#silver magpie writing

[silvermagpiewriting]

The Dilemma of Business Platforms: Social Media and Otherwise

Check out our new blog post! #business #presence #visibility

One of the common problems for new and established business owners is deciding where to build a community. While in-person is an option for many niches, others require forays into the wild online space to pick which platforms are best for business. Ultimately, this creates a dilemma. The Two Must-Have Platforms There are two must-have platforms for almost any business, even an in-person one. A…

[dearestcaterpillar]

This is my story of what this person did to me. Please comment after you read the whole post. I've been through enough cyberbullying and I don't want any more. I just want to point out how this person has threatened me, robbed me of money and caused me huge psychological problems

It all started because I wanted to buy a commision. I wanted Belos in a men's corset and Magpie gave me my choice of free backgrounds. For fun, I wrote down I'd take the one with dead Caleb. The problem was, I'm not from an English-speaking country. I can read and speak, but I can't write in English, so I use a translator, which unfortunately made my joke into something disgusting, for which I wanted to apologize.

I started spamming because my brain went into induced trauma mode. I was always being punished for my mistakes and I was terrified of losing this person. He was my idol, a great hero in silver armor whose work supported me in times of trouble.

He blocked me and in a big panic I texted him on his Co-Fi when I had a subscription. My mind was in a total panic. I know he was asking me to leave him, but I couldn't. I cared so much about him as a person. We weren't friends, we were more like acquaintances. He sent me his projects, scripts and everything for his big project.

That's where the threats began, which sent me into a major panic attack and caused me to self-harm and slit my wrists.

After a couple of days I contacted him on Etsy because I had bent one of his products - a necklace - out of stress and I needed to know what the material was, because I was afraid I would break it during the repair. He translated that into me stalking him, accusing me of ruining his life. It's a pretty big problem with him that he doesn't put important information in the description of the product he's selling. I deleted the message, but before that I copied it for a guy who was helping me with the whole situation.

I know he asked me to leave him, but I was just fighting not to lose someone I cared about.

About the Ko-fi thing. I had a subscription to it. He sent me the link himself, asking if I wanted to support him. I said yes, of course. I was a big fan. I tried to contact him there to work things out. There he started threatening me sa blocked me there too. Unfortunately he chose the option that involved not returning my money. So after a couple of weeks I contacted him about it because I wanted my money back. Not all of it. I'm a fair person and only wanted to refund what was left of my total subscription from the day I was blocked. He never wrote me back and never sent the money back despite knowing my paypal because I sent him money through it several times.

I wanted to apologize to him for everything. When I texted him about the etsy, I had an apology ready.

I've tried to call out this behavior in the past, but all I've gotten is cyberbullying and death threats

Meanwhile, Magpie made me a stalker even though I only contacted him on platforms where we had previous contact and I just didn't do anything to make me a stalker. I was just trying to work things out.

Magpie then dragged more people into the whole issue. My ex-girlfriend who was just trying to buy stuff from him and xx other people. He lied to my girlfriend about the email saying he couldn't send her a package because of it. When she told him he was lying he blocked her and reported her.

And that's my story. I don't want to throw hate at Magpie. I don't want to sink to his level. I just want to point out what he did to me and that I'm now carrying new traumas from both his threats and cyberbullying from his fans.

[angelxcainn]

Faithfully Yours

I’m doing a series based off this prompt cause I can

Thank you @employee415151515151515151512 for the idea <33 Mayor gary was there idea <33327;$2$;$2!;

In the northeast crook of Old Bullworth Vale—beyond the bone-grey fences where weeds curl like whispers, and the fog trails like unraveling lace—there stood the old church.

Time-warped and timber-veined, the stonework held a color that had no name, neither white nor gray, something in between the ash of the dead and the parchment of forgotten scripture. Ivy, thick as veins, curled up the belfry. The bell no longer rang. It had not since the day Pastor Elijah’s voice cracked mid-sermon ,blood baptizing the handkerchief that he clutched tighter than the rosary he used to pray every night.

They buried him just past the seventh row of gravestones. A crossless patch of dirt. Shallow. Hasty.

Now, the grave bears a candle that never seems to burn out.

And Max stands at the pulpit in his place.

—

They call him “Father Maxwell” now, but no one’s certain if he was ever ordained. No one asked. In Bullworth, people learn quickly which questions keep the teeth in your head and which ones get your sins counted.

He wears a cassock stitched by trembling hands—black as ink, with crimson threading hidden beneath the hem, like dried blood in the folds of a holy book. His hair is combed now, his voice calm. He smiles. Always. A patient, cherubic smile like those hollow-eyed angels in cathedral paintings.

He smells like myrrh. Like incense. Like something hiding the scent of rot.

On Sundays, the church doors open themselves.

And the townspeople file in like sheep lulled by lullaby.

—

“Love thy neighbor,” Max croons, hands spread like the wings of a crucified dove. “Forgive your trespassers. Confess what burdens you.”

And they do. Every one of them.

They kneel at the crimson rail before him—heads bowed, backs bent, secrets coiled in their mouths like worms—and they tell him everything. Whispers. Whimpers. Regrets sweet as honey.

Max nods.

He forgives.

Then he writes each confession down in a book with no title, its pages yellowed and hungry.

The ink smells like vinegar and iron.

He never forgets.

—

He keeps the confessions locked in the tabernacle.

Not just the ones spoken aloud—no, no—Max is thorough. He takes notes from whispers heard beneath streetlamps. Scribbles phrases lifted from drunk lips at the tavern. Compiles transgressions like a magpie with silver.

One day, the town will be made clean.

Until then, their sins bloom in ink.

Each folded confession is placed in an envelope with a red wax seal: a single G.

Gary Smith’s initial.

The mayor receives them weekly. He does not reply.

He doesn’t need to.

—

Of course. Here is a poetic, story-like passage featuring a local politician stepping into Max’s church to confess—a slow descent into something far darker than forgiveness.

⸻

The church groaned beneath the weight of twilight.

A summer storm had not yet broken, but the air quivered with the taste of copper and spilled secrets.

Through the oaken doors came Councilman Bertram Hayes.

He wore his reputation like a medal—shoulders high, jaw locked, breath minty and ashamed. He had not been to church since his mother’s funeral. That day, he wept into the hymnal and pretended it was the incense that made his eyes sting.

