#nepenthe!chatter

[montcumbry-gaytor]

Nepenthe. chapter 01

act one : tacenda

THIS IS A OC INTEGRATION FOR THE WITCHER, IT IS NOT A X READER FIC.

- another rewrite , blurghh idk if I'm gonna post this one or if I'm gonna keep writing it until I consider it perfect, anyways I have nothing better to do so!! yah!

tw for : mentions of cheating, canon typical violence, geralt is a bit OOC, angst, brief sex scene but not smut, mentions of scars.

(n.) things better left unsaid; matters to be passed over in silence.

I can smell the rain in the air, it's heavy and carries an uncomfortable humidity with it, I can feel it soaking into my clothes and run down my silver blade, droplets running down onto another's skin.

But how did we get here? perhaps the beginning can explain.

I am Kael of Tossaint, a Witcher of the school of the Viper, I am currently eighty-two in this point of time, but this feud begins in my younger years.

I loved him then, sometimes I think I still do, the wolves were like family, and Geralt was more than a lover, but a friend.

My times at Kaer Morhen never felt out of place, thanks to Vesemir, maybe our ways of the Witcher "Lifestyle" were in some ways strayed, but Vesemir assured that not even witchers can be alone.

He was correct then, but now I'd like to think he'd be wrong, but hes not.

Geralt was a slow burn, taking time before he even chose to speak to me.

"You're going at it wrong."

He sighed, his arms crossed as he was watches me attempt ( and fail ) the wolves course, I hiss out a remark, staring him down as he progresses in doing it himself.

He's smooth, he's done it a hundred times before, From his head to his feet, everything is coordinated like a dancer, I thought he looked handsome when he was focused.

Time passes, we are now close friends, I climb the old, worn out tower to meet him, his arms crossed loosely as I pull myself up, wiping sweat from my brow.

Idle chatter meshes into that of frivolous flirting, and that into a cheeky peck on the lips of which I gave him, that he returned with fervor.

We are now lovers, we return to Kaer Morhen every winter, recovering and enjoying each others presence, occasionally traversing into the woods to hunt with each other, never a dull moment.

I stick an arrow into a large buck's thigh, it squeals before bolting off, I draw my arrow, and release as it curls around trees, piercing the animals nape.

"Impressive."

He says, raising from his crouched position behind shrubbery, he looks dashing even in the dirt and grime, i watch him as he skillfully wraps up the kill and straps it to his horse, it was Vesemir's turn to cook.

Old stories chattered across the tables, Geralt reminds me he'll be leaving in the morn' for the spring.

"I know, I'll see you in winter, My love."

I reply, resting my head on his shoulder, the food sits warm in my stomach.

It's summer, I hear from an employer that Geralt is in town, working with a court witch, I have decided to find him and pay him a visit before I'm on my way, he's in a inn on the outskirts of town.

Her voice meets my ears first, before the familiar grunts of Geralt follow, and I realize that they are moans, breathy and calling out my lovers name.

I am furious, but I do not pursue those feelings and turn my back on the wooden door, her moaning Geralts name doesn't let up in my mind.

I come to Kaer Morhen in the fall, I've done successful works and made good coin, but the dread of summer still wells in my stomach.

I tell Vesemir I will not be returning to Kaer Morhen, that I've appreciated this home and love he's provided, he is like a father to me, one I can never truly have.

I have not returned to Kaer Morhen since that day, it's been half a decade, I am deep in a tavern as I scout out a man I've been asked to formally take out, he leaves his table to pay his tab, before promptly grabbing his items and rushing out.

He knows his time has come.

I follow him in the shadows, slithering just where I can fit, not even my breathing makes noise.

Which is why I notice heavy footsteps tailing me, stalking in the moonlight as if I am the prey.

I cannot take my victim's life if I am the victim, I will find him later, I will just have to make up for the lost time.

I round the corner, and then another, I can feel it's gaze on me like wildfire, burning through the back of my head.

And when I turn that last corner, I am gone, I am the shadows, When he turns I know exactly who he is, it's not like I could forget.

It's quick when my foot plants into the center of his back, he has no choice but to tumble onto his rear, propped up by his hands as my shortsword grazes his chin.

"Geralt."

I hiss and I feel it begin to rain, quickly becoming a downpour, but I do not let my sword budge, watching as his golden eyes narrow underneath his furrowed brows.

