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- #7,551
I feel like I'm gonna have a seizure but they do look very cool!
Any artists out there?
- Thread starter lilmillefleur
- Start date
- Thread starter
- #7,552
Hey, did you guys like it when I used to post writing snippets? I've written some more today as well as dug up some angsty stuff from last year and I might post it here. Some fantasy stuff, but I'm also writing for some other things as well now
I think I posted my old writing mostly on the old chat thread, which I don't think anyone uses anymore. Let me know if you ever want to start a new thread or DM just for chatting!
I think I posted my old writing mostly on the old chat thread, which I don't think anyone uses anymore. Let me know if you ever want to start a new thread or DM just for chatting!
NC_Quail
Would rather be gardening
I mostly lurk on this thread but I will appear to say that I love reading your writing!
*also like your pfp
- Thread starter
- #7,554
thank you!! I've just copied some of my writing samples, I'm going to post now
- Thread starter
- #7,555
“Hi, Isa. What can I get you?” Kattja asked her friend and longtime customer from across the counter. “The usual?”
“No, I’d like to try something else today, actually.” The young twi’lek woman smiled and gazed up at the crude metal sign hand-etched with the menu items hanging above the counter. “Ooh, that’s new. What’s Cassius tea?”
“It’s Mandalorian,” Kattja replied. “Quite healthy, and not bad tasting either. You want it?”
“I want whatever you think I’d like best,” Isa put her hands on her wide and curvy hips, satisfied with her lack of any specific decision. “You’re the expert.”
“That will be 3 credits.”
Isa handed her the coins and left to sit at an empty table. Most customers coming in at this hour usually left to go about their business, but Isa preferred to stay and talk when she could.
“You know, I could work here too.” Isa leaned over the table and put up her elbows, resting her head on her fists. “I can sing and dance, and I can even play some instruments. I could be your evening entertainment.”
At that point, Kattja was coming out from behind the counter, carrying the tea with her. Since no one else was coming in, she sat down beside her. “We’d definitely get a bit more activity if that were the case.”
“...Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Isa seemed concerned.
“I’m not sure. Dad and I are getting by with the peace and quiet during the daytime, and we charge a lot for people who room for the night. They are obnoxious enough already. Dangerous, too, sometimes...and then of course we’d have to pay you.”
Isa took a sip of her tea, deep in contemplation. Just then, the tapcafe’s door slid open with a clunk and a whir. The figure who emerged was, surprisingly, someone Kattja had never seen before.
“Sorry, Isa,” Kattja said. She stood up and rushed back to the counter. The figure didn’t go to the counter, but instead sat at another table, alone in the corner of the room. They were wearing a dark hooded cloak, and she couldn’t see their face, but the skin of their hands was mottled and purple.
“...Can I help you?” Kattja approached with an air of caution. In these lower levels of Coruscant, strangers were not to be trusted.
“No, I’d like to try something else today, actually.” The young twi’lek woman smiled and gazed up at the crude metal sign hand-etched with the menu items hanging above the counter. “Ooh, that’s new. What’s Cassius tea?”
“It’s Mandalorian,” Kattja replied. “Quite healthy, and not bad tasting either. You want it?”
“I want whatever you think I’d like best,” Isa put her hands on her wide and curvy hips, satisfied with her lack of any specific decision. “You’re the expert.”
“That will be 3 credits.”
Isa handed her the coins and left to sit at an empty table. Most customers coming in at this hour usually left to go about their business, but Isa preferred to stay and talk when she could.
“You know, I could work here too.” Isa leaned over the table and put up her elbows, resting her head on her fists. “I can sing and dance, and I can even play some instruments. I could be your evening entertainment.”
At that point, Kattja was coming out from behind the counter, carrying the tea with her. Since no one else was coming in, she sat down beside her. “We’d definitely get a bit more activity if that were the case.”
“...Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Isa seemed concerned.
“I’m not sure. Dad and I are getting by with the peace and quiet during the daytime, and we charge a lot for people who room for the night. They are obnoxious enough already. Dangerous, too, sometimes...and then of course we’d have to pay you.”
