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r-f-m-writes · 1 month

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A Lark In a Hollow Chapter One

Really, she doesn't have a choice.

Lark barely remembers the huge shadow of a man sitting beside her in the dead heat of Mrs. Poppy's office at the children's home. He is silent, stoic, and completely terrifying.

Christopher Hollow.

Muscled.

Six foot five.

Storm blue eyes.

Dog tags outlined under the straining stretch of his black tee-shirt.

"Lark," Mrs. Poppy says, gently, "you're happy with this arrangement? You want to go with your Godfather?"

There's no money left for her to live off until she finds a job - if she finds a job.

Her Dad is dead.

Lark doesn't have a choice.

Lark Douglas didn’t know who Christopher Hollow was when Mrs. Poppy brought his name up to her on a hot Saturday afternoon in her office. The additional details that he had served with her Dad in Afghanistan and was her appointed legal guardian and Godfather did nothing to help jog Lark’s memory.

In fact, it was a full week after Mrs. Poppy informed Lark of Christopher Hollow’s existence that the girl finally managed to scrounge up a single, short, fuzzy memory of the man.

She was home.

The door to their flat was open, the old ceiling fan had been turning in slow circles over her head. It did nothing to fight against the mid July heat that was so stifling and muggy it made her skin stick to the linoleum floors. She had sat on the couch playing with Labrador, her stuffed toy dog, when Mom walked in with someone.

Lark was five, she thinks, and she hadn’t paid attention to anything that was being said, or looked at who had stepped the room after her mother. She only glanced up from where she was making her stuffed dog do backflips off the worn-down couch cushions when big, black boots stepped into her vision off the edge of the sofa.

The man who stood in front of her was tall, wearing camo pants and a fitted grey tee-shirt. His face was hard to remember, but Lark thought he had sandy brown hair and the start of a thick brown beard. He had crouched down, setting aside a battered black duffle bag, looking at her like he expected something.

Lark had only stared at him.

Mom’s voice had a strain in it when she spoke.

“Say hi to Chris, baby. He’s come all the way from the airport just to see you.”

The man spoke before Lark had the chance. He had a deep, rough rumbly voice.

“Don’t worry her about it, Lori. Been two years. I’d be surprised if Pet remembered me at all.”

Pet.

That was the only memory Lark had of Christopher.

She wasn’t even sure it was real and not just something she had made up in the recesses of her mind as an unconscious effort to help herself fill in the gaps and feel less uncertain.

She had lots of memories like that.

Memories no one else could verify. Memories she wasn’t sure happened, but couldn’t shake as being real.

This was what led Lark to where she stood at the top of the worn flight of wooden stairs. Seventeen years old, dressed in clothes that didn’t belong to her, feeling entirely unsure of what the future would hold.

Seventeen, and only three weeks and four days shy of her eighteenth birthday.

It was ridiculous.

Stupid, even.

Why couldn’t she just wait it out at the girl’s home?

Why was Mrs. Poppy was obligated, by law, to reach out to relatives Lark had never even heard of and negotiate with them down the phone, asking and then, after the eighth rejection, pleading with each of them to come and pick her up?

“Just a month - no, no, you wouldn’t have to commit to adoption, Mrs. Tanner - not at all. I am only reaching out because Lark is your niece, and I am sure you want the best for her -”

The list thinned, name by name. Lark saw them each time Mrs. Poppy opened the manilla envelope with her initials on it, glancing over the struck off phone numbers and feeling nothing.

The rejections didn’t surprise her.

She knew from lived experience how reluctant people were to help a stranger.

It took less than half a week for them to reach the last one.

His name.

Christopher Hollow.

He was who Lark was waiting for as she hung onto the banister, her dark eyes fixed on the panes of frosted glass in the door, anticipating seeing a shadow blot across the panels when he stepped onto the porch and rang the buzzer.

Floorboards creaked.

Lark moved too late when Mrs. Poppy stepped out of her office that stood at the side of the stairs. The stacked blonde beehive of her hair bobbing into the girl’s view as Lark tried to scurry back out of her sight.

Too little, too late.

The kind wrinkles around Mrs. Poppy’s eyes doubled and deepened as the sound made her look upward and spot Lark.

“Lark, there you are! I was just about to come and find you, dear. Nip down into my office for a moment, I’ve got some things I want to discuss with you before Mr. Hollow arrives.”

The old stairs squeaked loudly as the girl walked sheepishly down the grossly worn-out blue carpet runner, rounding the curved banister at the bottom to follow Mrs. Poppy into her office.

It was sun warm inside, light spilling over the faded hardwood floor and shiny varnish of the big, brown desk, highlighting the dozens of ring-marks stained into its top by mugs of coffee past. Mrs. Poppy rounded the desk, having to skirt sideways between the edge of it and the rows of heavy metal file drawers that flanked the room on all sides.

Taking her perch in a black wheely chair, the woman gestured for Lark to sit in one of the two big, green, retro velvet sofas that faced her desk.