"Kael."

He replies, it's a mix of anger and relief, he attempts to push my blade away, but I nick his fingers as I resist.

"Where have you been?"

He asks, his thumb running over the pads of his fingers, the blood running with the rain.

"Far enough from you, Is what I thought."

I answer, tilting my sword back and forth, forcing him to let me gaze at his features, he hasn't changed a bit, if he has grey hairs it's not like i would be able to tell.

"But why, Kael?"

He speaks once more, his Adams apple bobbing as he takes a short, uncertain glance at my sword, watching me pull it away and sheath it behind my back.

"Why would your lover disappear for five years, and admit to avoiding you.. hm, no clue."

I say, it's obvious he never knew, you'd have to find Vesemir one day and thank him for his disclosure.

"Kael."

Geralt growls, he's growing impatient, though he has no right to be.

"Don't do that Geralt, may I remind you I'm the one that kicked you on your ass."

I spit, I have to brush my dark hair away in order to see him clearer, I can feel his eyes gloss over my features.

"I'm shocked you didn't even notice I was there, Was sensing other witchers not in your mutation?"

I add, straightening my posture as Geralt begins to stand, he dusts off his leggings before broadening his shoulders, squaring off a stare that's one of confusion and a glare.

"What are you talking about?"

He growls, stepping towards me with frustration, he places his hands on my shoulders, a move he did often when he was worried for the one he did it to.

"Triss? was it?"

I say, I can feel the hurt burn in my chest, searing into me as I cannot deny it, his jaw clench as he now knows what this is about, I can see he's unsure where to start, I do it for him.

"In Mortara, I had heard you'd been around, Sought you out myself, but I'm right in saying I wasn't the only one doing so."

He squeezes his eyes tight, and opens them as if he was no longer supposed to be here, as if this was as one awful dream.

"Discretion goes a long way considering you never sought me out."

I add, I run a light finger over the scar that rests on the bridge of my nose, waiting for his reply.

"It was one time, Kael, I don't love her."

Geralt says, his head lowering to meet my gaze, as if searching to see if his words stuck.

"One time is enough to break someone you do, though."

I say, brushing his hands off my shoulders and turning, letting out a quivering breath before meeting Geralts gaze again.

"And it's funny that I can't keep you off my mind, because I hate you, so much."

I continue, my voice barely above a whisper as I have seemed to have forgotten exactly where this encounter came from, my hand snaking up to cup Geralts cheek, he leans into it and I retract.

"I'm sorry, Kael."

"You'd better fucking be."

I snap, I can feel the grit in my teeth, he drags his tongue over his dry lips, his eyes wolfishly dragging over me, he's hungry, and I can't decide whether to let him starve or feed him until he swells up and explodes.

And I crave him too, the uncanny warmth he brings is a burning desire, hes has left me broken, so why do I want him more?

That question lingers as I bring myself up to press my lips to his, he reciprocates it, his hands crawling up my figure, his palm cupping my jaw, pulling me closer to him.

There's a feverish hate boiling in my stomach, I cannot help but love him despite his wrongdoings, an error in my judgment, I can't help but sway with his movements.

When we pull away, He goes first, and I open my eyes to scan his face, my brows are furrowed and I let out rapid breaths, almost in disbelief.

"Shit, I hate you."

I sigh, rutting my nose to his forehead as my eyes close again, it reminds me of when we were younger.

It's wintertime, I've been in kaer morhen since late fall, Geralt is arriving on his tall horse, when I see him I dash out, He hops off his horse to embrace me, it's a familiar warmth I've missed, He tilts his head down, and I rut my nose into his forehead, It was a mesh of the greetings between your schools.

Geralt doesn't reply to my remark, he just holds me close to his chest and lets out a deep breath before he looks down again, his eyes glancing in the direction of the inn I was at before.

I can tell what he means and nod, following him closely as we make our way back, he keeps an eye on me like I'll disappear, I dislike it but find it endearing anyhow.

When we get into the inn, Geralt ignores the staring, he always seems to do that, he simply grabs my hand and pulls me to his room, he's quick to shut it behind me and lock it.

His hand brushes my hair away from my neck, his fingers play with the strands of grey, his lips kiss just where they can reach, before his other hand pulls the collar of my sweater away to kiss down further.