But tonight, the guilt was louder than his pride.

Father Maxwell stood already in the center aisle, as though summoned. No footsteps. No warning. Just there—smiling.

“Councilman Hayes,” Max greeted, his voice like velvet draped over a blade. “How humbling to see a shepherd wander home.”

Bertram’s throat clicked as he swallowed.

“I—I don’t know why I came,” he admitted.

“A soul never does,” Max replied. “But the body does. It aches to be unburdened.”

He raised one gentle, gloved hand and gestured toward the confessional booth. It waited—half-lit, half-shadow, like a mouth parted just enough to swallow.

“Shall we?”

Bertram hesitated.

The booth looked too small. Or maybe it was just close. Too close.

Still, he nodded. Shame is a guiding light in the right hands.

Max opened the door with the reverence of a man uncaging a dove.

Bertram stepped inside.

The door shut like a sigh.

Max’s side of the confessional flickered with candlelight. The lattice screen between them was cracked, the wood worn from years of whispered rot.

The priest’s silhouette was all soft curve—folded hands, bowed head, the image of devotion.

“You may speak,” Max said. “No one but God and I shall hear.”

A beat. Then:

“I… I took money,” Bertram confessed. The words stumbled from his lips like a man pushed. “From the relief fund. It wasn’t—wasn’t much. Just… enough. Enough to keep things quiet.”

Max hummed. A sound like approval wrapped in mourning.

“And the hush money?”

Bertram stiffened.

“I—yes. Yes, that too. But I—listen, I didn’t hurt anyone. I swear. I just—I just moved it around. A different pocket. A different name.”

Max’s breath filled the booth like incense.

“Sin,” he murmured, “does not need a body count to be heavy. The soul bruises all the same.”

The councilman pressed his face into his hands.

“I’m going to hell, aren’t I?”

A soft chuckle.

“My dear Bertram,” Max said, “you’re already there. But I can make it comfortable for you. Like a warm bath. Like wine after drought.”

Bertram looked up sharply. “Then… you absolve me?”

“I record you.”

A pause. “What?”

“I absolve you in part. But every sin confessed is a seed. And I am a faithful gardener.”

Silence.

From the other side of the screen, Max’s pen scratched.

“I plant you in the book,” he whispered. “So your shame may grow into something beautiful. Something useful.”

“I—I don’t understand,” Bertram stammered.

“You don’t have to.” Max’s smile bloomed in his voice. “You came to be heard. And you were. That is the sacrament.”

The pen stopped. Max stood.

“The storm is coming,” he said as he opened the door to Bertram’s side.

“But the water always favors the righteous.” Bertram stepped out, unsteady. He felt light.

Too light.

As though something had been scooped from his chest and folded into parchment. Max placed a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Go now. Smile at your wife. Kiss your child. Vote the way Gary tells you.” Bertram blinked. “I—what?” But Max was already turning.

The candle behind him flickered, and for the briefest moment, the priest’s shadow looked like something with too many arms.

Outside, the storm began to break. Inside, the book closed with a gentle thump. And the wax seal cooled red.

[beetlecathedral]

Thought I’d share some of my writings this one I wrote when the trees I grew up with were cut down all in one day.

I feel the piercing sensation of the sky tower red eyes gleaming on the other side of the corn field.

They call to me. they speak of annihilation, compliance. The sulphuric smoke exhaled, towers over the barren land. Every creature confined to minuscule slithers of land, the ecosystem rendered histrionic. The trees have already been on trial and sentenced to death, guilty of being too unpredictable in their growth. Silver steel blades sectioned them piece after piece and I saw my best friends slaughtered without making a sound, without a droplet of blood. The magpies and robins and crows alike cried and whimpered for days circling their trees searching for their nests and mangy children now pulped into a mush by the weight of the silent ligneous corpses. This was once a sacred land, enormous albino boars roamed the swamps. This was a harsh land where every plant every ivy smothered the other rendering everything a spectral display of resilience. Sacred land where a sacred city was erected, not out of convenience or favourable weather but by some inexplicable allure. Now the red eyes of the tower float eerily off the ground in the pitch black distance, they exiled every boar, every wolf, every swamp. They kneeled the trees and poisoned the rivers. But still the mangle fights over the pasture, raging, the ivy slid on her thorny armour to resist the occupation, to kill off the docile, genetically modified wheat. This corn field in front of me is like a war ground I’ve prepared for all my life. I’ve spent years running through it, pacing it, wishing to scare it away and gaining a few more steps. Awaiting for the day I’ll finally slay that tower staring right through its eyes and the magpies and the robins and the wolves and the white boars will all be avenged and the age of the unpredictable, of the resilience, of the weeds will be once again.

[diginiko-asks]

// yknow might as well try to fight the os game rp ask drought

OOC (OneShot) Ask Game

Please reblog, and be sure to send an ask to who you're reblogging from!

Player - What inspired you to join os game rp?

Niko - How did you find out about OneShot in general?

Prophetbot - Do you know where you want your blog(s) to go from now, story-wise?

Silver - How do you think taming works in the context of your blog(s)?

Rowbot - How has the World evolved on your blog(s) if they take place after the events of solstice?

Calamus - How have your character(s) evolved throughout the course of your blog(s)?

Alula - Does your character(s) have any coping mechanisms?

Magpie - How does your character(s) make a living?

Maize - How has the world's decay/squares affected your character(s)?

Lamplighter - What's the most stressful part of os game rp in your opinion?

Ling - Do you ship any of your characters with other characters? If so, who?

Penguin - What other fandom(s) would you like to cross over with OneShot as a blog/arc/etc?

Kip - What's your favorite trope in os game rp?

Bookbot - What's your least favorite trope in os game rp?

George - What are some niche headcanons for your blog(s)?

Prototype - What do you think about Hackmail (or whatever other "mail" ask system your blog(s) use)?

Cedric - What do you think about Magic Anons?

Rue - What do you think about community/blog arcs/events?

The Author - What do you think about your own writing?

The World Machine - What do you think about the person sending this ask?

