#yourocsbackstory

[yourocsbackstory]

Prompt Quest

(Because I, @cirianne , just gave this to my irl writing group and wanted to share it with you guys, my online writing group. Just a little in-between-event, until we maybe start another big one)

Pick one or several of the cards in the photo (needs, relationship, location, object) that vibes best with your OC, and write a little scene for it!

If you finish it by the end of next week (April 16th), tag this blog or use #yourocsbackstory, and we'll probably reblog! Please add content warnings if necessary and use a read more for longer posts.

Text version under the cut.

Happy writing!

[And re: where this is from? A hilarious game called Fiasco by Bully Pulpit games that lets you and your friends make up stories about "powerful ambition and poor impulse control". Big recommendation!]

OBJECT: The charred ashes of $100,000

RELATIONSHIP: Bounty hunter and bounty

LOCATION: Security camera station

NEED: To get even with the local drug dealer

LOCATION: Small village, now a burnt ruin

NEED: To get laid by the hottie at Muscle Logic

RELATIONSHIP: One-time fling

NEED: To be a hero by defending the little guy

RELATIONSHIP: They owe you their job

[rockthistowninsideout]

Pacific Rim Fanfiction Masterpost (ao3)

I'm gonna kick off my celebrational week for the absolute cinematic masterpiece that is Pacific Rim with a compilation of all my fanfictions. In the following days between July 12th (US-American release date) and July 18 (German release date) I will post bits and pieces related to my all time favourite movie.

Unrelated/Oneshots

The Spider

A treacherous animal wreaks havoc in the Jaegers' quarters.

Truce

A story prompted by a post about wanting to see Chuck and Raleigh reconcile before the final battle by @hansensprotector (sadly deactivated now). by @lowqualityarrogance.

Burdens Of The Past

Set before Uprising but taking into account what the trailers showed us. Major character deaths.

Fanbruary 2019

For @gutterballgt, based on a dream I once had and that I was clever enough to write down before I forgot it.

I imagined [you] differently.

Digimon Pacific Rim AU that was born during Digimon OTP Week 2017.

The Radiologist (series)

A set of stories, partially only loosely connected by the appearance of my OC the, you guessed, radiologist.

Wandering

Imagine being in love with Chuck Hansen, then witnessing Operation Pitfall, and then you somehow have to move on with your life. Inspiried by a story from asaucecoveredsomething (ao3).

Defiance

A young Belgian radiologist starts working at the Hong Kong Shatterdome and she immediately clashes with Chuck Hansen. First, she snubs him with a remark about Kaijus and then she even stares one down. There hardly seems hope for their relationship, not even in the wake of Operation Pitfall.

Agathism

Annabelle and Chuck slowly improve their friendship but then the NSA interferes.

Recess

The gang goes on their much needed vacation and Raleigh notices that he's definitely NOT made for Australian weather conditions.

Joviality (with the epicest gif there is)

It's the festive season and even the post-war Shatterdome isn't immune against the merry mood that means. Including baking shenaningans, family reunions and serene sleepovers.

The lost son

Set about a year before the events of Uprising, Mako tries to find her adoptive brother Jake Pentecost. The threat of Kaiju is once more at the doorstep of humanity and Mako is assured that Jake could help. But in the course of events, she learns more about him - and herself - that she had ever expected.

Wide Eyed

Inspired by this comic from @sadfishkid, where Newt befriends a roaming kaiju.

My OC's Backstory

Following a few prompts from the writing event @yourocsbackstory

[enchanted-lightning-aes]

Enchant’s NaNo Prep Challenge Tale #1

A/N: so, I am not taking part in NaNo for personal reasons but I wanted to try something new for @yourocsbackstory. This is an attempt, where I write using only descriptions and not using the terms for what I describe. This is based on this particular OC of mine for this WIP, and I’ll make another one for tomorrow. This has been a challenge because I had a hard time describing settings recently. No matter, at least I did this! ^-^

Word Count: 368

TW: None

***

On steady waves of a shore, a wooden ship settles towards the empty docks nearby. A rowdy crew goes outside to venture onto the area. A flurry of air passes by a black sail of a flag, rustling it up high until it gets pulled down. An anchor gets raised upwards a line, getting stored.

A deck and bridge of the ship remains empty with no person to be seen in sight.

Except a person opts to stay in their office, surrounded by plank walls, shelves of books, and trinkets. Crests filled with gold lean against a lower edge of a chair behind a desk. A scent of rum leaves a waft around the room.

Different types of swords made of finest blades hang up beside a window.

Settled against their chair, they count coins from an opened treasure chest. They run a fingertip over it's texture, examining it's actual authenicity.

They can't afford their success at taking from riches to be a mere ruse, an useless one at that.

A pale parrot enters through an open circular window and lands on the desk, shaking it's ruffled feathers. It squawks towards the occupant, who pats it in the head.

When they toss the coin back onto the box, they sigh. They grab a cap of their rum bottle, closing it.

Rising from their seat, they look out at a random window with their one eye. Their only good eye for they've long adjusted to it.

Seagulls caw as they fly across the ocean, soaring upwards towards the sky. They watch with a faint sense of interest and envy. For they wish they have wings to fly wherever they chose, instead of relying on this ship.

They remove their feathered hat and set it on their chair along with their buttoned coat. They rub their hands together, keeping their eye on anything strange in particular.

These recent few weeks proved to be a challenge for them. Ah, no matter for them for they aren't a stranger to challenges that enlightens their mind for a solution. To show they had what it takes to search for it.

For they are the stubborn pirate leader for their crew, and won't hesitate.

***

[adie-dee]

Week 0: Introduction

Prompt:  Write a scene or a monologue, where your character introduces themself to the reader, or to a random, friendly stranger.

@yourocsbackstory​

I stared at the cup clasped in my hands, wishing that the water within could tell me a way to escape my current situation. Three months free of my parents' influence, three months of living my best life, and this one little hiccup was going to bring it all crashing down.

“I need your name,” the policeman at the desk stated, holding up my brand new fake ID. “Because this ain’t you.”

“It is,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m Jessica Langam.”

He glanced at the ID again. “Jessica Langam is twenty-seven, while you barely look a day over eighteen.”  He pressed his lips together, eyebrows raised, and stared at me until I looked away. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to lie to the police?”

There was no way I could answer that question in a way he wouldn’t be annoyed with, especially as what I’d actually been taught was that they were inept and corrupt. “Can I have something to eat?” I asked instead.

“Does this look like a restaurant?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, returning my attention to the cup in my hands again. 

The policeman huffed and shuffled the papers on the desk, a scowl forming on his face. “Let’s try this again. Your name, please. Then we’ll put you somewhere safe to sleep off your intoxication.”

“But I’m not even drunk!” I insisted, in a last ditch attempt to convince him to let me leave. “Can’t you just let me go? I won’t cause any trouble…”

The policeman’s scowl deepened. “You were wandering across the highway with no regard for traffic, necking a bottle of tequila. There’s no way we’re letting you leave until we’re sure you’re sober. And,” the way he stressed his words made me squirm, “you tell us your name.”

I really didn’t want to. I knew what would happen if I did: he would call my parents and then they would make me go home, and I hadn’t even had the opportunity to dye my hair a fun colour yet! I wasn’t ready to give up the fun I was having. I didn’t want the party to end.