When he tires of leaving kisses, he unlatches the belts holding my pauldrons on, he doesn't toss them, but he doesn't gently sit them aside either.

He makes quick work of the leather belt that rests on my stomach, tossing it away.

He's more gentle with the swords, He knows i would be with his, he sits them by the foot of the bed, and doesn't make any further movements.

He's waiting, he's asking, he wants to know if I'm not caught up in the moment or if this is something I truly want.

It takes me some time to answer, I finger the hem of my sweater with uncertainty, but in the end I pull it clean over my head, it reveals a forest of scars, ones of fire, barbs, claws, swords, and arrows, deep in my skin.

He takes his time to kiss and run his fingers over each one, he whispers their origins under his breath, though I couldn't care for his dragging.

"Geralt."

I rasp, He understands, and makes quicker work of his own armor and clothes, his muscles flex as he pulls clothing away, left in just his leggings and not much for the imagination.

He tries to take my hand, but I slip it up his shoulder and guide him to the bed, which he lays into, resting his weight on his elbows.

I pull my trousers away, the braies hug my hips as they're untied and pulled down as well, Geralt eyes me with something I can't describe entirely.

The sex is quick, my mind is filled with uncertainty which makes it drift away at times, Geralt notices but keeps silent, rutting into me nonetheless.

In the end I find myself held close to him, but my back faces his chest, my mind slowly eases into sleep as I can't help but stare into a wall, my thoughts running absentmindedly.

In the morning, I'm the first to wake, and I slither away from the witchers grasp, though he wakes in the process, watching as I dress.

"Sorry to wake you."

I say, pulling my trousers up and pulling the drawstring taut before tying it back into a small bow.

"Where will you be going to next?"

I ask, slipping into my boots as I wrap the leather strap around my lower legs

"Posada, In Aedirn."

Geralt said, rolling on his side, his medallion dangles from his neck as morning light that spilled in from the windows bounces off of it, I stay silent for a moment, in consideration.

"I will ride with you."

I say, fastening the belt tightly around my waist before strapping my pauldrons and swords to me, and then my hip bag and dagger to my right thigh.

"Hmm.."

Geralt hums, before rolling onto his back once more, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, I take the moment of silence to hold the end of the leather strap in my teeth while I wrap the other end around my lower arm.

"I wasn't asking."

I say firmly as I pull the ends of the leather taut, assuring they would stay in place.

"Kael."

Geralt says, he's now behind me, seems to have snuck up while I was distracted, he rests his chin on the padding of my left shoulder, I can feel him unclothed behind me, and smack his hip.

"Get dressed."

I hiss, he knows it's not hateful, but does as told, the silence holding us in a fond embrace, I have not forgiven him, but there's always time to consider it before we reach Posada.

GOLLY I loveee how I wrote this >:) I'm saying this waayy before I even post this that way I don't just delete my work and re-write it all, and just proof-read and touch up my writing.

I'll most likely post this once I have the second and third chapter in the barrel 🤷

[okaywolf]

Mob boss who promises to throw you in deep enough next time.

This story contains sexually explicit content.

Written to the prompt by Make Up A Criminal cohost prompt account — Mob boss who promises to throw you in deep enough next time.

Okay so this is more about the you and not the mob boss, but I’ve been inspired by recent fiction to write some terrible toxic boyfriends.

Reusing the name Neph for funsies, it’s not the same Neph from Neph and /~.n. Fun fact, Neph as a name is short for Nepenthes, the carnivorous pitcher plants.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Neph coughed up the last of the S’iyaq river in the shower, watches the blood and river water swirl and drain with steaming shower water long run clear of the muck he had dragged himself out of, tries not to collapse with the relief that he’s seen worse. The water’s gone cold when he wakes. No mountain of duvets in the world could warm him, so he opts for a boyfriend sweatshirt and reheating what is likely biohazardous, questionable contents of the coffee pot sat unquestionably too long. He’s still shaking when Gauss gets in, at 3am and clumsily but quietly toeing off boots not to assume whether or not Neph is conscious.

“Fucking shit, what happened to you?” Gauss’s hands on Neph’s face—alcohol, syrup, sweat, gas—vibrate with the bounce of Neph’s jaw they fail to quell.

“Hot water ran out.”