Isa took a sip of her tea, deep in contemplation. Just then, the tapcafe’s door slid open with a clunk and a whir. The figure who emerged was, surprisingly, someone Kattja had never seen before.
“Sorry, Isa,” Kattja said. She stood up and rushed back to the counter. The figure didn’t go to the counter, but instead sat at another table, alone in the corner of the room. They were wearing a dark hooded cloak, and she couldn’t see their face, but the skin of their hands was mottled and purple.
“...Can I help you?” Kattja approached with an air of caution. In these lower levels of Coruscant, strangers were not to be trusted.
Fifteen years had passed. Ani was still alone.
Everything she had once loved she had grown disconnected to over the years. Much of that loss was sudden, of course. But part of it was gradual, too. And in a way, Ani saw that loss to be even more tragic than the fateful evening of the Jedi Purge, or that moment she took off into the sky on that ship, bound for anywhere but Coruscant, leaving her family behind a second time.
For a long time, she didn’t even realize they were slipping away.
She still sent Holocomms to Irill and Haven every now and again, but they were becoming less and less frequent. In truth, it hurt her to see the wrinkles penetrating deeper in Irill’s face, or watch Haven grow taller and taller, as though sprinting through life at double pace, until the day she could see the beginnings of gray hairs like Irill’s.
After that, she began to forget where the spices in the kitchen were stored where she used to work with them, and the number of old metal booths where soldiers and old friends would often stop to drink, which she had counted and remembered since she’d first seen the place. She forgot about Cookie pouring caf and Cassius tea from his little spout, and she forgot about the pillow in the corner where Miki—the inn’s very namesake—used to curl up and watch the bustling of the cantina with his beady black eyes. She forgot her bedroom up on the fifth floor with the musical instruments and holobooks strewn all over, and she could no longer hear the thumping and whoops of muffled laughter coming from the floors below.
And all those people she had once cared so much for—Besei, Myteo, Bottle, Runi, Gloves, Isa--held less meaning for her now, somehow. She still saw them in her mind, but she felt as though she wasn’t worthy to carry their legacies. So they became numb; just strangers that would float into her vision and disappear again. The only one who remained with a pang of guilt was Kattja. Because Kattja was still alive and out there somewhere. And she was beautiful.
Despite everything, Ani still had energy buzzing in her fingertips. It gave her a sense of purpose. The idea that maybe because of her gift, she had an excuse for still being alive.
The Jedi had called it the Living Force, something that binds together all organisms. But in her time away from the Jedi, Ani saw it as something more. It bound all living things—organisms, certainly—but also feelings and stories that persisted through time and space. Memories.
Where Ani felt detached—the Jedi way, she’d been taught—the Force brought her back. When she reached out with the Force, she could finally feel Besei’s enthusiasm again. She could feel Irill’s groundedness and Haven’s childish curiosity, and Myteo’s patience, and Bottle’s quiet strength, and Runi’s sharp wits, and Isa’s contagious laughter—and Gloves’ face growing hot when he looked at her—and all the others. They were memories, but they were still as real as the moment they’d happened. To Ani, the Force was art that was never painted over, but the canvas continually extended.
Ani extended her hand, and Kattja took it.
Everything she had once loved she had grown disconnected to over the years. Much of that loss was sudden, of course. But part of it was gradual, too. And in a way, Ani saw that loss to be even more tragic than the fateful evening of the Jedi Purge, or that moment she took off into the sky on that ship, bound for anywhere but Coruscant, leaving her family behind a second time.
For a long time, she didn’t even realize they were slipping away.
She still sent Holocomms to Irill and Haven every now and again, but they were becoming less and less frequent. In truth, it hurt her to see the wrinkles penetrating deeper in Irill’s face, or watch Haven grow taller and taller, as though sprinting through life at double pace, until the day she could see the beginnings of gray hairs like Irill’s.