But I also hadn’t known that being drunk and disorderly was something the police didn’t like - not that I thought I was drunk or disorderly, but apparently they did - and I was better off not upsetting them over my parents. But only barely.

I let out a sigh. “Bethany Norton.”

“ Norton,” he muttered under his breath, typing my name into the computer. “Beth-a-ny.” His hands froze on the keyboard and his eyes flicked to me, making me squirm once again. “You’re Henry and Eliza’s daughter?” 

Oh no, he knew of them. “Yes.”

He typed something else into the computer, then reached for his phone.

“Please don’t call them!” It came out as a squeak, far more embarrassing than the calm request I’d intended to make.

“Do you have proof that’s who you are?”

Sullenly, I shook my head. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. If only I’d known I needed to take my birth certificate with me when I ran away from home.

“Then I need to call them to confirm you are who you say you are. You can’t claim to be the daughter of the largest developer in the country and not expect me to check, now do you?” His condescending tone made my skin crawl, and I dropped my head into my hands as he dialed. It was the middle of the night. They would be really upset at the intrusion.

“Hello,” he said after a minute. “This is Senior Constable Fleming with the Sydney Police Department. Can I please speak with Mr or Mrs Norton?” he stopped, waiting for whichever of the staff he’d woken to speak. “Yes, I’ll hold.”

I cringed, unable to decide which of my parents would be better for him to speak with. Neither of them would be happy with this situation.

Suddenly I realised he was speaking again. “...have a woman here claiming to be Bethany Norton and--” He paused. “Yes. Brown hair, brown eyes, five-seven.” He paused again. “Drunk and disorderly.” 

I stared down at the floor, wishing it would swallow me whole.

“The Rocks Police Station,” he said after a minute. “Policy states we can’t release her until after eight, so you’re welcome to collect her then.” He hung up the call, returning his attention to me. “Good news, Miss Norton, they’re going to come in the morning to confirm who you are. Till then, you can wait in one of our finest cells. No drunk tank for you.”

Dear gods, couldn’t my curse just kill me now? It would be way less painful than what the morning would bring. 

[etjwrites]

OC Backstory - Emotion Edition | Week 1: FEAR

Week 0: Introduction || Week 2: Joy || Week 3: Disgust || Week 4: Sadness || Week 5: Anger || Week 6: Courage ||

PROMPT - Think about your character’s past. When were they most afraid?

slides this in right at the deadline

@yourocsbackstory

This took me a while because I had to go back and establish a solid timeline for all the characters.😅 As a pantser I've really been winging the general timeframe of events, but before I could go into Brom's past I needed to know everyone's relative ages to each other. Now that that's done, enjoy!

For this prompt, we go back to Brom's childhood, when he was around 9 years old. His brother, Quartus, is about 15.

The sun rose, bright and early, and Brom rose with it, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He was still hungry from the night before, and hopefully his brother had some yummy porridge waiting for him. But when he looked up at the stove, nothing bubbled atop it.

That was alright. He could eat the oats plain. Brom didn't really like porridge that didn't have water or milk to make it tastier, but he'd eaten worse. He pressed a hand to his stomach, trying to get the pinches of hunger to subside, and stumbled over to the pantry.

It was bare.

Brom had known it would be, since Quartus had announced as much at supper when breaking the last of their bread, but he had hoped that maybe Quartus had managed to beg a few coins of his meager apprentice's pay in advance and gone early to the bakery. Maybe he was there even now.

But when Brom looked at the kitchen door, he saw that his brother's boots and cloak were still in their place by the door jamb.

Tears sprang to Brom's eyes. He didn't want to go out begging, not again. But his stomach hurt something fierce, so he mustered up the strength he did have and pushed open the door to Papa's old room. It was freezing, a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen, and Brom rubbed his arms and shivered before hurrying over to the bed.

“Quartus. I'm hungry,” he said, reaching out to touch the bundled up lump on the straw mattress. There was no response, and he shook Quartus a little. “C'mon, get up. We have to go to the square.”

Quartus still said nothing, and apprehension twisted Brom's guts. He climbed onto the bed and crawled across his brother, twisting until he could see him properly.

Quartus was awake, eyes open, but staring at nothing.

Brom pressed at his face. “Quartus! Please, I'm hungry.”

His brother just lay there, a whispered, “I can't, Brom,” his only response.

“But my stomach hurts,” Brom pleaded, shaking Quartus. “Please, get up. Please.”

Quartus rolled over the other way, drawing the blankets up to his ears. “Not today. You'll have to go by yourself.”

Panic bloomed in Brom's chest. “You told me I should never go to the square without you. Please, you have to get up. I'm so hungry.” He climbed back over Quartus, and grabbed his face in his hands.

“Get off me, Brom!” Quartus yelled, and pushed him so hard he toppled over, hitting the wooden planks with a sick crack.

Brom looked at Quartus in stunned shock. His brother had never shoved him like that before. He scooted back a few paces, his rough sleeping chemise catching in the splinters. “Why did you do that?” he asked, voice watery with tears.

“Forgive me, little brother,” Quartus said, weariness lacing each word. “But I can't. I can't. I simply can't.”

“But what about your apprenticeship?”

“The apprenticeship can go hang.” Quartus rolled over again, showing his back to Brom.

Thoughts started to spin wildly through Brom's mind. If his brother didn't get up, they couldn't go to the square. They wouldn't have any food. He wouldn't even be able to drink a little water from the fountain.

He was so thirsty.

But if he did go to the square by himself, he could get lost. Someone might accuse him of stealing and throw him in the dungeon. A spy from Hyphantria might grab him and spirit him away to the spidery-filled Shalott caves where he'd be forced to slave away with hundreds of other children until his fingers were worn to the bone.

And the apprenticeship! If Quartus didn't report to his master, they would throw him in the dungeons, and then Brom would truly be alone. They might even take their house, the only thing they had left from Papa.

“Quartus!” Brom gasped, close to hysterics now. “I don't want to live on the streets.” They would surely freeze to death come winter. Even now, as the leaves turned gold, a chill hung in the air, leaving the kitchen the single warm room in the house. “What will we do when there's no more wood?”

What if Quartus never got out of bed again?

The ax was too heavy for Brom to swing more than a few times, and it always took the two of them all day to collect brush from the forest. And that was in the summer time. How was Brom supposed to struggle through waist-high snow with the wood-cart all alone?

Bracing himself to be yelled at again, Brom crept forward and shook Quartus with all his might, before tugging on his arms and legs, trying to drag his brother from the bed, uncontrollable tears running down his face as he did so.

“Leave me alone, Brom,” his brother whispered, curling into a ball and resisting all efforts to rouse him. “I just want to sleep.”

Images flashed into Brom's mind of their Papa, the last time he had ever seen him, white bandages swathing his chest as he struggled to breathe. Papa had said he was tired, and that a little rest would make him right as rain.

But he went to sleep and never woke up again.

Terror struck him.

Brom redoubled his attempts, sobbing until he could barely breathe, at which point he collapsed next to Quartus, face messy with tears, throat burning with each laboured gasp of air.

“Forgive me.” Quartus reached a hand out from under the blankets and grasped Brom's sweaty palm. “That you should be cursed with such a brother as me.” A single tear trickled from his closed eyes. He said no more, his shallow breathing Brom's only indication that he yet lived.