[ultravioletbrit]

10 people I want to get to know better!

thank you all for tagging me!! i <3 all of you so much!! 💜💜 @shoopsthereitis, @arviyya, @snarky-magpie, @messymoony, @ecstarry, @my-castles-crumbling

last song: après moi by regina spektor

favorite color: black and purple

last movie: shawshank redemption - it's my comfort movie (probably a weird comfort movie 😂)

last tv show: fringe - oldie but one that i love to rewatch/binge   

sweet/spicy/savory: unfair question!! all of them mixed together is probably my favorite. but if i had to choose one, probably savory.

relationship status: single - forever and always <3

last google search(es): ‘30 pieces of silver’ - it was said in a show and i didn’t know the reference. (if you don’t know either, it’s how much judas was paid to betray jesus… is that common knowledge? oops 😬)

current obsession(s): finding a job :( …. not sure if that counts as an obsession, but it’s all i've been doing lately and it’s absolutely zero fun :(

looking forward to: this might sound like a cop out, but i miss this. being on here with all of you and chatting and writing and i really miss my microfics… so i'm looking forward to having the time to be able to do more of this and to write and be more active on here again. (sappy, i know, but i miss you guys!! <3)

10 np tags (i'm a little late to the game, i tried to make sure i didn't double tag, but i'm sorry if you’ve already done this/been tagged) @under-pink-skys, @bluedahlia912, @wolfpadx, @thebibutterflyao3, @weasleytriplets, @wordsofwilderness, @static-radio-ao3, @badhairred, @onehundredflamingos, @maladaptivewriting, @just--vi and anyone else who wants to play!

[tohruies]

coco!! I'm so happy for you that writer's block is releasing you from its grasp! >w< If it's okay.. would you do the association thing for Dottore x Celeste? (^///^)

(also I saw your ask and I love it and am thinking very hard)

thank you auphieeeee 🥺💖 it appears to be at a time where i will have little to no time to write BUT it is okay :3 i will save this juice. i hope this is satisfactory enough hehe thank you for joining!!!

dottore & celeste: tarnished silver, nightingale in the eventide and magpies in the sky, a talking tea kettle with spindly legs, rain-sodden newspaper, ghost stories, halos forged from winter's breath, echoes that are loudest amidst the silence, an impatient click of the tongue, fingers pressing a flush into milky white flesh, slow blinking at each other to fall asleep ♡

selfship aesthetic associations! no more please! (。-人-。)

[rosesncarnations]

Pic for the writing 🤩

He’d expected so form of humiliation from the Night Court. Had known that his role would be played perfectly as it ever was. But he did not know that the raven that flew with the magpies and pigeons still held her talons.

She’d looked more like a wraith with that black dress of ribbons, oh how little he had known before she was curtsying to him with the grace of a cat, offering to take this dance instead of her High Lady.

He noted the raised brow as she waited for his acceptance, knowing it would be a yes, as if she were to have the foresight and not her younger sister. With his own grace he offered his hand, leaning down to kiss the one she put atop it, maintaining eye contact as his lips grazed over each finger in deft light kisses that were unseen from the onlookers.

Soon they were brought up in the sway of the music and he watched as her dress transformed into the iridescent colors that gilded the feathers that could come out of her arms with one too fast twirl with the way the ribbons practically turned to the very feathers he hypothesized she had hidden somewhere.

“How does the Night Court still fair My Lady Nesta?” He asked, perhaps hoping for an upper hand that Rhysand wouldn’t so easily give him. Or perhaps? No, he wouldn’t even think it here. Not even in his own court.

“As it always does My Lord.” Her piercing storm eyes stared up into his amber ones, “And the Autumn Court is as biting as it always seems to be?” She arched a brow with the same ease as he twirled her as far as his long arm could take her.

“As it always is.” He told her with a hungry smile as he pulled her as close as possible, holding her tightly as the music lowered to a near silent decibel even for the fae. “Are you to be a new spy? I do grow rather tired of the other one.” He whispered into the shell of her ear, running a lick of orange flame across her knuckles.

“If I were, why would I tell you My Lord?” Oh, how he knew she was taunting him. He could feel the gaze of her mate as he sent her into another twirl and gave a cold grin in the direction of that bat.

“I would ask what times you’d show in my forests. If I were a betting male, I’d say you’d sooner be more forth coming with that knowledge than the other one.” He had her back pulled to his chest, filling her breath still coming in even pulls.

Hands grasping hips, he sent another tendril of fire to graze up her throat kissing sweet and hot flickers to her jaw and cheek bones creating an elaborate collar of oranges, reds and yellows. That had done something to her cause in the next instance she was swirling her own silver flame through the slits of his shirt, winding around his biceps the way she might her fingers.

“I always win my bets.” Her voice was husky as they flew on the dance floor, they were spinning faster and faster claiming more and more of the floor until they were in the center of the floor. The center of a rosebud in bloom.

“Do you trust me My Lady?” He asked in her ear as the band began its last crescendo. She turned her tempest eyes on him a brow swiping.

“About as far as I can throw you My Lord.” Her tone was biting but he knew she would let him do this.

He tossed her into the air, spinning at a speed that made her dress all but lose the blackness that had be originally shown, a kaleidoscope of purples, blues and greens. He caught her with an ease as if they’d been dancing with solely each other for centuries and not for a dance here and there with these damned balls that Rhysand held.

As her feet landed on the ground, leaning onto him raising her chin for something he could not offer in the public eye, he raised his own chin, grazing hers. And because he was a glutton for punishment, he lit a crown along the top of her head, his flames mingling with her own in one last bid goodbye.

“Till the next time My Lady.” He bowed to her as she curtsied yet again.

“Till next time My Lord.”

[quitetheclimbingrose]

Eight Characters that Inspired Your OC ( or how you write your character )

Tagged by: stole it

Tagging: don't know half of y'all, just steal it

Jane Porter ( Tarzan ) ~ Science lady hyper-focused on biology, so much more at home out in the field than back home, draw draw draw draw draw, bubbly femme, would walk around in her stays and slip all day if society would let her, values nature juuuust a tad higher than human life, transfixed by the beauty of the world around her, nerd, known to overreact, capacity to look and act ridiculous, themes of the beauty of being alive.