Sinking down into her seat, Lark folded her hands in her lap and looked at the woman, waiting to be spoken to. She had been thoroughly taught from a young age that she was to be seen and not heard. There had also been plenty of occasions when Lark wasn’t to be seen or heard. Those were moments when her half empty pink, princess wardrobe came in handy.

Mrs. Poppy placed a pair of up-swept cat eye spectacles on the tip of her tall, gently crooked nose, and took out a notepad. It was one of dozens she had, this particular piece of stationary sported Lark’s name on its front, written in black pen and then broadly underlined in purple marker.

“Miss Douglas today is a big one for you. How are you feeling, hon? Excited? Nervous?”

The soft slip of her southern accent calmed Lark some as she fought against the urge to fidget, keeping her fingers still in her lap.

“Excited, Ma’am. Dad didn’t like to travel much, so seeing the Appalachians sounds like a real adventure.”

Lark stuck a quick smile onto the end of her lie. She had rehearsed it in her head a hundred times since she was told the good news a week before.

Christopher Hollow wanted her.

He was driving the whole way down the coast from his home in the Appalachian Mountains to come and collect her. Lark couldn’t even comprehend where the Appalachian Mountains stood, just that they were stupendously far away.

Mrs. Poppy grinned at Lark, genuine and radiant, as she wrote something in fast scratching cursive over and empty line of the notepad.

“Always such an optimist, Lark. I’m sure Mr. Hollow will be delighted by you.”

Lark’s left thumb twitched. When she smiled, it felt tight in the corners, “I certainly hope so, Ma’am.”

And she truly did. Lark knew the way men behaved when they weren’t delighted by her.

~R.F.M~

A fist gripped long, brown hair tightly enough to tear dozens of strands out of Lark’s scalp as she was dragged down the hallway by her head, the girl’s frame stooped almost to the floor as she clawed at the hands restraining her.

“Fucking little bitch coming to steal from me? Think you’re slick, huh?”

In honesty, Lark did.

She had stolen from the man before on countless occasions, rummaging through the contents of his worn leather wallet, fishing out loose coins and dollar notes that wouldn’t be missed. Before, he was always too out of his mind to realize, so Lark had gotten greedy.

Twenty dollars was a lot of money to people like them. She was foolish for thinking she could snatch it away without his notice.

Lark didn’t know his name, or his age, or anything about him other than the fact he bought pot on Thursday afternoons and left the door to his apartment wide open with 90’s music playing full volume while he sat out on his balcony in a beat-up pink recliner, back to the living room, smoking.

By all accounts, the man wasn’t very smart. But he was still a man, a man much stronger than Lark.

#ao3 original work #orignal character #orignal writing #ao3 writer #archive of our own #a lark in a hollow #original male character #original female character #original novel #original work #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #shortandsweet #short and sweet #sweet'nshort #rfmwrites

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gaslightgallows · 3 months

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Hey Writeblr, show us your original project's AO3 tags.* So far for mine, I've got:

Terrible Decisions, PTSD, Bad at Relationships, Seances, Ghosts, Historical Romance, Psychological Horror, Haunted Houses, Artists Behaving Badly

*like if you were going to post your original whatever how would you tag it to let people know what to expect

#writeblr #original novel #original short story #original project #writing #writeblogging #ao3 tags

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shepherds-of-haven · 29 days

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hi!! So. i like writing for Trouble and my MC but i spend so much time clowning on him and making up silly scenarios that now i have no idea how to write him actually catching on to one of the moves she makes and what kinds of moves he cant explain away. Please do you have any tips or crumbs to throw my way to help? I need to write him making out sloppy style w my girl PLEASE!!

Anyway I really love shoh and I think about Trouble and my MC almost every day so tysm for the lovely gift of him <3 i also wrote this ask intending to be silly but if it sounds demanding or rude i am SO sorry I would never demand anything of u and will love anything you may kr may not respond with whether that be in 17 minutes or 17 years 🩵

Aw, thank you so much for this sweet message, it made me so happy to receive! 💖 Please don't worry about sounding rude at all, your words were so kind and made me grin ear-to-ear, so thank you!

To answer your question, I like this excerpt from the old novels to explain how I think Trouble can be in a romance: I usually envision him being casual or friendly and light-hearted, and then catching onto something--some shift in the mood or a lingering glance--and then kind of abruptly shifting into a more intense version of himself. It's not a side of himself he shows very often--we're mostly exposed to the goofy, jocular Trouble, but that 'intense' dominant Trouble is there, lurking underneath it all, and that's kind of the part that he struggles with because it's also tied up in his ferocious past and his temper. It's the same Trouble who can go from smiling and laughing with his friends in a bar to completely unsmiling and intimidating when he overhears some guy being a dickhead to a server nearby, except obviously in these scenarios it's sexual/romantic tension he's responding to (even if he doesn't fully know it's that) rather than regular like situational tension. I don't know if you have access to the alpha build, but the scene in the cave in Chapter 7 when he's warming up MC's hands or the abrupt change from "yay we're having fun" to "something just happened" in his latest day off (when Cordy flirts with you) are good examples of this, too! This sort of stilted "everything is great 95% of the time and then 5% of the time something happens and he can't control it" that's impeding him and MC's easy friendship is what's really throwing Trouble for a loop; he starts to feel guilty and confused and tormented about it because he thinks he's the only one feeling these things and getting in the way of what should be a smooth companionship, so he's just... feeling a lot of things and not knowing what to do with them, lol.

