Post by Brownie on May 3, 2020 3:43:28 GMT -5
Just a place to put a bunch of short whatevers. Honestly, I just have been in the mood for some roleplay and had lots of muse for that kind of style of short intros, so that's what I'm gonna do. Nothing here is anything serious or has any connection whatsoever (unless it does). Worlds are set to randomize. half of these might be warriors style. Who knows, I don't. I just want to do them so i am.
if you like what you see and want to read more blurbs as soon as they're written, ask to join the taglist
blurbs (1k>) on the first post
shorts(1k+) on second post
longer things (5k+/multiple parts) on third post
Title format change [blurbs] / [shorts+]
Big text is world/title
character, media, tag, tag
mostly for future reference and for ease of searching
Outlanders
Romi, scene, outlanders, dread
Romi yawned. His post was mundane, boring. It was the end of spring, rolling into summer. Even by noon, the hints of dew on the spring-green leaves made the forest seem fresh, reborn. Any icy chill of morning had long since passed into the gentle breezes and promises of warmth and growth. It seemed impossible that anything could wander the forests on a day such as this, when the whole world felt like a fresh bud full of potential.
Even then, his eyes wandered to the south again, the damned Forsaken Lands still in his mind even with his senses filled with the green of peace.
He heard the patrol before he saw them, Misha's deep voice admonishing the younger trainees as they tumbled into view with a crash of leaves. Jorn had a tight grip on his sister's tail, but Yalla was stronger and pushed the small grey tabby playfully away. He dashed through the camp entrance, passing under Romi's watch post above. Instead of following, Yalla licked the cream fur of her chest and waited for the rest of the Outlanders to catch up.
Romi spotted his own brother in the crowd and waved his tail in greeting as they approached. All four of the gatherers were laden with prey, mostly small birds, but Rene carried a large hare by the neck, its long paws bumping along the ground. "Good hunting!" he said as they passed below and into the camp proper. A few moments later he felt a prickle as his fur rose on his haunches, an odd scent following in the wake of the patrol. As quickly as it came, it passed, leaving Romi on edge as he peered into the forest, watching for any movement along the wide, open trail. But, as the sun moved in the sky and his watch progressed, he caught no further hints of anything amiss.
He still couldn't help his gaze turning towards the southern horizon.
Project Patchwork
Katy, description, backstory, change
Pierre had been the smart one and David the brave one, which left her with nothing. She was quick-witted, but not particularly book smart. And unlike her brother, Katy often backed away from challenges instead of accepting them head on. Sure, she could pick a lock and she was a pretty good shot with any of the guns in the facility. Katy was skilled. But she would never be able to plan a raid like Pierre and when the time came for action, she knew she would never, could never, step out of line the way David did.
When you grew up as a rebel, spent your childhood running about the heart of the resistance's stronghold, learning skills such as lockpicking and lists of officials that could be reliably bribed, Katy, like David and Pierre, was expected to contribute. It wasn't as though she didn't believe in the cause (everyone but the government did), but even with her determination she still managed to be a dead weight on any missions she attended.
That is, until she was chosen to infiltrate the Project. She was young (only seventeen, though she looked younger when she pulled her hair back), unassuming, and, though no one ever said it, expendable. It was for that reason that she found the courage to go through with the mission. Her desire to prove herself that made an entirely new ego, that let her slip out of Katy and into Lucille, the girl who signed away her life to save her dying siblings (a common story, easily believable). It was as Lucille that Katy learned to be smart. Lucille was brave even when Katy was afraid--terrified. It was easier, since Lucille's fears were only about her family and what the Project would do to her (the first false and the second painfully understood).
The Project changed her. And not only in the obvious, gain-invisibility-superpowers kind of way. But in a deeper way so that when Katy stood in the center of the resistance's base, the crowds slowly forming around her, she knew she alone had the power to save the world.
Rath-dragon
Asher, scene, backstory, lore
He could only describe it as looking over the edge of the world. The forests and plains stretched so far below he could hardly pick out what he was looking at. The colors were dull, almost grey, the overcast sky. He didn't count in terms of trees or even stands, but of entire swatches of forest. Settlements appeared as checkered squares, brighter than the surrounding trees. He thought he saw a keep's walls as a smudge of grey.
Asher felt the red dragon's muscles move beneath him like waves in the sea and he gripped the leather loops tighter even as he knew he was fastened tightly to the saddle from the waist down. "Looking a bit green eh, recruit?" Lione called from behind him.
He grimaced and forced his hands to release. "I haven't been this high up before."
"Never been to Tellor? Easier to gain the height slowly now than to go straight up the mountain flying this heavy." Lione swung in front of him, dancing between the dragon's spines as she stepped over Asher's seat, moving closer to the dragon's heavy neck. She dropped to sit in the dip between the dragon's wings and spine, kicking her feet up on the saddlehorn as she reached into a pouch on her waist to grab some iceleaf. "Though I bet you knew that already. They teach ya more than can fit in your heads before you get up here."
"Not everyone is born a natural," Asher replied. Lione had taught a class back in Rath, the port city-state that was governed by the postal service. It was a wonderful place --if a bit cold, being so far in the north. But the many large, secluded islands and the unique political climate made it a great dragon breeding ground, and when Priscilla Rath (the Keeper of the Eggs, One with the Silence of Souls, Lord of Thorntooth Mooneater, Mistress of None, among others) decided that these lonely ocean villages would have the honor of being the first subjects of her dragon-empire, no one refused.
Since then, the country had seen nothing but explosive growth and great profits. Everyone wanted to see a dragon (the big, ones, not the draft-drakes that pulled gran's plow). And while some dragons (regrettably) were hired as mercenaries for war, the majority were given the job as couriers. No horse could outrun a yellow wyvern, no ship could carry a thousand swords across the country in only two days. And any ground travel always ran the risk of brigands.
You couldn't very well pirate a flying dragon.
So Priscilla's dragons (and the ranking officers of the Rathien Post for that matter) were always in very high demand and came with kingly fares.
Asher grew up just outside of Rath and like many of the children who heard tales of the dragons to the north, he yearned to travel to the city and land a job as a flyer. It was purely luck that had gotten him a place at the aptitude testing through the contested lottery and once he learned of the years of training and schooling he would need to receive, he almost backed out. It was only after his first flight that his childhood dreams came back in a sudden rush, flooding him with a desperation he had never felt before in his life. Nothing could tell him he would never fly again.
And as he sat, the air thin and cold against his face, looking down the edge of the world, he felt the pure joy of success.
Faolan
Bird, Ivy, scene, backstory, power (part 1. too tired to finish scene)
Bird was a good hunter. She was the oldest delta still in training and her mentor, Falcon, often had her training. It was only rarely that she managed to have a day for herself, even if it were raining and rather dreary. Her white paws were splattered in mud and some blood from the squirrel on the ground in front of her as she caught her breath from the chase. Her eyes faded from the yellow of Lupa's blessing to their normal shade of green. She thanked Lupa for the gift of prey, mindful that she had been the last of FaolanClan to receive the blessing. After she arrived and was given Lupa's blessing of swiftness, no other cat had seen any signs of wolves, not even the other deltas venturing out to receive her gift.
It was disturbing, Lupa's silence. There were stories, of course, that the old ones tell to scare the kits, warning of Lupa's rage. They told tales of how they saw a wolf --either a messenger or Lupa herself, depending on who was doing the retelling-- watching from outside the camp walls for three nights when they were kits, only to find an outsider wandering in on the last night, eyes blood red with Lupa's gift. Other stories told of wolves howling on nights when litters were born, Lupa greeting their tiny souls into her pack.
Never before had so many of the deltas been refused the gift. Yet all five of the others walked out into the night just as she had but all they had found was darkness. Bird shuddered, glad she had the gift tucked safely in that place just below her neck and above her chest. She could feel it moving there, restless, until she broke the bonds and let it come surging forth.
She was alone and fairly far from camp. In some ways, she knew she shouldn't be here. But on the other paw, she was in the very heartland of their territory. There would be no danger so far from the borders and with the gift within her, Bird knew she could escape even a lynx or a wolf, as rare as those creatures were inside their borders, even on a gloomy day such as it was.
She picked up the squirrel, flicking the raindrops from her ears with squinted eyes.
Desert
Mica, Hound, scene, daily, worldbuilding
Mica waited in the shade, eyes intent on the pages of his book. It was for this reason that he didn't notice the old man trying to get his attention until he tapped his cane on Mica's head, startling him. "Boy, I don't have all day," the man grumbled, more amused at Mica's rapt focus than peeved at his inattentiveness.
"Sorry, sorry." Mica put the book in his bag and picked up his sunhat as he stood, dusting the sand from his robes. The cursed stuff got everywhere, even under the pavilion where he sat upon a cane mat. He picked up the mat, shaking it clear of sand for the old man, who lowered himself onto it with Mica's help.
The man placed his cane at his side, drawing Mica's eye to it. He was intrigued by the design, which seemed to change even as he was watching. It was whiter than the sand surrounding them, a thing made of ivory and bone. At the head sat a mighty bird with its wings raised high above, fitting a large black gemstone within. "Don't you have work to do, boy?" the old man asked. The sack at his side shook and he grumbled, letting out the ugly Buppu inside.
The creature was bizarre, even by Mica's standards. Plump, hairless, with rolls of skin that dripped down its sides and made its face lumpy. It had a very short, stubby pink tail, like a rat's that was cut off at the base. A long snout protruded from the rolls of skin and fat, tripping the creature as it stumbled over the mat. At the tip of the snout were flashes of blue and purple, hinting at the tentacles stored inside. This Buppu was a very important creature, able to smell out ores and water deep underground. The Buppu was not native to the desert --the hairless creature would never be able to survive a minute out in the hot sun-- and training one was a monumental task. This Buppu was the reason the old man afforded such a rich cane. He was known only as the Hound and Mica's small town, a village really, was very lucky he decided to share the Buppu with their miners as he rested here for the moon before moving on.
Mica bowed deeply to the old man. He stuffed his hat on his head, tying the cord to keep the wide brim from tumbling off in the desert winds. He left the Hound in the pavilion's shade, slowly making his way towards the mines where he would be lifting rocks until his arms ached. Mica would much rather be reading his books, but though he was in training with the Inanh priests under his mother, he hadn't yet earned his token and so was not allowed in the temple on the sixthday or seventhday when the holy house was closed to all but the most devout of the priests, set aside for private affairs.
He squinted over the bright sands, tipping the hat to better shade his face against the sun. The pavilion was just outside of the mines proper, the short walk hot on his feet. He hated the hard labor moving stones, but unlike his time with his mother at the Inanh temple, working at the mines those two days a week paid in money. A small salary, perhaps, but one he valued immensely. Those coins would be used to take him far from the desert village to the city. He had always dreamed of the stone walls, the bustling streets, the mighty castle rising far higher than even their temple. Perhaps he'd go farther, to the ocean.
The thoughts sent a shiver of excitement through him, his tail twitching. Oh, and the books. The many things he could read. Maybe he could get a job as a scribe, writing letters in a neat hand, or better yet, a bookwriter. He didn't know enough things to write anything of his own --not yet at least, being young and tucked away in the corner of the world with only a few families to speak of-- but it would be a dream to transcribe notes into carefully bound pages, the leather covers supple and soft. He would use pens and brushes so fine they could ink the hairs of a mouse or the curving vines along the titles as the cityfolk favored.
It was these thoughts that pulled Mica though his work as he tied his robe to his waist and started hauling stones from the sides of the mine to the large carts in the center to be pulled up.
Ovi
Jin, Tessa, short, city, game
They didn't quite understand what was happening. The game itself was deceptively simple: most cards in the deck had no value at all, only capturing two of the three Lions in the deck proved the victor. Yet they had been watching the game progress for almost a half hour now and neither of the players have even approached where the lions were laid out. Instead, they maneuvered other colored cards from their hand and board in what seemed like random patterns to the bystander, but must have had layer upon layer of strategy to the players themselves.
"To think to smokescreen your crossed leaf with my fox?" the man on the left scoffed. Jin was at the end of the bar to watch the table more closely over their drink, tapping their feet against the leg of the stool. The man studied the board closely, eventually producing a rabbit from his hand to place on top of the yellow fish. "Child's play, such an easy bluff." He drummed his fingers against the table as he watched his opponent, the bangles on his wrists chiming against one another roughly. He was brightly ornamented, draped in many colored silks and cottons layers thick, concealing everything but his hands and eyes.
His opponent was quite the opposite: he wore only dark cargo pants, scuffed and torn at the knees and ankles. His chest was bare, boasting several large scars that puckered and split his torso with seams of silvered skin. His dark eyes and thin mouth were hidden beneath a thick brow and a halo of grey beard. A small hat sat perched on the side of his head, seemingly defying gravity as it followed the bob of his head looking around the board.
He ignored the other man's taunts, wordlessly watching his own hand, the board layered with cards, and the thinning deck. Jin waved the bartender for another drink as they waited on the players. Finally, the grey-haired man made his move, carefully moving a king between the rabbit and one of the lions. They couldn't see the covered man's face, but his eyes were panicked as he searched his hand desperately for a response.
"Isn't he great?" The voice came from just over their shoulder and Jin almost jumped from their seat. "You did as I asked?"
"Yes, Tessa, all fifty plat." Tessa took the seat beside them, using sign to order herself a drink. She watched over Jin's shoulder as the game progressed. Even with all their prior bluster, it was obvious the grey-haired man had the advantage. The other may be hidden beneath his silks, but even that couldn't conceal the flutter of his hands between his cards and his frenzied glances around all corners of the board. Jin was picking up some of the rules and between the grey-haired man's quick and calm plays and the silk-clad man's gaze, they were able to pick out the trap cunningly laid since the beginning turns leading up to this moment.
But even if they were still a bit lost on the strategy, Tessa's eyes took in the board quickly as she hissed a breath, shaking her head in disbelief. "You lost all respect for this one, ay, Marko?" she called out. The grey-haired man took a quick glance over and Tessa touched a finger to the table then held up two fingers. A smile touched the corner of his eyes as he put down another king leading to the second lion. The silk-clad man let the remaining cards in his hand fall to the table.
The grey-haired man stood, giving his opponent a bow before leaving the table to approach Tessa. The bartender arrived with both her drink and a small pouch. She took a pull of the former before opening the pouch to pull out a handful of silver coins. She counted out twenty and turned to put them in Marko's outstretched hand. "To the safest bet in all of the port," she said, raising her glass.
Marko closed his hand around the coins, shaking his head at Tessa before silently turning away. Tessa grinned, clinking her glass on Jin's before taking another pull. "For a Ovi, you sure don't know your cards," she commented. "Have you ever played Lions?"