After that, she began to forget where the spices in the kitchen were stored where she used to work with them, and the number of old metal booths where soldiers and old friends would often stop to drink, which she had counted and remembered since she’d first seen the place. She forgot about Cookie pouring caf and Cassius tea from his little spout, and she forgot about the pillow in the corner where Miki—the inn’s very namesake—used to curl up and watch the bustling of the cantina with his beady black eyes. She forgot her bedroom up on the fifth floor with the musical instruments and holobooks strewn all over, and she could no longer hear the thumping and whoops of muffled laughter coming from the floors below.
And all those people she had once cared so much for—Besei, Myteo, Bottle, Runi, Gloves, Isa--held less meaning for her now, somehow. She still saw them in her mind, but she felt as though she wasn’t worthy to carry their legacies. So they became numb; just strangers that would float into her vision and disappear again. The only one who remained with a pang of guilt was Kattja. Because Kattja was still alive and out there somewhere. And she was beautiful.
Despite everything, Ani still had energy buzzing in her fingertips. It gave her a sense of purpose. The idea that maybe because of her gift, she had an excuse for still being alive.
The Jedi had called it the Living Force, something that binds together all organisms. But in her time away from the Jedi, Ani saw it as something more. It bound all living things—organisms, certainly—but also feelings and stories that persisted through time and space. Memories.
Where Ani felt detached—the Jedi way, she’d been taught—the Force brought her back. When she reached out with the Force, she could finally feel Besei’s enthusiasm again. She could feel Irill’s groundedness and Haven’s childish curiosity, and Myteo’s patience, and Bottle’s quiet strength, and Runi’s sharp wits, and Isa’s contagious laughter—and Gloves’ face growing hot when he looked at her—and all the others. They were memories, but they were still as real as the moment they’d happened. To Ani, the Force was art that was never painted over, but the canvas continually extended.
Ani extended her hand, and Kattja took it.
Hurricane, UT - August 8, 1982.
Basanti ran. The sound of police sirens and heavy raindrops pounded in her ears to the beat of her heart, but her legs moved even faster. Her usually disorganized mind was clouded with one loud, frantic thought. No. No. No. It can’t be. It can’t be my boy. Please, God, don’t let it be Jeremy. She only stopped running when she saw him standing at the entrance to the diner with snot and tears running down his cheeks—but he was alive and well. She bent over and heaved great sighs of relief as he ran to her.
“Jer, what happened?” Basanti caught her breath and knelt down, and the boy fell into her embrace. “Tell me what happened, baby.” Water slipped down her strands of dark hair and through her droplet-coated glasses.
The boy was nearly incomprehensible. “It wasn’t my fault!” he cried. “It wasn’t my fault!”
Basanti stroked his hair with a hand and scanned the scene around her. The heavy evening air was pelting rain, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming cries of confusion and despair beneath the warm lights of Fredbear’s Family Diner mixed with the strobing blue and red. Police herded parents, and parents herded children out the big glass doors and rushed them into their cars. Paramedics and investigators crowded around the opening of the alleyway beside the building, which was sealed off with caution tape.
“I’m not going to be upset with you, Jeremy.” Basanti’s voice grew stern. “Just tell me what happened.”
“...It’s Charlie. They found her…dead…out here in the rain.” Jeremy stuttered. “It wasn’t my fault! It was a joke! It was just a joke!”
Charlie. Basanti didn’t know the child exceptionally well. What she did know, though, was enough to make her barely hold back a sob.
Charlotte Emily Stillwater was only nine or ten years old; sweet and soft-spoken, with brown skin just a shade cooler and lighter than Basanti’s own, and tangled, curly dark hair. Her father, Henry Stillwater, was the founder and business owner of the very same Fredbear’s Family Diner along with Mr. William Afton. She’d been acquainted with Jeremy and his friends for quite a while, though she mostly seemed to hang out with the three Afton children. Basanti remembered the time she’d attended Jeremy’s birthday party and went home early because she threw up chocolate cake all over the table. A tear fell down Basanti’s cheek.
“Ma’am, I need your name and address, please.” An officer was standing over her now, his eyes a weary mixture of annoyance and anguish.
“Basanti Durvasula,” Basanti said. “I’m just down the street, on Cara Circle. One-ninety. And this is Jeremy.” She pulled her son, still sobbing, closer to her. “We had nothing to do with this.”