“At least dry your hair, shit.” Gauss stalks off across the wreckage he’ll ask about later and returns to the couch with towels and duvets. He drops a towel on Neph’s head, the rest on his lap, and wraps himself in the blankets before wrapping himself around Neph. He swears the whole time, drowning out the chatter of teeth and tap of nails on a long gone cold coffee mug.

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[iironwreath]

oc reactions in a haunted house

more seasonal scenarios 🎃

ada: doing finger guns at the monsters, isn't easily startled

cadiana: cady is immune to fear, so they get to enjoy whoever they're with clinging to their arm while they're a brick wall that doesn't react to anything

cihro: laughing and chattering; the only giveaway that he might be spooked (if at all) is him clinging to someone else's sleeve with one hand. technically he has alert so he can't be surprised and he's been through way too much to be genuinely scared, so overall he has a good time. tries dancing with some of the actors

crow: crow isn't part of the staff but they do dress up, sneak in, and start scaring people via thaumaturgy and shadow of moil. they do this until the hosts catch on and crow is asked to leave or are hired formally

genevieve: ida asks to go to one so evie takes her. ida probably ends up scared and crying, though, so evie just carries her out and takes her apple picking or pumpkin carving instead. evie is completely unbothered by any scares

iona: completely unfazed, doesn't look like she's enjoying herself even if she is. she'd rather have a hot drink and a book for the season

murtagh: a bit overstimulating between the flashing lights and noises for him personally, but he'll let maeve drag him through one

nepenthe: delighted, having a blast, flourishing, maybe enjoying it a bit too much, is she ok?

redback: acts suave and cool, but probably screams at one point and runs out so the next people going in think it's scary

union: union has a high wisdom and perception, but he enjoys the spirit of taking things seriously, so he'd jump and grab people, then laugh afterwards

vesuria: unfortunately vesuria has the "punch" reaction to anything that startles her, so she's not allowed back in after breaking a staff member's nose or giving them a black eye

vierna: vierna's home IS a haunted house—rug of smothering, glyphs of warding, traps galore. she'd predict everything ahead of time and more than likely be correct and a bit scathing, like "oh, how original." she might not understand the point of doing a fake version

[pointreyesjournal]

Feet to the Fire : ep179

I don’t think you could stuff more wood in a fireplace. When we arrived on Friday evening, there was a small pile of logs and kindling on the hearth for us to use courtesy of the homeowner. But we used it up pretty quickly.

This morning when we were getting the tandem bike out from behind the house, I found the woodpile by the shed and helped myself to a generous serving of seconds. Now I’ve got the fireplace crammed with as many logs as I could squeeze into it and it’s roaring like a medieval pyre. We’ve got the windows cracked open to let the heat out, but it’s still so warm that we’re laying on top of the sheets on the sleeper sofa.

The lights are off and the yellows, oranges and reds of the fire dance up the walls, across the ceiling and into Cheyenne’s eyes as we lay facing each other. Our fingers are playing footsie as the fire crackles and pops. I’m trying not to fill the dead airspace with chatter as Cheyenne processes out the implications of accepting the generous gift of a college scholarship and a wad of cash.

Cheyenne: Baby …

Me: Yes?

Cheyenne: Help me figure this out.

Me: There isn’t a whole lot to figure out here Shy. Somebody out there loves you enough to make a huge investment in your future, and is asking very little in return.

Cheyenne: But I told Henrik I want to do this on my own. I don’t want to be beholden to anyone.

Me: This wasn’t Henrik.

Cheyenne: Bullshit this wasn’t Henrik.

Me: Shy, I think Henrik really likes you, but let’s be honest, your existence to him is incidental at best. Henrik didn’t do this. You can figure out who did this, but you’re not asking yourself the right question.

Cheyenne: What question is that?

Me: Who really loves you? Who loves you enough to do this for you?

Cheyenne: Ohhhh. Oh shit. I hadn’t thought of that.

Her eyes well up deeply tears as she reaches for the phone and dials.

…

Beri: Hi Shy!

Cheyenne: Hi Honey.

Beri: What are you guys up to?

Cheyenne: We’re laying on a sleeper sofa in Pacific Grove, drinking a bottle of red and roasting the bottoms of our feet in front of the fireplace.

Beri: How romantic! Did you guys go to Carmel for lunch today?