Jin shrugged. "Ovi might be known for their games, but not all games are played with cards or dice. Lions has never interested me."
"But plat should," Tessa said, dropping the sack on the table to hear the clatter of coins within.
Moth war
Raul, scene, flintlock, drill
"Fire!" The cadets responded in a line of clicks, a pitiful recreation of what it would feel to shoot lead in the field. The cadets would need to feel what the musket felt like bucking against the shoulder harder than a mule's kick. They would need to hear the deafening sound of the flint sparking the charge, learn to aim with only small glimpses of the enemy line through the thick fog of musket smoke. "Reload!" he called, pacing before the line of muddied uniforms.
Raul shook his head as he watched them mime loading, even without the inconsistencies of battle they were slow. More than one musket fell to the ground when the cadet didn't properly brace the stock against his foot. He wished they could mirror the rush of battle more accurately, but they didn't have the ammunition to spare, nor could anything really compare to the actual chaos of the battlefield. He just had to hope that repetition would hammer the forms so deeply that the greenies could mindlessly follow in that panicked stupor instead of breaking at the first shot. Even then, he knew at least a quarter would break and another quarter would fail to load properly. Hopefully that would only result in a misfire and not the musket exploding into the cadet's face --or his neighbors.
Raul tapped out his steps as he paced the line, a thick cane preceding him. "Level," he called after a minute. Most the muskets swung forth to form a line, with only a few stragglers to break the movement. They were improving, Raul thought as moved behind the line, watching over their shoulders as they held the ready position. He swatted the cane at one cadet's leg, hard enough to sting a sharp warning. "Hand off the trigger, greenie," he growled. Once he was satisfied, Raul called for another round, again the echoing dead clicks of flints down the line.
He paced his way back to the front. "Reload!" he called again, his eyes daring any to even mutter a groan. Perhaps they would be worth something.
Rath-dragon
Pan/Thorn, scene, worldbuilding, travel
Pan fidgeted in the crook of the tree. Their legs fell asleep some time ago, uncomfortably tingling as they tried --unsuccessfully-- to silently move to a better position. They felt Thorn's disapproval from the bushes below and had to stop themselves from screaming in frustration. Pan was a mage, they weren't supposed to be climbing trees out in the rough wilderness. But one did what one must to survive, and Pan was no different.
Thorn was in his element, his large paws silent as he prowled beneath the shadows. The direwolf was a shadow himself; it was only due to Pan's night-veil enchantments that he could see Thorn's black fur in the night. The night-veil also revealed something far more disturbing: a pack of wendigo loitering around the road. Unlike them, the wendigo weren't trying to hide. The pack echoed perfectly the wails of children into the night as they roamed Pan's abandoned campsite, tearing through hides and bags in a leisurely search for food. Their long-boned fingers were tipped with sharp claws, and their narrow bodies, so emaciated Pan could see the edges of every bone through their papery grey skin, had surprising strength as they pounced and fought over scraps.
It wasn't something they could fight, even with Thorn's help. Without Thorn's early warning, Pan would have been eaten along with his supplies. But the direwolf had sensed the pack and herded Pan across the road and up a tree where the two were downwind, invisible to the wendigos' abilities to smell blood and life. This left them alive, only to watch in silence as the wendigo tore apart all their traveling supplies, consuming anything they had the power to digest --even the leather waterskins and the bamboo fishing pole, devoured in ravenous, tearing jaws.
<Sleep. Thorn watches.> Thorn couldn't speak, but a link between them allowed the direwolf to impress thoughts and ideas upon Pan in lieu of words. An image of Thorn curled under trees, flicking to Pan themselves in their bedroll. The idea of Thorn growling, the feel of his pawsteps like Pan's own as the direwolf paced around the tree.
Despite the fact that there were bloodthirsty monsters tearing into their camp only a few hundred meters away, Pan smiled. They could feel Thorn's affection and determination in the mindlink. It was reassuring, calming. Pan again tried to shuffle in the crook of the tree to get more comfortable, but knew they could not. Resigned to that, they closed their eyes. Uncomfortable, but safe. They could deal with the supply problem in the morning. They would get through this, just like they always did.
- - -
Morning came over the land in a wash of pale yellow over a soft dove's wing. Pan yawned, stretched, then winced as the bark shifted uncomfortably under their arms. Their skin was indented with the pattern of bark in raw red and itchy white, Pan couldn't feel their legs at all. They looked over the road to their camp, now completely torn apart. Their tent was mostly intact, just thrown into the lower branches of a tree. Everything else... Pan couldn't tell from this distance, they hoped it wasn't as bad as it looked. The wendigo were long gone; the ever-hungry creatures were one of those that burned in sunlight.
"Thorn?" Pan said, their voice a croak. They cleared their throat and grabbed at their lifeless legs, using their torso to balance on the tree branch. They wobbled precariously, but their tail wrapped several times around the branch lending some safety and support and they had a word ready to cushion their fall if they lost balance. They rubbed at their legs until they slowly gained life, tingling uncomfortably but Pan was now able to move their legs themselves.
The dark direwolf slunk out from the trees, muzzle bloodied. He watched in amusement as Pan struggled to get out of the tree. "I'd like to see you try and get down with those paws," Pan muttered, swinging their body so that they were holding the branch with only their arms, then dropping to the ground. Their legs, not fully awake yet, collapsed underneath them, knocking Pan's breath away. Thorn bumped his head against Pan's shoulder, letting Pan see through his eyes: the diminuative lizardfolk mage in a heap on the ground between his paws.
Pan growled and rolled onto their back, kicking their feet against the leaves. Each impact gave only a dull ache, like they were kicking a thick rug.
Thorn left Pan, looking over the road before dashing across to the ruined campsite. The direwolf poked through their supplies, sniffing out for any food. As expected, there was nothing remotely edible left. He set to dragging everything back in a pile somewhat near the guttered fire. Pan's backpack was completely shredded; his books were left untouched --for which Thorn was glad, Pan was very protective over their books; Thorn's harness was also in one piece, over in the bushes; Thorn couldn't reach the tent without ripping it, that would take hands instead of paws, but he paced around it. The tent looked to be mostly intact as well, a few tears from where it caught in the branches, but they could be patched.
The direwolf was almost done with his inspection when Pan limped into camp. The mage dropped onto one of the logs they dragged in the night before to use as a seat, still rubbing their legs.
Royal Circle
Ariel, weavers, estate, emotion
Ariel watched from the windows as the royal carriage clattered up the cobbles. It was ostentatiously adorned: lacquered maple wood formed dark inlay upon the white birch siding, curling over the roof in a messy, bramble-like warren of interlocking wood. The wheels were spindly things, fine for the paved streets of the inner city, but that would break on the first shallow rut. Drapes of bright white tied with long ribbons of black satin hung over the open windows while the shutters refracted millions of sparks from the multicolored glass.
It stopped near the doors to the estate, framed perfectly by the tumbling fountain, cherry blossom trees, and the perfectly manicured Sutton gardens beyond. Ariel put her hand on the window, as if she could touch the picturesque scene below. She placed all the details in her mind, memorizing the colors, the patterns, the way the wind tossed petals across the cobbles like snowflakes. She would embroider it, later. Perhaps as a gift to Lucie, though she didn't think her sister would appreciate the picturesque moment marking her new fate. Maybe eventually, but certainly not now.
Ariel put the embroidery to the back of her mind as Lucie's plight surged to the forefront. Of all her siblings, Lucie was closest with Ariel. Mirel had always been aloof. Heir to Mother's empire and already married away to a powerful weaver's daughter since before Ariel was born, Mirel felt more like a cousin or aunt to Ariel than a flesh-and-blood sibling. Angela, similarly, had left the family's good graces when Ariel was only three years old. Too young to remember anything but her face. All record of Ange was scrubbed clear of the Sutton name, including any pictures they may have had. So it was only with great effort and Lucie's help that she even knew about her elder sister at all.
Jade, on the other hand, tries. But as the years went by, it was increasingly obvious that her sister was jealous of her and cared less about Ariel than how much attention Ariel had taken away from her the moment the youngest Sutton took to the loom. For a while, Ariel felt personally guilty of her weaving talent. She tried tutoring Jade (which made it worse, much worse), she tried botching jobs, she tried passing her own work as Jade's. Eventually she had to accept that nothing she did would make Jade happy. Ariel was glad when Jade married out of weaving; her sister seemed much happier with that outcome.
Which left Lucille. Lucie was good at many things. Quiet, maybe. Her weaving was at first glance unassuming. But it was always gently elegant in the cut and stitch, with every thread perfectly in line with the next and with colors blending gently together in ways Ariel --and however much talent she had-- was still learning herself.
And now she'd be gone. Whisked away to the Arch House on the hill, forever ensconced within the trappings of royalty, never to be seen or known to anyone outside of the royal circle. Including Ariel. It was a great honor as showcased by the expensive royal carriage sitting in the Sutton gardens, waiting to take Lucie away. But for a moment it almost felt as if the carriage was a crouched tiger, patiently and eagerly waiting for prey to devour.
Rath-dragon
Shari, scene, character, Midlu
Shari sat on a hill on the road leaving Rath to the south. She hadn't decided where she was going yet; she had only decided she was leaving Rath that morning knowing that another day humoring that old man Balthun would have driven her mad. So she sat on the hill, eating an apple and two sandwiches she snatched from the basket as she left for a midday lunch. Because she had nowhere in mind she was headed, she didn't mind setting a slower pace. Shari was only a few miles from Rath --she could still see the walls, out in the distance, and the smoke and smog that surrounded the large city-- but already she felt much lighter, freer, than she had in months.
Shari cut an imposing figure on the hillside. She wore the sharp-cut red uniform of Midlu militia, the flower-and-chalice crest sewn with bright gold thread. Shari had two swords, one decorative rapier at her hip, another, a wide-guard saber, strapped to her back. In military uniform, riding trousers, and with her hair cropped to a close shave, she might easily be mistaken for a man from the roadside. This, of course, was by design. Even her chest --which didn't have much to show regardless-- was bound. It wasn't uncommon for women to be in the military ranks, but she knew from experience that she would be taken more seriously if she appeared a younger man.
It really did get tiring having to fight back every time she wanted cadets to hop to her word. One day, perhaps, it would be different. It was only within the last ten years that women were allowed into the fighting ranks, after all, and she would be able to drop the act once she was back in Midlu, where the red-eyed dragon at her shoulder would be enough to make anyone ask 'how high?' when she asked them to jump.
But she wasn't headed to Midlu, not yet. It was spring, creeping into summer, but the tall passes that lead across the mountains to Shari's home wouldn't be open for weeks. She crunched the apple, content to enjoy the sun and the day, watching the people roam the road beneath her. More people were headed into Rath than away: merchants come to the ports to move wares, sometimes immigrants looking to find better work in the city than work the same farmland day after day after day with only one bad yield between them and the tax collector's whip. Poor souls, she thought, shaking her head. Rath was a completely different world, the country bumpkins would be eaten alive by the city and spit back out without another thought given to them.
She had grown up in Pa-Midlu. Until the last decade, Pa-Midlu was the largest, grandest city in all of Tem’vu. If they weren’t so secluded by the barriers of the mountain range, the Midlu barony could have been the capital. Shari was glad this wasn’t the case; her hometown had all the perks of a booming economy without any of the downsides Rath was now experiencing: overpopulation, high crime rates, pollution, hunger and poverty.
That was why she had been sent to Rath that winter, a liaison between Midlu and the Rathian military. Being from the wealthiest of the baronies, Shari assumed she would be an honored guest but she hadn’t even resided in the keep during her stay. Packed with new recruits training to guard Rath’s ever growing streets, the former military headquarters was now nothing more than a barracks. Instead, Shari was offered her pick of the quartermasters’ private homes.
In a way, Shari grew to prefer this unforeseen outcome. Lucille’s home was quaint, an apartment above a bookseller’s shop. She lived in the artisan’s square down a row that housed many of the city’s best smiths and bookbinders. Additionally, the two women found they had much in common. It was a peaceful two months, that is until Balthun arrived. Another political tennant of the military, Balthun was an older man from the further barony of Elsvire.
She crunched the apple with more zeal than perhaps necessary. Shari hated leaving Lucille alone with him, but she knew that her temper was wearing thin. Lucille had found Shari that morning, packed to leave, and wouldn’t even accept Shari’s broken apologies and flustered excuses. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll have Rea to help with Balthun. Go, head back to Midlu,” she had said, grabbing Shari close for a tight hug and squashing any protests Shari might have had, “just promise you’ll stay here again when you return.” The words sounded threatening when Lucille said them, but Shari laughed and agreed. Lucille pushed Shari away, shooing her from the house. She tossed an apple down the hall and waved. “Don’t get into too much trouble, you hear?”
Shari looked down the road, southeast, where the mountains were visible as a dark, dark smudge far on the horizon. Home.
Hallowed
Palethorn, Coyoteleap, backstory, emotion, trauma
Palethorn watched Coyoteleap trail behind the patrol as they entered the courtyard. As always, her eyes were drawn to the sandy-brown molly, watching her with concern and something bordering on pity. Poor Coyoteleap, Palethorn thought, watching from the shadows of the church but leaving the other she-cat to her own problems.
It was just so hard to see her like this. She had been an apprentice with Coyoteleap, they had been kits in the nursery together. Palethorn had liked her for as long as she could remember back in those days, pining after the bold, no nonsense Coyoteleap. She even had the courage --once in her life, drawn from Coyoteleap's own confidence-- to confess her feelings towards her friend. Coyoteleap hadn't reciprocated, but Palethorn expected that and she also knew that they would continue to be close friends through it, and they had.
That is, until the accident.
The fight with an angel gone wrong. Coyoteleap lost her mother and sustained terrible injuries before managing to slay it. Lioncloud had to remove her eye when it festered. Since then, Coyoteleap, once so brave and confident, became withdrawn and hollow. Palethorn tried to bridge that gap for several moons, but her concern was met with a tight wall of indifference and occasionally hostility. Palethorn decided that for now, she'd respect Coyoteleap's decision for solitude, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt, physically hurt, to see her best friend with her eyes to the ground, tail dragging, pelt in disarray, no prey to her name as she wandered, empty, behind the patrol.
Palethorn turned her head, closed her eyes, until they were gone.
Hallowed
Amberdusk, time, thoughts
Amberdusk had a mild distaste for evenings. There was always tension in the hours of dusk, as if the world was silently preparing that night's horrors. He thought that, after all this time, the Clan would grow accustomed to it. That, after all his moons, he would grow accustomed to it. But every dusk it was still the same, with the Clan watching outwards of the stone walls at the forest beyond, waiting for the sun to fall.