“We’ll see about that,” the officer responded. “You had better get out of here now. Go home and lockdown. We still don’t know for certain who caused the child’s death.”
“Thank you, sir.” Basanti lowered her gaze and stood up, gathering Jeremy in her arms.
She carried him the whole way home.
Basanti ran. The sound of police sirens and heavy raindrops pounded in her ears to the beat of her heart, but her legs moved even faster. Her usually disorganized mind was clouded with one loud, frantic thought. No. No. No. It can’t be. It can’t be my boy. Please, God, don’t let it be Jeremy. She only stopped running when she saw him standing at the entrance to the diner with snot and tears running down his cheeks—but he was alive and well. She bent over and heaved great sighs of relief as he ran to her.
“Jer, what happened?” Basanti caught her breath and knelt down, and the boy fell into her embrace. “Tell me what happened, baby.” Water slipped down her strands of dark hair and through her droplet-coated glasses.
The boy was nearly incomprehensible. “It wasn’t my fault!” he cried. “It wasn’t my fault!”
Basanti stroked his hair with a hand and scanned the scene around her. The heavy evening air was pelting rain, but it was drowned out by the overwhelming cries of confusion and despair beneath the warm lights of Fredbear’s Family Diner mixed with the strobing blue and red. Police herded parents, and parents herded children out the big glass doors and rushed them into their cars. Paramedics and investigators crowded around the opening of the alleyway beside the building, which was sealed off with caution tape.
“I’m not going to be upset with you, Jeremy.” Basanti’s voice grew stern. “Just tell me what happened.”
“...It’s Charlie. They found her…dead…out here in the rain.” Jeremy stuttered. “It wasn’t my fault! It was a joke! It was just a joke!”
Charlie. Basanti didn’t know the child exceptionally well. What she did know, though, was enough to make her barely hold back a sob.
Charlotte Emily Stillwater was only nine or ten years old; sweet and soft-spoken, with brown skin just a shade cooler and lighter than Basanti’s own, and tangled, curly dark hair. Her father, Henry Stillwater, was the founder and business owner of the very same Fredbear’s Family Diner along with Mr. William Afton. She’d been acquainted with Jeremy and his friends for quite a while, though she mostly seemed to hang out with the three Afton children. Basanti remembered the time she’d attended Jeremy’s birthday party and went home early because she threw up chocolate cake all over the table. A tear fell down Basanti’s cheek.
“Ma’am, I need your name and address, please.” An officer was standing over her now, his eyes a weary mixture of annoyance and anguish.
“Basanti Durvasula,” Basanti said. “I’m just down the street, on Cara Circle. One-ninety. And this is Jeremy.” She pulled her son, still sobbing, closer to her. “We had nothing to do with this.”
“We’ll see about that,” the officer responded. “You had better get out of here now. Go home and lockdown. We still don’t know for certain who caused the child’s death.”
“Thank you, sir.” Basanti lowered her gaze and stood up, gathering Jeremy in her arms.
She carried him the whole way home.
Here they come. The Prince and his royal guard.
Zephyr could hear the whispers of the trees as he walked. They were watching his every move, he knew, and some were apparently gossipping. He held his torch higher as he trudged across the leaves and twigs that littered the forest floor.
Do you think he'll measure up? The guard, I mean. I have seen his wild tendencies. The trees speak again.
It is only to appease the Prince, another tree responds. He is a good and loyal boy. He will do well, I'm sure. The Prince is who I am concerned for.
Zephyr shook his head, trying to clear the muddled Treespeak from his mind. Being able to understand the telepathic language was, it seemed, both a blessing and a curse.
Zeph? Are we almost there? I can't see a thing.
That was the blessing speaking. Prince Arbor, his closest--well, really, his only--friend. Zeph didn't need to turn around to know that the giant shapeshifter was following close behind him with every thump, thump thump.
"Almost." Zeph spoke in his own tongue. With his words, he could feel an anxious energy all around him, and he didn't even know which of the two of them it was coming from. They both knew that what was ahead not only carried much pressure and responsibility but also required a great deal of emotional strength, though Arbor had called it sadism.
