hey guys, so i have a couple things to talk to you about.
i’m leaving this account and going on a hiatus for writing prompts. simply put, it’s just not what i want my blog to be on tumblr for now. it was just too tiring and a lot to keep up with.
i will still keep this account just in case i decide to go back to prompt writing, but for now i’m moving to another blog i made.
my new blog is @thefandomhighqueen and will be dedicated to young-adult novels like Throne of Glass, Six of Crows, ACOTAR, The Grishaverse, The Cruel Prince, things like that and what comes along the way.
don’t be afraid to say hi to me over there, or yell at me for not doing anymore prompts.
i sincerely apologize and i hope to see a few of you over on the other blog. or i may see you when i come back here.
Hey friends, it’s the new year and I just wanted to say even if you didnt get everything done that you wanted this year, you still deserve to be proud of the progress that you did do. Even if you didnt write as much as you wanted to. Even if you didnt draw as much as you wanted to. Even if you “only” developed your stories and characters within your own head. Slow progress is still progress.
Be proud of yourself. Your characters would be proud of you.
I saw a really cool Halloween themed monster character generatorby @inspiredocs and thought I’d have a go at making a character using it! I used some D&D dice and rolled for each category. For this character my prompts were:
Body - Humanoid Skin - Ashy/undead Eyes - Buttons/stitches Legs - Artificial Mouth - Human Nose - Human Misc ( I rolled a D6 and got 2 categories ) - Bird wings and antlers Colour pallete #10 - Angelic
I’ve never been great at designing characters based off random prompts but I’m really happy with how she turned out! All I need is a name so if anyone has any ideas feel free to tell me aha.
Wow! This looks fantastic! I love your interpretation of the traits!
A Halloween themed monster character generator! Use a random number generator for as many/whichever sections as you like For the “extras” section first generate a category, then move to that specific list. Feel free to add as many as you like!
Have fun! This is more a way to generate ideas and play around than a strict set of rules, so use it in a way that helps you most!
This is so much fun! Do you want us to tag you in what we make/credit you if we post it?
No credit needed, but I’d love to see what you make!
This is absolutely hilarious to play with D&D dice as well! My friend and I had a blast rolling to see what our creatures came out looking like. My friend somehow even managed to roll both too many eyes and too many mouths, and now we have a new eldritch abomination to add to our character lists. Thank you for this wonderful gift.
That a great idea! I’m glad you guys had fun and congrats on your new hideous child
Apologies for the loooong absence, but I’ve been p busy with other life stuff. Namely: I got into Grad School!!! I will officially be pursing an MFA in Creative Writing for Fiction and Poetry, which is crazy!
I’ll get back to posting prompts again very very soon (ie, when it’s not 3:30 am), and I’ll also be posting snippets of my own writing every so often as well just for fun! (This is my account after all :p)
Anyway hello to all you new faces ^_^ Can’t wait to get back to posting more writing on here and see what you guys create :,)
Believe it or not, I’ve been getting through my last year of uni! I’ve been applying to grad schools and have been very busy with work, but I’ll be back to posting prompts tomorrow, I promise! (It’s currently 3 am and I am exhausted, but I have plenty of prompts in the bank for tmrw)
Thanks for sticking around so long :,) Crazy how this blog has grown, even when I’m not around to post for a long while. Wow.
Just came out as bisexual to my grandma, the alive one, and she was like “Yeah, I kinda knew when we went to get old timey photos taken and you didn’t want to dress as a saloon girl like the rest of us and chose to dress as a cowboy instead.” Like damn, guess I’m bisexy’allnow.
Ummm… So I just checked my followers and there’s now 10,000 of you?? That is absolutely insane. When I started this blog it was just so I had somewhere to share the ridiculous, occasionally funny ideas I had floating around in my head. I honestly had no idea this blog would blow up like this!! Thank you so much, each and everyone of you. I hope this blog has helped you in some way with your writing!
content warnings: female whump, minor character death, graphic violence, blood, and brief mentions of nausea
—
Baenviir is not unfamiliar with the Underdark. She is half-drow, after all. Her dark blue skin is a testament to her heritage. Below the surface of the sunlit world, she knows what dangers to look out for. She treads lightly, her golden eyes peeled at all times. This is not her first time in the Underdark, and she prays it will not be her last.
She cannot confidently say the same for her current traveling companions, however. Her faction has tentatively formed an alliance with another group in an attempt to strengthen their numbers. They need all the help they can get if they hope to stand a chance against the new threat brewing in the Underdark. Still, she doesn’t exactly mix well with her new associates. She’s never been the most sociable or quick to trust, especially not down here where lives can be so easily snuffed out. It’s best not to grow attached.
And yet… Gaheris.
She tried to ignore the human man at first, but putting him out of her mind proved to be extraordinarily difficult considering how loud he was. Granted, you could never be truly loud in the Underdark if you wanted to stay safe, but Gaheris’ talkative manner pushed at the boundaries of safety. Most of the members of her group ignored him, signifying the divide between the two factions, but she once made the terrible mistake of muttering a sarcastic remark in response to one of his over-the-top attempts to unite the two parties. Upon hearing her speak, he immediately directed his efforts toward her, and she’s been stuck with him ever since.
The thing is, Gaheris isn’t a bad person. In fact, he’s rather obnoxiously noble. He’s not helpless, either, with his knight-status, gleaming armor, and longsword. She has no real reason to reject his acquaintance, and yet…
It’s the Underdark. Not exactly the best place to make new friends.
Baenviir may not be unfamiliar with the region as a whole, but she is a stranger to the caves her party is currently navigating. Her and Gaheris walk side-by-side down the path, situated somewhere near the center of the group, their weapons strapped to their belts and their packs slung over their shoulders. They’ve been traveling for days, and even though she would never admit it, she’s exhausted.
Gaheris playfully nudges her shoulder. “Nothing like a pleasant stroll through some creepy caves to brighten the spirits, eh?”
Baenviir shoots him a glare, taking a step to the right to create some much needed distance between them. “Just wait until we come across a Beholder. That’ll really lighten the mood.”
The knight chuckles, amused. His green eyes glint in the dim light of the caverns. “Y’know, down here it feels more like we’re on vacation than anything. I mean, everyone we’ve met so far has been so hospitable.”
She snorts. “Yeah? Like the kobolds we ran into the other day?”
Gaheris grins. “Exactly!”
“One of them bit Valeheart’s calf like a rabid dog would,” she points out, cringing when she visualizes the nasty infection the human man is currently combating.
The knight falters slightly. “Well, we can’t all be winners.”
“You don’t mean that,” she says, well-aware of the goody-two-shoes morality hidden underneath his teasing.
“I don’t,” he admits, giving her a sideways smile, “I just like getting under your skin. I have to repay you for those drow lessons somehow!”
Baenviir hums in acknowledgement. It’s true he owes her for the kindness and attention she’s bestowed upon him. After all, she isn’t handing out drow language lessons to just anybody. He’s her only student. She doesn’t intend to make him pay her for her tutelage, however. She’s only helping him because she wants to. Besides, it gives her something to do.
She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can form words, a bloodcurdling scream echoes throughout the chamber. The sound stops her heart and sends chills rolling down her spine.
Immediately, her hands fly to her scythes, her fingers curling instinctively around the hilts as she scans her surroundings. She can’t pinpoint where the commotion is coming from at first, but, a moment later, an arrow soars over her head and lodges itself into a traveler behind her. The attackers must be charging from the front, then.
Gaheris unsheathes his sword, standing close beside her in a display of loyalty. He won’t leave her. Whatever threat comes, they’ll tackle it together.
In a matter of seconds, the previously peaceful cave descends into chaos, battle cries and magical blasts filling the air. Their travel formation immediately dissolves as enemies break through their ranks. Orcs, armed to the teeth and seemingly intent on slaughtering them all, rush forward. Baenviir grips her curled, poisoned-soaked blades and clenches her jaw, feet spread wide in a fighting stance. An enemy strikes down the party member in front of her, but before the orc can turn his attention to her, Gaheris slashes his sword across his abdomen, spilling his guts. Baenviir cuts his throat for good measure, ducking to the side to avoid being crushed when he topples to the ground.