The siamese tom was no different, prisoner to the cycle of day and night, and the thought of being caught under cosmic powers like a fish in a small lake frustrated him endlessly. He was glad, then, when the last hints of gold fled the sky, leaving only whisps of grey clouds and sparkling stars. The night held its own problems, but those, at least, had clear solutions. The senior warrior flexed his claws, tapping them against the stone floor. A voice, behind him, it might have said his name. Amberdusk turned, trying to focus on the sounds as if that would overcome the failures of his body.
It was Murkshadow, and his red eyes were most definitely on Amberdusk. "Sorry, in my own thoughts," Amberdusk apologized, moving closer towards the general so he could hear him better. The vampire always spoke softly, much to Amberdusk's growing annoyance.
"Patrol." He wasted no other words, gesturing towards the three cats standing behind him before slinking away like the shadow of his namesake.
Time to do what HallowedClan cats did best, Amberdusk thought as he headed over to his patrol and followed them out of the church into darkness.
Split
Becca/F, cafe, scene
It was a normal shift until he saw her at the back booth. Her spot, their spot. Tumbling images: Becca, looking out the window on a rainy day; Becca, smiling as he put his notepad on the table between them, bright as a sunbeam; Becca, laughing as they shared a pie; Becca, just a shadow in the lantern light as he finished his closing shift… He pulled his attention to the lamp above, focusing on the flame as he approached the back booth.
“I hope I’m not a bother.”
“No,” he lied. Inside, his thoughts raced faster than his heartbeat.
She wasn’t looking at him either, keeping her attention down at the menu even though they both knew it by heart. “The pies here are always the best in town. I’ll have my usual, then.” She looked up and he froze. “Please?”
He hurried to the kitchens as if she had set him on fire.
“Shit,” Jacob said as he leaned against the wall, trying to calm himself. The cook dropped his voice lower, just louder than the popping of the ovens. “It’s your ex, isn’t it.”
It wasn’t a question, but he nodded regardless. “Just… the usual.” Raspberry, with a few blueberries on top. For luck. He could hear it in his mind. He hadn’t thought of that for so long.
Eco
Reiner, scene, sci-fi, colonizing, science
"We're taking the last scans now..."
Merill prodded Reiner to get their attention. "He's been meticulous about it ever since he forgot to account for noble gasses on our last drop and almost got us all asphyxiated from the less-than-one-percent-oh-two ratio."
"Something I will never do again. Complete checklist, everything on the books from now on, that's me," Kev said, not turning his attention from the graphs flickering on the screens.
Reiner watched as Merill walked his palms up the side of the ship, pushing himself off to spin in the null gravity. They laughed at his antics but stayed firmly seated, too anxious over their first ever off-planet drop to take part in any zero-gee acrobatics. This was an important one too. Not only was it their first time stepping onto uncharted soils, but this planet was special, tagged for sentient life. That was their job on the crew: working under Lt. Tucker, their chief anthropologist, as the mediator of culture.
They couldn't help but take out their notes again, even if they had already spent the five day journey agonizing over until they had practically memorized the report front to back. It wasn't even flagged as a difficult mission and their language chip would do most the heavy lifting for them, but the what if's entrenched themselves in the corners of their mind and couldn't be dislodged.
Fates
Lachlan, scene, future, pagan
Lachlan shrugged.
"Fine, I didn't need it anyways," the short man snapped, turning sharply away from her booth and stomping off.
You see, there were a few types of people in this world whom Lachlan refused to scry their futures. Sometimes, their futures were laid bare in their faces, their postures, their horrible words, and, to be quite honest with you, looking deeper into those kinds of people left Lachlan with a headache and a sickening loss of faith in humanity.
Unfortunately, turning people away like that also left an impact on the line leading up to her tent. Lachlan heard them muttering, and the man next in line was pulled away by his girlfriend. Ah, she had been hoping to speak with them; the man was practically glowing with potential and Lachlan had been curious to see what it was. Now that was unfortunate.
Instead, it was an elderly woman who stepped up. Lachlan put on her best performer's face as she swept her into the tent. "so you want to know your future?"
Sundown
Unknown, blurb, worldbuild, days
He didn't know what day of the week it was. And, for some unknown reason, that simple fact bothered him greatly. There were many other things he could be bothered about. It must be wednesday, he thought, it feels like a wednesday. But of course there was no way to tell. For all he knew, it could be friday afternoon. It all just ran together nowadays, with the sun dead and all.
Vranni
Me, dream, village, worldbuild
There were many things in dreams that were predictable, particularly for a lucid dreamer such as myself. Once the setting was set and the characters introduced, it was child's play to take control and march people in circles like shadow puppets. When I was younger, that was all the entertainment I needed. Now it was easier and arguably more fun to let the dream take its own course, watching from the floating, omniscient, godlike perspective, or perhaps crafting a character of my own like an avatar to take my place. And then when things get messy --or boring-- all I needed to do was wave a hand and shift...
I didn't do this.
It was between steps that my world shifted. I stumbled into the new world, off balance. It was disorienting, unexpected, and the top half of my body was much heavier than I expected it to be. It took some adjusting to find my center, but we'll talk about that later.
The most vivid change was the colors. The trees were still green, but the hues leaned blue instead of yellow like on earth. Some of the smaller leaves were practically teal and the needles on evergreens were a dark navy. The ground below was mostly dirt with some pebbles. Only occasional tufts of grasses and sedges poked through the grey-unfertile soils. Mostly, the undergrowth was dominated by a wide, sweeping fern and a bush with many small, compound leaves like scales. Red berries hung brightly from its branches and I quickly made my way to the closest set, grabbing as many as I could keep in my pockets.
You see, I've been trapped in dreams before. Since I don't have nightmares in the traditional sense, being a lucid dreamer and all, being trapped is the closest I can come to being scared in a dream. Losing control, stuck in a single body that is subject to modern physics and casual dangers like hunger and spears, and the most terrifying: not knowing when I'll be freed. Time is a weird thing in dreams. I've messed with it enough to know that its easy to spend days and weeks inside a little pocket of dream, only to wake up from an hour long nap in the real. Being stuck is a different beast entirely. Once, I was dream-trapped in a giant maze for eight days. There wasn't easy access to food and water --if it hadn't rained the first night, I probably would have died. I probably would be alright in the real, even if I wasn't lucid when dying in a dream. But I've never wanted to test it. And, without lucidity to help dull the aches of death... I didn't want to go through that if there was anything I could do about it.
Fortunately, I knew exactly where I was. I had fallen into one of my own worlds. Things were somewhat different, of course; I couldn't have made every little thing in a world, just the important things, the ones that started food chains and made the rest of the world tick. I recognized some tree species, but others were foreign to me. The charberries --an old plant, an old name, probably wouldn't be recognizable in the local language-- were a welcome sight and made it all the more likely I would survive the trek in the wilderness long enough to find civilization. They were a traveller's food. While quite sour fresh, they were edible and surprisingly nutritious. Most the Vranni dried them like raisins, where they could last years in a pack and could be a staple for a traveler, particularly in the winter seasons when forage was harder to find.
Sorry, it's hard to not let my mind wander down rabbit holes when it was my own thoughts that had made the original path. I slip down the familiar tracks. I find comfort in the few things I can control.
My body was that of a native. The creatures on Vra'rien were all hexapedal, including the dominant, humanoid form. Another set of arms emerged below the first. They were short and three-fingered, vestigial limbs that were slowly fading from the genome as evolution made its slow roll through the timeline. For a while this set of arms was hard to control. I had to manipulate them with my other hands so my brain could process which muscles did what. Awkwardly, I could swing them without interference, but I doubted my hands would function with any dexterity. The extra set of limbs along with the muscles and bones to support them, brought extra weight to my torso. To balance, I had to put more weight on my hips and back. That also took some time to adjust, and several times during my walk did I experience a sense of vertigo as my own weight pulled me abruptly forward until I struggled to readjust.
I headed south-south-east. Seeing the charberries meant I was still solidly in the Vranni plainlands, which were most populous on the southern fringe. It was there that I'd have the best chance of encountering a village or town and pleading sanctuary. No matter what the time period I found myself in, the Vranni --particularly the villagers-- would not hesitate to aid a guest. Because the population was still so small over such a large range of land and enclosed within natural boundaries without hostile neighboring nations, the Vranni never felt the violent nationalism some of the smaller nations in the west had engrained in their culture. They may be curious to have a traveler that knows so little about their world, but I didn't need to worry that they would turn me away or cause me any harm. So long as I helped out around the town and did the jobs they asked of me without complaint, they would take me into their fold like a lost sheep brought home.
The thought kept me moving forward, breaking free of the small forest and into the plainlands proper. Again, it was the shift in color that really stood out. The sweeping grassland was tinged blue, spreading over the land like a large lake, rippling where the wind crossed. Against it stood the sky: pale lavender at the edges, fading to almost-white at the apex. The sun was falling to the west, very small against the massive sky, much smaller than the sun on earth, a bright red button like the charberries in my pocket. More dominantly against the sky was the mother-moon Eros with her vertical orange-gold rings and halo of sub-moons dancing around her sides.
The sight took the breath from me. I had always imagined the Vranni sky, but never before had I saw it in the vivid reality of a dreamscape. Of all the places to be trapped in, this was certainly far from the worst.
Pokemon
Lucas, worldbuilding, loss, scene
Lucas dreaded the start of the pokemon journey.
There were parts of it that made it worth it: a new team, forging new friendships, understanding his new pokemon. But having to start from scratch every Loop grated on him in a way that was hard to describe. He wished he could still talk to his original 'mons, even if he weren't allowed to use them in battle. His old party remained forever in stasis in the PC (and even that was against the rules), but he didn't have the heart to say goodbye forever. To never see Aster or Lois again... no, he'd rather die than have them cut out of his life.
The new pokemon were just as dear to him in a different way. New friends to adventure with, learn from, and train. He would love them, but he'd never give his heart to them the way he did with his first party all those Loops ago.
Roses
Light, Shadow, meeting, scene
They didn't exactly know when the boy started following them. Perhaps somewhere between the canal and Greenwich. Usually they were pretty damn good at shaking a tail, but the boy must have tracked them over the rooftops, through the many backdoors and lush gardens, kept sight of them even when they turned back on the same bridge with a different coat.
They hadn't even noticed he had followed. Granted, they usually were watching for threats over a meter tall, but still. It wasn't until they were back on Headquarters doorstep that they noticed the boy was right behind them in the middle of the street, watching. They realized they had seen him several times on the way, the same muddied overlarge jacket and sandy blonde hair.
Dammit. Light pulled on their jacket hem, facing the brick wall, feeling the boy's eyes on their back. They couldn't just ignore him. Lead him right back to Headquarters? That was probably the first rule on the list, if the Thieves Guild had a physical list of rules: no outsiders in Headquarters, no exceptions.
With a frustrated noise, Light turned. "Look, I don't know why you've been following me, but go home." The boy didn't budge. His wide eyes followed their hands as Light shooed him away. With a growl Light pulled a small shiv from their cloak and took a few steps closer to the boy. "It's dangerous here, go away." Light loomed over the boy, but he still didn't move. They looked up and down the street: empty. They had places to be, not wasting their time with some street orphan.
"I said scram." The shiv licked out against his cheek. The boy didn't even flinch.
Then, slowly, he looked down. He pulled out something from inside his coat: a money purse. Light's money purse. He offered it back to them with the same wide eyes, blood running down his cheek.
Light snatched the purse and shoved it back in their pocket. They made the shiv disappear in a similar way. "You want to be a thief, don't you?" they said, defeated.
For the first time, the boy looked excited as he nodded, bouncing on his heels with a grin. They might have put up more resistance if they thought the boy had anywhere to go home to, or if he hadn't been so quick with keeping up with Light's pace through the lower city. As it was... They crouched low with a sigh. "Keep close and do exactly as I say, always, you understand?" The boy nodded quickly, bouncing again until he checked himself with a click of his heels. He grinned as he wiped the blood from his face with the sleeve of his coat. Light stood and started towards Headquarters, the boy close behind. "And never steal from me again."
Roses
Light, Shadow, Thieve's Guild, plot
"Where's Shadow?"
Light shrugged and took a bite of their stew. "Dunno, ain't his keeper."
Not anymore, they thought with a shake of their head. The boy, which they named Shadow for his uncanny ability to disappear in plain sight and also the fact that he had dogged Light's heels for months, their little personal shadow. That had been years ago now, and he had taken to thieving like a fish to water. It wasn't long until his skills were better than Light's own and once Shadow realized this, he started ranging further and further out on his own.
Light still set some boundaries and rules, just in case, but they trusted the boy. He was cautious, not prone to arrogance or foolishness, and didn't often get into trouble he couldn't get himself out of. Besides, he was almost fourteen years old. That was when they had started out in the world, and Light had survived the streets without half as much brains and training as Shadow had.
"I just have a message for him, is all," Cora said, dropping into the seat across from Light. She put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her palms as she looked over Light's shoulder to the kitchens behind them. "Isaac wanted to meet him. I was hoping he was here."
Light ate another spoonful of stew. The quality of food at Headquarters varied day to day, but today's gruel was better than usual and they were enjoying it to the fullest. "I can tell him when he comes home in the morning," they offered.
Cora grunted affirmatively. Silence stretched between them for a few moments while Cora looked around and Light ate. "Ya know, I miss him running around here. Place is quieter now. He was always hungry, he'd always sneak by and steal my bread rolls." Cora shook her head. "I always noticed, but now I think he wanted me to know. He still don't talk?"
"Not much." In the five years since Light took him in, they had only heard Shadow's voice a handful of times. It wasn't that he wasn't able to, but Light hadn't yet been able to convince him to tell them why he chose silence. They had to teach him letters (and brush up on them themself) to make sure they could properly communicate, though Shadow didn't usually need words to make his point.
Cora stood, stretching, the tattoos down her arms rippling with the movement of her muscles. "Well, tell Shadow to go see the Guildmaster when he's back and she'll tell him where our guest is staying. Isaac doesn't like to be kept waiting." Cora turned, shook her head. "Lucky bastard," she said under her breath as she left Light alone with their mostly-empty stew bowl.
Steampunk
"Hello, traveler! You must be strong to have made it through the Ruined Plains."
She holds a basket full of mushrooms in her arms, but after her initial greeting, she didn't stare at your muddied robe or the sword strapped to your back. Of course, adventurers like yourself would be the only people she would ever see, living out in the middle of the nuclear wasteland. It just wasn't the kind of place you went on a casual vacation with the kids.
And you are no different. You wouldn't be out here if not for business. "I have a package for you," you say to her.