Since then, Zeph had told the Queen he couldn't do it, but she said she believed in him. Tonight, Zeph couldn't decide who he wanted to prove right.
"Do you still have the charm?" he whispered.
Yeah. I hope it works.
That was their compromise. A hidden numbing spell would allow Zeph to feel a bit less guilty about what he had to do. It probably isn't even against the Code, he thought to himself. I never saw anything about charms in the Codebook. That was the excuse, anyway. Deep down, he knew he was wrong.
They stopped suddenly in the middle of a clearing encircled by the tallest trees of all. Their whispers died down to a hush, and then all was silent. Zeph stared straight ahead, stiff as a board, fearful to rustle a single feather out of place.
Then the tree in the center of them all rose up in a spiral of branches and bark and leaves, higher and higher into the glittering night sky. Waves of soft white hair came cascading down like a waterfall from a silver cliff. At last, she bent her head to reveal gigantic golden eyes that pierced the darkness and brought a sharp pang of fear and admiration to Zeph's heart. A softer light began radiating from her breast, and soon all the trees around her were glowing.
"My friends," She began to speak. Her booming voice sent a breeze, messing up Zeph's neat hair. It seemed as though no one else was there, but Zeph knew the whole forest was watching and listening. He reached up with his unoccupied wing to delicately smooth his cropped hair back into place.
"Tonight is a momentous occasion for my dear son, Prince Arbor. Tonight he receives his Vessel Ceremony, which in turn is one of many steps that will lead to his eventual crowning as my successor." She paused and looked past Zeph to her son. He must have looked terrified because her face had twisted into a sympathetic frown.
"The Vessel Ceremony is a test of strength. Not strength of bark or body, but strength of will. Being a Vessel carries much responsibility on its own. Once you complete this ceremony, the lives of many will be placed into your hands. It is your duty not only as a Vessel, but as heir to the throne, to defend and care for your people to the best of your ability, just as Zephyr has done for you. And to do that, you must be cleansed and start anew."
Then the Queen said, "step forward, please, Prince Arbor." That wasn't part of the script.
Arbor stepped over Zeph to stand in front of the queen. He stood as tall as a tree, but looked short in comparison to his mother. He stared up at her, his lip quivering.
"Hold out your hands," she commanded. He did.
Queen Calyx drew her own hand out and held it above his, then spun her wrist as though unscrewing the lid to a jar. With that motion, a glittering green light danced from Arbor's palms like smoke and the Queen shut her fist around it, snuffing it out.
"A numbing spell." She nodded to him with a sly smile, then turned to stare at Zeph with her glowing dagger-eyes. "That is against the Code. Pain makes you stronger, you know. Without endurance through suffering, there is no victory over evil."
"With all due respect," Zeph's voice faltered. He hadn't thought this far ahead. "I...disagree. I mean--I do agree--but I don't think--"
"My dear boy," Calyx soothed in a honey-coated tone. "Save your words. I'll listen to anything you have to say tomorrow. I promise."
Zeph felt the pinfeathers on his arms begin to spike. Without thinking, he sank into his all-too-familiar defensive position: One talon forward, wing extended, clawed palms open as if ready at any moment to grab the spear strapped across his back. "I speak on behalf of the Prince, your Highness." His mouth vibrated in what could have evolved into a snarl if Zeph hadn't caught himself.
I have discussed this with him before, the Queen hissed. I thought he was the wild one, but he has the true courage to humble himself and submit. Can I not say the same for you?
Arbor did not turn around. Zephyr's face grew hot.
Calyx pressed further. Do you remember your sister, Zephyr? Do you remember what she did for us? Does her sacrifice mean nothing to you?
Petrichor. She had given her heart, her soul, her very life to the Code. And to Arbor. A painful memory of her words danced like a taunt through his mind: I am going to rescue the prince. I am willing to give my life for my kingdom. I am willing to suffer. I am willing to let you suffer.