Balalaika ( Black Lagoon ) ~ Milf, Stole her hair tbh, criminal leader, just the right amount of cruel, reviving a dead clan via piracy, stronger than she looks, low key terrifying when she wants to be, themes of running from the past and the future at the same time, themes of eat or be eaten.

Pink Diamond / Rose Quartz ( Steven Universe ) ~ live and die by the rose aesthetic, worryingly self destructive, what she wants matters more than her relationships or her well being, knows she is very influential but has no CLUE how she effects other people's lives, a fixation on organic life, more toxic than even she realizes, once known for her explosive anger that she mysteriously doesn't seem to have anymore, natural leader, motherly in the loosest sense, big ass curly hair, sapphic but bi and low key a ho, transfixed by the beauty of the world, seems to only ever bring out the best or the worst in other people, skeletons in the closet just waiting to be let out, her wants will get her killed, tall as shit, themes of the beauty of being alive, themes of running from the past and the future at the same time, themes of putting on a character / who are you really?

Laios Touden ( Dungeon Meshi ) ~ Got that dog in her ( autism ), strange as hell eating habits, feral, knowledgeable and adaptable, nothing can ruin her day as long as she gets to see/be around/talk about her hyper-fixation, method to her madness, looks out for her team, excellent and horrible communicator at the same time, unlikely leader, themes of eat or be eaten, themes of food as a type of love.

Eda Clawthorn ( the Owl House ) ~ Everything tbh she is probably the most influential out of the eight, slowly falling to a disease that is eating her alive, magpie like compulsion for pretty or shiny things, scam artist, amputee, squirled away in a hideout, running out of time, socially odd or overconfident, sassy as shit, ginger, feral, queer, milf, will NOT bow to authority, freedom at any price, themes of running from the past and the future at the same time.

Long John Silver ( Treasure Island ) ~ Vibes, lost a leg and somehow doesn't make her less scary, was once a ship's cook, sexy in a dangerous way., thinks shes far more clever and crueler than she actually is, uses underestimation to her advantage, a tad more theatrical then necessary, begrudgingly values retribution, has a soft spot for kids, themes of putting on a character / who are you really?

Captain Shakespeare ( Stardust ) ~ excellent deceiver yet a terrible liar, more honorable than you expected, has a hard goal but ain't got a real solid plan, not that it matters bc luck and friendship brought her to where she needs to be, keeping secrets, genderqueer, fashionista, amiable to a fault, very aware she is playing a part, very aware that it won't last forever, very unaware than she can trust far more people than she realizes, has a reputation to hold up, only one around with half a brain, princely, themes of the beauty of being alive, themes of putting on a character / who are you really?

Fujiko Mine ( Lupin III ) ~ often uses disguises, femme fatale, hot and she knows it, renowned art thief and treasure hunter, can never tell where her true allegiances lie, nor what her true motives or feelings are, unnatural amount of luck, uses underestimation to her advantage, adaptable, fashionista, themes of putting on a character / who are you really?

[silvermagpiewriting]

Self vs. Social Personas as They Relate to Marketing

Check out the new blog post! #marketing #socialmedia #personas

One of the tricky things about marketing is the growth and change of it all. You simply never know when something is a trend, when it’s a permanent shift, or when you need to change strategies. The use of personas is one such area. The Technical of Personas Personas refer to two different things, sometimes more. The first is a profile of a typical customer. The second is a business’s persona to…

[legacyshenanigans]

Hey love everthing you write and do hand just had to ask something

i just found a ryme that i think woud sound really cool in some of the voices of the hlc (mostly sebastian and mavolo) and wanted to ask if you could let them say the ryme (would do it myself but im broke lol)

heres the ryme

One for sorrow,

two for joy.

Three for a girl,

four for a boy.

Five for silver,

six for gold,

seven for a secret never to be told.

Eight for a tale that the stars have spun,

nine for gate that can not be undone.

Ten for a river of forgotten lore,

eleven for a key tot he spectral door.

Twelve for a mirrow that reflects the night,

thirteen for a beast that lives in spite.

Fourteen for a realm that none can reach,

fifteen for a speech no tongue can teach.

Sixteen for a dream trapped in stone,

seventeen for the old gods hollow moan.

Eighteen for the abyss that gazes back,

nineteen for the formless cosmic wrack.

Twenty for a magpies final verse,

in a universe where shadows converse.

The end oft he ryme,

the start oft he dread.

When not a single word is said.

Oooooh, poetry corner, I dont think I've done that before 😊 sure I'll do that for ya, seeing as you said both Sebastian and Marvolo, I've split it and both take pretty much half each. Because thats alot of letters and I didn't wanna do it twice haha.

[farolero-posting]

Who would swap with who in a Swap AU of OneShot:

Here’s what I already have

Prophetbot and Prototype

Silver and Kip

Alula and Calamus

Also the Solstice trio will keep their memories and be so confused but know they must fulfill their roles

Ooooo ok so this is a tough one! The toughest part comes from counting how many characters you wanna consider and how to get the most out of the AU. I'll give you a Long explanation of how I'd work things out. Anyone can feel free to add your own ideas as well!

Traditionally the Barrens would have 3 (Silver, Prophetbot, Prototype), the Glen has 5 (Calamus, Alula, Magpie, Maize, Cedric), and Refuge ranges from 5 to 7 (Lamplighter, Ling, Kip, George, Rue, and then add Watcher and Mason, for example). The World Machine may or may not be swapped, but in my opinion the only one fitting to swap with it is like, Niko. So that's a pair that's outside the 13-15 characters mentioned. The Author probably wouldn't count at all either.

Let's see. Silver - Kip, and Calamus - Alula makes a ton of sense. They're pretty intuitive swaps.

The Solstice trio is tricky, but not because of themselves but about who switches with them. Like you either rotate them so Proto takes Cedric's place who takes Rue's place who takes Proto's place (or in reverse). Or you have to choose someone Else to take their roles. Would these characters gain awareness of the simulation? Would they be related with each other in some way? Is the character in Cedric's place also piloting a flying machine or another transportation? Is the character on Rue's place a talking animal or are species kept the same?

Let's try to fit in other characters, though. I'll keep Prophetbot - Prototype because it's an easy parallel, and... Maybe add Maize - Rue. These two make sense to me because they're both one of a kind in terms of species, and seem like comforting and wise characters. They share this nostalgia and hope, but while Maize is pretty much doomed to die, Rue is betting on a second chance. They are both hidden too.