Brom lay there, thoroughly exhausted, holding his brother's hand in the dark and cold. Quartus must be near death indeed to stay so still after everything. The gnawing pit of fear in his stomach dug its tendrils into his heart, and Brom wept until he could weep no longer, convinced they would both waste away, as the dread seeping through his body whispered that neither of them would ever see the daylight again.

Depression will really kick you when you're down, come into your home, steal everything you own and then light it all on fire.

Tag Crew: @adie-dee @writtendevastation @catharticallysarcastic​ @francestroublr

[kosmosian-quills]

Week 3 - Disgust

My contribution to this week’s @yourocsbackstory​​ prompt for the Emotion event!

This one is set not long after Zofia started her position as a Maiden of Honour, so some time after the last few prompts (she is 18 here in this piece).

Just a quick warning, this scene involves Emil being creepy and harassing one of my girls. It is very brief and nothing happens beyond that.

I hope you enjoy!

POV: Zofia

Evenings with her Royal Highness are certainly a quieter part of the day. Not that there is much difference in how frequently she speaks to us. Maybe the occasional question about what we are doing for the day, or asking for an opinion. But in the evening is when she winds down, sits at her desk writing in her books, or reading one of those impossibly long encyclopedias while she sips away at her tea.

We don’t really engage with her unless she asks for it, so we tend to do our own thing too. Talk quietly amongst ourselves, if not doing some reading or drawing. The Princess doesn’t mind. She keeps to herself, and so do we.

It only dawned on me when I reached to pour myself another cup of tea from the pot that Karolina’s cup was still there, full, and there’s no wisps of steam gently rising out of the amber liquid. She had left the Princess’ room to go fetch something for her Royal Highness, but it really should not have taken her this long. She was only going to the kitchen manager two floors down.

So what is taking her so long?

I get up from my seat, using my cane for some extra support as I make my way over to the Princess. She looks up at me as I approach, still holding her pen in her hand.

“Excuse me, your Royal Highness,” I curtsy, looking at the little crease on the fabric of her cardigan on her shoulder, “we’re running out of tea, and I was wondering if you wanted me to fetch you some more too?”

She looks briefly at her pot beside her books. “No, thank you, Zofia. Thank you for asking.”

I nod and curtsy once more, before turning to make my way to the door, trying not to make my cane’s clicking too loud as I crossed the hardwood flooring.

“Zofia,” the Princess calls, a slight hesitance in her voice before she continued to speak, “if you happen to run in to Karolina, would you please ask her to come and see me?”

“Yes, your highness.”

When the door closes behind me, it dawns on me only then how strange of a request that is. She has never asked to speak with us, alone or otherwise, like that. It’s not like we’ve done anything wrong, especially not Karolina. But I don’t have time to dwell on any of that.

I like to think I’m getting the hang of the Residential Wing of the castle, knowing where I am going is ideal. It’s eerie how quiet it is in the evening, but even then we don’t exactly have any business wandering around at this time of day. Well… I suppose unless the Princess asked, like she did with Karolina.

I make my way down the stairs to the storey below, taking extra care by using my cane for extra support, and I can hear some voices on the stairwell below me. There’s definitely a man, but I’m not sure who - No. I do know exactly who that is.

And I know who he’s speaking to, too.

“Karolina!”

Stood with her back to the wall, face to face with Captain Górskanki, she makes eye-contact me. The Captain steps back from her, and she pulls her hand back to her chest. He had a smirk on his face before, but that was certainly wiped off his face when he saw me.

Captain Górskanki is the King’s nephew - and is truly insufferable. We already learned that on the day we met him. He decided that the best way to make an impression on us was to ask his cousin if having personal servants is any good.

He’s a tall man, about a year older than myself maybe. He certainly had a resemblance to the King. Similar dark hair, brown eyes. He walked around with such self importance that it was astounding.

If he is a skilled soldier, then I’ll quit dancing, because I rarely see him doing anything with his regiment of men other than order them around. I guess I’m just grateful that I have no reason to see or interact with him in the course of my job.

Until now, I suppose.

“The Princess wants to see you,” I inform her, before looking over at the Captain, “if you’ll excuse us, Captain. Good night.”

Karolina and myself didn’t waste any time slipping up the stairs away from the Captain with me, retreating back the way I had come.

“Thank you, Zofia,” she whispered to me, looking back over to her shoulder. “Really, I don’t know what I would’ve…”

“Don’t worry about it. Is that why you took so long?”

“He insisted on speaking with me. I tried to tell him that I had to get back to my post, but - well…”

“I didn’t think he’d dare try something like that. Especially with you, but what if,” I dropped my voice even lower, “what if he tried that with one of the others? With Matylda? How far would he go?”

“He’s creepy enough without escalating that further - especially with Matylda. She’s so young. I’m just glad you turned up when you did.”

“Maybe that’s what we should do. Never go anywhere alone.”

She nods at me, “that sounds like a good idea. At least, for now. Hopefully he’ll lose interest in bothering us.”

I look back over my shoulder as we approach the hallway that we live on, and don’t know if I’m glad or worried that there is no one there behind us. There’s no voices or footsteps at all behind us, not even a pair of patrolling guards.

What a disgusting encounter. What a disgusting person - I hate boys like him. Thinking that because of who he is, he can get away with anything. I hate the fact that he’s probably right in thinking that, considering who his *uncle* is. The military being a boy’s club is an almost sure-fire way that he won’t suffer any repercussions from his superiors or his colleagues for his actions.

A horrific reality, but one we have to live in. I suppose I could always keep my cane on me - a surefire way to keep him at arms length from us. I sound like my grandfather, when he used to use his cane to force my cousins apart when they were fighting, back when we were all so small. I used to think it was funny. But now, it seems almost childish to consider doing that to a grown man, a soldier no less. I suppose it would be embarrassing for him, but he deserves it. 

I’m not even sure what kind of power the Princess would have to put him off if we told her. Would she even be able to control him? Keep him away from us?

I doubt it. The best thing we can do is control when we’re alone - and that is, to never be alone with him.

[cream-and-tea]

OC BACKSTORY: WEEK I— INTRODUCTION

[ID: a cool-toned shot of the bare shoulders and the back of the head and wet blond hair of a girl crouched in a pool of cloudy water, the front of her face submerged and nothing else visible save for a shadow of darker water surrounding her. text in the centre of the image reads “tatum” in simple white letters. END ID]

[prompts courtesy of @yourocsbackstory ]

CW FOR: intrusive thoughts, self loathing, general self destructiveness

Your name is Tatum Porter.

You are a hero, except when you’re not. You are a hero, because they say you are. You are a hero because you need to be. You are a hero because you are horrible. You are a hero because you ache in your bones and lungs and bloody teeth to be good and you are a hero because you aren’t at all.

Your name is Tatum Porter.

And when you bleed you think it is religion. Your body is not your body your body is something to be broken your body is a tool. Your body needs to be punished because it fails you. You want to be undone from the core of yourself. You want your chest ripped open and your hearts-blood and hearts-mass and hearts-rot torn from the centre of you. You want to sink teeth into your seams and undo all the glue.

Your name is Tatum Porter.

You think to much, you feel to much, you swallow other people’s storms and ash and fire and hope that means atonement. You are overstuffed with feeling and it chokes out your throat and mouth and chest until you drown. You are a mess bleeding yourself dry. You are a stain that needs to be cleaned. You cannot stop you don’t know how you are tired. You are tired of feeling and you want soft, you want peace, you want quiet, you want rest. You want to cry but you don’t deserve that because you are something evil and broken in every way.