She doesn’t spare a moment to gloat (she’s too much of a seasoned warrior to gloat). Spinning around, she lunges toward the nearest enemy, stabbing the orc in the thigh, making her howl in agony. She manages to land a punch, and the blow leaves Baenviir winded, forcing her to take a step back. Before her opponent can strike again, she slams both her blades into the orc’s chest. The metal sinks in deep, past cartilage and slipping between the bones of her ribs. Blood spills from the orc’s lips, and Baenviir rips her scythes free, her teeth bared in ferocity. The orc falls at her feet, and she moves on.
Her golden eyes narrowed in determination, her heart pounding furiously, she searches for Gaheris in the mess of carnage. As she makes her way through the crowd, cutting anyone who comes too close as she steps over the wounded and dying, worry seeps through the cracks of her mental fortress. What if he’s already been slain?
Finally, she spots him several yards away, engaged in battle with two orcs, his expression twisted into a snarl. Before she can even start in his direction, a sword slashes his side, leaving a sizable dent in his armor. From where she stands, she can see his mouth fall open in a pained yell, but she can’t hear his voice over the clamor of battle.
Her pulse spikes, and she sprints forward, leaping onto the back of the orc who attacked her friend, slicing his neck. Her scythes dig so deep, she nearly decapitates him, his hot blood gushing onto her hands. Even though he’s dying, the orc manages to grab hold of her and throw her off. She lands on the rocky ground with a thud, grunting. One of her blades slips from her hands, and as she rolls over to reach for the handle, a heavy boot connects with her side. Pain blossoms across her ribs, and she groans. Curling into herself to protect herself from further damage, Baenviir awaits the next blow.
It never comes.
She opens her eyes just in time to see Gaheris finish off the orc who attacked her, his longsword running him through. With a huff of effort and a boot planted against the orc’s protruding stomach, he wrenches his weapon free, staggering back as he does so. Baenviir snatches both her scythes and climbs to her feet, kicking the back of the orc’s knees to ensure he goes down.
Panting, she looks the knight in the eye, searching to see if he’s alright. He shrugs, gesturing to his wounded thigh. His leg armor has been penetrated, and red drips from the gash in his trousers. Baenviir’s stomach flips at the sight. He won’t be much use in a fight with an injury like that.
“Baenviir!”
The shout pulls her gaze from Gaheris’s wound to his face, which is alight with a primal fear that can only be found in the realm of death. His wide eyes are looking past her, so she spins around, and—
Another body slams into her own, knocking her back several feet. She trips over a dead body and loses her balance, her arms pinwheeling as she falls backwards. She faintly expects to land on the stone path, but instead she falls on uneven ground, her body tumbling fast down a slope that ends in darkness. Her heart drops into her stomach as she spins, completely out of control of her own movements, propelled down the steep embankment. Over the sound of blood rushing in her ears, she can hear Gaheris scream her name.
She crashes into a boulder, and pain explodes across her vision. Her eyes roll into the back of her head, and she’s out like a light.
—
When Baenviir wakes, she almost wishes she hadn’t. Her head aches like her skull has been split down the middle, a deep crevice in the bone that can never be mended. She’s dizzy even though she has yet to open her eyes, and she fears she’ll be sick if she dares to sneak a peek. Parting her lips, she sucks in a reedy breath. Her chest aches, even more so when her lungs expand. Her ribs must be bruised, if not fractured, from the battle and the ensuing fall. As she measures her own pulse, she takes stock, shifting ever so slightly. Her outer left forearm itches in a way she knows means she’s been cut, either on jagged rock or an enemy’s blade. Her right knee throbs as well. All in all, she’s a mess. She’s lucky to be alive.
Eventually, when she thinks she can stand to bear it, she opens her eyes. Her light of sight is black, stars sparking along the edges, and she grimaces as her stomach rolls. If she doesn’t want to throw up, she’ll have to take things slow.
Baenviir wills herself to be patient, suffering through minutes at a time, blinking repeatedly as her eyes adjust. She’s at the bottom of the embankment she was pushed down, further away from the faint light emanating from the crystals on the ceiling of the cave but not too far down to be trapped in total darkness. She can’t hear a single sound. The battle must be finished, then. She wonders who won. She assumes the orcs did, otherwise her party would’ve rescued her. Or maybe not. She would’ve assumed a missing person dead after a fight like that. Gaheris would’ve searched for her, though. He wouldn’t have left her behind.
Unless he was dead.
Dread stirs within her at the thought, and she forces herself to sit up. She feels wretched, but she knows she can’t stay down here forever. She’ll die of dehydration or be devoured by some wild creature. Crawling onto her knees, she reaches around on the stone ground for her scythes. She has no hope of survival without them. Movement hurts her right knee, the cap bruised in the fall, but she grits her teeth and powers through, trying to cover as much ground as possible. Finally, several feet higher up on the slope, her fingers brush against the familiar hilt of her weapon. She heaves a sigh of relief and grips the blade tightly, hugging it to her chest. She finds its sister soon after.
Once she’s strapped her weapons to her belt, she attempts the feat of standing. Leaning against a stalagmite for support, she hoists herself up, wavering as she struggles to remain upright. Her body is weak and trembling, but after a moment or so, she’s steady enough where she won’t immediately pass out and fall on her ass.
She takes a deep, slow breath, mentally preparing herself for the grueling climb up the slope back to the road, but an odd noise catches her off-guard. Pausing, she cocks her head to the side and listens. She hadn’t noticed it before, too distracted by her own pain and frantic search for her weapons, but a strange keening sound is coming from up ahead. It doesn’t sound like an animal. It sounds like a person.
Baenviir starts in the direction of the noise, dread and hope both finding a place in her heart. Squinting in the darkness, she can make out the shape of a body lying at the bottom of the hill. Cautiously, she approaches, unsure if the figure is friend or foe.
“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!” a male voice hisses, and her ears perk up. Could it be?
“Gaheris?” she whispers.
The swearing stops. “Baenviir?”
She lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding and hobbles over to him. He looks like he just regained consciousness. He must’ve been knocked down the embankment as well, left for dead like she was.
He smiles at her, struggling to sit upright. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”
Warmth blooms in her chest. She’s relieved that he didn’t abandon her and that he’s still kicking—for now, at least.
“You hurt?” she asks.
He leans against a boulder, groaning. “Always cutting to the chase.”
“You still have your weapon?”
He shrugs, but the motion seems to cause some discomfort, judging by his grimace. “Probably around here somewhere.”
Baenviir hums and crouches down beside him. His armor is dented in several spots, and his face is a mess of bruises, but her eyes gloss over those minor injuries. What really bothers her in the cut in his thigh, a deep gash that’s still oozing blood.
“We gotta deal with this.” She reaches for his armor, unlatching the lower half and discarding the metal pieces before moving on to rip apart the seams of his pants, prying the fabric away from his skin.
Gaheris grunts, squirming. “Can I at least keep my clothes on?”
Ignoring his weak attempt at a joke, she takes the scraps of fabric and ties them together, wrapping them tightly around the wound. “You’ll bleed out if I don’t take care of this. Either that or die of infection.”
“What about you?” he asks, looking her over. “You hurt anywhere?”
“Nothing that’ll kill me,” she says, tying a knot that makes the knight wince. “But climbing back up that hill will be a challenge.”
“You’re telling me,” he grumbles, glaring up at the cave ceiling high above them. “Can’t wait to get out of this miserable place.”
Baenviir nods silently, sitting back on her heels. They need water, food, and medicine. Their packs were likely ransacked by whoever won the battle, but there might be something left on the road. Maybe they’ll find enough supplies to get them to the next settlement. If they’re lucky, they won’t die from their injuries.
“We shouldn’t wait any longer. We’ll only grow weaker by the minute.”
Gaheris frowns deeply at the thought of scaling the embankment. She can understand the sentiment.
“C’mon. Let me help you up.” She extends her hand, but he waves her off.
“Don’t think I can stand,” he says, shifting to his hands and knees, “I’m gonna have to crawl.”
She purses her lips, wanting to argue. There’s no point, though. She can’t support his weight as well as her own.
“Go slow,” she orders, “and keep a lookout for your sword.”
He grunts in assent, and she turns around, shuffling toward the hill.