Cedric is harder. On one hand you could switch him with George, as being the closest to the Author, and one of them representing hands-on knowledge versus theory based knowledge. I could see Cedric becoming a librarian, and would make sense to have him involved with his writing. George could have one hell of a role if she had self awareness of the simulation. The other option is Plight, because they'd both share overworking habits, but Plight is pretty self conscious about his knowledge. Plight would be interesting in a high pressure situation, and I wonder what Cedric would do in Plight's position as well.

So to recap:

Proto - Prophetbot

Silver - Kip

Calamus - Alula

Maize - Rue

George - Cedric

Magpie - undefined

Lamplighter - undefined

Ling - undefined

(if you add Mason and Watcher they'd probably swap with each other)

In the end what you can do to fix this is either create a trio of swaps with Magpie, Plight and Ling, or add another character to swap like Kelvin. Imagine Magpie swapping with Ling and Plight swapping with Kelvin maybe.

There are very few rules in swap AUs and I think there isn't one single way to do this really. You just need to know the roles each character fills in and how they do it with their own personality. Like, what would a carefree character like Alula be like if she was an older sister?

Besides that, you can ask yourself a lot of setting questions right? Is this a Canon divergence? Is this some code corruption? How does TWM feel about this? Can it do something? Or was this always meant to be and it's a fully parallel universe? How much of their personalities are kept and how much changes?

Anyways, I hope I gave you ideas to work with.

[w1ld-wr1t3r]

Who else is included in the wings AU so far? (so like other drivers, OCs, etc)

and if one can hide their wings, are there people without them? How are they treated?

Anon, you need to know that when I saw this ask, I immediately started chanting "LORE DUMP! LORE DUMP!" in my head. This serves as your warning.

First and foremost, let's go through the current cast of this AU. I've got a working list of every driver I've assigned a wing color to so far, though whether everyone actually gets mentioned is going to depend on how my plans unfold. A quick note that the only character I'm not including in this list is Martijn, since his wings are meant to be a surprise. For now, this list consists of only F1 drivers and a couple F1-adjacent characters. The cast may expand as I assign more wing colors.

Some have wings based on real birds, others don't. Those with real-bird wings have the species name listed, you can Google them if you're curious about their appearance.

Lando - pure white Max - Loggerhead shrike (the most aggressive shrike species in the world; they can take down prey significantly larger than themselves. And they have a penchant for impalement) Alex - European bee-eater George - Turtle dove Lewis - Bateleur (an African eagle species) Nico R. - polished silver Esteban - Maghreb magpie (pretty similar to the Eurasian magpie) Pierre - layered shades of cloud gray Logan - Florida scrub jay (a blue-and-white corvid native to Florida) Oscar - dusky orange ombre Carlos - earthy chocolate brown Charles - scarlet red, with white lacing on primaries Mark W. - Black kite (this is one of those birds from Australia that starts fires to force prey out into the open) Daniel - Whistling kite (also a fire-starting Australian bird. Why does Australia have THREE SPECIES of pyromaniac birds?!) Jack - Galah (a kind of cockatoo) Liam - Kea (a parrot from New Zealand)

Now, for hiding one's wings - I will admit that maybe what I've come up with isn't the most elegant solution. But once I got the idea of some wing colors being seen as "bad," I immediately thought, "what if someone chose to always keep their wings hidden to avoid being judged? How would they do that?" Then once I latched onto the idea, I came up with the plot of the first fic and realized that I needed to find a solution if I wanted to write this story. So then I figured, if I'm making a world where humans have wings, then I've already given up some of this story's realism, so it shouldn't be too unbelievable if I come up with a fantastical way to hide wings, too.

In this AU, there are special pendants people can wear that, when they come in contact with their skin, will hide someone's wings from view. They are still there, and will reappear when the pendant is removed, but as long as the pendant is on, the wings are not visible, the person can't use their wings for flight or any other purpose, nothing will interact physically with their wings, and it's essentially like they were never there at all. No one knows exactly how the pendants work, but the leading theory is that the ore they're made of emits some sort of energy or has some other property that interacts with the physical structure of wings, leading to them essentially disappearing. Scientists have studied this phenomenon for years and still haven't figured out what exactly is going on here (they also don't know why humans are the only primates who somehow ended up with wings. Basically, there are a lot of mysteries there. I don't currently plan to delve into the scientific or mystical aspects of this, since the main cast are all F1 drivers and not, like, professional scientists whose job is to research this, though who knows, maybe it'll still be touched on at some point)

People typically hide their wings for social or cultural norms, for tasks that would be easier to perform without them, or if they just want to walk around without their weight for a little bit. Sometimes, though, they're hidden for personal reasons. It's considered rude to just blatantly ask someone why their wings are hidden, especially during a first meeting, though if you've known someone for a while, it's generally expected that you'll show your wings to them eventually, and it's considered odd if you don't. Choosing to hide them completely from everyone it very unusual, and is often a tricky subject for others to navigate, as the reasons for doing so are usually very personal. Some people who choose to do this hide their wings because they're embarrassed or ashamed about their appearance, be that due to their color or species, or due to injury or damage. Others choose to hide them because they're disabled and can only barely fly, or are completely unable to.

There are sometimes people who are born without the ability to fly, though it's far more more common for them to have disabled wings rather than no wings at all. Being flightless is considered a major disability, and while they can still lead perfectly normal lives, there will be some activities that they simply can't do. The treatment of flightless/wingless people varies a lot throughout the world, with most places giving them aid or assistance in areas that they might struggle in (namely alternative travel options for those who can't fly on their own, or therapy or enrichment services for those who struggle psychologically with it), though some places are a lot better than others, and some people do look on them with judgment or scorn. There are some places where the flightless are seen as second-class citizens no matter what they do, and some people see them as "lesser" than them, while other look at them with pity. It really varies from area to area, though I'm happy to say that in this day and age, more and more people are treating the flightless with kindness, acceptance, and equality. Some flightless people, if they have any wings, will wear them with quiet strength, but many choose to just use pendants to hide them, since they can't be used anyway.