Felicia grabs the hem of her dress as she steps out of the... rather unorthodox garden of mushrooms. They crowd the small patch of open soil in a variety of colors, shapes and sizes (one bright blue specimen is tall enough to conceal Felicia entirely as she moves around it). "Here, come to the house. I'll make tea."
Maybe the tea will be the regular sort, but you thought that it would probably be made from one of the many mushrooms in the yard. No matter, you’ve had worse. You shrug as you follow her through the vibrant grass along the flagstone path, up the hill to the building sitting atop it.
The building is bright. It's made mostly of wood and scrap metal like many of the cobbled-together houses of the countryside, but you do admit that the angles of this one may have been measured and constructed with some thought to the overall aesthetic design. Built atop this base is a large glass dome latticed with copper. The sunlight glints off the glass, sparkling rainbows outward. But however pretty the glass is, the dome pales in the shadows of the two towers flanking the building on either side.
They are striking, built entirely of dark black stone and topped with the purest white material you have ever seen. Something inside the tops radiated-- like a lighthouse, those towers are what had guided you through the unnatural hills and valleys of the bombshelled nuclear wasteland to this house.
The small sphere is protected --by technology or magic or the gods, no one in Lenore had a good answer-- just this house and the little patch of plainland, shielded from the nuclear strike that annihilated the landscape and the subsequent fallout that still plagued the soils. The house is the only thing with color in the land of dead stone.
Felicia unlatches the heavy oak door and gestures inside. You take off your boots on the stone flagstone steps, unwilling to sully even the entry mat with the heavy mud from the wasteland.
Questor
general worldbuild, dump
The surface is not safe. We live underground now, in a miles-long chamber dug out to provide a sense of openness that we suddenly lacked, and to make sure there are no gaps in our shell. The surrounding stone walls have been thoroughly coated with layers upon layers of magic and melted obsidian. Lots of time is spent managing resources in our closed system: from air, to food, to metals and building materials. Everything must be recycled and shared perfectly, otherwise we will quickly overwhelm our small container.
Generations pass.
The egg breaks.
The industrial sector, where we recycle our metal and create anew, had slowly been burning through our protective shell. It happened so gradually, over decades, so that no one had noticed the stone weakening beneath the machines until it gave way in a landslide, opening the side of our home with a massive crack in the shell. Everyone panicked. We were told if the shell gave way, that the outside demons and monsters would consume us just like they had the rest of the world's population. The sector was barricaded off and monitored. We didn't have enough obsidian left to patch that big a hole. Days passed.
Eventually, some were brave enough to volunteer to scout ahead. They found a ruin --tunnels and camps, carved stone and ancient machines. Everything was abandoned, fires long since dead. The technology revived our sense of adventure, of progress. Things that have been the same for over a hundred years began to shift. Economy, something we hadn't needed with our closed system, started to emerge. Relics from the tunnels, technology, resources. People that controlled their sale became powerful. Those brave enough to go in search of them were even more influential. Because the monsters still lurked the halls, all dangerous enough to kill.
But we learned. We pushed forward, outward, claiming the tunnels as our own.
We broke the surface.
Many died.
The creatures that roamed the aboveground were numerous and relentless. Dragons rained fire from the heavens, patrolling their domain with divine vigilance. Large shadowbeasts hunted in packs. Even herbivores, large horned creatures with flat stumps of legs, wouldn't hesitate to trample anyone who ventured too close.
Dozens died, foolishly overestimating their strength. The overworld was like an ocean: it always won eventually. It wasn't until we broke surface that adventuring parties began being regulated. Adventurers started at C-tier. Those were only allowed in the safest tunnels. Mostly miners, collecting new ore and sometimes unearthing ancient chambers and older secrets. Once you've really proved yourself in a fight, you move to B2-tier. Those are the people that guard the tunnels from creatures that hide in the tunnels and dark corners. They are an endless swarm that can never truly be stopped.
Standing out from those guards and fighters are the B1-tier questors. These are the vanguard, those that are allowed to push into new areas. These people are also allowed to support in raids, though are discouraged from actively fighting in them.
A-tier questors are adventurers in full. These are the people who are looking for something new to bring home. Something new to fight. They're called on to eradicate nests and the most dangerous of creatures that lurk the underground. They also make up the bulk of the aboveground raid party.
S-tier questors are the best of the best. They have fireproof cloaks to stave off the constant heat of the aboveground and the ever-present dragonfire attacks. They are the best fighters, the survivors. Some play off their status, becoming almost celebrities in their fame. Others spend most of their time training and finding new raids, a dangerous task that pays well.
Raids, I've mentioned them a few times. Raids are when a large group of questors make a concentrated strike aboveground. Usually this involves S- and A-tier questors fighting off any creatures while other A- and B1-tier questors search ruins for valuables as quickly as possible. S-tier questors are responsible for braving the aboveground to map the region and locate the ruins. Once a potential ruin is found, others with dig a connecting tunnel underground so that the raid party doesn't endanger themselves on the surface. Once directly underneath, they'll break ground and start collecting technology and resources while the high-tier questors hold off the monsters as long as they can. These raids are very valuable and the rare resources can sell for the highest prices on the market, but the mortality rate is also high and ruins suitable for a raid are few and far between.
Another very important creature on the surface is often tracked and hunted by S-tier questors. It is the golden goose of adventuring, the ultimate prize. (idk what it looks like yet, but it will have a stone buried deep in its chest that holds unimaginable power. A single one of these suckers can power the whole base for months. They are extremely valuable, doubly so because there are very few questors able to survive the surface long enough to find one of these creatures and even fewer are able to kill one.)
League
Sivir, Samira, Darmun, Short
Sivir watched the horizon line blur over the dunes. She could see the tops of the dormun’s backs cresting like black beetles over the clouds of dust. There were seven of the creatures, all headed directly towards the oasis where Sivir waited. At least something had gone to plan, thank the sun.
The Shuriman knew distance could be deceiving on the desert plains. Hours passed. The lead dormun looked close enough to touch. But the creatures grew larger and larger as they neared the oasis. The size of a horse, a house, a village-- their armored backs towered over the oasis’ trees, their shadows engulfing the valley between the dunes.
Finally, the dormun tipped forward, finding the lip of the oasis’ depression in the sand as it followed its senses towards the pooled water at the center. Sivir stood, dusting the sand off as she emerged from the shade where she had waited all morning. She hailed the lead dormun with a whoop and waved arms. There was a flurry of motion from between the dormun’s scaled armor as the riders dropped a length of rope to the ground.
Sivir jogged to keep pace with the dormun’s giant steps, grabbing onto the rope and shoving her feet tightly into the loop at the end. The riders worked together and the ground fell away as Sivir was hauled up into the belly of the beast.
The crossblade on her back drew their stares as she stepped off the rope and onto the bamboo platform suspended from the darmun’s wide underbelly. She kept her Shuriman informal as she asked: “Where can I find the Noxians?”
The youngest, a boy that still had the chubby face of youth, looked to the eldest of the group, a woman, who crossed her arms with a scowl on her face at the mention of Noxians.
It was the last runner on the platform that answered. “On top, front left side.” Sivir thanked him with a silver coin from her belt.
The darmun riders had, over generations, created an entire village out of the nooks and crannies around the darmun’s massive form. Thick ropes hung from plate to plate like spiderwebs, which the runners deftly balanced on as they ran from place to place. Buildings of bamboo and wood were cradled in more rope, attaching to the beast’s sides, back, and underbelly. The crenulations in the darmun’s massive plate armor were prized for the protection they provided from the sun and sand.
Without the runner’s claw-like gloves to attach to the ropes, Sivir had to take a circuitous path to the top of the beast. She checked that her bag and weapons were secured, then reached over the platform to a bamboo pole above. She jumped out from the platform, using the poles and ropes to swing across the belly of the beast until she reached a rope on the side. Sivir walked her legs up the darmun’s plate scales until she reached the first building strapped to the side. From there, she picked a path upwards. Platform to platform, rope to rope.
She didn’t look down.
Once she was on level ground, the going was easier. Deep cravasses in the darmun’s scales created natural roads, shaded from the desert sun. Tents and cloth segmented off dwellings and shops. Bamboo poles occasionally rose high into the air like spines with more ropes spider webbing from their lengths off into the distance. The darmun riders watched Sivir pass with wide eyes. Those in the middle of the roads ducked into shop fronts, clearing the space for her to pass. She felt their fear of the crossblade on her back.
“Oy!” A voice called from above.
Sivir looked up, shielding her eyes from the bright sky. A figure balanced on the ropes strung between two of the darmun’s spines high above, a dark silhouette against the blue. They waved to Sivir and stood on the ropes, and though they didn’t have the darmun rider’s clawed boots, they gracefully ran down the length of the thin ropes as if they were on solid ground.
Suddenly they twisted onto their hands, swinging down from the height to land in a crouch in front of Sivir with a daredevil’s grin.
It was a woman, and though she had a Shuriman’s bronzed skin, her black attire was stunningly out of place in the desert. An eyepatch covered the right side of her face.
Roses
Brennan, scene, add-on, conflict, illness
Three shimmering figures appeared between the trees, blue and vaguely humanoid-shaped. Brennan felt the feathers on his cheek, he heard the hollow thwok of the bowstring, the whistle as arrows raced across the distance between him and the targets. The arrows sunk deep into the illusions like hitting a sheet of water. They didn't stick, rather, they lost their momentum in the substance and dropped slowly to the grass.
Already the orchard was filled with spent arrows. Only a few remained in the barrel beside Brennan. He pulled another three out, sinking their tips into the grass so they stood between his feet. "One more," he told the mentor, a thin reed of a man with a dark braid and billowing sleeves. Again, the mentor conjured the apparitions and again Brennan's arrows whispered as they hit home. Even the target that the mentor cunningly hid in the boughs of an apple tree.
Brennan released the breath he had held, placing the bow on the table beside. He bowed to the mentor. "Thank you for your time."
The man's lips puckered in a thin smile and he dipped his head slightly. "Always, Master Caldwell." The mentor seemed to hover as he walked back across the orchard to the estate beyond. Brennan took a few moments to rest from his practice. He'd have to pick up the arrows eventually and check them all for cracks or flaws (particularly that one sunk deep into the bark of a cherry tree farther down the line). But he was still sore, and he knew it would take some time to make his way across the orchard.
Not for the first time, he cursed his weakness. Archery was a coward's sport. As the eldest of the Marquis Caldwell's sons, he should be taking center stage at every tournament. He had been, even at sixteen. Talented, dedicated, a prodigy, they said. He'd stood toe to toe with several of the best swordsmen. And then the sickness swept through, putting a deep weakness in his lungs that would never heal and taking the strength from his legs so that he could hardly walk on his own at only nineteen years old.
He closed his eyes, focused on breathing. There was nothing to be done. Frustration was impractical, a waste, a hinderance. At least, that's what he kept trying to tell himself, hoping one day he'd finally believe it.
ThornClan
"Careful!" Snailpaw hissed, batting Lichenflight with a paw. The tortoiseshell stilled and allowed the apprentice to finish covering her leg with spiderweb, even if she flinched every time Snailpaw's clumsy paws made the gash sting worse.
She had it easy, she knew, as Snailpaw finished the crude bandage and stepped aside. Her injuries from the most recent clash with ThornClan's warriors weren't infected, however much they stung. Others in MarshClan weren't so lucky, and without Reedstripe, they didn't have any cat with enough knowledge of herbs to cure them. Scrapes that should have only cost a warrior a day's bed rest had festered into fever without proper treatment. Sure, they knew how to apply cobweb and marigold, but if that simple treatment failed...
Snailpaw hissed as another cat came close to their hiding spot beneath a holly, the ginger she-cat's fur puffed like dandelion fluff. But it was only Seedpounce, and the apprentice let the patched tom in, though she eyed the gap warily as if he'd been followed. "You okay?" her brother asked, coming over, and she nodded.
"For now." She stood on the bandaged leg, and it held. "What about the others?" Seedpounce's face told only of bad news, and she sat down to hear it.
"Greyfern is dead," he said, bluntly. It was testament to how much ThornClan had gone through the last two moons that even Snailpaw, young as she was, merely took the information in stride, nodding her head without pausing her watch out the front of the holly. "Maplestar hasn't said anything. No one but Applefur has seen him in days, so that's to be expected, I guess, but," Seedpounce paused, grimacing, "he didn't attend the vigil, nor did he appoint anyone new before moonrise, even through Applefur. Not that anyone would have trusted his word if he had, but to ignore the Code now... Nothing good will come from that."
Lichenflight snorted, though there wasn't anything humorous about her brother's tidings. "It's not like we're a Clan anymore." She ignored Seedpounce's pained expression, knowing that he still held out hopes that ThornClan could recover. As if their medicine cat hadn't tried poisoning their leader, turning half their Clanmates against each other in the process, when they were already in losing border war with MarshClan. As if she hadn't stole her apprentice away from ThornClan's camp for fear of their lives after Barkfrost took Snailpaw's sister hostage in their "trials". She didn't know why she had remained on the outskirts of their territory, or what would have been their territory if they were strong enough to send out patrols, which she hadn't seen in days.
Perhaps she wasn't ready to give up on ThornClan either. Or that she couldn't bear to take Snailpaw away while Dewpaw was still here. Or even that she couldn't leave Seedpounce, her only surviving littermate now that Riverswoop was dead to MarshClan's claws, to deal with this on his own. Fear screamed at her to leave. Her heart tugged her to stay. For now, the fear wasn't so great that she couldn't bite her lip and hold her ground, sticking to the small patch of territory around the holly bush that she'd staked out, listening to Seedpounce's updates but unable to take even a pawstep closer to the blood-soaked patch of dirt that was once ThornClan's camp, and which still, somehow, felt like home.
Laughter cut through the trees, echoing hollowly into Lichenflight's den. All three of their hackles rose at the eerie sound; Seedpounce hissed and spun towards the sound, while Snailpaw skittered between the two warriors, her claws out even if the small ginger molly shook like a leaf. Lichenflight stood over her protectively, tapping her tail along Snailpaw's flank for reassurance. Though if it came to a fight, her apprentice wouldn't hesitate to jump in. All she knew was fighting. Between the war with MarshClan, Reedstripe's rebellion, and Barkfrost's iron grip over the survivors, any cat that couldn't fight was long dead.
IDEK YET
Ghosts, supernatural
My mind was filled with whispers. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples, as if that could silence them, but if anything it only made the voices louder. "You alright?" For a moment I thought the words were in my head, then I saw Paula's worried expression and realized those words, at least, were spoken aloud.
"Fine," I replied, hoping the curve of my mouth was closer to a smile than a grimace. "Just loud in here."
"We can go," Paula offered. It was easier to focus on her voice if I was reading her lips. "You've done enough."