As soon as she starts, she realizes she’s better off on all fours, her hands digging into the rock as she pushes herself up one step at a time. Her wounded knee sparks in protest, and her ribs creak with each inhale, but she grits her teeth and forces herself to continue. She has to do this if she wants to live. Every couple minutes, she glances over her shoulder at Gaheris to make sure he’s alright. If he slips and tumbles back down the hill, she doesn’t know what she’d do. He’s several feet below her, his limbs shaking from effort, and whenever she asks how he’s doing, he simply nods, too busy panting to speak properly. Will they have the energy to go on once they’ve reached the top? Or will they simply collapse?
Climbing the embankment takes significantly longer than it did for her to roll down it. By the time her fingers touch the dirt road, she’s soaked in sweat and suffering from a pounding headache. All of her muscles ache from exertion (likely a combination of the battle, her injuries, and the climb), and she flops over onto her back, closing her eyes.
“Gaheris?” she asks, too tired to lean over the edge and see how far he’s come along. “You almost done?”
She doesn’t get a response, and as the minutes tick by, her concern grows. She begins to consider helping him up the rest of the way, but before she can will herself to move, the sound of heavy breathing indicates his arrival. With a heave, he rolls over next to her, his face pale and drawn.
“Are you gonna faint?”
He makes an expression that seems to indicate he might, but after gulping down air like a dying man, a bit more color returns to his cheeks.
“I…” he says, patting his sheath, “I found my sword.”
True enough, the weapon has been returned to its rightful place. “That’s good.”
“Yeah.” He wipes his brow, closing his eyes. “We should probably look around for leftover supplies.”
Baenviir turns her head and scans the road. She sees nothing but orc and human bodies. “We have time. Let’s just rest a minute.”
“For once, you have a good idea!” he exclaims, breathless, and despite herself, she laughs. Shifting to get into a more comfortable position on the ground, she allows her eyes to slip shut once again, her hands resting on the hilts of her blades. This won’t be their last time in the Underdark, not if she can help it.
Elle has a history of trouble with boats. Ever since she was a little girl living in Queensland, she’s gotten terribly seasick. She used to think she’d get used to it eventually, living on the coast and all, but she’s never gotten her sea legs. As a result, she tries to avoid sailing at all costs, which can sometimes be difficult considering where she lives. Tasmania is an island, and her apartment in Hobart isn’t far from the ocean. She can find a boat almost everywhere she goes in the city. Avoiding ships isn’t exactly an easy feat when you’re surrounded by the sea.
Despite knowing how her body reacts to being on the water, Elle purchased two tickets for a river tour as a present for her girlfriend. When she told Jade about her plan, her girlfriend was reasonably concerned, but Elle reassured her that everything would be fine.
“River boats are slow,” she said, “and I’ll take Dramamine.”
Now they’re here, on the bottom floor of the double-decker boat, gliding down a green river surrounded by trees and beautiful mountains… but Elle can’t enjoy even a second of it because she was wrong. River boats don’t move slow, and she’s nauseous as hell. She’s broken out in a sweat, and her brown bangs are plastered to her sticky temple. She’s tugged off her denim jacket to drape it over the back of her wheelchair—the last thing she wants is to get a gross stain on her favorite article of clothing.
Jade is standing behind her, rubbing her back gently. “How are you feeling?”
Elle bites the inside of her bottom lip. “Not very good.”
“Do you want some water? I know you took motion sickness medication earlier, but I packed Pepto-Bismol too,” Jade says, already digging through her backpack.
“Some water might help,” Elle admits. She’s gripping the arms of her wheelchair with white knuckles, breathing carefully through her nose. She does not want to throw up on this ship. There’s a bucket sitting in her lap, courtesy the helpful steward, but she’d rather not have to use it. They’ve isolated themselves from the rest of the group, sheltered in the handicapped section by the engines where they can’t hear the tour guide. At least if she does vomit, they’re far enough away where they can throw the contents overboard without unwanted attention.
Jade hands her a water bottle, and Elle sips slowly. Her girlfriend leans against the railing beside her, running one hand through her hair soothingly. The wind blows a light mist over them from the waves every couple minutes, and Elle welcomes the distraction. Anything to keep her mind off her stomach.
“We shouldn’t have come,” Jade murmurs, looking past her toward the verdant hills.
Elle frowns guiltily. “I thought for sure I’d be fine. I mean, I’ve never been on a river before.”
Her girlfriend’s fingers gently scratch her scalp. “Don’t feel bad, Elle, I’m not mad at you or anything. I’m just sorry you’re sick.”
“It’s not that bad,” she insists, trying to put on a convincing smile. “Honest. Don’t worry about me, just try to enjoy the ride.”
Jade doesn’t look like she believes her, and Elle deflates a little. She should’ve known better than to try and fool her. They’ve been together for too long for her girlfriend to fall for any sort of deceit.
“We’ve still got a couple hours to go,” Jade warns, setting her pack down by her feet on the deck. “You sure you can handle it?”
Elle forces a grin, but she’s sure it comes out more like a grimace. “Is that a challenge?”
Jade rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of smile on her lips. “No, it’s definitely not. You think I wanna clean up after you?”
“You won’t have to. I can take care of myself,” she replies. Jade squeezes her shoulder.
“I know you can, baby,” she says softly, “Just hang in there.”
Elle nods, but at this point even small movements make her world spin. She’s acutely aware of the rocking of the boat and the instability underneath her. She’s put her wheelchair into park, but it still inches back and forward a bit. Closing her eyes, Elle tries to focus. She just needs to power through the pain. Her stomach churns like a washing machine on the highest possible setting, and saliva fills her mouth. Tentatively, she takes another drink of water.
“Maybe Pepto-Bismol will help,” she finally says, opening her eyes and glancing over at Jade. “It might lessen the nausea at least?”
“Sure, babe.” Jade opens her pack and rips open the pill packet without hesitation, placing the pink tablets in Elle’s open palm.
It’s at this precise moment that Elle’s gut twists in that damning way. She drops the pills and clutches her bucket with both hands, doubling over and puking. It burns even though it’s mostly water, tears springing to her eyes. Jade pats her back, and Elle has never been more grateful that she tied her hair back in a ponytail that morning. She retches for longer than she’s comfortable with, but, eventually it ends. Sitting back up, she wipes her mouth with her forearm, and Jade takes the bucket from her lap, swiftly dumping the contents over the edge.
“Feel better?” she asks.
Elle frowns. “Not really. Still dizzy, but I don’t think I’m gonna be sick again.”
Jade offers a consoling smile. “That’s good, right? Here, I packed some breath mints.”
Elle gives her the side-eye as she retrieves the items from her bag. “You knew this was gonna happen, didn’t you? Before we left?”
Jade shrugs. “It’s better to always be prepared.”
Elle pops several mints onto her tongue and tries to eradicate the nasty, acidic taste of her stomach’s contents from her mouth. “Well, I guess I’m lucky to have you here.”
Jade playfully punches her shoulder. “You just figured that out now?”
“Shut up,” she laughs, still amused despite how shitty she feels. “You’re lucky I don’t try and kiss you right now.”
Jade snorts, throwing her head back. The breeze ruffles her blonde hair, and Elle watches her with a smile. Maybe the trip hasn’t been a total bust.
d&d oc ladywhump commissioned by @pixels-and-paperweights
content warnings: female whump, mentions of animal death (horses), graphic murder, blood, memory loss
—
Morning breaks over the peaks of the mountains, and even after traveling all through the night, Fayde Rithindren and her companions still haven’t reached their destination. The mountain pass they’ve been tasked to clear is far from most towns, but the feral orcs occupying the passage are still a threat to the merchants, travelers, and hunters in the area. Fayde and several others have been tasked by the Emerald Enclave to deal with the orcs, a job that involves traveling on horseback for days, venturing past the safety of civilization into the mountainous wilderness.
Fayde enjoys missions like these, for the most part. She gets the chance to absorb the world around her, and the straightforwardness of the task grants her the control she so desperately craves. She was the one to suggest they power through the night in order to ensure they battle the orcs in the daylight as opposed to in the dark. The heightened visibility will give them an advantage in the coming fight. She’s proud of herself for her practicality, but some of the others in her group are not as pleased. Her girlfriend Seren has bags underneath her eyes, but she’s too polite to accuse Fayde of robbing her of precious sleep.