Your name is Tatum Porter.

And you will bleed for better reasons this time. You feel and feel and hurt and love. You will make yourself a hero with your teeth and claws. You will be good and do good until the debt is carved into your ribs. You are a child and you are a soldier. You are a child and you are a monster. You are a child and you are scared. You are ten and you’ve made a mistake. You are seventeen and you are a mistake. Your hands are not clean and they never will be and you are so tired.

Your name is Tatum Porter.

And you will never be a saint or a hero or anything able to be loved. But you think you can be a martyr, if they kill you quick enough.

[anomaly00-archive]

@yourocsbackstory Antagonist Event | Week 1 | Introduction

A bit late to the party, but I thought I'd give this another shot (I swear I'll try to finish this this time) with my girl Illysandre who is technically one of my antagonists. I played around a lot with what I could do for this prompt because 1st POV is not my forte and it just did not sound like Illysandre at all, so...here

———

The nursery is quiet. Blessedly quiet, the nursemaid would say when she told you that your son was a very fussy baby and loved to cry and scream at all hours of the night. You, of course, could not believe it. Nevermind that you had never learned, nor needed to learn, the intricacies of child-rearing when a nursemaid was always at hand to do much of the grunt work. Nor that your trips to the nursery are limited to the times of day when your son is quiet and happy and a bonny little boy. 

Much like how he is today; his ruddy little cheeks and tiny, tiny hands such a wondrous sight to behold in the midafternoon, the sunlight heavily filtered through colorful curtains so that her little boy can still feel its warm embrace during his nap. Today, you had desired some time alone with your little jewel and asked all of your attendants to leave and enjoy a short break as you rocked your son’s bassinet. 

You lean over the crib, shadowing your son’s sleeping figure, a long, elegant finger caressing his little cheeks. If your husband were to walk in at this moment, he would see you--poised, refined, and oh so beautiful— that you are sure he would compare you to Meidther herself. But he won’t. However much he claims to love children, he seemed to take great pains in placing distance between your, your son, and him.  The wounds, perhaps, were too fresh. The separation too raw. 

You can give him time. Time is all you have.

You brush your fingers over your son’s— Charles, named by the Queen Dowager herself, you benefactor and mistress during your days as one of her ladies-in-waiting— dark hair, wisps that curl and cling to his head. The edge of your fingernail lightly grazed his smooth skin. 

He shifted his head, eyelashes fluttering to reveal a sliver of Drochonan silver. 

You smile. “Do you know me, my little lion?”’

He tilts his head once more, eyes fluttering. A little gurgle escapes his mouth. 

“That’s right my little prince. I am your mother.” 

You place a finger near Charles’ tiny fists, which he latches onto. He tugs on the appendage, but you hardly feel it. What a fascinating little creature. So fragile, so helpless. It is this tiny, breakable, perfect little creature that has come out of your womb. That you have nurtured and cared for nine months, taking every precaution to ensure his safe delivery. That such a creature will grow to be your savior— the next king of Aetier— baffles and excites you in every way. 

“I will protect you, little one,” you whisper. Under your watch, no harm will fall onto your child. He will grow, and he will grow strong, and when the time comes he will take the crown from his father and finally, finally, House Sorell will have its own blood on the throne. No longer will they have to fear anyone usurping their powers--all given through your own marriage with the king— when their nephew, their cousin, their grandson, is the one that sits on the Phoenix Throne. No longer will you have to fear anyone, even the Queen Dowager, if you yourself were the Dowager Queen. 

And all that you needed to do was to ensure Charles’ safe journey into manhood, and that no rival should ever come up to claim his throne. 

Let Dantalion bring in as many consorts as he wants. All will know that she is his Consort Premier and the mother of his heir. Let others mock her for never being given her rightful title as Queen, for she is queen in all but name. With Charles under her wing, she will survive, and she will thrive. And when he takes the throne, her own influence will be unstoppable.

“The path to the throne is a long and arduous one, my sweet,” you whisper. “It is filled with a kind of darkness unimaginable to you now, but worry not. Your mother will take care of it. I will do whatever it takes to make you king. All you need to do is grow up safely, and to love your mother as I do you. Protect me as I do you.

“For you are mine; of my body, of my blood. And so, as I fight for your birthright, so to must you fight for me.”

You are Illysandre of House Sorell. Consort-Premier to King Dantalion and the First Lady of the Kingdom of Aetier. But most importantly, you are the mother to the future king, and may the Trinity have mercy on whoever attempts to harm your child. 

Your power, right now, is unmatched, but the web of politics is forever shifting. The best way to secure a victory is to make sure no one ever had a chance, to begin with.

  (You remember a ball when that Caldonian Ambassador had presented portraits of their princess to the king. The king--and you would know this more than anyone else--has never been swayed by a pretty face, no matter the lists of accomplishments behind it. What he is interested in, is politics; and if sacrificing a spot in his bed is all it will take to help smooth over a new treatise, then it will be done. But new members of the harem meant rivals, and though you have never taken a life into your own hands, you have spent enough time at the side of the Empress Dowager to know what must be done to secure a throne.)

If Charle were to find out, he might hate you for it. But even if he did, he will thank you all the same when he is crowned and the world kneels at his feet proclaiming him: king.  And you, in all your grace and poise and daggered smiles, will be there by his side, helping him.

Mothers know best, after all.

[yourocsbackstory]

Your OC’s Backstory: Emotion Edition

It is on, everyone. The newest edition of Backstory Weeks is about to start. This time, an all new theme. In the coming weeks, we’ll look at how core emotions have shaped our OC’s pasts, how they deal (or dealt) with feelings and what makes them them.

How does it work? Use a character from one of your WIPs (planned or in progress, or even finished); I recommend you stick with one, but it’s not required. Think about the questions, then use the prompts to write a scene set before the main story. That scene may be one that has significant impact on who they are today - or simply one that just showcases an important part of their past. Just see where you end up. And - have fun.

What matters? Be creative and support others! Check out their characters and scenes, find what you like, share, comment and make new friends!

What to do to be reblogged? Finish until the respective Sunday (your time or mine, doesn’t matter) and let me know you did it. Tag me, send it to me directly or tag with #yob7 or #yourocsbackstory. If it’s more than 500 words, please use a cut. Edits are welcome but not at all necessary. Please add content warnings before a cut if applicable. If you’re insprired, feel free to write nsfw entries, but I will not share them. This is a sfw blog.

Week 0 Introduction - prompt.

For week 0, we’ll focus on introduction and stick to the same questions we have before.

Write a scene or a monologue, where your character introduces themself to the reader, or to a random, friendly stranger. 

Here’s some possible prompts for that:

(a) Imagine they are stuck somewhere (waiting in an airport, adrift in a lifeboat, having their curls done at the hairdresser, whatever) and a young kid asks them „who are you?“. How would that dialogue play out?.

(b) Start with the words “My name is [your character’s name]” and have them introduce themself!

(c) Have them stuck in a police interrogation (guilty or not...), and make the detective desperate to find out who that person on the other side of the table is.

(d) Have them interviewed by a news host on television or in radio.

(e) Well, whatever you want really ;) Just let them talk.