Cheyenne: You know where we went for lunch today …

Beri: No I don’t.

Cheyenne: Yes you do. We went to Nepenthe.

Beri: And?

Cheyenne: Did you do this?

Beri: Do what?

Cheyenne: Enough with the charade Beri! I just want the truth. Tell me the truth and I’ll do anything you want.

Beri: Promise?

Cheyenne: I promise.

Beri: Cheyenne, I put my life savings in a cigar box and snuck it into the trunk of that Ferrari.

Cheyenne: And Henrik doesn’t know?

Beri: No. He has no idea. It was every penny I’ve ever saved.

Cheyenne lays her head down on the pillow and tears are streaming onto the screen of her iPhone. 

Cheyenne: I love you Beri.

Beri: I love you too Shy. That’s why you’re going to be on that boat with me, and that’s why you’re going to be my maid of honor. Okay?

Cheyenne: Yes. I’ll be there for you. Forever and ever, I promise. I’ll be there for you.

Beri: I know honey. You two enjoy the rest of the weekend and bring back the Ferrari in one piece.

Cheyenne: Okay. Bye.

Beri: Bye.

[theemdash]

Random OC question! Who do you think is your most creative OC?

oh god, i told you i’d fret and stew over this…

Probably currently Olivia (main character of Nepenthe)! She might not show it very often, but she enjoys a variety of the arts (besides playing and making music) and definitely has an insatiable curiosity.

Elliott’s (Olivia’s brother) a close second, but his creativity is a bit more narrowed to music.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

If you’re still doing the word prompts: nepenthe (n.) - something that can make you forget grief or suffering for Antoni?

CW: PTSD/trauma recovery focus, references to past burns and current scarring

His eyes feel heated, still, as he ducks his head and walks with a determined step back towards the house. The walk from the bus stop isn’t all that long - maybe fifteen minutes of winding his way through the neighborhood, swinging past the run-down houses of people out enjoying the way the sweltering summer heat is slowly cooling as the sun begins to set.

The light is gold-tinged, and there are dark clouds building far to the southeast that suggests there will be rain, tonight. For now, though, the neighborhood is full of laughing, shouting, talking drinking eating loving life.

 Funny how he has lived here this long and he still stands apart from them.

Perhaps that’s not a problem of being a runaway pet, but of something deeper, some core aspect of whoever he has been in his life. 

The thought makes his burns begin to itch, and he rubs his left hand over his right forearm as he walks, gritting his teeth against the flush of false flame that travels up his arms to his shoulders, itching fires that race down his sides. The burn in the side of his neck, the only one he can’t hide.

I have need of an ashtray, and you do make such a pretty one, don’t you?

Antoni in his long-sleeved shirt and long pants passes households full of people in their tank tops and shorts, sandals that smack and flap against the concrete driveways where they run and toss basketballs into hoops. Babies and toddlers wearing swimsuits or their play clothes or nothing at all splash in little plastic pools, shrieking in delight. Dogs run in and out of sprinklers. Cats sit on porch railing, tails swishing, watching Antoni’s progress with calm thoughtfulness.

Somewhere, further down the street, he can hear Jaden and his friends howling like a pack of wolves, Jaden’s voice a touch lower than the rest. At barely thirteen, Jaden is already growing like a weed through the summer, seems taller every time he appears at the door to ask if Chris wants to come to the park today.

Antoni wonders, sometimes, if Miss Ruth is putting him up to it - but he can’t bear to make himself ask in case the answer is yes. What good would it to do, to break Chris open with information like that?

There’s no mistaking the light in Chris’s eyes that comes with being wanted by someone, thought about when he’s not right in front of them. The desperate affection of someone who is relearning what a friendship is, or maybe didn’t have any at all before. Antoni would be the worst kind of bastard if he took that away.

Who knows? Maybe Jaden and his friends fall as deeply for Chris’s enthusiasm for the world as everyone in the shelter does. It isn’t fair to carry his suspicion like this, when Chris doesn’t have those sorts of thoughts himself.

Especially when Jaden and his friends stood in the safehouse lying to the... cops? They looked and acted like cops, but Nat maintains they were company men playing dress-up. But Jaden and his friends hadn’t known the difference, and still they’d all lied as one about Chris’s existence with no motivation but to do the right thing, even when it meant staring fear in the face and setting your jaw against its threats.