I shook my head, as much as I was able to, at least, with the whispers rattling around. "It's alright, I can stay a bit more. I'll let you know when it gets too much, promise." Paula's eyes sat on mine for a few more moments, but she must have decided to trust my words as she turned away, giving me my privacy once more. I sighed and turned back to the cage of ghosts.
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Title format change [blurbs] / [shorts+]
Big text is world/title
character, media, tag, tag
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Outlanders
Romi, scene, outlanders, dread
Romi yawned. His post was mundane, boring. It was the end of spring, rolling into summer. Even by noon, the hints of dew on the spring-green leaves made the forest seem fresh, reborn. Any icy chill of morning had long since passed into the gentle breezes and promises of warmth and growth. It seemed impossible that anything could wander the forests on a day such as this, when the whole world felt like a fresh bud full of potential.
Even then, his eyes wandered to the south again, the damned Forsaken Lands still in his mind even with his senses filled with the green of peace.
He heard the patrol before he saw them, Misha's deep voice admonishing the younger trainees as they tumbled into view with a crash of leaves. Jorn had a tight grip on his sister's tail, but Yalla was stronger and pushed the small grey tabby playfully away. He dashed through the camp entrance, passing under Romi's watch post above. Instead of following, Yalla licked the cream fur of her chest and waited for the rest of the Outlanders to catch up.
Romi spotted his own brother in the crowd and waved his tail in greeting as they approached. All four of the gatherers were laden with prey, mostly small birds, but Rene carried a large hare by the neck, its long paws bumping along the ground. "Good hunting!" he said as they passed below and into the camp proper. A few moments later he felt a prickle as his fur rose on his haunches, an odd scent following in the wake of the patrol. As quickly as it came, it passed, leaving Romi on edge as he peered into the forest, watching for any movement along the wide, open trail. But, as the sun moved in the sky and his watch progressed, he caught no further hints of anything amiss.
He still couldn't help his gaze turning towards the southern horizon.
Project Patchwork
Katy, description, backstory, change
Pierre had been the smart one and David the brave one, which left her with nothing. She was quick-witted, but not particularly book smart. And unlike her brother, Katy often backed away from challenges instead of accepting them head on. Sure, she could pick a lock and she was a pretty good shot with any of the guns in the facility. Katy was skilled. But she would never be able to plan a raid like Pierre and when the time came for action, she knew she would never, could never, step out of line the way David did.
When you grew up as a rebel, spent your childhood running about the heart of the resistance's stronghold, learning skills such as lockpicking and lists of officials that could be reliably bribed, Katy, like David and Pierre, was expected to contribute. It wasn't as though she didn't believe in the cause (everyone but the government did), but even with her determination she still managed to be a dead weight on any missions she attended.
That is, until she was chosen to infiltrate the Project. She was young (only seventeen, though she looked younger when she pulled her hair back), unassuming, and, though no one ever said it, expendable. It was for that reason that she found the courage to go through with the mission. Her desire to prove herself that made an entirely new ego, that let her slip out of Katy and into Lucille, the girl who signed away her life to save her dying siblings (a common story, easily believable). It was as Lucille that Katy learned to be smart. Lucille was brave even when Katy was afraid--terrified. It was easier, since Lucille's fears were only about her family and what the Project would do to her (the first false and the second painfully understood).
The Project changed her. And not only in the obvious, gain-invisibility-superpowers kind of way. But in a deeper way so that when Katy stood in the center of the resistance's base, the crowds slowly forming around her, she knew she alone had the power to save the world.
Rath-dragon
Asher, scene, backstory, lore
He could only describe it as looking over the edge of the world. The forests and plains stretched so far below he could hardly pick out what he was looking at. The colors were dull, almost grey, the overcast sky. He didn't count in terms of trees or even stands, but of entire swatches of forest. Settlements appeared as checkered squares, brighter than the surrounding trees. He thought he saw a keep's walls as a smudge of grey.
Asher felt the red dragon's muscles move beneath him like waves in the sea and he gripped the leather loops tighter even as he knew he was fastened tightly to the saddle from the waist down. "Looking a bit green eh, recruit?" Lione called from behind him.
He grimaced and forced his hands to release. "I haven't been this high up before."
"Never been to Tellor? Easier to gain the height slowly now than to go straight up the mountain flying this heavy." Lione swung in front of him, dancing between the dragon's spines as she stepped over Asher's seat, moving closer to the dragon's heavy neck. She dropped to sit in the dip between the dragon's wings and spine, kicking her feet up on the saddlehorn as she reached into a pouch on her waist to grab some iceleaf. "Though I bet you knew that already. They teach ya more than can fit in your heads before you get up here."
"Not everyone is born a natural," Asher replied. Lione had taught a class back in Rath, the port city-state that was governed by the postal service. It was a wonderful place --if a bit cold, being so far in the north. But the many large, secluded islands and the unique political climate made it a great dragon breeding ground, and when Priscilla Rath (the Keeper of the Eggs, One with the Silence of Souls, Lord of Thorntooth Mooneater, Mistress of None, among others) decided that these lonely ocean villages would have the honor of being the first subjects of her dragon-empire, no one refused.
Since then, the country had seen nothing but explosive growth and great profits. Everyone wanted to see a dragon (the big, ones, not the draft-drakes that pulled gran's plow). And while some dragons (regrettably) were hired as mercenaries for war, the majority were given the job as couriers. No horse could outrun a yellow wyvern, no ship could carry a thousand swords across the country in only two days. And any ground travel always ran the risk of brigands.
You couldn't very well pirate a flying dragon.
So Priscilla's dragons (and the ranking officers of the Rathien Post for that matter) were always in very high demand and came with kingly fares.
Asher grew up just outside of Rath and like many of the children who heard tales of the dragons to the north, he yearned to travel to the city and land a job as a flyer. It was purely luck that had gotten him a place at the aptitude testing through the contested lottery and once he learned of the years of training and schooling he would need to receive, he almost backed out. It was only after his first flight that his childhood dreams came back in a sudden rush, flooding him with a desperation he had never felt before in his life. Nothing could tell him he would never fly again.
And as he sat, the air thin and cold against his face, looking down the edge of the world, he felt the pure joy of success.
Faolan
Bird, Ivy, scene, backstory, power (part 1. too tired to finish scene)
Bird was a good hunter. She was the oldest delta still in training and her mentor, Falcon, often had her training. It was only rarely that she managed to have a day for herself, even if it were raining and rather dreary. Her white paws were splattered in mud and some blood from the squirrel on the ground in front of her as she caught her breath from the chase. Her eyes faded from the yellow of Lupa's blessing to their normal shade of green. She thanked Lupa for the gift of prey, mindful that she had been the last of FaolanClan to receive the blessing. After she arrived and was given Lupa's blessing of swiftness, no other cat had seen any signs of wolves, not even the other deltas venturing out to receive her gift.
It was disturbing, Lupa's silence. There were stories, of course, that the old ones tell to scare the kits, warning of Lupa's rage. They told tales of how they saw a wolf --either a messenger or Lupa herself, depending on who was doing the retelling-- watching from outside the camp walls for three nights when they were kits, only to find an outsider wandering in on the last night, eyes blood red with Lupa's gift. Other stories told of wolves howling on nights when litters were born, Lupa greeting their tiny souls into her pack.
Never before had so many of the deltas been refused the gift. Yet all five of the others walked out into the night just as she had but all they had found was darkness. Bird shuddered, glad she had the gift tucked safely in that place just below her neck and above her chest. She could feel it moving there, restless, until she broke the bonds and let it come surging forth.
She was alone and fairly far from camp. In some ways, she knew she shouldn't be here. But on the other paw, she was in the very heartland of their territory. There would be no danger so far from the borders and with the gift within her, Bird knew she could escape even a lynx or a wolf, as rare as those creatures were inside their borders, even on a gloomy day such as it was.
She picked up the squirrel, flicking the raindrops from her ears with squinted eyes.
Desert
Mica, Hound, scene, daily, worldbuilding
Mica waited in the shade, eyes intent on the pages of his book. It was for this reason that he didn't notice the old man trying to get his attention until he tapped his cane on Mica's head, startling him. "Boy, I don't have all day," the man grumbled, more amused at Mica's rapt focus than peeved at his inattentiveness.
"Sorry, sorry." Mica put the book in his bag and picked up his sunhat as he stood, dusting the sand from his robes. The cursed stuff got everywhere, even under the pavilion where he sat upon a cane mat. He picked up the mat, shaking it clear of sand for the old man, who lowered himself onto it with Mica's help.
The man placed his cane at his side, drawing Mica's eye to it. He was intrigued by the design, which seemed to change even as he was watching. It was whiter than the sand surrounding them, a thing made of ivory and bone. At the head sat a mighty bird with its wings raised high above, fitting a large black gemstone within. "Don't you have work to do, boy?" the old man asked. The sack at his side shook and he grumbled, letting out the ugly Buppu inside.
The creature was bizarre, even by Mica's standards. Plump, hairless, with rolls of skin that dripped down its sides and made its face lumpy. It had a very short, stubby pink tail, like a rat's that was cut off at the base. A long snout protruded from the rolls of skin and fat, tripping the creature as it stumbled over the mat. At the tip of the snout were flashes of blue and purple, hinting at the tentacles stored inside. This Buppu was a very important creature, able to smell out ores and water deep underground. The Buppu was not native to the desert --the hairless creature would never be able to survive a minute out in the hot sun-- and training one was a monumental task. This Buppu was the reason the old man afforded such a rich cane. He was known only as the Hound and Mica's small town, a village really, was very lucky he decided to share the Buppu with their miners as he rested here for the moon before moving on.
Mica bowed deeply to the old man. He stuffed his hat on his head, tying the cord to keep the wide brim from tumbling off in the desert winds. He left the Hound in the pavilion's shade, slowly making his way towards the mines where he would be lifting rocks until his arms ached. Mica would much rather be reading his books, but though he was in training with the Inanh priests under his mother, he hadn't yet earned his token and so was not allowed in the temple on the sixthday or seventhday when the holy house was closed to all but the most devout of the priests, set aside for private affairs.
He squinted over the bright sands, tipping the hat to better shade his face against the sun. The pavilion was just outside of the mines proper, the short walk hot on his feet. He hated the hard labor moving stones, but unlike his time with his mother at the Inanh temple, working at the mines those two days a week paid in money. A small salary, perhaps, but one he valued immensely. Those coins would be used to take him far from the desert village to the city. He had always dreamed of the stone walls, the bustling streets, the mighty castle rising far higher than even their temple. Perhaps he'd go farther, to the ocean.
The thoughts sent a shiver of excitement through him, his tail twitching. Oh, and the books. The many things he could read. Maybe he could get a job as a scribe, writing letters in a neat hand, or better yet, a bookwriter. He didn't know enough things to write anything of his own --not yet at least, being young and tucked away in the corner of the world with only a few families to speak of-- but it would be a dream to transcribe notes into carefully bound pages, the leather covers supple and soft. He would use pens and brushes so fine they could ink the hairs of a mouse or the curving vines along the titles as the cityfolk favored.
It was these thoughts that pulled Mica though his work as he tied his robe to his waist and started hauling stones from the sides of the mine to the large carts in the center to be pulled up.
Ovi
Jin, Tessa, short, city, game
They didn't quite understand what was happening. The game itself was deceptively simple: most cards in the deck had no value at all, only capturing two of the three Lions in the deck proved the victor. Yet they had been watching the game progress for almost a half hour now and neither of the players have even approached where the lions were laid out. Instead, they maneuvered other colored cards from their hand and board in what seemed like random patterns to the bystander, but must have had layer upon layer of strategy to the players themselves.
"To think to smokescreen your crossed leaf with my fox?" the man on the left scoffed. Jin was at the end of the bar to watch the table more closely over their drink, tapping their feet against the leg of the stool. The man studied the board closely, eventually producing a rabbit from his hand to place on top of the yellow fish. "Child's play, such an easy bluff." He drummed his fingers against the table as he watched his opponent, the bangles on his wrists chiming against one another roughly. He was brightly ornamented, draped in many colored silks and cottons layers thick, concealing everything but his hands and eyes.
His opponent was quite the opposite: he wore only dark cargo pants, scuffed and torn at the knees and ankles. His chest was bare, boasting several large scars that puckered and split his torso with seams of silvered skin. His dark eyes and thin mouth were hidden beneath a thick brow and a halo of grey beard. A small hat sat perched on the side of his head, seemingly defying gravity as it followed the bob of his head looking around the board.
He ignored the other man's taunts, wordlessly watching his own hand, the board layered with cards, and the thinning deck. Jin waved the bartender for another drink as they waited on the players. Finally, the grey-haired man made his move, carefully moving a king between the rabbit and one of the lions. They couldn't see the covered man's face, but his eyes were panicked as he searched his hand desperately for a response.
"Isn't he great?" The voice came from just over their shoulder and Jin almost jumped from their seat. "You did as I asked?"
"Yes, Tessa, all fifty plat." Tessa took the seat beside them, using sign to order herself a drink. She watched over Jin's shoulder as the game progressed. Even with all their prior bluster, it was obvious the grey-haired man had the advantage. The other may be hidden beneath his silks, but even that couldn't conceal the flutter of his hands between his cards and his frenzied glances around all corners of the board. Jin was picking up some of the rules and between the grey-haired man's quick and calm plays and the silk-clad man's gaze, they were able to pick out the trap cunningly laid since the beginning turns leading up to this moment.
But even if they were still a bit lost on the strategy, Tessa's eyes took in the board quickly as she hissed a breath, shaking her head in disbelief. "You lost all respect for this one, ay, Marko?" she called out. The grey-haired man took a quick glance over and Tessa touched a finger to the table then held up two fingers. A smile touched the corner of his eyes as he put down another king leading to the second lion. The silk-clad man let the remaining cards in his hand fall to the table.
The grey-haired man stood, giving his opponent a bow before leaving the table to approach Tessa. The bartender arrived with both her drink and a small pouch. She took a pull of the former before opening the pouch to pull out a handful of silver coins. She counted out twenty and turned to put them in Marko's outstretched hand. "To the safest bet in all of the port," she said, raising her glass.
Marko closed his hand around the coins, shaking his head at Tessa before silently turning away. Tessa grinned, clinking her glass on Jin's before taking another pull. "For a Ovi, you sure don't know your cards," she commented. "Have you ever played Lions?"
Jin shrugged. "Ovi might be known for their games, but not all games are played with cards or dice. Lions has never interested me."
"But plat should," Tessa said, dropping the sack on the table to hear the clatter of coins within.