Maul, on the other hand, has no such qualms.
“By the Gods, what I wouldn’t do for a cup of coffee right now!” the human man announces loudly to the group. They packed limited provisions to keep their packs light, and coffee didn’t make it onto the list of essentials. They don’t have time right now to stop and brew a pot, anyway. Maul is just trying to entertain everyone with conversation.
“After we slay those goddamn orcs, I’m going to lie down right there in the road and sleep for an entire day,” he declares, twisting his torso around on his horse to look at Fayde, his amber eyes meeting her cerulean ones.
Seren rolls her eyes—brown orbs speckled with flecks of gold, ceaselessly enchanting—at his antics. “If you do that, we’ll have to leave you behind, and you’ll be eaten by wolves.”
Maul laughs boisterously instead of mustering up a false front of insult. Some of the other travellers look back at him inquisitively. Fayde doesn’t know any of them by name, content to stick to her small, tight-knit group of friends instead of familiarizing herself with the entirety of her local Enclave. Maul combs his hand through his short salt-and-pepper beard, a dangerously contemplative expression on his face.
“What now?” Fayde asks, even though she probably doesn’t even want to know. He grins.
“I was just thinking…” he begins, but Fayde isn’t listening. She recognizes the markers along the trail as the ones they were told to look out for. They must be close to the pass.
Fayde shares a look with Seren, and the half-elf woman nods. Fayde tugs on the reins, slowing her horse, and readies her weapon, grasping the staff of the halberd with both hands. She’s fought worse than feral orcs before, but she can’t help but remain prepared at all times. Maul teases her for being anxious, but she likes to think of herself as simply “reasonably cautious.”
The Enclave member at the head of the group lifts his arm, signaling for all of them to stop. The air is quiet except for the heavy panting of the horses in the heat and the whistling of the wind. The leader of the pack proceeds slowly, rounding the corner.
Fayde listens to the sound of hooves on packed dirt as he scouts ahead. She doesn’t expect much to come of it—the orcs aren’t likely to be standing around in the middle off the road, they’re feral after all—but she tightens her grip nonetheless. Seren shoots her a reassuring look. “We’ve faced worse before. This job will be easy,” her expression seems to communicate. Fayde nods and steadies her nerves with a deep breath.
Suddenly, a howl pierces the air, setting her nerves alight. A scream comes from around the corner, cut short too soon.
Fayde absorbs all this in the span of a second, charging forward with the flick of her wrist before she even realizes what she’s doing. Her entire group acts on instinct as well, their horses rushing around the bend, not stopping. They don’t stop, even as Fayde scans the path ahead and sees the slaughtered orcs. Over a dozen bodies, soaked in their own blood. A glowing, shrouded figure stands above one of the fallen, ringed by a pack of hellhounds. Fayde spots the scout and his horse, their corpses charred by the beasts’ flames.
Her mind works fast. The pass has already been cleared by a dangerous acolyte and their hellhounds. Whoever they are, they clearly intend to wipe out her and her companions. Fayde hardly has time for the realization to form before the monsters descend upon them. Armed riders collide with the pack in a thunderclap of violence. At the front, one mare bucks off her rider, sending the armored woman soaring into the air, but she raises her sword mid-flight, carving into a leaping beast as she lands. The mixed sounds of shouts, snarls, and clashing metal pollute the air. Fayde falls into the familiar motions of battle, her blood thumming with energy, her vision hyper-focused. She swings her halberd, and the double-edged axe at the end of her weapon swipes the side of the nearest hellhound, knocking him astray before he can pounce on the back of Maul’s mount. Fayde jumps off her own horse, knowing she can fight better on her feet than horseback, and the stallion breaks off in a sprint toward the woods. She barely spares it a sliver of a thought, stabbing the sharp point of her halberd into the hind leg of a hound that’s snapping at Seren. The fiend rounds on her with a ferocious growl, lunging at her. She sidesteps it, knocking it aside with a grunt.
A strange crackle in the air sends a chill up her spine. She locks eyes with Seren. Her girlfriend’s pupils snap wide open, terrified black spilling into her irises.
“Get down!” she screams over the roar of battle, and Fayde ducks just as one of the hounds releases a cone of flame from its gaping maw. Her auburn hair is singed by the heat, and she gasps in pain as the skin of her back is roasted hot, even through her armor. The shrieks of her ignited comrades and their burned horses ring in her ears, and she covers her head with her hands for protection, eyes shut tight as she’s blinded by the light.
When the inferno subsides, Fayde barely has a moment to rise before one of the creatures rushes at her. It successfully dodges her attack, and its claws manage to break through her armor. She hisses as talons slice her bicep, but the injury doesn’t slow her onslaught, and she strikes down the beast with a fierce cry. Her line of sight is splattered with red, crimson and fury flooding her vision.
Ruthless, she cuts into the hounds, aided by those who’ve not yet fallen. Seren and Maul find her side and stay there, the three of them taking brutal blows and dishing them out in kind. They’re seasoned warriors, but surviving an ambush of hellhounds is no easy feat. As their comrades gurgle and choke on their own blood, their throats torn out by sharp canines, tumbling to join the blackened corpses of their roasted fellows, an unfamiliar panic builds in Fayde’s chest. She’s much less confident right now than she’s comfortable with.
A hound tackles Seren to the ground, the monster snarling above her, snapping at her face, and Fayde throws herself atop the beast, raising her halberd above her head and bringing it down hard enough to stab through the creature’s skull. She rolls off, bringing the impaled, twitching body with her, and Seren crawls out from underneath.
“Fay—!” Seren yells, her voice cut off by Maul’s battle cry. Fayde spins around just as he bodily slams a hound that got too close to ambushing her from behind. His trademark jovial expression has been replaced by a more grave look, and Fayde’s heart drops to her stomach at the sight. Their comrades are dying all around them, and if something doesn’t change right now, Fayde and her friends will be next.
With a growl, she scans her surroundings, slicing at any creature that comes too close, and her eyes fall on the hooded figure standing away from the heart of the fight, their arms raised and illuminated by magic. They’re likely controlling the hounds. Maybe if she takes them out, the hellhounds will be less organized and easier to kill.
Determined, she cuts a path through the carnage. Maul covers her six without prompting. They’ve been fighting together for so long, they know each other’s moves well. As she engages with a monster that’s blocking her way, it bites her shoulder, sharp canines breaking through her armor. With a scream, she guts the hound and pries it off before its teeth can pierce too deep. Panting, she slouches over, one hand braced on her knee. Her nose is plagued by the scent of blood and smoke.
A shrill cry commands her attention, and Fayde straightens herself, spinning around to face the sound. Several feet away, Seren is wounded, blood gushing from her side, her face contorted in agony.
Fayde’s heart stops.
If you asked almost anyone, they’d tell you that Fayde Rithindren is human. “Of course she is,” they’d say, “She looks human. What else could she be?” But despite her best efforts to appear otherwise, Fayde isn’t entirely human. “Aasimar,” they’d say if they witnessed her wings and celestial powers. She’s embarrassed by her heritage, skeptical of godly beings and unwilling to associate herself with them, so she goes to great lengths to keep her identity a secret. Her girlfriend doesn’t even know who she truly is.
Seren has never screamed like that before, though, and it shocks something in Fayde’s system, something primal that responds violently to the massacre around her and the pain in her closest friends’ expressions. She’s dimly aware of the faint glow emanating from her, growing brighter and brighter until—
Her wings. She hasn’t felt them in so long, but they’re as familiar to her as the palm of her hand. They burst forth from her back, breaking apart her armor, black and skeletal and undoubtedly terrifying. Her eyes throb like she has a headache from staring directly into the sun, and she knows they’ve dissolved into pools of black. She’s unleashed her necrotic shroud. The air around her buzzes with her power, and the hellhounds in her vicinity freeze, visibly startled. She takes advantage of their fright and cuts them down, emboldened by her own celestial powers. They snap out of it quickly enough, but she’s undeterred, swinging her halberd indiscriminately. She’s lost all train of thought, her mind silenced in favor of immediate action. One hellhound opens its mouth, orange sparking behind its tongue, but she cuts off its head before it can douse her in flames. She marches ahead, straight toward the hooded figure. The acolyte stares right at her, taking a wary step backward… and then they aim their glowing hands in her direction.