Antoni can say no such strong things about himself. He is instead a man who ran through a dark tunnel and left Chris behind. 

Congratulations, Antoni, you don’t have the courage of your average twelve-year-old boy.

Therapy makes him like this, sometimes - his conversations with Dr. Berger in her home office after hours, twice a month or once a week depending on how he’s doing at the time, leave him melancholy. He feels like he has emptied himself of everything, is a man made of hollow spaces and scars and all the things he did not do, when they most needed done.

“Antoni!”

The voice comes from down the block, and Antoni looks up to see the flash of bright copper under the evening sun that tells him Chris is already outside waiting for his return, swathed in his usual uniform of Jake’s shirt over one of his own. 

Never - not once - has Chris asked him why it took him so long to come back to see if he was okay, after it happened. He is still a burst of light that makes its way out from behind dark clouds.

He raises a hand in a wave, managing a slight smile.

Chris doesn’t wait for him, but instead barrels out into the sidewalk, and Antoni’s eyes catch the shift of a cowboy hat, Jefferson turning to watch while carefully watering the rose bushes he’s convinced he can grow along the front of his house, his partner safely hiding in the shade of the porch and calling out his emotional support while drinking a beer. 

Jefferson looks up, and then back down again. Across the street, Miss Ruth sits fanning herself in a lawn chair while what Antoni assumes is Jaden’s mother and Miss Ruth’s daughter gestures widely, in the midst of a story. 

Naomi’s house is closed up, they’re down in Florida or something and Nat’s been going in to water their houseplants, and why anyone would go to Florida in the middle of summer is a mystery to Antoni.

The bigger mystery is why he even knows that Naomi is gone, or that her name is Naomi at all.

How did I come to know these people, and all these things about them?

The answer, of course, is Chris.

Chris makes it to him with striking speed, already beginning to tell a story about the neighborhood stray having a litter of kittens, and Antoni finds some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he slides one arm around Chris’s. The shorter boy walks next to him with a bounce to his step, chattering happily, and Antoni isn’t quite sure when he stops dwelling on his own failures, but by the time they make it up the front steps and to the door, his scars don’t itch any longer.

He pauses, takes a breath. He has failed in so many ways-

“I made, um, I made... made made made dinner tonight,” Chris says, and Antoni’s attempt to blame himself for something simply shatters as he takes that statement in.

“You what? Chrisha... what did you make?”

“Um, first, I tried to, to make pizza.”

“... First?”

“Well, when the smoke, the, um, the smoke-... the fire alarm went off Jake said maybe, um, maybe something that, that that that doesn’t, um, doesn’t use-use the... the oven. I got, um, I got... I was cooking and I went to set the, the timer, but then there was, I saw a thing on TV, and then I heard Jake listening to, to, to-to-to music I liked and then I... forgot.” Chris grins, shamefaced, and Antoni smiles back, shaking his head.

“So? What did you decide on, after the, ah, the smoke cleared?”

“Salad.” Chris gives a firm nod. “You, you can’t burn a salad.”

Antoni laughs, soft and deep-voiced, and Chris brightens even more at the sound. “This is true, Chrisha, this is true. I would be very impressed if you found a way to burn salad. Show me what you did.”

He comes back from therapy sometimes weighed down by his own guilt. Somehow, by the time Chris meets him halfway and leads him back inside, he feels less guilty and more like he has a chance to make up for every failure, simply by allowing Chris to forgive him for them.

The teenagers down the street are howling again, Jaden’s voice leading the way.

[theemdash]

{last sentence} tag game!

tagged by the wonderful @raiswanson (twice!!!) because they know how to make sure I get to this story one way or another... (*cries*)

from a nepenthe!au:

The pain her comment inflicts is striking, hot under the ribcage, so he mumbles, “I am leaving regardless.” When her eyes flash to his, he wonders if his comment did the same.

I am behind on the tumblr times, so please CONSIDER YOURSELF TAGGED and get to writing (and get to tagging me so that I can fangirl over all of you guys’ fabulous stuff)! <3

[theemdash]

{writing} tag game!

tagged by the marvelous @thewriterkatie :D

1. What kind of genre do you like to write? Why?

Fantasy, more YA than anything. There’s a little extra something about fantasy that feels right to my fingers, and nine times out of ten, that’s just what comes out. There are too many larger-than-life what-if? situations that evolve - who could say no to that kind of muse?