For those with minor disabilities who want to try and use their wings as normally as possible, there are options for prosthetics. Depending on their purpose, some prosthetics, such as a few fake feathers or a false joint, can allow a person to fly, while others, like a large swathe of fake feathers or an entire fake section of a limb, can fix a wing's physical appearance but won't allow for flight. (fake feathers usually aren't as effective as the real thing, so a few fake feathers on your wing might not compromise your flight, but a lot will. Some people decide that having wings that at least appear whole is worth it, while others don't bother. And obviously, if you need a full-on metal-and-plastic appendage, then you aren't gonna be getting off the ground with that) Prosthetics aren't affected by wing pendants, so they have to be removed before using a pendant and reattached afterwards.

Okay, I think that's the end of the lore dump. The first fic is well underway and the AU is going very strong, so feel free to keep sending in questions!

[aquadestinyswriting]

I was tagged by the ever-lovely @druidx to complete a writing exercise from this post; specifically the Paint a picture of a character by describing their bedroom exercise.

Tagging in @davycoquette as requested and also @ashirisu, @lexiklecksi and @sparrow-orion-writes as I think you guys will be interested in seeing this.

Situated in a pocket dimension leading off from the office space at the very top of the Wizard's tower, the bedroom of Selene Frigidwake paints a far more personable picture of the Grand Magus of Toreguarde than her office might suggest. As soon as the door is opened, you are hit with a wash of ozone with a faint whiff of sulphur and petrichor. You might even see some down and shed pinion feathers drift towards your feet, depending on if the maid has been by to clean yet. The space inside the door seems noticeably larger than it ought to be, given the dimensions of the tower from the outside, and incredibly well-lit. There is a constant low-level hum at the threshold, which ceases the moment it is crossed and the air within is charged with magical static. The whole room, much like the office it is attached to thrums with arcane power. Those who have the ability to see into the magical weave may be able to discern the various arcane locks and traps inlaid into the door and floor, and only those with the keenest senses can detect the other, more mundane traps which have been hidden in amongst the lock and hinges.

Directly ahead of the door sits a large, polished mahogany four-poster bed with curtain rails, upon which are alighted heavy, velvet curtains in a deep blue colour, tied back with purple, silk rope. Despite the clutter that litters the rest of the room, the bedsheets are neatly arranged and the comforter folded to sit along the bottom of the mattress. The goose feather pillows are plumped and set accordingly and the cushions that were 'donated' by the tower's staff are artfully arranged atop them.

The bedside cabinets have a drawer and a small cupboard each, all of which have locks. The top of the left hand table is stacked high with a handful of books, alongside a pitcher and glass; the glass contains water that has been halfway drunk and left to sit. The right hand table is littered with various, small objects; pieces of copper wire, feathers from various species of bird, a pouch of silver powder. Basically, a bunch of spell components that have been dumped and half-forgotten.

Two small, gothic style windows are set into the back wall on either side of the bed, while a larger, circular window is set into the wall on the right, allowing sunlight to flood into the room during the day and affording a stunning view of the city at all times. A smaller, latched window is inset into this, and is usually kept open to allow for airflow and for Selene's familiar, Chrackle, to come and go as he pleases. Underneath the window is a small desk, covered in feathers and parchment with a large inkpot and a quill made from the tail feather of a magpie. The parchment is covered in notes and diagrams, mainly outlining various magical circles and equations, though some pieces of crumpled parchment appear to be letters; half-written and tossed carelessly aside.

On the left hand wall is a large, marble fireplace, with an ornate fireguard, all of which have been crafted by dwarven hands. Three brass, elven-crafted candle-holders sit atop the lintel of the fireplace, but the candles have never been lit. A large wingback chair upholstered in the same blue velvet as the curtains sits to one side of the fireplace, atop which lies a large, leather-bound book. On the other side of the fireplace is a floor to ceiling bookcase, filled with books on various arcane subject matters.

A large hat stand sits just behind the door as it swings inward, atop which is a messy cluster of sticks and various pieces of metal interwoven with one another. The nest is filled in with moss and down and various pieces of cutlery, coins of various denominations and other shiny objects are carefully placed within. Another door to the side of the hat stand leads to a small water closet, containing a toilet and sink, with a set of washcloths and towels set into a cabinet just behind the door. There is also enough room for a small, freestanding bathtub, that looks as though it has never been used.

[stars-and-inkpots]

One of my dnd characters, Iris (who I have made in BG3), happens to have a lot of parrallels with Gale, so I wanted to write something about them. Got this done during some spare time a bit ago and have decided to share it here.

Thanks for reading :3

Wild Magic

Word Count: 2,336

Ao3 Link: Wild Magic

Full moons are the nights where the veil between the Wilds and the mortal realm is at its thinnest. For those who pull their magic directly from the Feywild, full moons are when they're at their strongest, but for some, also when they're most volatile. Iris struggles to bear the pull of the Wilds. Gale is there to help.

Iris shifts uncomfortably and spares the rising moon in the clear night sky a nervous but steady glance. On nights like this, she can almost feel the marks moving on her skin, sprawling sporadically as they struggle to contain the magic while the veil between the Wilds and this world grows thin. Full moons are always like this, and Iris laughs to herself because she might as well be a werewolf at this point. 

She can feel her companions’ eyes on her. She knows that they must see the slight glow the marks on her face, neck, and arms give off; they must note how even the pink iris of her left eye contains the same light. 

She wonders if they are scared of her, her with her magic that is wild and unpredictable. 

She wouldn’t blame them if they were. 

Mercifully, they retire early tonight. Astarion insists he’s too tired to continue, but Iris knows that he’s lying for her sake. She’s too proud to admit when she’s struggling, but she also does a poor job at hiding it. Regardless, she throws a silent ‘thank you’ his way when they pass each other in the camp. She tries to ignore the obvious concern on his face. Concern is too close to pity, even though she knows that isn’t his intent. 

Iris doesn’t join the others for supper. She’s too exhausted. 

Her absence does not go unnoticed, of course. She can hear it in the slightly strained conversations they have around the campfire- never spoken of directly, but it sits in the air stagnant with a nervous tension bound to break eventually. All of them cast their eyes towards her tent, unsure of whether their presence would be welcome, and for some, wondering if it’s even safe to offer it. 