Fayde’s dodge isn’t quick enough: her bitten shoulder is struck by magic. She screams as electricity laces through her wound, sending searing pain all the way down her arm. Gritting her teeth, she gathers herself before her enemy can summon another curse, dealing a fatal blow with a brutal slash of her weapon. The figure crumples with a cry, collapsing in the dirt in a bloody heap of robes.
Not stopping to revel in the glory of victory, Fayde turns and slays the remainder of the hounds, luring the beasts away from where Maul is crouched over Seren, pressing hard on her bloodied side. Distracted by the sight, Fayde takes a gash to the thigh, but she kills the creature before it can even think of finishing her first.
Limping, she makes her way over to where her friends are, surrounded by smoking corpses of people, horses, and hellhounds alike. She locks eyes with Seren, and even in her trance-like state, Fayde notices her girlfriend shiver when their gazes meet.
She lowers herself to the ground, drops her weapon, and reaches for Seren’s wound.
“Don’t,” Seren gasps, “You’re a mess, you need to stop before—!”
Ignoring her warnings, Fayde presses her healing hands on Seren’s injury. Her skin glows, the world around them glows, and everything fades to white until all Fayde can see is her own pulse behind her lids, and then—
Nothing.
—
When Fayde wakes, she wakes slowly. As she rises out of unconsciousness, she notes the stiffness and heaviness of her body. She must’ve been out for a long time. She cracks her eyes open when she can muster the strength, her lids heavy. Her surroundings are blurry and bright, making her wince. A familiar voice says her name, but she can’t quite place the source. Blinking repeatedly to clear her vision, Fayde groans and tries to lift her arm.
She can’t lift her arm.
“What…?” she mumbles, her voice rough and dry. She glances down at her thoroughly bandaged right arm and shoulder, the entire length of the appendage wrapped in gauze. When did that happen?
“Finally!” another voice shouts, one she instantly recognizes. She looks up, squinting in the sunlight, and spots Maul standing at the foot of her bed. He looks a little worse for wear: there are heavy purple bags underneath his tired eyes, his left arm is in a sling, and cuts cover his cheeks.
“Maul?” she asks, trying to sit up in bed but discovering she can’t, pain surging through her at the slightest movement. Grimacing, she continues, “What happened? Where are we?”
“You passed out after healing Seren,” Maul starts, and the name fizzes in Fayde’s mind like something she should know. “We had to get you to down a health potion right then and there to keep you from dying. We rounded up some of the horses that had run off into the woods and headed straight back to town. The healers here have been helping us out, but you’ve been unconscious for the past…” He pauses, counting on his fingers, “Been almost a week now, I think.”
Fayde tries to absorb this new information—and it is new, all of it. None of his explanations sound familiar at all. The fabric of her bed rustles somewhere to her left, and Fayde realizes there’s a half-elf woman sitting beside her. She doesn’t look visibly injured, but she’s staring at Fayde with intensity, her striking brown eyes flecked with gold. Her dark brown skin, round cheeks, and dreadlocks are all so familiar but… there’s something missing. Fayde knows this woman, but, at the same time, she’s acutely aware she’s lost something.
“How are you feeling?” she inquires, voice soft and soothing. “Do you want me to go get the healer?”
“I’m…” Fayde searches through her memories frantically, finding giant empty holes where recent events should be. “You’re… Seren. We’re together.” She manages to remember bits and pieces of their relationship, but the woman is still whittled down almost nothing in her mind.
Seren’s brows reach for her hairline, her mouth falling open in surprise. “You don’t remember me?”
Fayde shakes her head, her head throbbing at the motion. “No, I do, I do… mostly. We haven’t been dating for that long, right?”
Seren grabs her left hand from where its resting limp on the bed and squeezes tight. “Nine months.”
Fayde frowns. “Oh.” That’s not right at all. “I don’t… what day is it?”
“This could pass,” Maul cuts in, striding across the room to place one hand on Seren’s tense shoulder. “There’s a lot going on in her system right now, and she might’ve hit her head. It’ll be alright.”
Seren is trembling. Fayde feels awful. Confusion, anxiety, and guilt fight for dominance as her mind whirls. She grabs Seren’s hand when she moves to pull away, intertwining their fingers.
“I’m hurting you. I’m sorry for hurting you,” she says softly. “I’m not sorry for healing you, though, if that’s what pushed me over the edge. I remember that I care about you, so…” Fayde trails off. Judging by the distraught expression on the woman’s face, her words aren’t helping at all.
Seren sucks in a breath. “You’re Aasimar. You had… wings. I think that’s what did it. You pushed yourself too far, Fayde.”
Fayde winces, glancing between the two of them awkwardly. They both seem to be struggling how to deal with the revelation.
“Things must’ve been pretty bad if I…” she swallows, “I don’t like to show that part of myself.”
Maul scoffs. “No kidding. I’ve known you for years, and you never told me anything.”
She can’t tell if he’s actually bitter or not. She’s too sore, aching, and out of it right now to pick up on subtle social cues. “I’m sorry. I… don’t like who I am, so I never share it.”
“It’s okay,” Seren reassures. “Let’s just focus on getting you better right now.”
“Okay,” Fayde agrees, eager for the conversation to move on. Seren moves away, and this time Fayde lets her go.
“I’m going to get the healer,” she announces, exiting the room before anyone has the chance to respond. Fayde sighs, her heart thumping loud beneath bruised ribs.
“It’ll be alright,” Maul promises, clapping a hand on her shoulder. She hisses in pain, and he pulls back with a chuckle. “Sorry! That’ll heal soon. And the rest…”
She looks up and meets his amber eyes. He gives her a smile. “Well, like I said. It’ll be alright.”
Jelko Erban was accustomed to getting into fights—it was part of her job description, after all. Unofficially, of course. She was an officer of the law and therefore expected to conduct herself as responsibly as possible, but everyone knew her lycanthropy meant she was regularly assigned the more… dangerous assignments. Conflict came with the territory. Supernatural cases ended in violence more often than not, unfortunately, and she was more durable than her fellow officers, so she was frequently placed on the front lines. Normally, her status as the resident tank wasn’t a problem. She charged into the fray, tackling opponents to the ground and even taking bullets to spare her co-workers from suffering fatal wounds. She was stronger than non-lycans, and she healed faster too, so better her than them, she reasoned. She didn’t resent the other cops, the higher-ups, or the full-timers for the sacrifices she was asked to make. As a liaison officer, she was used to being called in for the tough jobs, so she didn’t really mind. Her work with the police made her kind appear less-threatening and more cooperative to non-lycans, who were typically wary of werewolves in general. Besides, she liked helping people. She wouldn’t have gotten involved in the whole arrangement in the first place if she didn’t want to make the world a safer place.
All-in-all, Jelko had a pretty good deal. Steady work, good pay, and only the expected amount of uneasiness from the other cops. She couldn’t complain.
With her skills, advanced abilities, and years of training under her belt, she rarely ran into real problems on the job, but when messes happened… well, things got ugly. She was rather tough, so she only got into trouble on the worst of days.
Today was one of those days.
Jelko was called in on another supernatural case, as per usual. Once again, she was partnered with Detective Jack Tyler, an upright man who she’d worked with on all of her recent cases. The department seemed to think they made a pretty good team—or Detective Tyler did something to warrant the annoyance of his superiors and thus kept on getting stuck with her as punishment. Even if that was the case, he never treated her with any disrespect. He wasn’t warm or friendly toward her, and she could tell he was uncomfortable with having a lycan partner, but he never verbally expressed his complaints, so she never asked for anything more than base-level professionalism from him. She had to deal with rude and even outright malicious partners in the past, so Detective Tyler was frankly an upgrade. She just hoped he wouldn’t request to be assigned a different officer in the future. She didn’t want to have to make the adjustment for the upteenth time and risk being stuck with a prejudiced asshole.
The case started out routine in the beginning. Violent gang activity with suspected supernatural beings involved. Jelko and Detective Tyler, after interrogating the suspect in custody, gathered enough evidence to be granted a warrant to search the property of the suspect’s alleged leader. The drive to the site was terse, Detective Tyler replacing the potential for conversation with smooth radio tunes, the music quiet but still loud enough to keep them both alone in their own heads.