2. Which do you like writing better, heroes or villains?

Heroes - but only because I can’t quite figure out villains. I can’t quite get my muse to work out the concept of “bad” people. Antagonists, sure, but soon I start worrying if they have enough to eat at home, if they’ve gone to bed on time, did they get their homework done, and suddenly, they’re a little baby hero. Oops.

3. Do your characters have a favourite type of weather?

...I’m sure they do once they tell me.

4. Romantic or platonic relationships?

Both! BOTH! You can’t have romantic without the platonic, imo, and some well-written platonic ships are just as exquisite as the romantic.

5. Which OC of yours would you get along with best?

Excellent question... I have no idea! All of them? None of them?

6. Would you survive in your OCs’ world? Why or why not?

Edgehaven, you bet. The Werenight? Nope, not at all. Not that the Werenight would want me, so I’d be left for the beasts or the music or both.

7. What would you say is one of your “quirks” as a writer?

"One.” (*laughs*)

8. Are there any writing “rules” that you break consistently (ie. commonly said rules that you just don’t follow)?

Writing is a craft, and a craft takes practice, and practice means you either A.) forget the rule exists, or B.) break it and find out what happens. So, yes, no, maybe. All of the above.

9. What does “show don’t tell” mean to you?

It means nothing to me. It means if I can’t tell the poignancy in the difference between showing and telling, between submerging you into the moment versus carrying you along by the hand, between the cadence of the plot and the rhythm of the words, then a three-word over-used piece of “advice” is not going to get me there.

10. Post a recent snippet of your writing. Do you like it?

not that recent, but in the last month, a not-terrible tidbit from a nepenthe!au:

He grins. “When are we heading to your parents’ place?”

The temperature in the apartment drops and Liv’s eyes steel. “When we feel like it,” is all she says.

“Olivia, when did they say to come over?” he asks her retreating back.

The hair dryer switches on from the bathroom, and he presses his lips together. Grabbing his phone, he dials and answers his own question. By the time Liv returns fully dressed in a velvet skirt and tights, he’s buttoned up his shirt and fastened his watch. “Your mother says we can head over there as soon as we’re ready.” He watches Liv tuck her hair back with a bobby pin. “Are you ready?”

“You called my mom?”

“I called the house; your mom answered.”

“You have the house number?”

“I have both your parents’ cell phone numbers, too.” Monty pulls on his jacket. “And your grandma.”

“Her cell phone?”

Monty nods.

Liv rolls her eyes and slips on her ankle boots. When she looks up, Monty holds out her coat. She hesitates.

“Are you okay if I come?”

“Yes, God, yes.” Liv sighs and slips her arms into the sleeves. “It’ll be nice. Different.”

There’s a beat of silence where her heart squeezes. She meets Monty’s eyes as she turns around, sniffs, and motions to the door. She locks the apartment door behind them then loops an arm through Monty’s as they walk to his SUV.

The traffic is light through the city, some roads through downtown yet untouched by snowplows or vehicles; the snow falls weightless and biting, white and pearl when the midmorning sun sprinkles through. At the red light of the intersection next to the park, Monty sets his hand just above Liv’s knee, brushing his thumb against the ribbing of her tights.

OKAY, now the tags--or rather, cop-out time--CONSIDER YOURSELF TAGGED. <3

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ereshkigal replied to your post “{writing} tag game!”

YOU ARE THE MUSE OF THE WERE OF COURSE IT WOULD WANT YOU!!!

LOOK, OKAY, I APPRECIATE THAT. I DO, TRULY. <3

but.

i am? not? a musician. at all. also not particularly talented with plants, not particularly fond of the dark, and not particularly a beast-whisperer.

the were might only want me purely out of the spite of its existence and little else, unfortunately.

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{WIP-movie trailer songs} tag game;

Tagged by: @byjillianmaria (because she’s fantastic for thinking this up!)

Rules: Your WIP is getting turned into a movie! Pick the top 3 songs you would use in a trailer.

WIP Name: Nepenthe (tag here)

oh goodness, I am Not Good with picking music, but I’ll pull some favorites from the playlist(s) that @ereshkigal is making/has made? :D

Tiznit {by: Tiamat}

The Soundmaker {by: Rodrigo y Gabriela}

City of the Dead {by: Eurielle}

(I know these are instrumental... but it’s the ~aesthetic that counts? that’s all Nepenthe is anyway at the moment.)