His gaze lowered from the great figures before him down to the forest floor. Petri was dead; she up in the sky, but he was down here, where he belonged.
"Tempest will bless you with your courage and obedience, Zephyr. You may begin."
It was then that Arbor turned his head back to look at Zephyr. He had large amber eyes just like his mother's, but where hers were authoritative, his were now pleading for mercy. Don't. Don't. Please, no. Zeph.
Prince Arbor had given him the power to make a choice. Zephyr had grown up among these massive branches and watchful eyes, but here beneath Calyx's harsh stare, he felt smaller than ever. But maybe that wasn't a bad thing. I'm sorry, Arbor, Zeph thought, though he knew not even the trees could hear his own thoughts.
I'm so sorry, Petri.
He took a deep breath.
"Forest, rise up." He began to recite by heart. "Spirits, awake. Hands tremble, heads shake." He spun the torch around in a great sweeping motion. "Heart to mend, body to break. For fire doth a Vessel make!" With those words, he flung the torch high into the air. It spun upwards like a boomerang. It was loud at first, but as it rose higher into the sky the noise dissipated until it was only a silent firework.
Zephyr shut his eyes. He could hear the nervous murmuring of the crowd, the wind whipping the torch as it came back down, Queen Calyx shouting at her son in Treespeak.
Cup your hands, Arbor! Hold them out! Hold them out!
Zephyr could hear the whispers of the trees as he walked. They were watching his every move, he knew, and some were apparently gossipping. He held his torch higher as he trudged across the leaves and twigs that littered the forest floor.
Do you think he'll measure up? The guard, I mean. I have seen his wild tendencies. The trees speak again.
It is only to appease the Prince, another tree responds. He is a good and loyal boy. He will do well, I'm sure. The Prince is who I am concerned for.
Zephyr shook his head, trying to clear the muddled Treespeak from his mind. Being able to understand the telepathic language was, it seemed, both a blessing and a curse.
Zeph? Are we almost there? I can't see a thing.
That was the blessing speaking. Prince Arbor, his closest--well, really, his only--friend. Zeph didn't need to turn around to know that the giant shapeshifter was following close behind him with every thump, thump thump.
"Almost." Zeph spoke in his own tongue. With his words, he could feel an anxious energy all around him, and he didn't even know which of the two of them it was coming from. They both knew that what was ahead not only carried much pressure and responsibility but also required a great deal of emotional strength, though Arbor had called it sadism.
Since then, Zeph had told the Queen he couldn't do it, but she said she believed in him. Tonight, Zeph couldn't decide who he wanted to prove right.
"Do you still have the charm?" he whispered.
Yeah. I hope it works.
That was their compromise. A hidden numbing spell would allow Zeph to feel a bit less guilty about what he had to do. It probably isn't even against the Code, he thought to himself. I never saw anything about charms in the Codebook. That was the excuse, anyway. Deep down, he knew he was wrong.
They stopped suddenly in the middle of a clearing encircled by the tallest trees of all. Their whispers died down to a hush, and then all was silent. Zeph stared straight ahead, stiff as a board, fearful to rustle a single feather out of place.
Then the tree in the center of them all rose up in a spiral of branches and bark and leaves, higher and higher into the glittering night sky. Waves of soft white hair came cascading down like a waterfall from a silver cliff. At last, she bent her head to reveal gigantic golden eyes that pierced the darkness and brought a sharp pang of fear and admiration to Zeph's heart. A softer light began radiating from her breast, and soon all the trees around her were glowing.
"My friends," She began to speak. Her booming voice sent a breeze, messing up Zeph's neat hair. It seemed as though no one else was there, but Zeph knew the whole forest was watching and listening. He reached up with his unoccupied wing to delicately smooth his cropped hair back into place.
"Tonight is a momentous occasion for my dear son, Prince Arbor. Tonight he receives his Vessel Ceremony, which in turn is one of many steps that will lead to his eventual crowning as my successor." She paused and looked past Zeph to her son. He must have looked terrified because her face had twisted into a sympathetic frown.