Occasionally, she shot glances at her partner. The detective wasn’t an intimidating looking man by any means. With big ears, a triangular nose, and pale skin, he looked very British. His brows were low, just barely above his dark eyes, giving him a perpetually serious, worried countenance. His mop of thin, brown hair sat atop his head, straight and cut short. He usually wore a black leather jacket. Overall, he looked more professional than anything. Despite his lack of excessive musculature, he seemed relaxed in her presence, alone with her in his cruiser. More at ease than she was used to. Awkward, sure, but not concerned for his safety. When he looked at her out of the corner of his eye while stopped at a red light, she shot him a smile. He nodded out of obligation. Yes, their partnership was significantly more pleasant than what she was used to.
They arrived at the factory by the docks in a shadier part of town, the sun already starting to set. The plan was to search the place and question anyone they came across.
What they didn’t expect was to come across the leader of the group while he was conducting criminal business, but, as was their luck, they did. They knocked on the door, barged in when no one answered, and hurried down the dark hall until they stumbled into some sort of meeting. All of the men and women in the bright lit warehouse room looked so shocked, it was almost comical. The thugs got over their surprise quickly, however, and immediately pulled out their weapons, their grips tight on an assortment of blades and handguns. Jelko recognized several of the faces in the room—previous arrests, ex-cons, and wanted felons. They weren’t likely to come quietly.
The fight that ensued was rough, to say the least.
Immediately, both Jelko and Detective Tyler took cover behind crates of what was likely contraband, diving for shelter just as the gang members started shooting. They were outnumbered for sure, and their adversaries seemed intent on firing first and asking questions later. Detective Tyler pulled out his weapon and shot her a look. When the room quieted down to only the sounds of heavy breathing and frantic re-loading, Jelko jumped out from behind the crate and into the fray.
She charged the person closest to her, catching him in the jaw before he could ready his pistol. With her increased speed and strength, she incapacitated him before the others could react to her presence, sweeping his leg and knocking him to the concrete floor. Without hesitation, she lunged for her next target, swiping the woman’s weapon out of her hands before she could try to use it on her. As she brought her hand down on her shoulder and struck a pressure point, Jelko quickly scanned the room. Only a dozen or so armed thugs, all of them hastily shaking off their stupefaction from the surprise attack. Detective Tyler was firing his gun, shooting warning shots that sent a couple of the gangsters retreating for cover. Behind all the others stood a large, burly man with an enraged expression on his bearded face. She spotted his tail bristling behind him. A lycan, their leader, just as their intel suggested. He was the only real challenge for Jelko here.
Only after she took out a third opponent did the bullets properly come flying in her direction. She now had to operate on the defensive—despite her quick healing, a gun wound would still slow her down, and she couldn’t risk one of them scoring a lucky headshot. Ducking and dodging, she made her way to the next felon, engaging him in hand-to-knife combat, effectively directing the bullets in another direction. Apparently, these goons were smart enough not to risk killing each other in their pursuit of her. The man snarled and slashed his knife at her, but she snatched his wrist and twisted it so painfully he had to drop the blade. Grunting, he swung his other fist at her, but his blow to her stomach did little to stop her. She spun him around and locked him in a choke-hold, using him as a human shield as she forced him into unconsciousness with the pressure against his neck, his hands clawing uselessly at her jacket arm.
After she dropped him, she felt bullets whiz past her head, her elongated ears twitching at the proximity. A loud whistle pierced the air, the noise subdued by the cacophony of gun-fire, but Jelko could still hear with her advanced hearing. The gang leader had apparently concluded that she was too powerful a threat and would likely take out all of his goons if he didn’t stop her himself. He lowered his hand from his mouth, and the remainder of the thugs who were out in the open speedily joined the others in their hiding spots. Detective Tyler was still exchanging fire with the sheltered shooters, but none of the bullets came close to her now as the lycan leader of the gang approached her. He was a big man, but she had fought and beaten bigger lycans before. She readied herself in a fighting stance, briefly considering pulling out her gun but deciding against it. She wouldn’t kill him unless she had to. She was better than that.
With a shout of rage, he charged toward her, and she just barely ducked out of the way. The fight happened as if in slow motion, they were both moving so fast. Claws out, fangs bared. The man was clearly not holding back, which left her at a disadvantage. He wasn’t too proud to yank on her tail or tug her tied-back brown hair, which left her more frustrated and insulted than anything. Hissing, growling, and cursing between heavy pants, they hashed it out. Fighting lycans was completely different from fighting humans. For Jelko, it was a whole new level of challenge. Each blow hurt, dealing real damage, knocking the breath out of her and leaving her winded. It took all of her focus and concentration to maintain the upper hand, but, after a particularly well-aimed punch to the face sent her stumbling backward several steps, her odds ceased to look promising. He kicked her in the chest, knocking her to the floor, which was when she realized she was well and truly fucked. He climbed on top of her, and she slashed at his face. He howled with pain, clamping a palm over the red gashes.
“Bitch,” he hissed. Her ferocious expression matched his.
“Fuck off,” she barked, trying to scratch him again.
The next couple minutes passed in a blur. A series of punches and relentless blows. A cut across her forehead spilled blood into her eyes. She tried her best to shove him off, but his attacks sapped her strength and focus. She knew she was getting in some good hits because of his furious swearing, but, other than that, she was losing bad. He clamped his hand around her throat, warding off her swats with his other arm, and even though her eyes were closed against the rain of her own blood, spots gathered across her line of sight.
She heard Detective Tyler yell something she couldn’t decipher, and then she was out.
—
When Jelko next awoke, it felt as if only a moment had passed. Her body, heavy and bruised, ached more than she was used to, and when she cracked open her eyes, her lashes were sticky with blood. She groaned, and a face appeared in her hazy vision. Detective Tyler. He was crouched down in front of her, his expression one of pinched concern.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck.”
“You alright?” she asked him. She could handle getting banged up, but she didn’t know if he could. She cleared her throat. Her neck was sore, purple bruises more than likely discoloring the tan skin of her neck. The fight came back to her as she cataloged her wounds, but she couldn’t recall the end. “What happened?”
“I shot ‘em,” Detective Tyler said, his voice tinged with a light British accent. He was rummaging through the white case with a red cross that they kept stashed in all of the patrol cars. “That bastard was gonna kill you, so I shot him in the head. The rest scattered soon after that. I dragged you outta there, and we were driving away when someone shot out my tires.”
Jelko listened attentively. He looked rattled. Neither of them had expected this when they left the precinct earlier that evening.
“They’re following us—or they were, at least. I carried you outta there to the closest safe house. I think this operation is bigger than anyone thought.”
Jelko looked around the room. A bit dusty, clearly unused, with curtained windows and a locked door. Definitely a safe house. She was lying down on a lumpy couch, her head cushioned by his leather jacket, folded into a make-shift pillow.
“Thank you,” she said, trying to meet his eyes. He could’ve left her behind and few people would’ve blamed him, her being a lycan and all. He went through so much trouble to save her.
He waved her off. “Just doing my job, Erban. My arms are right sore from dragging you around, though.”
She chuckled a little at his weak joke, hoping to ease the tension between them. He still wouldn’t look at her directly.
He produced a water bottle and a handful of drugstore brand painkillers. “Here, you’ll want this.”
She nodded and accepted the offer, sitting up with his help. She swallowed all the pills without hesitation, much to Detective Tyler’s apparent surprise.
“How much can you take? I mean, do you need more in order for it to kick in?”
She smiled, appreciative of his careful questions about her lycan physiology. “Maybe a couple more.”
He handed her the bottle, and she finished the pills with the remainder of her water. The cool liquid soothed her throat, and she sighed. Detective Tyler watched her before standing up and heading toward the sink, a towel in his hand.
“I stitched up your head. A sloppy job, but it should be fine until we can get out of here and to a hospital. I called for backup. They should be here soon.”
Jelko nodded along to this new information, reaching up and delicately thumbing her forehead. Sure enough, she could feel the lines of stitches. She winced. She normally would heal quickly enough not to need stitches, but the claws of another lycan left longer-lasting wounds.
He returned to her side with a damp towel. Without asking, he started to wash away the blood splattered across her face and neck. She arched an eyebrow at this, surprised by how readily he offered her aid and came into close proximity, but she didn’t question him. She felt weak and tired, something she wasn’t used to, so his help was welcome.
