playing Music With a Bow! (The Archery Kind)

Realistic Travel Time

Roles on a Pirate Ship

Slater's Impromptu List of Military Reference Material

Sick/Poisoning Fics

Stop Doing This in Injury Fics !

Symbolism in Writing

The Anatomy of Passing Out : When, Why and How to Write It

The Anatomy of Punching a Character in the Face

The Symbolism of Flowers

Ultimate List of Weapons and Arsenal for Fantasy Setting: Purpose and Who Uses Them

What's the Deal With Archers and Animal Companions ?

Horror

Creepy Things to Add to Settings

Horror and Comedy : 90/10 rule

How to Write Creepy Stories

How To Scare Your Readers

Most Common Character Flaws in Horror Fiction

"Never Were" and "Used to Be" Monsters

People Get Eldritch Madness Wrong

Romance

When the Romantic Tension is High

Tips

If You're Starving in a Post-Apocalyptic Fic

How to Make Your Writing Less Stiff

Pep-Talk - You Are Allowed to Be Proud of What You Write + List of YT Channels and Amazon Links for Writing

Resources About Survival in the Wild

Skip Google for Research

Some Writing Advice

The Neurodivergent Writer’s Guide to Fun and Productivity

Write Smarter, Not Harder

Writing Tip : Research

Vocabulary

Aesthetic Words to Fill Up Your Vocabulary

Bilingual Characters - German Edition

CoD - Spanish for Ale and Rudy Fics

Colours in Descriptions

IRL Operator Phrases/Terms - USA Edition

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List of Wikipedia Articles - British and American Words and Differences

Scottish Phrases and Words for Soap MacTavish (or Scottish Characters in general)

Soft-Feeling Latin Words and Phrases

On Using Words that Indicate Sounds and Tones for Dialogues

Words to Use Instead of "Running"

Words to Use Instead of "Sighed" and "Frowned"

Writing Russian-Speaking Characters

Voices

A Guide to Write a Mancunian Accent

Growled, Roared, Snarled, Etc... A Brief Description

Writing Character Accents in Fiction

Worldbuilding

A Website That Walks You Through Creating a Believable Society

List of unique and imaginative types of government that can add depth to your fantasy world

Random Linguistic Worldbuilding

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Backup Your Tumblr Blog

Disable Recall for Microsoft's Copilot+ PCs

How to Find a Post on Tumblr

Protect Your Stories on AO3

Show Me a 10ft Paywall, I'll Show You a 12ft Ladder

Mii's Blog Recommendations

@deception-united - I love the resources this person shares ! They have a masterpost that lists their useful posts, but they also complete some of these posts as answers to asks and reblog a lot of other resources.

@leisureflame - This blog has a lot of resources, advice and prompts ! The author also offers to help with other people's struggles too, which is immensely wholesome in itself.

@writers-potion - This blog has tons of amazing posts to help writers with their research. I keep coming back to it, and highly recommend checking it out ! Here are this person's extremely useful Masterpost (1) and Masterpost (2).

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Writeblr Re-Intro!!

Friends and Enemy, hi!

I figured I would write a new intro because my old one is now out-of-date. I have finished my second draft of WIPVII (placeholder name until I actually bother to title it). It clocked in at 77 049 words, which was exactly within my goal of 80 000 +/- 5000.

After many false starts and a deliberate hiatus to flesh out some worldbuilding, I am now working on my third draft!

This blog is really just for me, to chronicle my thoughts as I write, but I have made so many friends on Writeblr already and am always open to making more!

For the actual intro bit:

My name is Kate, Square, Not-Square (thanks Not-Cheeto hehe), Rubiks (thanks Sleepy :3), or whatever nickname you would like for me (she/her). I mostly write fantasy with the occasional sci-fi project on the side. I love epic high fantasy (in the vein of LotR or Wheel of Time) and YA fantasy romances equally.

Funny enough, my current project is none of those things. It's more like a YA twist on a Shakespeare comedy than anything else -- if I had to pick a genre. Something like Twelfth Night, Cymbeline, or As You Like It. It's got a young women running from an arranged marriage, a b-plot to prevent a war, forbidden love, mistaken identity hijinks, a forest setting, bandits, a fairy-tale High Medieval backdrop, and it wouldn't be truly like a Shakespeare comedy without cross-dressing and queer characters.

I have several other WIPs on the go but this is the one I am prioritizing.

I don't post full chapters because I am hoping to query one of these centuries (and also, it's not yet ready for human eyes)... but I do live-blog the process when I am writing and I share my favourite lines.

My goal for my third draft is just to make the prose effective. My first drafts are word vomit. My second drafts are mostly structural and trimming the cringe. My third drafts are where it actually starts to reflect my prose ability.

If you write sci-fi, fantasy, or weird fiction of any kind I would love to get to know you. You are also welcome to hang around if you are interested in watching someone else go through the revision process of writing a novel, or if the concept itself intrigues you. I am happy to answer questions about first/second drafts and writing in general.

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I have been thinking about the same thing!! like au fics are so cool!

also its a controversial opinion, but I don't think ooc fics really exist because if you change how major parts of a character's background like how they grew up, they would act differently than their canon self because they don't have the same experiences anymore.

idk if this makes sense so sorry if its a bit all over the place

THIS IS TRUE even if i say this as someone who regularly partakes in haterisms about ooc but like. its moreso i think that "out of character" doesn't exist as a concept in a Vacuum that's applicable to fics universally and equally. the Type of fic wildly changes the expectations you can have for how similar to canon a character's personality will be!

like fics that deem themselves canon-compliant can be expected to follow pretty closely canon characterisation, but not AU fics... and even then it depends on the type of AU and how different that is to the original media! for dsmp "dick jokes in between death scenes", a modern AU will probably have a closer tone/characterisation than a medieval/high fantasy/royalty AU will. except if you're going for crack, which also bangs. and except if the modern AU has very specific social conditions that would also change the tone... see its full of contradictions it's so fucking interesting there Has to be some kind of studies on this...

and theres the question of How much of it is intentional, adapting the essence of a character to their newfound environment, and how much of it is unintentional; and if the latter happens bc we unconsciously apply stereotypes or patterns of thinking that can be harmful to characters that don't exhibit those stereotyped traits in the first place, That's when i think it can be source of criticism

BUT OBVIOUSLY yknow fanfic is for fun and i love fanfic authors and this should never be something used against fanfic authors who are often amateurs and putting out these banger stories for free, its just really interesting to analyse as a whole

cwilbur would still not call ctommy toms though