Preliminary Schedule under the cut:

Week 0 “Introduction” - prompt NOW, entries until March 7th

Week 1 “Fear” - prompt posted on March 8th, entries until March 14th

Week 2 “Joy” - prompt posted on March 15th, entries until March 21st

Week 3 “Disgust” - prompt posted on March 22nd, entries until March 28th

Week 4 “Sadness” - prompt posted on March 29th, entries until April 11th (2 weeks due to Easter in between)

Week 5 “Anger” - prompt posted on April 12th, entries until April 18th

Week 6 Free Week - prompt posted on April 19th, entries until April 25th

[doro-writes]

Week 0: Introduction

Warnings: slight spoilers

“Alright.” Jamie pressed record. “Please state your name and give your consent for filming this interview.”

Anya was unsure as to where to look. She knew she was supposed to look at the camera, but she wanted to look at Jamie, because he was talking to her.

Jamie cleared his throat.

Oh, right, she was supposed to answer. “My name is Anastasia Romanova. I agree to being filmed.”

“Good, thank you. I will now ask you some questions. You don’t have to answer if you’re not comfortable to do so.”

Anya nodded. Thankfully she knew how this worked. She had watched Connor and Garrett being interviewed the days before. She knew it was important, but it just felt so weird.

“When and where were you born?”, Jamie asked the first question.

“I don’t remember.” Obviously. No one actually did. “Neither do my parents. It was long ago.”

“Can you give us a vague date?”

Anya shook her head. “A few years after Garrett. I don’t know how long.”

“He is your brother, if I remember correctly.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Hey, I can hear you”, Garrett complained in the background.

“Be quiet, would you?” Anya focused on the camera again.

“Do you have any other family besides him?”, Jamie asked.

“No.” She stopped. That was not true anymore. “Well, I recently learned that my biological parents are still alive, but I don’t really know them. It was always just Garrett and me.”

“Your brother is a warlock. What kind of being are you?”

“A witch”, Anya answered and leaned back in the armchair, trying not to look too defensive. “And a necromancer, which is exactly what it sounds like.”

“So you can bring people back from the dead.”

She nodded again. “Theoretically. I usually don’t do it. What is dead is supposed to stay dead.”

“Have there been exceptions?”

“Yes.”

“Recently?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Anya sighed. “I’d prefer not to answer that.”

Garrett shot a knowing glance at her. The whole world didn't have to know why she brought Connor back. They didn't have to know she couldn’t save his life in time. And they certainly didn't have to know she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Again.

“What was your role in the past crisis?”, Jamie continued.

Yes, what was her role? Everything from ally to greyzoned to traitor. A lot had happened. “I tried to do what was right, which mostly meant to try and support the guardians and to stop Marah and the brotherhood.”

Jamie fortunately didn't ask any further. He knew anyway and the rest of the world didn't have to know that either. “How do you see the existence of the supernatural being common knowledge now? Do you think it was the right decision to make it public?”

Anya tilted her head and thought for a second. “I … I think making our existence public was the only option we had. Certainly the most feasible one. I don’t think we had another choice. I for one am … not exactly scared, but nervous. Humans think they know and are superior to everything. And they’re scared of what they don’t know. This will need some getting used to.”

“Do you think there will be problems?”

“Definitely.” That was out of the questions. Humans tended to cause trouble wherever they went. “But we’ll get through it eventually. We always do. We’ve always been in hiding and I am so tired of it. I’m tired of running and I’m tired of fighting. This is our chance to make things better.”

Tagging:  @wilde-writing @wortfinder @aschenink @lady-redshield-writes​ @crystallizedchronicles @cirianne  @writerofscribbles | tell me to be added to or removed from this list | also tagging @yourocsbackstory

[enchanted-lightning-aes]

Enchant’s NaNo Prep Challenge Tale #2

A/N: Here’s another tale for @yourocsbackstory and also for @ocappreciationweek, so I can take the opportunity to express my love for this particular OC. He’s from this WIP of mine that I’ve yet to make a intro of. Once again, I’ve challenged myself to write settings and this is the result, I’m glad to share. \o/

Word Count: 355

TW: None

***

Curtains flutter over a breeze sweeping through a slightly open window. In a field, fallen petal of flowers drift along the grass. Birds sing on branches of an oak tree, it’s leaves leaning over a side of a cottage-like house.

In a room, little streaks of color splashed on a wall. Canvases rest over it, some of them completed and non-completed. A closed crest contains supplies inside, including several paints of colors, paintbrushes, gesso, paper, and palette.

A palette with paint sits on an easel while a person stands in front of it. A whiff of acrylic remains hidden, nearly unnoticeable.

On a canvas, an outline of flowers fills it with stems, leaves, and half-petals.

A painter draws a shape of little details of petals with a dark-shaded pencil. He sketches petals to be fuller, letting it’s edges be longer, and connected to the rest.

When he covers it in charcoal, he does some finishing touches of shading. He picks up a paintbrush, sinking it into a fern green tint, and puts colors on a lower part of the flower. It enhances the sketch with color, close to getting dry.

He washes his paintbrush with water, removing the color. He coats it with lavender paint, putting it over a petal.

With the flower painted, he steps back to take a look. It appears to be in complete bloom and authentic with clear colors.

His chest loosens from initial pressure. And while his heart relaxes to a mild rate.

A door creaks open when an orange bobtail cat enters the room. She stretches her paws on a floral carpet, opening her mouth to yawn languidly. She walks over to him, glancing at his process.

He sits down on a chair, rummaging through a box filled with different colors of paint. Maybe he can paint a sunset as a background or draw a tree surrounding the flower. It deserves to be given to be seen in nature.

When the cat watches him with rapt fascination, he continues on his painting.  He checks the box to search for the right colors to help the painting reach it’s potential.

***

[adie-dee]

@yourocsbackstory​

Previous: Week 0: Introduction

Week 1:Fear

PROMPT - Think about your character’s past. When where they most afraid? What was the first time they encountered that fear, or the first time they opened up about it? Find an event, that is defining for their relationship with that emotion, and just write about it!

I really struggled with this one, and feel like it strayed too far from the prompt. I’m also currently fighting a nasty cold, so I’m not functioning at my normal level. Here’s hoping the following makes sense.

I ran through the halls of my parents home, trying to find somewhere to hide. Every time I thought I was safe I heard him, whistling Happy Birthday as he closed in. I needed to get away, get somewhere safe, to disappear until the time passed. I couldn’t let him catch me. 

Rounding the corner saw me back in our old house. Good. I knew of a secret entrance, hidden behind a fireplace in the drawing room and I immediately ran for it. Harrison had shown me the secret book lever once, and I was sure I could remember which one it was. 

Entering the drawing room confirmed that thought. It was the only real book, the rest painted bits of cardboard, and when I tugged on it I prepared myself to bolt through the secret entrance the moment it was wide enough for me to fit.

Only I wasn’t going to fit. The secret passage was gone, instead replaced with a birthday cake.

Blood-red icing dripped down the delicate white lilies of the three-tier cake, starting from a puddle around a kitchen knife buried in the top. Behind me the whistling grew louder and I scrambled with the books again, trying to find another that would open the passage.

Something flashed in the mirror on the mantelpiece and my heart dropped. I was too late. He was here. I turned to face him, the shadowman, the haunter of nightmares, resigned to my fate. This was the end. This was how it always ended.

A hand grabbed my shoulder. “Don’t kill me!” I screamed.

Sophie scrambled back from me, pulling the bed sheets up to her chest. “You were having a nightmare!” she stated, eyes wide. “Are you ok?”