Moth war
Raul, scene, flintlock, drill
"Fire!" The cadets responded in a line of clicks, a pitiful recreation of what it would feel to shoot lead in the field. The cadets would need to feel what the musket felt like bucking against the shoulder harder than a mule's kick. They would need to hear the deafening sound of the flint sparking the charge, learn to aim with only small glimpses of the enemy line through the thick fog of musket smoke. "Reload!" he called, pacing before the line of muddied uniforms.
Raul shook his head as he watched them mime loading, even without the inconsistencies of battle they were slow. More than one musket fell to the ground when the cadet didn't properly brace the stock against his foot. He wished they could mirror the rush of battle more accurately, but they didn't have the ammunition to spare, nor could anything really compare to the actual chaos of the battlefield. He just had to hope that repetition would hammer the forms so deeply that the greenies could mindlessly follow in that panicked stupor instead of breaking at the first shot. Even then, he knew at least a quarter would break and another quarter would fail to load properly. Hopefully that would only result in a misfire and not the musket exploding into the cadet's face --or his neighbors.
Raul tapped out his steps as he paced the line, a thick cane preceding him. "Level," he called after a minute. Most the muskets swung forth to form a line, with only a few stragglers to break the movement. They were improving, Raul thought as moved behind the line, watching over their shoulders as they held the ready position. He swatted the cane at one cadet's leg, hard enough to sting a sharp warning. "Hand off the trigger, greenie," he growled. Once he was satisfied, Raul called for another round, again the echoing dead clicks of flints down the line.
He paced his way back to the front. "Reload!" he called again, his eyes daring any to even mutter a groan. Perhaps they would be worth something.
Rath-dragon
Pan/Thorn, scene, worldbuilding, travel
Pan fidgeted in the crook of the tree. Their legs fell asleep some time ago, uncomfortably tingling as they tried --unsuccessfully-- to silently move to a better position. They felt Thorn's disapproval from the bushes below and had to stop themselves from screaming in frustration. Pan was a mage, they weren't supposed to be climbing trees out in the rough wilderness. But one did what one must to survive, and Pan was no different.
Thorn was in his element, his large paws silent as he prowled beneath the shadows. The direwolf was a shadow himself; it was only due to Pan's night-veil enchantments that he could see Thorn's black fur in the night. The night-veil also revealed something far more disturbing: a pack of wendigo loitering around the road. Unlike them, the wendigo weren't trying to hide. The pack echoed perfectly the wails of children into the night as they roamed Pan's abandoned campsite, tearing through hides and bags in a leisurely search for food. Their long-boned fingers were tipped with sharp claws, and their narrow bodies, so emaciated Pan could see the edges of every bone through their papery grey skin, had surprising strength as they pounced and fought over scraps.
It wasn't something they could fight, even with Thorn's help. Without Thorn's early warning, Pan would have been eaten along with his supplies. But the direwolf had sensed the pack and herded Pan across the road and up a tree where the two were downwind, invisible to the wendigos' abilities to smell blood and life. This left them alive, only to watch in silence as the wendigo tore apart all their traveling supplies, consuming anything they had the power to digest --even the leather waterskins and the bamboo fishing pole, devoured in ravenous, tearing jaws.
<Sleep. Thorn watches.> Thorn couldn't speak, but a link between them allowed the direwolf to impress thoughts and ideas upon Pan in lieu of words. An image of Thorn curled under trees, flicking to Pan themselves in their bedroll. The idea of Thorn growling, the feel of his pawsteps like Pan's own as the direwolf paced around the tree.
Despite the fact that there were bloodthirsty monsters tearing into their camp only a few hundred meters away, Pan smiled. They could feel Thorn's affection and determination in the mindlink. It was reassuring, calming. Pan again tried to shuffle in the crook of the tree to get more comfortable, but knew they could not. Resigned to that, they closed their eyes. Uncomfortable, but safe. They could deal with the supply problem in the morning. They would get through this, just like they always did.
- - -
Morning came over the land in a wash of pale yellow over a soft dove's wing. Pan yawned, stretched, then winced as the bark shifted uncomfortably under their arms. Their skin was indented with the pattern of bark in raw red and itchy white, Pan couldn't feel their legs at all. They looked over the road to their camp, now completely torn apart. Their tent was mostly intact, just thrown into the lower branches of a tree. Everything else... Pan couldn't tell from this distance, they hoped it wasn't as bad as it looked. The wendigo were long gone; the ever-hungry creatures were one of those that burned in sunlight.
"Thorn?" Pan said, their voice a croak. They cleared their throat and grabbed at their lifeless legs, using their torso to balance on the tree branch. They wobbled precariously, but their tail wrapped several times around the branch lending some safety and support and they had a word ready to cushion their fall if they lost balance. They rubbed at their legs until they slowly gained life, tingling uncomfortably but Pan was now able to move their legs themselves.
The dark direwolf slunk out from the trees, muzzle bloodied. He watched in amusement as Pan struggled to get out of the tree. "I'd like to see you try and get down with those paws," Pan muttered, swinging their body so that they were holding the branch with only their arms, then dropping to the ground. Their legs, not fully awake yet, collapsed underneath them, knocking Pan's breath away. Thorn bumped his head against Pan's shoulder, letting Pan see through his eyes: the diminuative lizardfolk mage in a heap on the ground between his paws.
Pan growled and rolled onto their back, kicking their feet against the leaves. Each impact gave only a dull ache, like they were kicking a thick rug.
Thorn left Pan, looking over the road before dashing across to the ruined campsite. The direwolf poked through their supplies, sniffing out for any food. As expected, there was nothing remotely edible left. He set to dragging everything back in a pile somewhat near the guttered fire. Pan's backpack was completely shredded; his books were left untouched --for which Thorn was glad, Pan was very protective over their books; Thorn's harness was also in one piece, over in the bushes; Thorn couldn't reach the tent without ripping it, that would take hands instead of paws, but he paced around it. The tent looked to be mostly intact as well, a few tears from where it caught in the branches, but they could be patched.
The direwolf was almost done with his inspection when Pan limped into camp. The mage dropped onto one of the logs they dragged in the night before to use as a seat, still rubbing their legs.
Royal Circle
Ariel, weavers, estate, emotion
Ariel watched from the windows as the royal carriage clattered up the cobbles. It was ostentatiously adorned: lacquered maple wood formed dark inlay upon the white birch siding, curling over the roof in a messy, bramble-like warren of interlocking wood. The wheels were spindly things, fine for the paved streets of the inner city, but that would break on the first shallow rut. Drapes of bright white tied with long ribbons of black satin hung over the open windows while the shutters refracted millions of sparks from the multicolored glass.
It stopped near the doors to the estate, framed perfectly by the tumbling fountain, cherry blossom trees, and the perfectly manicured Sutton gardens beyond. Ariel put her hand on the window, as if she could touch the picturesque scene below. She placed all the details in her mind, memorizing the colors, the patterns, the way the wind tossed petals across the cobbles like snowflakes. She would embroider it, later. Perhaps as a gift to Lucie, though she didn't think her sister would appreciate the picturesque moment marking her new fate. Maybe eventually, but certainly not now.
Ariel put the embroidery to the back of her mind as Lucie's plight surged to the forefront. Of all her siblings, Lucie was closest with Ariel. Mirel had always been aloof. Heir to Mother's empire and already married away to a powerful weaver's daughter since before Ariel was born, Mirel felt more like a cousin or aunt to Ariel than a flesh-and-blood sibling. Angela, similarly, had left the family's good graces when Ariel was only three years old. Too young to remember anything but her face. All record of Ange was scrubbed clear of the Sutton name, including any pictures they may have had. So it was only with great effort and Lucie's help that she even knew about her elder sister at all.
Jade, on the other hand, tries. But as the years went by, it was increasingly obvious that her sister was jealous of her and cared less about Ariel than how much attention Ariel had taken away from her the moment the youngest Sutton took to the loom. For a while, Ariel felt personally guilty of her weaving talent. She tried tutoring Jade (which made it worse, much worse), she tried botching jobs, she tried passing her own work as Jade's. Eventually she had to accept that nothing she did would make Jade happy. Ariel was glad when Jade married out of weaving; her sister seemed much happier with that outcome.
Which left Lucille. Lucie was good at many things. Quiet, maybe. Her weaving was at first glance unassuming. But it was always gently elegant in the cut and stitch, with every thread perfectly in line with the next and with colors blending gently together in ways Ariel --and however much talent she had-- was still learning herself.
And now she'd be gone. Whisked away to the Arch House on the hill, forever ensconced within the trappings of royalty, never to be seen or known to anyone outside of the royal circle. Including Ariel. It was a great honor as showcased by the expensive royal carriage sitting in the Sutton gardens, waiting to take Lucie away. But for a moment it almost felt as if the carriage was a crouched tiger, patiently and eagerly waiting for prey to devour.
Rath-dragon
Shari, scene, character, Midlu
Shari sat on a hill on the road leaving Rath to the south. She hadn't decided where she was going yet; she had only decided she was leaving Rath that morning knowing that another day humoring that old man Balthun would have driven her mad. So she sat on the hill, eating an apple and two sandwiches she snatched from the basket as she left for a midday lunch. Because she had nowhere in mind she was headed, she didn't mind setting a slower pace. Shari was only a few miles from Rath --she could still see the walls, out in the distance, and the smoke and smog that surrounded the large city-- but already she felt much lighter, freer, than she had in months.
Shari cut an imposing figure on the hillside. She wore the sharp-cut red uniform of Midlu militia, the flower-and-chalice crest sewn with bright gold thread. Shari had two swords, one decorative rapier at her hip, another, a wide-guard saber, strapped to her back. In military uniform, riding trousers, and with her hair cropped to a close shave, she might easily be mistaken for a man from the roadside. This, of course, was by design. Even her chest --which didn't have much to show regardless-- was bound. It wasn't uncommon for women to be in the military ranks, but she knew from experience that she would be taken more seriously if she appeared a younger man.
It really did get tiring having to fight back every time she wanted cadets to hop to her word. One day, perhaps, it would be different. It was only within the last ten years that women were allowed into the fighting ranks, after all, and she would be able to drop the act once she was back in Midlu, where the red-eyed dragon at her shoulder would be enough to make anyone ask 'how high?' when she asked them to jump.
But she wasn't headed to Midlu, not yet. It was spring, creeping into summer, but the tall passes that lead across the mountains to Shari's home wouldn't be open for weeks. She crunched the apple, content to enjoy the sun and the day, watching the people roam the road beneath her. More people were headed into Rath than away: merchants come to the ports to move wares, sometimes immigrants looking to find better work in the city than work the same farmland day after day after day with only one bad yield between them and the tax collector's whip. Poor souls, she thought, shaking her head. Rath was a completely different world, the country bumpkins would be eaten alive by the city and spit back out without another thought given to them.
She had grown up in Pa-Midlu. Until the last decade, Pa-Midlu was the largest, grandest city in all of Tem’vu. If they weren’t so secluded by the barriers of the mountain range, the Midlu barony could have been the capital. Shari was glad this wasn’t the case; her hometown had all the perks of a booming economy without any of the downsides Rath was now experiencing: overpopulation, high crime rates, pollution, hunger and poverty.
That was why she had been sent to Rath that winter, a liaison between Midlu and the Rathian military. Being from the wealthiest of the baronies, Shari assumed she would be an honored guest but she hadn’t even resided in the keep during her stay. Packed with new recruits training to guard Rath’s ever growing streets, the former military headquarters was now nothing more than a barracks. Instead, Shari was offered her pick of the quartermasters’ private homes.
In a way, Shari grew to prefer this unforeseen outcome. Lucille’s home was quaint, an apartment above a bookseller’s shop. She lived in the artisan’s square down a row that housed many of the city’s best smiths and bookbinders. Additionally, the two women found they had much in common. It was a peaceful two months, that is until Balthun arrived. Another political tennant of the military, Balthun was an older man from the further barony of Elsvire.
She crunched the apple with more zeal than perhaps necessary. Shari hated leaving Lucille alone with him, but she knew that her temper was wearing thin. Lucille had found Shari that morning, packed to leave, and wouldn’t even accept Shari’s broken apologies and flustered excuses. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll have Rea to help with Balthun. Go, head back to Midlu,” she had said, grabbing Shari close for a tight hug and squashing any protests Shari might have had, “just promise you’ll stay here again when you return.” The words sounded threatening when Lucille said them, but Shari laughed and agreed. Lucille pushed Shari away, shooing her from the house. She tossed an apple down the hall and waved. “Don’t get into too much trouble, you hear?”
Shari looked down the road, southeast, where the mountains were visible as a dark, dark smudge far on the horizon. Home.
Hallowed
Palethorn, Coyoteleap, backstory, emotion, trauma
Palethorn watched Coyoteleap trail behind the patrol as they entered the courtyard. As always, her eyes were drawn to the sandy-brown molly, watching her with concern and something bordering on pity. Poor Coyoteleap, Palethorn thought, watching from the shadows of the church but leaving the other she-cat to her own problems.
It was just so hard to see her like this. She had been an apprentice with Coyoteleap, they had been kits in the nursery together. Palethorn had liked her for as long as she could remember back in those days, pining after the bold, no nonsense Coyoteleap. She even had the courage --once in her life, drawn from Coyoteleap's own confidence-- to confess her feelings towards her friend. Coyoteleap hadn't reciprocated, but Palethorn expected that and she also knew that they would continue to be close friends through it, and they had.
That is, until the accident.
The fight with an angel gone wrong. Coyoteleap lost her mother and sustained terrible injuries before managing to slay it. Lioncloud had to remove her eye when it festered. Since then, Coyoteleap, once so brave and confident, became withdrawn and hollow. Palethorn tried to bridge that gap for several moons, but her concern was met with a tight wall of indifference and occasionally hostility. Palethorn decided that for now, she'd respect Coyoteleap's decision for solitude, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt, physically hurt, to see her best friend with her eyes to the ground, tail dragging, pelt in disarray, no prey to her name as she wandered, empty, behind the patrol.
Palethorn turned her head, closed her eyes, until they were gone.
Hallowed
Amberdusk, time, thoughts
Amberdusk had a mild distaste for evenings. There was always tension in the hours of dusk, as if the world was silently preparing that night's horrors. He thought that, after all this time, the Clan would grow accustomed to it. That, after all his moons, he would grow accustomed to it. But every dusk it was still the same, with the Clan watching outwards of the stone walls at the forest beyond, waiting for the sun to fall.
The siamese tom was no different, prisoner to the cycle of day and night, and the thought of being caught under cosmic powers like a fish in a small lake frustrated him endlessly. He was glad, then, when the last hints of gold fled the sky, leaving only whisps of grey clouds and sparkling stars. The night held its own problems, but those, at least, had clear solutions. The senior warrior flexed his claws, tapping them against the stone floor. A voice, behind him, it might have said his name. Amberdusk turned, trying to focus on the sounds as if that would overcome the failures of his body.