Gale is the only one to walk over to Iris’s tent once supper is finished and cleaned up. He stands near the entrance, hesitant but determined. 

“Iris? Would you care for some company?” His voice betrays no concern at being close to her, because he has none. Iris notes quickly that he’s been the only one who has not put a safe distance between them when she’s been particularly unstable. 

“I’m afraid I’m not going to be great company if you’re looking for conversation.” 

“So long as you don’t mind, I’m sure I can do enough talking for the both of us.” 

Iris smiles. 

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” she answers. 

Gale makes his way inside and sits across from Iris on the floor of blankets and pillows. It’s dark, save for the faint, pink glow that Iris herself gives off. Her eyes are closed, breathing steady, but controlled and methodical. It’s taking her a lot of effort to remain still. The tent itself seems a reflection of that same, barely controlled chaos. The blankets and pillows are colourful, unmatched. There are books strewn about and organised in a way that Gale is sure must make sense to Iris, but is lost to him. A silver bowl of small trinkets that Iris found particularly pretty or interesting sits beside her bedroll. She’s very much like a magpie, Gale thinks fondly. 

He turns his attention back to Iris, who has finally opened her eyes to look at him. Her left eye is brighter than earlier, the colour shifts from pink to purple and blue, then green, then back to pink. The marks- which he had thought were simply a collection of intricate tattoos when he first met her- are still moving. Her hair, usually brown and far darker, looks lighter. The pink strands (easily mistaken for grey hairs if one didn’t look close enough) have grown in number, and they too have taken on the same glow. 

“You scared?” Iris asks suddenly, and even though her voice is teasing, Gale can hear the barely concealed and, admittedly familiar, self-loathing in it. 

“Never,” Gale answers without hesitation. “Never with you.” And he means it. 

Iris hums. “Then for a wizard, you aren’t very smart.” She sounds resigned, but grateful all the same. 

“My confidence is not often misplaced. I’m sure I can handle myself, sorcerer.” 

Both of them are smiling now. Gale watches as Iris takes another steadying breath and closes her eyes again. She seems controlled, but he can see the slight shake of her hands which are clenched tightly into fists where they rest on her knees. 

“I was working on translating the book we found,” Gale begins speaking. It’s nothing of importance, just a simple journal they had found in an abandoned house. It was written in dwarvish, which was, of course, easy enough for Gale to work through quickly. 

“Oh? Find anything interesting?” She knows that he’s only talking to distract her from the rush of the Wilds that threaten to overtake her. He’s keeping her grounded, and she’s more than thankful. 

Gale continues to explain what he found in the pages of the tattered book. It truly was just a journal. It didn’t have any special knowledge to impart, only the gossip of the nearby town and the author’s thoughts on it. While it wasn’t anything important, it did provide quite the entertaining read. It was a dramatic novella in its own right. Gale notes that he wouldn’t be surprised if much of the stories inside were rife with dramatic embellishments, and Iris laughs when he suggests that perhaps they’ve merely stumbled upon someone’s (unjustly) rejected manuscript, given some of the notes in the margins. 

“Thank you,” Iris says quietly when silence falls between them again. “It’s easier to bear with someone else around.” 

“I am happy I could help then.” Gale studies the marks on her skin again. They have not slowed in their movements or dimmed, but Iris does seem to be calmed significantly. “Is it painful? If you don’t mind me asking, of course. I understand if you don’t wish to speak of it.” 

Iris is silent again for a moment. 

“It’s not painful, at least not exactly. It’s like… electricity beneath my skin. Like when your arm or your leg goes numb when you rest on it for too long. There’s a longing too, like I need to go back, or I need to bring it here. It kind of feels like treading water in the middle of high tide.” 

Gale nods. Though he can’t exactly understand, the discomforts of the orb are enough for him to sympathise. 

“And the marks?” 

“I swear I can feel them. It’s a familiar feeling- like an old friend, if that makes sense. They don’t cause any discomfort themselves though, if that’s what you meant. They feel a little cold or a little too warm sometimes, but that’s it.” Iris puts a hand to her cheek instinctively, feeling the marks there while she talks about them. 

Gale shifts closer to her and raises a hand slowly. 

“May I?” His hand stills while waiting for Iris to answer. 

“Go ahead,” she answers after some thought. No one has ever been this close when she’s like this, and the realisation of how willingly he’s here with her is dizzying in a pleasant way. 

Gale runs his fingers along the pink patterns that swim across her cheek and down her jaw. They’re cold to the touch, just as Iris said they would be, and inhumanely so. It’s strange, the cold does not spread to the rest of her face, it is contained only in the marks themselves. 

Iris can focus on nothing but the look on Gale’s face. There isn’t apprehension or fear, the expressions she’s grown accustomed to people regarding her with. It’s curious, yes, but also caring. He wants to know more about her because he cares. When Gale moves to hold a lock of her hair, examining the pink strands within it, she realises this is the closest anyone has been to her ever, even without the Wilds calling her. 

“Have you always had them?” Gale asks. “I will admit, I’m at quite a loss when it comes to the nature of sorcerers’ magic.” 

“Not always.” She doesn’t hold the same reservations she usually does when it comes to telling people how she fell into her powers, not with Gale. “I always had my magic though, at least to some extent. I think there’s a Fey branch somewhere in my mom’s family tree. The whole story is a little long.” Iris is ready to leave it there; not because she doesn’t want to, but because it’s not a conversation that normally interests people outside of giving them a reason they should tread just a little more carefully around her. 

“Well, I think we have more than enough time. Though don’t let me force your hand.” Gale has returned his hands to his lap, and Iris finds herself missing his touch far more than she thinks she ought to. 

“When I was a child, I managed to stumble into the Feywild. Of course, it was less of a stumble, and more that I was pulled into it, I’m sure. I spent a lot of my time there. Titania was quite fond of me, and she wasn’t keen on the idea of returning me home- though, neither was I at the time. I was just a kid, and the idea of playing all the time with no bedtime and getting whatever I wanted was incredibly appealing. I would say that she ‘taught’ me magic, but it was more of her giving it to me and then having to teach myself so I could actually manage it. I had to be good at it too if I wanted to remain in her favour. Fey blood or not, I’m still human, which meant my acceptance in the court was very much conditional. So long as I entertained her, I could stay.” 