That was right. It was a nightmare, nothing more, but knowing that did nothing to calm my racing heart. “I’m fine,” I replied, reaching for my drink to wet my dry mouth. But it wasn’t there. I wasn’t in my bed. I was in Sophies.

“You’re not. You were whimpering and crying and I was worried.”

“You bark in your sleep,” I reminded her, trying to deflect from the conversation.

“That’s different.” She came back over to me, shifting so she was sitting cross-legged at my side. “You still have tears on your face. And you stink of fear.”

My hand went to my face, the tears on my cheek clinging to my fingertips when I touched them. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” My voice wavered as I spoke, and I knew I was lying. My birthday was only six months away, and the closer it got, the worse my dreams became.

Sophie frowned, her eyes searching my face. “It’s not nothing; even if I couldn’t smell it, I can see your fear in your face. What’s got you so scared?”

“Dreamed a giant Care Bear was terrorising the city, godzilla-style.” 

She frowned again. 

“It really is nothing,” I told her, trying to believe it myself so she wouldn’t know I was lying. “But I should probably go home. I have an early start in the morning.” Another lie, but I didn’t want to be here any longer. Not if she was going to pry.

As I went to climb out of her bed, she caught my hand. “You don’t have to hide things from me,” she said, her voice soft. “I know you’re different, and you know about me. And I care about you, yeah? You’re not just some girl in my bed. You can trust me.”

Could I? Mum would say I couldn’t, but she always said that. That not knowing who had me cursed meant I could never know who I could trust, but surely she didn’t mean Sophie. Sophie was younger than me and really nice and—

Could be working for the enemy, Mum’s voice whispered. She would be so upset about Sophie, and Faith too, even though I hadn’t told either anything about who I really was. I couldn’t let anyone get close. 

“I do,” I told her, detangling my hand from hers. “But it’s nothing, really.” I beamed at her, my smile as fake as my words, then scooped up my underwear. Run, every instinct was shouting at me. Now. 

“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be planning on walking home at three in the morning. You’re just leaving because you’re scared. And not of a care bear. You’re scared of opening up to me and trusting me. Because doing that would mean admitting you actually have feelings for me.”

“No feelings was the agreement,” I reminded her as I hunted for my abandoned tshirt. A walk home might do me some good, especially as it didn’t seem to be raining. The cool night air always made me feel better, and I hoped it would help me shake the nightmare.

“I don’t mean relationship feelings. Friend feelings. Because other than Faith, I’m the only person you haven’t completely pushed away.”

I hated that she was right. I didn’t want friends. Friends were someone who could hurt me, or he used against me, or be hurt by my death. And I didn’t want any of that. 

Clothes sorted, I started pulled on my shoes. “We’re friends!” I insisted.

“We’re not. If we were, you would have told me things about you. Like your power. Or your favourite cheese. Or your name.”

“It’s Brie.”

“Your name?”

“My favourite cheese.”

She leaned back against her pillow, crossing her arms. “It’s a start. But you can’t keep people out forever.”

“I know.” But I could try, at least until my birthday.

“You’re a terrible liar!”

I crawled back onto the bed. “I know that too.” I told her, punctuating it with a small kiss. “See you at Revolver on Saturday?”

“Maybe. I have a date with a shifter from the Brunswick clan. So I’ll be there if it’s terrible.”

“I’m so happy for you!” My heart sank as I said it. If this worked out I then wouldn’t see her again, as she never went clubbing while dating. And we never just hung out. But it was for the best. I’d taken a big enough risk as it was. 

“Are you?”

“Yes!” I jumped back off the bed and grabbed my things. “This has been fun, and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, but I always knew it was going to end. And so I’ll be happy if they make you happy. You deserve that.” I forced another smile. “See you around sometime.”

“Why does that sound like goodbye?” She called after me.

I paused in her doorway. “Because it probably is.”

[ayzrules-art]

｢ I N T R O D U C T I O N S ｣  ↪  your oc’s backstory 2k21:  e m o t i o n s  e d i t i o n  (1/???) 

｢ prompts from @yourocsbackstory​​ !! ｣

“Who are you?”

Mai was sitting on a bench under the shade of a willow tree. The sun was out, soft like morning dew; her husband was arranging for a carriage at the entrance to the park, and the air smelled of spring rain.

The child - the mortal child - was staring at her, wide-eyed with...well, it certainly wasn’t fear. Wonder, perhaps, or awe? Whatever it was, Mai felt a sliver of unease slither around her gut, apprehension hissing through her veins. Was this some far-fetched ploy of her husband’s, designed to catch her unawares? 

Mai reached out with her mind - carefully, carefully - and probed gently at the boy, her shadow-spun magic murmuring in time with the rustling grass and whispering breeze. There was no sign of her husband’s influence within the human; no sign of the silken cold that crept slowly under somebody’s skin, numbing everything that made them alive.

Mai exhaled. The child was still staring at her, and Mai offered him a warm, if insincere, smile. “My name is Mai,” she said. “Where are your parents?”

He blinked. “I don’t know,” he replied, furrowing his brow as he considered her. “Are you an angel?”

It was Mai’s turn to blink. Then she laughed, as soft and lilting as trilling birdsong. “Certainly not,” she demurred, smoothing a hand over the front of her skirts and adjusting the lace-trimmed capelet settled over her shoulders. “Wherever did you get that idea?”

“Mother says all angels are beautiful,” the boy said, eyeing her skeptically. “And you’re not from here.”

It was hard to argue with either of those points. Mai found her thoughts drifting - entirely against her will, mind you - to flaming red hair and blue eyes that burned like molten starshine, alight with something glittering and wild and so, so different from the golden, lifeless beauty of the kingdom in the clouds that it made Mai’s un-beating heart stop.

Figuratively, of course.

“No,” she agreed. “I’m not from here. Have you heard of the Borderlands?”

The boy’s face scrunched itself up into a contemplative frown. “Demons live there,” he pointed out, accusingly. “Are you human then? You don’t look like a demon.”

My husband doesn’t either, Mai mused to herself, her gaze flickering to where the slender king of the underworld was paying for a carriage to bring them to their house in town. And yet, here we both are.

She supposed that she couldn’t fault the boy: mortals tended to think of demons as hideous, grotesque beings with leathery wings and twisted joints and deadly-sharp talons, something that Mai Mei - with her ink-black tresses and walking dress of snow-white watered silk and fine satin gloves that shimmered like liquid moonlight - was very decidedly not.

“I’m a queen,” she murmured instead, tilting her head to the side and regarding the human boy. “But only because my husband is a king.”

“What about the rest of your family? Is your sister a princess?” asked the mortal, and Mai shook her head.

“My family is dead,” she found herself admitting, fingers clenched tight around the handle of her parasol. “I never met most of them. Only my uncle and cousin, but my husband killed them.”

She paused, delicately. “I suppose I’m no better, though. I killed my first three husbands, and I fully intend on killing this one too.”

The park was quiet. The boy seemed bewildered, and Mai ignored him for the time being, instead glancing back toward the king of the underworld. Her eyes flitted over summer-golden daffodils and wistful lavender wisteria trees and carefully trimmed rose bushes, the petals flushed with pink sunrise. There was not a single blossom out of place, not a single speck of soil spilling out into the meticulously-laid stone path. And Devil help her, it was suffocating. 