Tagging: whoever! I can never keep track who is still doing tag games or not??? if you see this and want to do it, consider yourself tagged!

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ereshkigal replied to your post “{WIP-movie trailer songs} tag game;”

I RECOGNIZE ALL OF THESE

YOU SHOULD; YOU PICKED ALL OF THEM. <3

(i also sort of wanted to include this one (not for the unspoken lyrics, of course), but i had forgotten about it until just now)

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Are you going to do NaNoWriMo for Nepenthe? And, since I'm in your askbox anyway, what is a nepenthe? What's it mean? Is it an actual word or did you make it up?

excellent questions, friend!

I am going to Attempt NaNoWriMo with Nepenthe, which I have attempted at least last year (and probably some years before), but I’m staying realistic: we are getting busier at work, and I am in a position of management there, so I have to be scrutinizing with my responsibility and time-balancing.

I found “nepenthe” when I was following the other-wordly tumblr ages ago, and according to their post, it comes from Greek! It roughly means a way to forget sorrow and suffering; some online dictionaries point that it mostly references a drug/drink to induce welcome forgetfulness.

I don’t think Nepenthe will keep its title once it’s done, maybe ready for publication, but it’s a pretty good fit for the time being. :)

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RHODRI is the first Descendant in centuries, and no one, not even himself, knows what to do with him. Whispers say that he’ll bring about the end of the Fae, of the Werenight, that the stars will come crashing down upon them if he Ascends. But what proof would the Werenight accept to raise him to Ascendant? What could he give the forest that no one else has? What does the forest want?

His mother, the current Ascendant, keeps her lips sealed and her eyes skyward. Rhodri hunts the trees for answers, for purpose, for a way to avoid the raised eyebrow of his mother. The air brittles between them as the days go by and Midwinter approaches. The nights grow longer. The Werenight wants to play in the dark, and its princeling wants to oblige.

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brynlikes

replied to your

post

:

[[MOR] OLIVIA KENSINGTON has grown up with all...

I feel like I’ve know very little about nepenthe, but these hints are so great, I just want to know everything now???

oh, you poor sweet soul. WELCOME TO THE WERENIGHT HELL.

(also: klasjfaslkjfd <3 thank you?! I get so tickled when people like this story)

I try not to blend this blog with my personal much, but there, nepenthe’s tag is much bigger & much more ~nepenthe than this little baby blog so far.

But for the overall gist of things:

Olivia’s my MC and is bffs with her older brother Elliott. Things happen. Rhodri enters the picture. Monty enters the picture. Sanna, Molly, Rosaline, and Lyle all chime in. (not necessarily in that order) The Werenight grins, some more things happen--probably some “oops”--and I’m hoping it all comes to a peak at the winter solstice, AKA the Festival of the Longest Night. (ending still to be determined)

:)

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OLIVIA KENSINGTON has grown up with all the luxuries that come as a daughter of a Governor and all the freedoms that come as secondborn. She spends mornings riding her mare Muscatine and afternoons reading in the library or sneaking food from the kitchen. During the evening, she studies and practices, drawing melodies with the brush of her bow. Her brother Elliott joins her on occasion, a duet of guitar and violin. On the rarest nights, they play in secret, learning the songs of the Werenight by ear and by heart.

For as long as she’s grown to love listening to the Werenight, she doesn’t know the Werenight listens, too.  She doesn’t know the Werenight at all, but as long as it’s there—as long as it always will be—does she even want to?

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some context (for Nepenthe):

Nepenthe originally started as a short story told in roughly-500-word chunks (chapters???), but when I stepped back and asked myself, “What if this was a book?”, I also took the premise that was the backbone, and backstory, of the plot and made it into a very fixed plot point--something that actually happens in the story instead of directly-before.

Hence the constant questioning about what defines a “spoiler.”

I’ve spent the first few years of this little nugget with the understanding that this “spoiler” would be an absolute given. PLUS, my two bffs have been along for the ride since Day 1, so they, too, accept this “spoiler” as a given which has been both fantastic as well as disorienting (not that I’ve ever addressed this particular dilemma with them yet).