“I’m sorry for not intervening sooner,” he said quietly. “It seemed like you had a handle on it for a while. You usually do. I know we haven’t worked together long, but… you have a reputation, you know, and I’ve seen what you can do. I figured you would be alright if I focused on picking off the little guys one by one, and I only realized you needed help when it was too late…”
Detective Tyler trailed off, the white towel in his hand pink with her blood. He shrugged. “I guess I thought you could take out another werewolf on your own. Guess I was wrong.”
Jelko listened quietly. This was the most they had spoken throughout their partnership, and it was a heartfelt apology. She almost couldn’t believe her ears.
“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. She knew he took his job seriously and held himself accountable, but this was pushing it. “You handled yourself exceptionally well. You brought me here, didn’t you? I’m the one who lost the fight.”
The Detective finally met her eyes. He looked skeptical. “That was one big fucker, Officer Erban. I don’t blame you.”
“And I don’t blame you,” she said earnestly, and he nodded slowly, seemingly taking her words to heart. Rising to his feet, he made his way back to the sink.
“Your face is clean. I’ll grab you an ice pack, I’m sure there’s one around here somewhere.”
Jelko laid back down, relaxing into the relative comfort of the soft surface beneath her. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She normally liked to be alone when she was injured, safe at home in her apartment, licking her wounds. Hurt lycans tended to suffer mood swings and other unpleasant side effects. She wouldn’t want Detective Tyler to witness her in such a state, especially since it seemed he was finally starting to like her.
The floorboards creaked as Detective Tyler returned by her side. She cracked open her eyes, and he handed her a bag of ice. She placed them on her ribs. Her bones throbbed, muscles aching. She could tell the painkillers were starting to kick in, but she would need something stronger from the hospital. Detective Tyler gnawed on his bottom lip. If only his colleagues knew he was such a mother hen. The teasing would never end.
“I’ll be alright,” she assured him with a half-hearted grin. “I heal fast. The process will just be a bit slower this time, but still plenty quick.”
He nodded, seemingly absorbing the information. “Okay. I’d turn out the light and let you rest, but I don’t know if you have a concussion.”
“Good thinking,” she praised, even though all she wanted was some sleep. He shot her a knowing look, apparently aware of her thoughts.
“Don’t worry, I called a half-hour ago. They said they’re sending a squad car to come bring us to St. Mary’s. You can rest once we get there.”
“I know, I know,” she sighed, playing up her exhaustion. His eyes crinkled, almost as if he wanted to laugh. He sat down on an unoccupied space of the couch by her feet, sinking into the pillows with a deep exhale. He looked tired himself.
“Long night?” she asked, and he smiled wryly.
“You don’t know half of it.”
“How ‘bout you share the details of your selfless rescue?” she suggested, and he appeared unamused. “To keep me awake.”
He groaned, looking as if he were about to roll his eyes. He was silent for a long moment, but then he began: “Well, it all started when I had to drive halfway across the city to search some rundown warehouse. Little did I know, a bunch of good-for-nothings were there waiting for me…”
Jelko smiled as he retold their night, focusing primarily on the parts where she was unconscious, as they waited for help to arrive. For the first time in a long while, she felt like she was part of a team.
Bee can’t take his eyes off his friend. Cee is strapped down to a metal table, gagged and sporting a black eye. It’s Bee’s fault they’re here. Cee came to rescue him, but Whumper caught them, and now his friend is in mortal danger and it’s all his fault.
“I’m so glad you decided to join us.” Whumper claps their hands together, pleased, and smiles down cordially at Cee. “You know what they say.” They ruffle Cee’s tousled hair, and Cee snarls behind the tape sealed over their mouth. “Two is better than one.”
Whumper turns then, redirecting all of their attention to their original captive. “Don’t you think so, Bee?”
Bee stiffens, tearing his eyes away from Cee and meeting his tormentor’s gaze.
“Let them go,” Bee whispers, tears already gathering in the corners of his wide, frightened eyes. “Please, let them go.”
Whumper’s smile broadens, and they approach their captive. Bee is shirtless, wearing nothing but the bloody shorts he’s worn for the entire duration of his imprisonment thus far, and his hands are bound above his head with coarse rope. He tugs uselessly on the restraints, wishing he could run over to his friend and protect them from whatever horrible plans Whumper surely has in store.
“Oh,Bee,” Whumper says, almost pityingly. “As much as I adore your pleading, we’ve already been over this. Your friend is going to be staying here with us. They came all this way for you, and you want to turn them away?” Whumper shakes their head, “I know I taught you better than that.”
Whumper moves closer, leaving hardly any space between them, and Bee swallows hard, thoroughly intimidated by his captor’s proximity.
“I’m sorry,” Bee says quickly, his voice rising in pitch. “I’m sorry, just please don’t—”
“You’regoing to be sorry,” Whumper corrects, tone suddenly harsh, and Bee flinches. His torturer leans forward, their lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You’re going to be sorry you ever dared to wish for someone to take you from me.”
Bee shivers, every muscle tensed. He knows Whumper’s words are as much a promise as a threat.
“Here are the rules,” Whumper begins, signaling the start of what Bee assumes will be a horrible, twisted game. They grab his chin, forcing him to meet their eyes. “Listen carefully so you don’t fuck it up.”
Bee nods frantically, and Whumper, seemingly pleased, slips behind him and squeezes his cheeks, forcibly directing his gaze toward Cee.
“Now, see your little friend over there? Look above them.” They steer his gaze upward to a heavy stone slab suspended in the air, dangling from the ceiling. The rock is bundled in a net of rope, and Bee’s heart stops when he realizes it’s positioned directly above Cee’s legs.
All the breath leaves his body in a horrified exhale. “No.”
He can feel Whumper’s malicious grin. “I’ve rigged it up so you—” Whumper yanks Bee’s head back, their hand tangled in his hair, his neck strained. They guide his eyes to where the rope tied around his wrists connects to a pulley system, “—are the only thing keeping that thing in the air. If you fall to the floor, well…” Whumper lets go of Bee, and, with both hands now free, they smack their hands together in a gruesome representation of what will happen if the rock drops. “It’s a bit like pulling a pin from a grenade, if that helps you wrap your mind around it.”
Bee feels as if he’s going to be sick. He meets Cee’s eyes, and his friend stares back at him, their defiance apparent in the set of their jaw. They might not be afraid, but Bee… he knows a weight that heavy, falling from that high up, will destroy their legs.
Whumper snaps suddenly, looking as if they remembered something they’d almost forgotten. “Oh, and I’m going to whip you. Your back could use some more scars, and I’d like to show our guest what we get up to around here. You don’t mind, do you?”
Bee gapes at his captor wordlessly, stunned.
“I can’t do it,” Bee whimpers, already defeated. “Please don’t make me—it’ll kill them, I can’t—!”
“Of course you can,” Whumper reassures. “I believe in you.” They pinch his cheek a little too hard. “My resilient little Bee.”
“Ican’t!” Bee protests. Whumper steps away and heads toward their rack of instruments. “Please, I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt them!”
Whumper uncoils the single tail whip and slaps it against the cement floor. Bee flinches at the sound and the promise of pain, his breath speeding up as his tormentor circles him like a shark would its prey. Bee catches Cee’s eyes, and his friend gives him a little nod as if to say “it’s alright.”
“I won’t hurt them, Bee,” Whumper says conversationally, standing somewhere behind him where he can’t see. “You will.”
And without further preamble, the whip cracks against the bare skin of his back. Bee bites back a shout, jerking forward and arching his back in an instinctual attempt to escape the bite. He hardly has a second to react before the next blow comes, and the next, and the next. The strikes follow each other in quick succession, relentless. It’s mere minutes before Bee is trembling, his legs quivering violently, his wobbly knees threatening to give. He jolts and struggles, trying to escape the reach of the whip, barely containing his anguished yells behind grit teeth.
“Tired already?” Whumper taunts, pausing for a second. Bee can feel their breath on the back of his neck, and he winces when their nails scrape the welts forming across his shoulder blades. “You must not care for your friend very much.”
Bee grimaces. They have to be strong. For Cee.