It was Murkshadow, and his red eyes were most definitely on Amberdusk. "Sorry, in my own thoughts," Amberdusk apologized, moving closer towards the general so he could hear him better. The vampire always spoke softly, much to Amberdusk's growing annoyance.
"Patrol." He wasted no other words, gesturing towards the three cats standing behind him before slinking away like the shadow of his namesake.
Time to do what HallowedClan cats did best, Amberdusk thought as he headed over to his patrol and followed them out of the church into darkness.
Split
Becca/F, cafe, scene
It was a normal shift until he saw her at the back booth. Her spot, their spot. Tumbling images: Becca, looking out the window on a rainy day; Becca, smiling as he put his notepad on the table between them, bright as a sunbeam; Becca, laughing as they shared a pie; Becca, just a shadow in the lantern light as he finished his closing shift… He pulled his attention to the lamp above, focusing on the flame as he approached the back booth.
“I hope I’m not a bother.”
“No,” he lied. Inside, his thoughts raced faster than his heartbeat.
She wasn’t looking at him either, keeping her attention down at the menu even though they both knew it by heart. “The pies here are always the best in town. I’ll have my usual, then.” She looked up and he froze. “Please?”
He hurried to the kitchens as if she had set him on fire.
“Shit,” Jacob said as he leaned against the wall, trying to calm himself. The cook dropped his voice lower, just louder than the popping of the ovens. “It’s your ex, isn’t it.”
It wasn’t a question, but he nodded regardless. “Just… the usual.” Raspberry, with a few blueberries on top. For luck. He could hear it in his mind. He hadn’t thought of that for so long.
Eco
Reiner, scene, sci-fi, colonizing, science
"We're taking the last scans now..."
Merill prodded Reiner to get their attention. "He's been meticulous about it ever since he forgot to account for noble gasses on our last drop and almost got us all asphyxiated from the less-than-one-percent-oh-two ratio."
"Something I will never do again. Complete checklist, everything on the books from now on, that's me," Kev said, not turning his attention from the graphs flickering on the screens.
Reiner watched as Merill walked his palms up the side of the ship, pushing himself off to spin in the null gravity. They laughed at his antics but stayed firmly seated, too anxious over their first ever off-planet drop to take part in any zero-gee acrobatics. This was an important one too. Not only was it their first time stepping onto uncharted soils, but this planet was special, tagged for sentient life. That was their job on the crew: working under Lt. Tucker, their chief anthropologist, as the mediator of culture.
They couldn't help but take out their notes again, even if they had already spent the five day journey agonizing over until they had practically memorized the report front to back. It wasn't even flagged as a difficult mission and their language chip would do most the heavy lifting for them, but the what if's entrenched themselves in the corners of their mind and couldn't be dislodged.
Fates
Lachlan, scene, future, pagan
Lachlan shrugged.
"Fine, I didn't need it anyways," the short man snapped, turning sharply away from her booth and stomping off.
You see, there were a few types of people in this world whom Lachlan refused to scry their futures. Sometimes, their futures were laid bare in their faces, their postures, their horrible words, and, to be quite honest with you, looking deeper into those kinds of people left Lachlan with a headache and a sickening loss of faith in humanity.
Unfortunately, turning people away like that also left an impact on the line leading up to her tent. Lachlan heard them muttering, and the man next in line was pulled away by his girlfriend. Ah, she had been hoping to speak with them; the man was practically glowing with potential and Lachlan had been curious to see what it was. Now that was unfortunate.
Instead, it was an elderly woman who stepped up. Lachlan put on her best performer's face as she swept her into the tent. "so you want to know your future?"
Sundown
Unknown, blurb, worldbuild, days
He didn't know what day of the week it was. And, for some unknown reason, that simple fact bothered him greatly. There were many other things he could be bothered about. It must be wednesday, he thought, it feels like a wednesday. But of course there was no way to tell. For all he knew, it could be friday afternoon. It all just ran together nowadays, with the sun dead and all.
Vranni
Me, dream, village, worldbuild
There were many things in dreams that were predictable, particularly for a lucid dreamer such as myself. Once the setting was set and the characters introduced, it was child's play to take control and march people in circles like shadow puppets. When I was younger, that was all the entertainment I needed. Now it was easier and arguably more fun to let the dream take its own course, watching from the floating, omniscient, godlike perspective, or perhaps crafting a character of my own like an avatar to take my place. And then when things get messy --or boring-- all I needed to do was wave a hand and shift...
I didn't do this.
It was between steps that my world shifted. I stumbled into the new world, off balance. It was disorienting, unexpected, and the top half of my body was much heavier than I expected it to be. It took some adjusting to find my center, but we'll talk about that later.
The most vivid change was the colors. The trees were still green, but the hues leaned blue instead of yellow like on earth. Some of the smaller leaves were practically teal and the needles on evergreens were a dark navy. The ground below was mostly dirt with some pebbles. Only occasional tufts of grasses and sedges poked through the grey-unfertile soils. Mostly, the undergrowth was dominated by a wide, sweeping fern and a bush with many small, compound leaves like scales. Red berries hung brightly from its branches and I quickly made my way to the closest set, grabbing as many as I could keep in my pockets.
You see, I've been trapped in dreams before. Since I don't have nightmares in the traditional sense, being a lucid dreamer and all, being trapped is the closest I can come to being scared in a dream. Losing control, stuck in a single body that is subject to modern physics and casual dangers like hunger and spears, and the most terrifying: not knowing when I'll be freed. Time is a weird thing in dreams. I've messed with it enough to know that its easy to spend days and weeks inside a little pocket of dream, only to wake up from an hour long nap in the real. Being stuck is a different beast entirely. Once, I was dream-trapped in a giant maze for eight days. There wasn't easy access to food and water --if it hadn't rained the first night, I probably would have died. I probably would be alright in the real, even if I wasn't lucid when dying in a dream. But I've never wanted to test it. And, without lucidity to help dull the aches of death... I didn't want to go through that if there was anything I could do about it.
Fortunately, I knew exactly where I was. I had fallen into one of my own worlds. Things were somewhat different, of course; I couldn't have made every little thing in a world, just the important things, the ones that started food chains and made the rest of the world tick. I recognized some tree species, but others were foreign to me. The charberries --an old plant, an old name, probably wouldn't be recognizable in the local language-- were a welcome sight and made it all the more likely I would survive the trek in the wilderness long enough to find civilization. They were a traveller's food. While quite sour fresh, they were edible and surprisingly nutritious. Most the Vranni dried them like raisins, where they could last years in a pack and could be a staple for a traveler, particularly in the winter seasons when forage was harder to find.
Sorry, it's hard to not let my mind wander down rabbit holes when it was my own thoughts that had made the original path. I slip down the familiar tracks. I find comfort in the few things I can control.
My body was that of a native. The creatures on Vra'rien were all hexapedal, including the dominant, humanoid form. Another set of arms emerged below the first. They were short and three-fingered, vestigial limbs that were slowly fading from the genome as evolution made its slow roll through the timeline. For a while this set of arms was hard to control. I had to manipulate them with my other hands so my brain could process which muscles did what. Awkwardly, I could swing them without interference, but I doubted my hands would function with any dexterity. The extra set of limbs along with the muscles and bones to support them, brought extra weight to my torso. To balance, I had to put more weight on my hips and back. That also took some time to adjust, and several times during my walk did I experience a sense of vertigo as my own weight pulled me abruptly forward until I struggled to readjust.
I headed south-south-east. Seeing the charberries meant I was still solidly in the Vranni plainlands, which were most populous on the southern fringe. It was there that I'd have the best chance of encountering a village or town and pleading sanctuary. No matter what the time period I found myself in, the Vranni --particularly the villagers-- would not hesitate to aid a guest. Because the population was still so small over such a large range of land and enclosed within natural boundaries without hostile neighboring nations, the Vranni never felt the violent nationalism some of the smaller nations in the west had engrained in their culture. They may be curious to have a traveler that knows so little about their world, but I didn't need to worry that they would turn me away or cause me any harm. So long as I helped out around the town and did the jobs they asked of me without complaint, they would take me into their fold like a lost sheep brought home.
The thought kept me moving forward, breaking free of the small forest and into the plainlands proper. Again, it was the shift in color that really stood out. The sweeping grassland was tinged blue, spreading over the land like a large lake, rippling where the wind crossed. Against it stood the sky: pale lavender at the edges, fading to almost-white at the apex. The sun was falling to the west, very small against the massive sky, much smaller than the sun on earth, a bright red button like the charberries in my pocket. More dominantly against the sky was the mother-moon Eros with her vertical orange-gold rings and halo of sub-moons dancing around her sides.
The sight took the breath from me. I had always imagined the Vranni sky, but never before had I saw it in the vivid reality of a dreamscape. Of all the places to be trapped in, this was certainly far from the worst.
Pokemon
Lucas, worldbuilding, loss, scene
Lucas dreaded the start of the pokemon journey.
There were parts of it that made it worth it: a new team, forging new friendships, understanding his new pokemon. But having to start from scratch every Loop grated on him in a way that was hard to describe. He wished he could still talk to his original 'mons, even if he weren't allowed to use them in battle. His old party remained forever in stasis in the PC (and even that was against the rules), but he didn't have the heart to say goodbye forever. To never see Aster or Lois again... no, he'd rather die than have them cut out of his life.
The new pokemon were just as dear to him in a different way. New friends to adventure with, learn from, and train. He would love them, but he'd never give his heart to them the way he did with his first party all those Loops ago.
Roses
Light, Shadow, meeting, scene
They didn't exactly know when the boy started following them. Perhaps somewhere between the canal and Greenwich. Usually they were pretty damn good at shaking a tail, but the boy must have tracked them over the rooftops, through the many backdoors and lush gardens, kept sight of them even when they turned back on the same bridge with a different coat.
They hadn't even noticed he had followed. Granted, they usually were watching for threats over a meter tall, but still. It wasn't until they were back on Headquarters doorstep that they noticed the boy was right behind them in the middle of the street, watching. They realized they had seen him several times on the way, the same muddied overlarge jacket and sandy blonde hair.
Dammit. Light pulled on their jacket hem, facing the brick wall, feeling the boy's eyes on their back. They couldn't just ignore him. Lead him right back to Headquarters? That was probably the first rule on the list, if the Thieves Guild had a physical list of rules: no outsiders in Headquarters, no exceptions.
With a frustrated noise, Light turned. "Look, I don't know why you've been following me, but go home." The boy didn't budge. His wide eyes followed their hands as Light shooed him away. With a growl Light pulled a small shiv from their cloak and took a few steps closer to the boy. "It's dangerous here, go away." Light loomed over the boy, but he still didn't move. They looked up and down the street: empty. They had places to be, not wasting their time with some street orphan.
"I said scram." The shiv licked out against his cheek. The boy didn't even flinch.
Then, slowly, he looked down. He pulled out something from inside his coat: a money purse. Light's money purse. He offered it back to them with the same wide eyes, blood running down his cheek.
Light snatched the purse and shoved it back in their pocket. They made the shiv disappear in a similar way. "You want to be a thief, don't you?" they said, defeated.
For the first time, the boy looked excited as he nodded, bouncing on his heels with a grin. They might have put up more resistance if they thought the boy had anywhere to go home to, or if he hadn't been so quick with keeping up with Light's pace through the lower city. As it was... They crouched low with a sigh. "Keep close and do exactly as I say, always, you understand?" The boy nodded quickly, bouncing again until he checked himself with a click of his heels. He grinned as he wiped the blood from his face with the sleeve of his coat. Light stood and started towards Headquarters, the boy close behind. "And never steal from me again."
Roses
Light, Shadow, Thieve's Guild, plot
"Where's Shadow?"
Light shrugged and took a bite of their stew. "Dunno, ain't his keeper."
Not anymore, they thought with a shake of their head. The boy, which they named Shadow for his uncanny ability to disappear in plain sight and also the fact that he had dogged Light's heels for months, their little personal shadow. That had been years ago now, and he had taken to thieving like a fish to water. It wasn't long until his skills were better than Light's own and once Shadow realized this, he started ranging further and further out on his own.
Light still set some boundaries and rules, just in case, but they trusted the boy. He was cautious, not prone to arrogance or foolishness, and didn't often get into trouble he couldn't get himself out of. Besides, he was almost fourteen years old. That was when they had started out in the world, and Light had survived the streets without half as much brains and training as Shadow had.
"I just have a message for him, is all," Cora said, dropping into the seat across from Light. She put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her palms as she looked over Light's shoulder to the kitchens behind them. "Isaac wanted to meet him. I was hoping he was here."
Light ate another spoonful of stew. The quality of food at Headquarters varied day to day, but today's gruel was better than usual and they were enjoying it to the fullest. "I can tell him when he comes home in the morning," they offered.
Cora grunted affirmatively. Silence stretched between them for a few moments while Cora looked around and Light ate. "Ya know, I miss him running around here. Place is quieter now. He was always hungry, he'd always sneak by and steal my bread rolls." Cora shook her head. "I always noticed, but now I think he wanted me to know. He still don't talk?"
"Not much." In the five years since Light took him in, they had only heard Shadow's voice a handful of times. It wasn't that he wasn't able to, but Light hadn't yet been able to convince him to tell them why he chose silence. They had to teach him letters (and brush up on them themself) to make sure they could properly communicate, though Shadow didn't usually need words to make his point.
Cora stood, stretching, the tattoos down her arms rippling with the movement of her muscles. "Well, tell Shadow to go see the Guildmaster when he's back and she'll tell him where our guest is staying. Isaac doesn't like to be kept waiting." Cora turned, shook her head. "Lucky bastard," she said under her breath as she left Light alone with their mostly-empty stew bowl.
Steampunk
"Hello, traveler! You must be strong to have made it through the Ruined Plains."
She holds a basket full of mushrooms in her arms, but after her initial greeting, she didn't stare at your muddied robe or the sword strapped to your back. Of course, adventurers like yourself would be the only people she would ever see, living out in the middle of the nuclear wasteland. It just wasn't the kind of place you went on a casual vacation with the kids.
And you are no different. You wouldn't be out here if not for business. "I have a package for you," you say to her.
Felicia grabs the hem of her dress as she steps out of the... rather unorthodox garden of mushrooms. They crowd the small patch of open soil in a variety of colors, shapes and sizes (one bright blue specimen is tall enough to conceal Felicia entirely as she moves around it). "Here, come to the house. I'll make tea."