"The Vessel Ceremony is a test of strength. Not strength of bark or body, but strength of will. Being a Vessel carries much responsibility on its own. Once you complete this ceremony, the lives of many will be placed into your hands. It is your duty not only as a Vessel, but as heir to the throne, to defend and care for your people to the best of your ability, just as Zephyr has done for you. And to do that, you must be cleansed and start anew."
Then the Queen said, "step forward, please, Prince Arbor." That wasn't part of the script.
Arbor stepped over Zeph to stand in front of the queen. He stood as tall as a tree, but looked short in comparison to his mother. He stared up at her, his lip quivering.
"Hold out your hands," she commanded. He did.
Queen Calyx drew her own hand out and held it above his, then spun her wrist as though unscrewing the lid to a jar. With that motion, a glittering green light danced from Arbor's palms like smoke and the Queen shut her fist around it, snuffing it out.
"A numbing spell." She nodded to him with a sly smile, then turned to stare at Zeph with her glowing dagger-eyes. "That is against the Code. Pain makes you stronger, you know. Without endurance through suffering, there is no victory over evil."
"With all due respect," Zeph's voice faltered. He hadn't thought this far ahead. "I...disagree. I mean--I do agree--but I don't think--"
"My dear boy," Calyx soothed in a honey-coated tone. "Save your words. I'll listen to anything you have to say tomorrow. I promise."
Zeph felt the pinfeathers on his arms begin to spike. Without thinking, he sank into his all-too-familiar defensive position: One talon forward, wing extended, clawed palms open as if ready at any moment to grab the spear strapped across his back. "I speak on behalf of the Prince, your Highness." His mouth vibrated in what could have evolved into a snarl if Zeph hadn't caught himself.
I have discussed this with him before, the Queen hissed. I thought he was the wild one, but he has the true courage to humble himself and submit. Can I not say the same for you?
Arbor did not turn around. Zephyr's face grew hot.
Calyx pressed further. Do you remember your sister, Zephyr? Do you remember what she did for us? Does her sacrifice mean nothing to you?
Petrichor. She had given her heart, her soul, her very life to the Code. And to Arbor. A painful memory of her words danced like a taunt through his mind: I am going to rescue the prince. I am willing to give my life for my kingdom. I am willing to suffer. I am willing to let you suffer.
His gaze lowered from the great figures before him down to the forest floor. Petri was dead; she up in the sky, but he was down here, where he belonged.
"Tempest will bless you with your courage and obedience, Zephyr. You may begin."
It was then that Arbor turned his head back to look at Zephyr. He had large amber eyes just like his mother's, but where hers were authoritative, his were now pleading for mercy. Don't. Don't. Please, no. Zeph.
Prince Arbor had given him the power to make a choice. Zephyr had grown up among these massive branches and watchful eyes, but here beneath Calyx's harsh stare, he felt smaller than ever. But maybe that wasn't a bad thing. I'm sorry, Arbor, Zeph thought, though he knew not even the trees could hear his own thoughts.
I'm so sorry, Petri.
He took a deep breath.
"Forest, rise up." He began to recite by heart. "Spirits, awake. Hands tremble, heads shake." He spun the torch around in a great sweeping motion. "Heart to mend, body to break. For fire doth a Vessel make!" With those words, he flung the torch high into the air. It spun upwards like a boomerang. It was loud at first, but as it rose higher into the sky the noise dissipated until it was only a silent firework.
Zephyr shut his eyes. He could hear the nervous murmuring of the crowd, the wind whipping the torch as it came back down, Queen Calyx shouting at her son in Treespeak.
Cup your hands, Arbor! Hold them out! Hold them out!
Last edited:
- Thread starter
- #7,556
just realized copy and pasting gets rid of all the italicized stuff. darn. hold on
NC_Quail
Would rather be gardening
I can see italics
trigger warning blood
- Thread starter
- #7,559
So so cool.
you have amazing talent
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Threads with more replies in the last 15 days
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The Moonshiner's Bootleg "I'll Make You Famous" Hatch-A-Long- Started by The Moonshiner
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New to backyard chickens! I need help!
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Calcium bolus please HELP
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