Whumper chuckles and steps back, starting up again. They bring the whip down hard, the sound echoing throughout the room, louder than Bee’s suppressed wails and Cee’s muffled curses. He squeezes his eyes shut, his toes curling.
“You’re such a disappointment, you weak little thing.” Pain blossoms across his back and shoulders, and tears slip down his flushed cheeks. Whumper sounds euphoric. “C’mon, darling, scream for me.”
Bee, fully aware of his audience, tries his best to keep his reactions contained, but as the longer it goes on, the more his control starts to slip. Breathing heavily through his nose, he bites through his bottom lip, blood dribbling down his chin. Snot-nosed and gasping, he weeps openly. His back is onfire.
“Beautiful,” Whumper purrs. The whip curls over his shoulder, and Bee yelps. “But I told you to scream, Bee.”
Whumper doubles their efforts, and soon Bee feels the skin of his back split open, hot blood spilling forth. He’s so dizzy with pain that he doesn’t even realize he’s shrieking.
“Stop, stop! Please, please, I-I can’t, it hurts, I can’t!”
Whumper doesn’t let up. Bee wavers on his feet, screaming and begging for mercy, and then—
His legs give out, his willpower depleted. Despite his best efforts, he can’t withstand the torture. He sinks to his knees, his arms nearly yanked from their sockets as he drops to the floor. After the initial force of crumbling to the ground, the line of rope falls with him, no longer taut. Through the haze of tears and agony, Bee remembers that he was supposed to stay upright… but why?
To make the fighting scenes in my low fantasy novel more realistic, I went to see a trainer for historical sword-fighting last week, both to barrage her with questions and to develop realistic choreographies for the fight scenes in the novel. Since I figured some of what she told me might be useful for you too, I put together a small list for you. Big thanks to Gladiatores Munich and Jeanne for making time! (Here are some more pictures if you’re interested.)
Caveat: I’m by no means a sword-fighting expert myself, so take these nuggets with a grain of salt – I might have misremembered or misinterpreted some of the things Jeanne told me. If I did, feel free to tell me.
1.) Weapon choices need to make sense
Let’s start with a truism: always ensure your character’s weapons make sense for a.) their profession, b.) their cultural background and c.) the environment they’re going to fight in. A farmer probably couldn’t afford a sword and might use a knife or threshing flail instead, and someone who doesn’t want to be noticed probably wouldn’t be milling about sporting a glaive or another large weapon. Also, soldiers native to a country with wide open plains would be more likely to carry long-range melee weapons such as spears or large swords, than those from a country consisting of mostly jungle or dense forests. The same applies to situations: if your character is going to be fighting in close quarters (even just a normal house), he’d get little value out of a spear or even a longsword, as there’d be no space to swing it effectively.
2.) Boldness often beats skill
In real swordfights, recklessness was often more important than technique. The fighter less afraid of getting injured would often push harder, allowing them to overpower even opponents with better technique.
3.) Even a skilled fighter rarely stands a chance when outnumbered
While a skilled (or lucky) fighter might win a two-versus-one, it’d be extremely unlikely for even a single master swordsman to win against superior numbers, even just three and if they’re below his skill level. The only way to plausibly pull this off would be to split the opponents up, perhaps by luring them into a confined space where you could take them on one by one. The moment you’re surrounded, you’re probably done for – because, unlike in Hollywood, they wouldn’t take turns attacking but come at you all at once.
4.) Dual-wielding was a thing
… at least in some cultures. I often heard people say that people using a weapon in each hand is an invention of fiction. And while my instructor confirmed that she knew of no European schools doing this—if they did, it’s not well-documented—she said it was a thing in other cultures. Example of this include the dual wakizashi in Japan or tomahawk and knife in North America. However, one of the biggest problems with the depiction of dual wielding in novels/movies/games are the “windmill”-type attacks where the fighter swings their weapons independently, hitting in succession rather than simultaneously. Normally you’d always try hitting with both weapons at once, as you’d otherwise lose your advantage.
5.) Longswords were amazing
Longswords might seem boring in comparison to other weapons, but they were incredibly effective, especially in combat situations outside the battlefield. The crossguard allowed for effective blocking of almost any kind of attack (well, maybe not an overhead strike of a Mordaxt, but still), the pommel was also used as a powerful “blunt” weapon of its own that could crack skulls. Though they were somewhat less effective against armored opponents, the long, two-handed hilt allowed for precise thrusts at uncovered body parts that made up for it.
6.) “Zweihänder” were only used for very specific combat situations
Zweihänder—massive two-handed swords—were only used for specific purposes and usually not in one-on-one combat as is often seen in movies or games. One of these purposes was using their reach to break up enemy formations. In fact, one type of two-handed sword even owed its name to that purpose: Gassenhauer (German, Gasse = alley, Hauer = striker)—the fighters literally used it to strike “alleys” into an enemy formation with wide, powerful swings.
7.) It’s all about distance
While I was subconsciously aware of this, it might be helpful to remember that distance was an incredibly important element in fights. The moment your opponent got past your weapons ideal range, it was common to either switch to a different weapon or just drop your weapon and resort to punching/choking. A good example of this are spears or polearms—very powerful as long as you maintain a certain range between you and your opponent, but the moment they get too close, your weapon is practically useless. That’s also why combatants almost always brought a second weapon into battle to fall back one.
8.) Real fights rarely lasted over a minute
Another truism, but still useful to remember: real fights didn’t last long. Usually, they were over within less than a minute, sometimes only seconds – the moment your opponent landed a hit (or your weapon broke or you were disarmed), you were done for. This is especially true for combatants wearing no or only light armor.
9.) Stop the pirouettes
Unfortunately, the spinning around and pirouetting that makes many fight scenes so enjoyable to watch (or read) is completely asinine. Unless it’s a showfight, fighters would never expose their backs to their opponent or even turn their weapon away from them.
10.) It still looks amazing
If your concern is that making your fight scenes realistic will make them less aesthetic, don’t worry. Apart from the fact that the blocks, swings and thrusts still look impressive when executed correctly, I personally felt that my fights get a lot more gripping and visceral if I respect the rules. To a certain extent, unrealistic and flashy combat is plot armor. If your characters can spin and somersault to their heart’s content and no one ever shoves a spear into their backs as they would have in real life, who survives and who doesn’t noticeably becomes arbitrary. If, on the other hand, even one slip-up can result in a combatant’s death, the stakes become palpable.
That’s about it! I hope this post is as helpful to some of you as the lessons were to me. Again, if anything I wrote here is bollocks, it’s probably my fault and not Jeanne’s. I’ll try to post more stuff like this in the future.
Also I wanna say thank you for the donations so far!
We’re half way into paying a month of rent and we were able to go grocery shopping today! I’m so stupidly happy right now for just having more than one shower towel and actual food in our pantry lol
– The format of this piece in my Resources For Writing Period Pieces series is different due to it covering only a portion of a century, which has much more documentation and recorded historical details. I’ve done this in a way that covered each decade almost separately, but put all four under the umbrella of “early 20th century”. I hope this is helpful to all of you historical fiction writers out there. The other two articles covering this century will be formatted the same way. Happy researching!
Below are links to extensive lists of events, categorized by individual years within the indicated decade. There you will find summaries, information, and timelines that will help you with further research.
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So you want to make an OC?: A Masterpost of Ways to Create, Develop, and Make Good OCs!
i made this masterpost in hopes that it helps you in making your own OCs ah;; it can also apply to developing RP characters i suppose! if you’d like to add more resources then go for it sugar pea (´ヮ`)!
Writing tip #6: You can usually remove the word “suddenly” from your writing. Instead, write the sudden thing in a way that shows us it came out of nowhere. If you want to—
I have so much love for people who listen to me talk about and explain long and complicated fic ideas that I may or may not ever write. Like, the rest of the world may or may not ever know about these stories, these emotional turns, these parallels… But you do. The worlds I make in my mind exist in someone else’s head. Even if it’s just one person.
If you have one of my worlds in your head, just know that I love you.
too tired to make a speech just here to say you fuckers better vote ik we have plenty of american followers so drop off your ballots (dont mail them its too late!) go to the polls, wear a damn mask, vote for biden (i hate him too! do it anyway!) and hope and pray we get another 4 years to drag ourselves out from under fascism bc it wont end after the election, no matter who wins but this is where we have to start.