Maybe the tea will be the regular sort, but you thought that it would probably be made from one of the many mushrooms in the yard. No matter, you’ve had worse. You shrug as you follow her through the vibrant grass along the flagstone path, up the hill to the building sitting atop it.
The building is bright. It's made mostly of wood and scrap metal like many of the cobbled-together houses of the countryside, but you do admit that the angles of this one may have been measured and constructed with some thought to the overall aesthetic design. Built atop this base is a large glass dome latticed with copper. The sunlight glints off the glass, sparkling rainbows outward. But however pretty the glass is, the dome pales in the shadows of the two towers flanking the building on either side.
They are striking, built entirely of dark black stone and topped with the purest white material you have ever seen. Something inside the tops radiated-- like a lighthouse, those towers are what had guided you through the unnatural hills and valleys of the bombshelled nuclear wasteland to this house.
The small sphere is protected --by technology or magic or the gods, no one in Lenore had a good answer-- just this house and the little patch of plainland, shielded from the nuclear strike that annihilated the landscape and the subsequent fallout that still plagued the soils. The house is the only thing with color in the land of dead stone.
Felicia unlatches the heavy oak door and gestures inside. You take off your boots on the stone flagstone steps, unwilling to sully even the entry mat with the heavy mud from the wasteland.
Questor
general worldbuild, dump
The surface is not safe. We live underground now, in a miles-long chamber dug out to provide a sense of openness that we suddenly lacked, and to make sure there are no gaps in our shell. The surrounding stone walls have been thoroughly coated with layers upon layers of magic and melted obsidian. Lots of time is spent managing resources in our closed system: from air, to food, to metals and building materials. Everything must be recycled and shared perfectly, otherwise we will quickly overwhelm our small container.
Generations pass.
The egg breaks.
The industrial sector, where we recycle our metal and create anew, had slowly been burning through our protective shell. It happened so gradually, over decades, so that no one had noticed the stone weakening beneath the machines until it gave way in a landslide, opening the side of our home with a massive crack in the shell. Everyone panicked. We were told if the shell gave way, that the outside demons and monsters would consume us just like they had the rest of the world's population. The sector was barricaded off and monitored. We didn't have enough obsidian left to patch that big a hole. Days passed.
Eventually, some were brave enough to volunteer to scout ahead. They found a ruin --tunnels and camps, carved stone and ancient machines. Everything was abandoned, fires long since dead. The technology revived our sense of adventure, of progress. Things that have been the same for over a hundred years began to shift. Economy, something we hadn't needed with our closed system, started to emerge. Relics from the tunnels, technology, resources. People that controlled their sale became powerful. Those brave enough to go in search of them were even more influential. Because the monsters still lurked the halls, all dangerous enough to kill.
But we learned. We pushed forward, outward, claiming the tunnels as our own.
We broke the surface.
Many died.
The creatures that roamed the aboveground were numerous and relentless. Dragons rained fire from the heavens, patrolling their domain with divine vigilance. Large shadowbeasts hunted in packs. Even herbivores, large horned creatures with flat stumps of legs, wouldn't hesitate to trample anyone who ventured too close.
Dozens died, foolishly overestimating their strength. The overworld was like an ocean: it always won eventually. It wasn't until we broke surface that adventuring parties began being regulated. Adventurers started at C-tier. Those were only allowed in the safest tunnels. Mostly miners, collecting new ore and sometimes unearthing ancient chambers and older secrets. Once you've really proved yourself in a fight, you move to B2-tier. Those are the people that guard the tunnels from creatures that hide in the tunnels and dark corners. They are an endless swarm that can never truly be stopped.
Standing out from those guards and fighters are the B1-tier questors. These are the vanguard, those that are allowed to push into new areas. These people are also allowed to support in raids, though are discouraged from actively fighting in them.
A-tier questors are adventurers in full. These are the people who are looking for something new to bring home. Something new to fight. They're called on to eradicate nests and the most dangerous of creatures that lurk the underground. They also make up the bulk of the aboveground raid party.
S-tier questors are the best of the best. They have fireproof cloaks to stave off the constant heat of the aboveground and the ever-present dragonfire attacks. They are the best fighters, the survivors. Some play off their status, becoming almost celebrities in their fame. Others spend most of their time training and finding new raids, a dangerous task that pays well.
Raids, I've mentioned them a few times. Raids are when a large group of questors make a concentrated strike aboveground. Usually this involves S- and A-tier questors fighting off any creatures while other A- and B1-tier questors search ruins for valuables as quickly as possible. S-tier questors are responsible for braving the aboveground to map the region and locate the ruins. Once a potential ruin is found, others with dig a connecting tunnel underground so that the raid party doesn't endanger themselves on the surface. Once directly underneath, they'll break ground and start collecting technology and resources while the high-tier questors hold off the monsters as long as they can. These raids are very valuable and the rare resources can sell for the highest prices on the market, but the mortality rate is also high and ruins suitable for a raid are few and far between.
Another very important creature on the surface is often tracked and hunted by S-tier questors. It is the golden goose of adventuring, the ultimate prize. (idk what it looks like yet, but it will have a stone buried deep in its chest that holds unimaginable power. A single one of these suckers can power the whole base for months. They are extremely valuable, doubly so because there are very few questors able to survive the surface long enough to find one of these creatures and even fewer are able to kill one.)
League
Sivir, Samira, Darmun, Short
Sivir watched the horizon line blur over the dunes. She could see the tops of the dormun’s backs cresting like black beetles over the clouds of dust. There were seven of the creatures, all headed directly towards the oasis where Sivir waited. At least something had gone to plan, thank the sun.
The Shuriman knew distance could be deceiving on the desert plains. Hours passed. The lead dormun looked close enough to touch. But the creatures grew larger and larger as they neared the oasis. The size of a horse, a house, a village-- their armored backs towered over the oasis’ trees, their shadows engulfing the valley between the dunes.
Finally, the dormun tipped forward, finding the lip of the oasis’ depression in the sand as it followed its senses towards the pooled water at the center. Sivir stood, dusting the sand off as she emerged from the shade where she had waited all morning. She hailed the lead dormun with a whoop and waved arms. There was a flurry of motion from between the dormun’s scaled armor as the riders dropped a length of rope to the ground.
Sivir jogged to keep pace with the dormun’s giant steps, grabbing onto the rope and shoving her feet tightly into the loop at the end. The riders worked together and the ground fell away as Sivir was hauled up into the belly of the beast.
The crossblade on her back drew their stares as she stepped off the rope and onto the bamboo platform suspended from the darmun’s wide underbelly. She kept her Shuriman informal as she asked: “Where can I find the Noxians?”
The youngest, a boy that still had the chubby face of youth, looked to the eldest of the group, a woman, who crossed her arms with a scowl on her face at the mention of Noxians.
It was the last runner on the platform that answered. “On top, front left side.” Sivir thanked him with a silver coin from her belt.
The darmun riders had, over generations, created an entire village out of the nooks and crannies around the darmun’s massive form. Thick ropes hung from plate to plate like spiderwebs, which the runners deftly balanced on as they ran from place to place. Buildings of bamboo and wood were cradled in more rope, attaching to the beast’s sides, back, and underbelly. The crenulations in the darmun’s massive plate armor were prized for the protection they provided from the sun and sand.
Without the runner’s claw-like gloves to attach to the ropes, Sivir had to take a circuitous path to the top of the beast. She checked that her bag and weapons were secured, then reached over the platform to a bamboo pole above. She jumped out from the platform, using the poles and ropes to swing across the belly of the beast until she reached a rope on the side. Sivir walked her legs up the darmun’s plate scales until she reached the first building strapped to the side. From there, she picked a path upwards. Platform to platform, rope to rope.
She didn’t look down.
Once she was on level ground, the going was easier. Deep cravasses in the darmun’s scales created natural roads, shaded from the desert sun. Tents and cloth segmented off dwellings and shops. Bamboo poles occasionally rose high into the air like spines with more ropes spider webbing from their lengths off into the distance. The darmun riders watched Sivir pass with wide eyes. Those in the middle of the roads ducked into shop fronts, clearing the space for her to pass. She felt their fear of the crossblade on her back.
“Oy!” A voice called from above.
Sivir looked up, shielding her eyes from the bright sky. A figure balanced on the ropes strung between two of the darmun’s spines high above, a dark silhouette against the blue. They waved to Sivir and stood on the ropes, and though they didn’t have the darmun rider’s clawed boots, they gracefully ran down the length of the thin ropes as if they were on solid ground.
Suddenly they twisted onto their hands, swinging down from the height to land in a crouch in front of Sivir with a daredevil’s grin.
It was a woman, and though she had a Shuriman’s bronzed skin, her black attire was stunningly out of place in the desert. An eyepatch covered the right side of her face.
Roses
Brennan, scene, add-on, conflict, illness
Three shimmering figures appeared between the trees, blue and vaguely humanoid-shaped. Brennan felt the feathers on his cheek, he heard the hollow thwok of the bowstring, the whistle as arrows raced across the distance between him and the targets. The arrows sunk deep into the illusions like hitting a sheet of water. They didn't stick, rather, they lost their momentum in the substance and dropped slowly to the grass.
Already the orchard was filled with spent arrows. Only a few remained in the barrel beside Brennan. He pulled another three out, sinking their tips into the grass so they stood between his feet. "One more," he told the mentor, a thin reed of a man with a dark braid and billowing sleeves. Again, the mentor conjured the apparitions and again Brennan's arrows whispered as they hit home. Even the target that the mentor cunningly hid in the boughs of an apple tree.
Brennan released the breath he had held, placing the bow on the table beside. He bowed to the mentor. "Thank you for your time."
The man's lips puckered in a thin smile and he dipped his head slightly. "Always, Master Caldwell." The mentor seemed to hover as he walked back across the orchard to the estate beyond. Brennan took a few moments to rest from his practice. He'd have to pick up the arrows eventually and check them all for cracks or flaws (particularly that one sunk deep into the bark of a cherry tree farther down the line). But he was still sore, and he knew it would take some time to make his way across the orchard.
Not for the first time, he cursed his weakness. Archery was a coward's sport. As the eldest of the Marquis Caldwell's sons, he should be taking center stage at every tournament. He had been, even at sixteen. Talented, dedicated, a prodigy, they said. He'd stood toe to toe with several of the best swordsmen. And then the sickness swept through, putting a deep weakness in his lungs that would never heal and taking the strength from his legs so that he could hardly walk on his own at only nineteen years old.
He closed his eyes, focused on breathing. There was nothing to be done. Frustration was impractical, a waste, a hinderance. At least, that's what he kept trying to tell himself, hoping one day he'd finally believe it.
ThornClan
"Careful!" Snailpaw hissed, batting Lichenflight with a paw. The tortoiseshell stilled and allowed the apprentice to finish covering her leg with spiderweb, even if she flinched every time Snailpaw's clumsy paws made the gash sting worse.
She had it easy, she knew, as Snailpaw finished the crude bandage and stepped aside. Her injuries from the most recent clash with ThornClan's warriors weren't infected, however much they stung. Others in MarshClan weren't so lucky, and without Reedstripe, they didn't have any cat with enough knowledge of herbs to cure them. Scrapes that should have only cost a warrior a day's bed rest had festered into fever without proper treatment. Sure, they knew how to apply cobweb and marigold, but if that simple treatment failed...
Snailpaw hissed as another cat came close to their hiding spot beneath a holly, the ginger she-cat's fur puffed like dandelion fluff. But it was only Seedpounce, and the apprentice let the patched tom in, though she eyed the gap warily as if he'd been followed. "You okay?" her brother asked, coming over, and she nodded.
"For now." She stood on the bandaged leg, and it held. "What about the others?" Seedpounce's face told only of bad news, and she sat down to hear it.
"Greyfern is dead," he said, bluntly. It was testament to how much ThornClan had gone through the last two moons that even Snailpaw, young as she was, merely took the information in stride, nodding her head without pausing her watch out the front of the holly. "Maplestar hasn't said anything. No one but Applefur has seen him in days, so that's to be expected, I guess, but," Seedpounce paused, grimacing, "he didn't attend the vigil, nor did he appoint anyone new before moonrise, even through Applefur. Not that anyone would have trusted his word if he had, but to ignore the Code now... Nothing good will come from that."
Lichenflight snorted, though there wasn't anything humorous about her brother's tidings. "It's not like we're a Clan anymore." She ignored Seedpounce's pained expression, knowing that he still held out hopes that ThornClan could recover. As if their medicine cat hadn't tried poisoning their leader, turning half their Clanmates against each other in the process, when they were already in losing border war with MarshClan. As if she hadn't stole her apprentice away from ThornClan's camp for fear of their lives after Barkfrost took Snailpaw's sister hostage in their "trials". She didn't know why she had remained on the outskirts of their territory, or what would have been their territory if they were strong enough to send out patrols, which she hadn't seen in days.
Perhaps she wasn't ready to give up on ThornClan either. Or that she couldn't bear to take Snailpaw away while Dewpaw was still here. Or even that she couldn't leave Seedpounce, her only surviving littermate now that Riverswoop was dead to MarshClan's claws, to deal with this on his own. Fear screamed at her to leave. Her heart tugged her to stay. For now, the fear wasn't so great that she couldn't bite her lip and hold her ground, sticking to the small patch of territory around the holly bush that she'd staked out, listening to Seedpounce's updates but unable to take even a pawstep closer to the blood-soaked patch of dirt that was once ThornClan's camp, and which still, somehow, felt like home.
Laughter cut through the trees, echoing hollowly into Lichenflight's den. All three of their hackles rose at the eerie sound; Seedpounce hissed and spun towards the sound, while Snailpaw skittered between the two warriors, her claws out even if the small ginger molly shook like a leaf. Lichenflight stood over her protectively, tapping her tail along Snailpaw's flank for reassurance. Though if it came to a fight, her apprentice wouldn't hesitate to jump in. All she knew was fighting. Between the war with MarshClan, Reedstripe's rebellion, and Barkfrost's iron grip over the survivors, any cat that couldn't fight was long dead.
IDEK YET
Ghosts, supernatural
My mind was filled with whispers. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples, as if that could silence them, but if anything it only made the voices louder. "You alright?" For a moment I thought the words were in my head, then I saw Paula's worried expression and realized those words, at least, were spoken aloud.
"Fine," I replied, hoping the curve of my mouth was closer to a smile than a grimace. "Just loud in here."
"We can go," Paula offered. It was easier to focus on her voice if I was reading her lips. "You've done enough."
I shook my head, as much as I was able to, at least, with the whispers rattling around. "It's alright, I can stay a bit more. I'll let you know when it gets too much, promise." Paula's eyes sat on mine for a few more moments, but she must have decided to trust my words as she turned away, giving me my privacy once more. I sighed and turned back to the cage of ghosts.