Mai stood abruptly, something in her chest tight and aching. She knew that mortals like this boy feared the windswept desert, where the deadly heat of the sun bled the land dry and the sovereign in the clouds was nothing but a faraway dream. But the long-eared jackrabbits and crawling centipedes and all the other creatures that made a life where the darkness was salvation were wily and stubborn and so much more alive than anything in this manicured garden of neat hedges and fluttering butterflies that hummed with springtime, trapped in this fanciful man-made paradise. It reminded her all too much of the glory-bright realm above.

“Mai, are you ready?”

Her fourth husband’s quiet, pleasant voice snapped Mai out of her reverie. His eyes glittered like icicles as they glided over Mai and the child, shining and sharp.

Mai nodded. “Of course,” she murmured, taking his arm. She turned back in the direction of the mortal boy, whose eyes were wide as saucers again - this time, though, Mai could feel his fear thrumming through the air, roiling like a gathering thunderstorm. 

The king of the underworld gave the boy a dazzling smile. “Where are your parents, young man?”

Mai shook her head. “He doesn’t know. I’ll help him along?”

Her fourth husband gave a nonchalant shrug. “Alright. Be quick about it - we should be going soon.”

Mai reached with her mind once again, letting tendrils of her whisper-silk magic spiral out of her. She planted the suggestions in his head: find your mother. Forget about us.

With that done, Mai let the man who murdered her family sweep her out of the flowering park and into the waiting carriage, leaving the human boy under the gently swaying branches of the willow tree.

[etjwrites]

OC Backstory - Emotion Edition | Week 5: Anger

Week 0: Introduction || Week 1: Fear || Week 2: Joy || Week 3: Disgust || Week 4: Sadness || Week 6: Courage ||

PROMPT - Think about your character’s past. What makes them angry? How often do they feel it? 

This is more frustration than anger, but enjoy!

SO SO LATE AHHHHHH😭🥴@yourocsbackstory

Set just before the events of Afallon.

The charcoal snapped in Brom's hands, and he threw down the broken pieces in frustration.

“Why can I not draw her correctly?” he shouted, then ripped the page from his sketchbook, crumpled it up, and threw it across the table at which he'd been sitting.

“Oi! Mind where you're tossing your rubbish,” Alwain reprimanded him. He bopped Brom lightly on the shoulders with his broom. “Father won't be pleased if we've mucked up the place when he returns.”

“I just. My hands refuse to work,” Brom said, before grudgingly getting up and retrieving the piece of paper from where it had fallen. He sat and smoothed out the crinkles as best as he was able and peered at the lines he'd sketched before wadding it up again so tightly it was completely concealed in his fist. “Intolerable,” he muttered and let his head thunk onto the bakery's table.

“Suffer me to see?” Alwain asked, and leant his broom against the table before sliding into the seat opposite Brom.

Brom uncurled his fist and let Alwain pluck the smudged sketch from his hand. “Terrible, is it not?”

“Methinks your eyes have gone bad from the sugar pastries,” Alwain said. “Brom this is–”

“Wretched.”

“Beautiful! Who is she?”

“I'd thank you to cease humouring me; I know it's awful,” Brom said, and snatched the paper away from his best friend, ripping it to shreds before Alwain could stop him. “I know not. I see a faint image of her in the glass sometimes, when at the ruins. An echo of someone I ought to know. But when I try to put my recollections to paper”—he gestured at the well-worn leather binding his sketchbook—“well, look for yourself.”

Alwain leafed through the pages, a deeply puzzled frown etching itself across his face.

Brom knew what he was seeing. The pages and pages of scribbled out drawings, all of them of a pretty girl with curly hair and dark eyes. Except he'd botched the pretty part. He kept drawing her nose too small, or making her freckles look like some hideous skin disease.

“Pitch the whole lot into one of your ovens, why don't you?” he said, and dropped his head back to the table. He reached blindly for the broken charcoal, and, seizing upon it, started grinding the two halves to powder. How foolish he was to call himself an artist. How vain.

“Stoppit, Brom,” Alwain said, and shook him roughly. “You're a fine hand with a pen, and you know it. Stop berating yourself over not quite managing the likeness of a girl you're not even sure exists. What's more, these sketches are marvelous. Or well, they would be,” he added in an undertone, “if you hadn't scored through most of them. But I shan't be destroying your remaining drawings. You might want them later, when you've pulled yourself out of whatever self-pitying pit you've dived into.”

“I very much doubt it,” Brom grumbled, hands now coated with a fine, grey-black dust. If his stupid hands hadn't let him draw yesterday, nor would let him draw at present, they certainly wouldn't yield on the morrow. He had half a mind to thrust them in one of the bakery's ovens. A foolish thought, but one that matched the simmering frustration at his inability to achieve the one thing he was good at.

He stood abruptly, shoving the table back as he did so. It creaked and started to tip alarmingly, but settled as Alwain caught it. “Keep the stupid thing,” he said, and banged out of the shop, ignoring Alwain's shouts.

Let Alwain think he was effecting something noble by saving that sketchbook. The stacks he had at home would make a particularly nice bonfire.

Tag Crew: @adie-dee @writtendevastation @catharticallysarcastic @francestroublr @crystallized-ink

[kosmosian-quills]

Week 1 - Fear

Written for @yourocsbackstory​’s Emotion event, featuring my girl Zofia! This one is set 9 years before her introduction though, so she is a child here!

I just want to give a massive shoutout to @shark8-my-leg​ for all of their help! I have asked a lot of questions and they have been terrific for helping me with some of their own experiences as a disabled child with a prosthetic leg <3 your insight has been invaluable in how Zofia has been written and I cannot thank you enough!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Just a quick content warning that this is set in a hospital, and a child has suffered a horrible accident and had part of their leg amputated. She only looks at her leg for a brief time and none of the accident or amputation is shown.

POV: Zofia

I wake up surrounded by a cold light.

It’s strange. I had always thought that something that bright would be warm, would be cozy.

But it’s not.

It’s cold, I’m laid on something scratchy, there’s a dull beep… beep… beep somewhere in the distance. Breathing felt strangely loud, and… why did my arm feel so heavy? In fact, why does everything feel so heavy…?

There’s a strange mix of voices somewhere around me, and the light is suddenly blocked by these weird shadows. Blinking doesn’t make them go away, either. More shapes and more voices suddenly appear, and the light vanishes enough for me to see that they are faces, that they are people. They look very familiar.

“Zosia, Zosia can you hear me?”

The voice is clearer now, and it comes at the same time as something squeezes my hand.

I recognise the voices, and the face looking over me.

“D-” I can’t manage to get the word out. I can’t speak. Why? What’s going on? Why does my throat feel so dry and horrible? I can’t help but cough out the words instead.

That’s my dad beside me, and I can see my mother on the other side of me, but she sounds like she’s calling for someone. She does turn around to me, though.

Someone else comes into the view, and it’s a woman, wearing a white coat. A doctor, I think.

“Zofia? Can you hear me, Zofia?”

As I focus on the woman’s face and try to answer her question, managing only a nod, I become aware of a constant, dull throb in my knee. It was weird, my other knee didn’t hurt as much. Well… it’s not hurting I guess.

“You’re in the hospital, Zofia, you’ve been asleep for a few days. Do you remember why you’re here? Do you remember what happened?”