Gale looks genuinely interested. He believes her too, which is not something that Iris is used to. Most people think she’s a liar the moment she mentions the Seelie Queen. Gale only seems surprised that the two are on a first name basis. 

“I was there for ten years- well… it felt like ten years to me. One day it was like I suddenly woke up, and I wanted to leave- she wasn’t happy with that idea. She tried to keep me there. I didn’t know what I was doing, I just knew I wanted out.” Iris pauses for a moment, trying to think. “Now, the best way I can explain Wild magic is that it bends to the will of the caster. Your desires shape it, and it takes the form that you will it to. I can only assume that it’s similar to working the Weave, in a sense, but it’s more… I don’t know. It’s less of an academic kind of thing, and more instinct. It’s a feeling.” Iris almost expects Gale to object to her explanation somehow, but instead he only nods in understanding. “You open yourself to the Wilds, and you have to shape the magic that comes out. That’s why there are the surges, because it’s hard to just start and stop the magic- and it’s more difficult when you’re upset. When I tried to leave, understandably, I was very upset. I was scared, I was angry, I was desperate. I knew it was going to take a lot to get me home. So I opened myself up to the deepest wells of magic that the Feywild has to offer. I knew it was the kind of magic that the Seelie Queen used, and I thought I could do it too. It worked, but it was too much for me, and it never really left.” Iris gestures to the marks on her face. She takes a few deep breaths before she continues. Gale is patient with her. 

“My parents were happy to see me, relieved to finally have their daughter back… but they were old. Very old. It felt like ten years to me, but it was nearly forty here. I didn’t have very long with them once I was home.” 

“I’m sorry.” Gale’s hand reaches out and Iris holds it, thankful for the regained contact. 

“It’s alright. I got to see them again, at least.” 

The buzzing beneath her skin has faded considerably. It’s easier to focus now, and every moment isn’t spent suppressing the urge to give in to the Wilds. The glow still remains, but it has dimmed a little. Gale must notice too, because he smiles slightly. 

“Thank you for staying.” Iris pauses. “And for listening,” she adds. 

“You’re very welcome. I would be happy to talk like this again, full moon or not.” 

Then, Iris surprises both of them by moving forward and hugging him. Then Gale surprises her by returning the embrace. He holds her with just as much feeling, uncaring about how dangerous she has the potential to be. In the grand scheme of things, he could be dangerous too, maybe even in a similar way. 

They fit together well. Two people who hold remnants of the very magic that threatens them inside themselves. One who went to every length to keep the approval of the one who gave him magic, and the other who gave up everything just so she could escape them. Both of them reached for magic incomprehensible to them. Both of them held it in the palm of their hands. Both of them were punished for it. 

Iris is the first to pull back. 

“You should go get some sleep. I’ll be fine now, it’s calmed down a lot,” she says. Gale looks like he’s about to object, but is cut off by a yawn that overtakes him instead. 

“If you’re certain,” he says after. “I hope you are able to get some rest as well. Goodnight, Iris.” 

“Goodnight, Gale,” Iris answers, smiling. 

The pull of the Wilds is practically a whisper. It’s the first somewhat peaceful sleep Iris has gotten during a full moon that she can remember. 

[tex-treasure-chamber]

Ad Astra Per Aspera

Name: "Tex" Sonata

Pronouns: xe/they/she

Universes: BBC Sherlock, Black Books, The Blacklist

Age: 31 at the start of S1

MBTI: INTJ-T

Personality in five words: Cautious, Earnest, Macabre, Playful, Curious

Orientation: AFAB Agender person. Asexual and aromantic

Nationality: Texan (Mexican-American)

Physical description: 5'0". Sonata is a POC; xe has caramel brown skin and indigenous Mexican features in the form of xyr strong nose. They have heavy lidded dark brown eyes, dark brown wavy hair that curls at the ends and reaches her lower back. Small scar on right side of jaw along their chin. Small cupid's bow lips. Dark brown freckles occasionally dot xyr skin in constellations along arms. Hourglass figure.

Clothing attire: Sonata typically wears dark/light academia attire to work and an eldritch blend of detective film noir/southern cowboy/goth lolita/Hawaiian shirt wearing stepdad when on the streets. Regarding shoes, it's either cowboy shoes, oxfords, or thick heels. Usually always has on a large chunky jumper around the flat. Wears a wristwatch at all times except in the shower even though it's waterproof. Has two piercings in both ears and typically wears silver studs.

Occupation: D.I. working for Scotland Yard. Answers to D.I. Lestrade. Has some training as a criminal profiler

Home: 221C. Between the events depicted in Ep1 and Ep 3 of S1, Mrs. Hudson renovates 221C thanks to the combined income from Sherlock and John and Sonata moves in long before the events depicted in Ep3.

Interests: marine biology, astronomy, art history, zoology, criminology, learning dying languages

Hobbies: painting, letter writing with wax seals, photography, stargazing, drawing, reading and visiting Black Books for more books and to spend time with friends (xe always brings wine), writing poetry, playing chess, exploring London museums and art galleries, feeding the local magpies, cooking/baking.

Idiosyncrasies: hums/sings when xe thinks xe is alone, bounces leg, bounces on balls of feet, fiddles/gesticulates with hands, plays with the curled ends of xyr hair, doesn't make much eye contact, is prone to staring, shies away from touch.

-Relationships-

Life partner: Jim Moriarty

Queerplatonic partners: Molly Hooper, Gregory Lestrade

Found family (adoption style): Mycroft, Sherlock, and Eurus Holmes, Dembe Zuma, Raymond Reddington, Mrs. Hudson.

Best Friends: John Watson, David Black (belongs to @13leighstreet)

Friends: Bernard Black, Soo Lin Yao, Irene Adler, Mike Stamford

-Day in the Life-

When not working at Scotland Yard or at a crime scene, Sonata can be found at their home in 221C or out somewhere in London on any random given street with someone dear to xem that she's managed to drag along on yet another 'miniventure'. Often on Fridays she enjoys visiting Black Books with a bottle of wine and baked goods they made the evening before to pacify the owner and browse the store for a new book, typically with Jim or Molly by their side.