I rack my brains. Why am I here? I… I don’t remember. I don’t remember what I was doing before today. In fact, what *is* today?

The doctor-lady spoke up, “you don’t remember? That’s absolutely fine, sweetheart. You were in an accident and you got hurt quite badly.”

Someone else appeared behind the doctor, and passed something to her.

I only realised I was wearing a mask when the doctor leaned forward and removed it from my face. She was holding something in her gloved hand, though.

“These are just little chips of ice, Zofia. They’ll help your throat feel better, alright?”

The ice slips down my throat, cool and refreshing. Dad and mum move closer to me, on the other side of the bed from the doctor. Mum was resting her head on my dad’s shoulder slightly, her eyes red and lips trembling.

My throat still feels scratchy, despite the ice chips, but it does feel a little better. I manage to choke out a word.

“Mum… Dad…?”

“Zofia, we’re so glad you’re awake.”

“Don’t scare us like that again, ok? Next time you want to skip your dance lessons, just ask.”

Dad’s words end with a choke at the end, the laugh that had carried his sentence vanishing.

Dance lessons. Yes, that’s right. I was going to my dance lessons.

I don’t remember being at my classes though.

Is that when the accident happened?

“What… happened?”

“You were in a bad accident, Zofia,” the doctor speaks instead, and my dad rests his hand on my arm, “you got hurt. I’m sorry, Zofia, but your left leg was so badly hurt that we couldn’t save it. We had to amputate it.”

I try to lift my head ever so slightly, and my head spins a little as I did, to look down the bed at my feet.

The covers of the pure white hospital sheets rested atop my body. I tried to move my feet, and I saw my right foot shift the covers ever so slightly.

But my left leg… There was nothing there, beneath the sheet. It tapers off much earlier than my right foot. It also doesn’t move with my right foot.

My breath seemed to catch in my throat, and I tried to move my entire left leg. It moved, certainly, but not… not where my foot should be. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real, surely…

The doctor reached over the bed and lightly pulled the cover away from my left leg, and sure enough -

Where my foot and lower leg had once been, was now an empty space. The heavily bandaged stump of my knee was there, but it was so strange to see. So odd to think about how I don’t have a leg there now. What even happened? Why did I have to lose it? Why did they have to remove my leg? When did this happen, and why couldn’t they wait to ask me?!

The thought hit me like a train, something that crushed my chest and made tears fill up in my eyes. My head hit the pillow as I laid back down properly, a nauseating feeling rising in my stomach at the sight of my missing leg.

I will never be able to dance again.

[afoolandathief]

I feel like this is a little rusty, but here's some backstory for Caz inspired by @yourocsbackstory 's prompt on fear

Casimir woke up to a feeling that was not unfamiliar as of late. He was hungry.

His mother said he was going through another growth spurt. But that didn’t mean he was getting any extra helpings at dinner. Not with things as bad as they were, this winter. But Casimir knew there were candied almonds his parents had hid away since St. Andrew’s Day, and he was determined to find them.

So he peeled away from his sleeping family and padded across the house to start his search. But something made him pause; a sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with almonds. There was someone — something — waiting outside the door; its shadow wavering just slightly like a candle flickering. And then, a honeyed voice spoke from outside.

“Dear child, open the door,” it said.

Casimir knew he shouldn’t open the door. But whether it was curiosity or the strange current that ran through him as the voice spoke, he did so anyway, undoing the knot on the latch and letting the heavy wood swing wide.

He recognized one of the two figures as Domnule Andreescu, another shepherd who knew his father. But there was something wrong with him. His pock-marked face looked pallid, almost sick, and he was dressed for weather far warmer than the winter winds blowing through. It was his eyes that were the most chilling, though, with pupils as wide as a cat’s.

But that wasn’t what scared Casimir.

Domnule Andreescu was supposed to be dead.

He had, at least, been presumed dead when he disappeared while tending to his flock last Easter. His sheep came back. He did not.

A hand reached out, just grazing Casimir’s nightshirt, but pausing as though hitting a wall.

Domnule Andreescu smiled and opened his mouth to speak. His teeth were far too white. Most of the grownups Casimir knew had teeth which had rotted and yellowed with time.

Casimir didn’t hear what he had to say. He was already screaming.

He was still screaming as his father slammed the door shut from behind him, backing up against it with all his weight, but he wasn’t met with any resistance.

“Jozef,” his mother said as his father pushed the heavy wooden table against the door. She was holding Casimir’s baby sister in one arm as she reached for her husband. “Jozef, that’s useless. They won’t cross the threshold without permission.”

Casimir’s father was a mountain of a man, with dark hair and eyebrows and a thunderous expression. It made it that much worse to see the fear racing wildly across his face.

“The animals, Constantina,” he uttered.

“Do not go out there,” she said, as firm as she could, though her voice caught slightly. “What we need to worry about now is if they start their songs. Get the pot of salt. We need to make a ring on the floor.”

Jozef looked over at the salt. It was expensive, and also their only means of keeping meat throughout the winter.

“Jozef,” Constantina repeated. “My family has lived in these mountains for centuries. I know what these - these things are capable of. You have to trust me.”

Casimir’s screams had subsided into sobs as he knelt on the floor next to his brothers, their parents orbiting them with the jar of salt.

Augustin, the second oldest, looked at his little brother and grinned.

“Perhaps if the Strigoi want Casimir so badly, we should give him to them.”

Casimir’s sobs turned into loud, shrieking hiccups. At this point his eyes had nearly swollen shut with tears, and his nose and mouth were shiny with snot.

A hand reached down to clap Augustin’s ear.

“That is a wicked thing to say, Augustin,” his mother said, her pale face sharp and furrowed in anger. “Casimir, come here.”

Still holding his sister, Constantina knelt down and reached with her other arm to clasp Casimir to her. The boy jumped onto her, burying his wet face into her shoulder.

Casimir held tight to his mother. He felt if he relented even a bit he’d be sucked into that inky night, ripped away by Domnule Andreescu’s corpse-pale hands.

“Don’t let me go,” he pleaded.

“I won’t,” she replied softly, before speaking louder to her husband, “Jozef, get in the circle. They’re starting now.”

A cacophony of voices rang from outside. Casimir wasn’t sure how many, but it had to be more than the two men he had seen. The voices wrapped around the house, singing a song about a fox chasing a family of rabbits out of their hole.

Casimir couldn’t even scream as his hands unclasped themselves from his mother, their motions compelled by the voices. But his mother held him even tighter and began to sing her own song. It was a doina she often sang while she worked, one about a little fish trying to swim upstream.

The sound of her voice, reedy but sweet, drowned out the Strigoi, and Casimir placed his arms back around his mother.

“We all have to sing, children, if we want to keep the Strigoi away,” she said, as if instructing them on their chores. She looked down as Casimir continued to sob and hiccup. “Little songbird, you have such a sweet voice, join your family.”

The boy shook his head.

“Casimir,” she began, before taking his hand and placing it against her chest. “Feel my heartbeat?”

He nodded. “It’s fast.”

“It’s very fast,” she agreed. “Because I am just as afraid right now. But I have to be brave for you and your siblings.”

She held up his little sister, whose round face was gleaming with obliviousness to the situation.

“Can you be brave for Stana?”

Casimir wrinkled his nose as Stana let out a spurt of drool.

“She’s gross,” he said.

But he took his sister from his mother, cradling her in his arms, and joined his family in the song about the trout.