So I imagine 'heated makeout' tends to happen during one of these sudden changes to 'intense Trouble,' when he catches on to something he can't ignore--but I generally don't think it happens because of an outright flirtation or hint of MC's, because he can usually just laugh those off as them just joking around, so he doesn't really respond to those like one might expect? He's dazzlingly good at not catching on to things like that (short of an outright serious confession), so maybe that's why you're having trouble imagining it! I tend to imagine it happening entirely randomly, during some moment of unthinking intimacy, like in the cave in Chapter 7 or during a mission when emotions are high or something like that. Here's another example of what I'm thinking of!

...Or something like that, idk lol! Obviously take all of this with a huge grain of salt and don't let me influence you; however you write Trouble and MC's romance is fantastic! Hopefully some of these tips help you in some way!

#Shepherds of Haven #Trouble #Trouble Alder #fluff #novels #original novels #novel #original novel #writing

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katy-l-wood · 1 year

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Hello! May I interest you in some potential new blorbos?

Three halves of a whole idiot and the little sister they like varying amounts from "would die for" to "would leave out in the desert to die."

I'm so sorry tumblr is eating the image quality.

You may acquire more information about said blorbos on the Kickstarter, which launches March 1st, and you can get notified about the launch here.

#Kickstarter #Signal Boost #Original Novel #Book Rec #Character Art #The Pits #The Pits Kickstarter

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stardust-falling · 29 days

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GHOSTS OF THE HEART

NOVEL INFORMATION MASTERPOST

……

Support me on Patreon! ~ Tip me on Ko-Fi!

About the Story:

After five hundred years of peace under the guidance of the five great clans, the cultivation world was devastated by a sudden, terrible war. Song Mingzhen, the son of one of the cultivation world’s leaders, sacrificed himself to bring the war to an end— becoming gravely injured and losing his memories in the process. Five years later, having finally recovered and rejoined society, he hopes to find a new purpose in helping common people and cultivators alike recover from the war— and to move beyond it himself.

Unfortunately, things bound by fate are not so easily disentangled.

Not long after Song Mingzhen’s re-emergence, one of the great clans’ leaders is found murdered, an ancient demonic tool goes missing, and one of the perpetrators of the war, who had been held in custody, has escaped.

Song Mingzhen must now join forces with Ning Feiyun, a young prodigy with a cold temperament and a complicated past, in order to unravel the series of events and track down the fugitive— before it’s too late.

About the Novel:

《Ghosts of the Heart》 is my debut original novel. It is a xuanhuan/xianxia novel, set in a semi-historical Chinese fantasy setting. The genre is mystery, drama, and romance, with a MLM main couple. I began publishing it on patreon in February, 2024, and since then I have been publishing one new chapter every few weeks, though I hope to publish more frequently as I gain support. The entire novel is expected to be quite long, with three main parts currently planned, each part estimated to last a few dozen chapters.

Publishing Details:

The novel will be entirely self-published and released in serialization. Once completed, it will be edited and released as a full digital novel on various self-publishing platforms.

All chapters of the first major story arc (equivalent to a first book or volume) will be released free for all readers after a short paid early-access period. The latter two story arcs are planned to be patrons-only, as of now, so that I can make a living off of my writing as a disabled person.

This work is published under my own Storyteller's Policy(link tba), which allows for-profit derivatives within certain limits. Please contact me directly for further details if you wish to make or publish for-profit derivative works, including fan-sequels or merchandise.

Please support me by becoming a patron if you wish to read my novel and are able to do so! I also have no issue with those who have paid sharing my novel chapters with friends who cannot, as I am very sympathetic to not being able to afford things. I just hope that those who can support me will do so. Thank you!

Where to Read:

Full Novel on Patreon

Free Chapters on AO3

Free Chapters on Royal Road

Other Links:

Ghosts Tag

Ghosts Fanart Tag

Tip me on Ko-Fi

#ghosts of the heart #original fiction #original novel #webnovel #fantasy #danmei #xuanhuan #xianxia

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yukiwhitetm · 5 months

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I wrote! I wrote! I actually wrote!

After a long time not writing much due to my grieving the loss of three of my friends, I have finally gotten back into writing. Edited a part in chapter five that I was unhappy with and started chapter eight of TLB.

Yay!

#writing #original writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #authors on tumblr #creative writing #author #original novel #writer #original writer #writers and poets #writerscommunity

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trailofburningstar · 4 months

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Character sheet of Tyra, Rin’s closest friend and companion

#concept art #illustration #anime #character design #graphic novel #original novel #game art #fantasy #gamedev #character sheet #taleofeasternwind

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thewriteadviceforwriters · 11 months

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Hello! Do you have any tips for writing 'geopolitical' relationships between kingdoms in a story?

In The Forgotten Legends of Chima, there are tribes of anthropomorphic animals (separated by species) who have their own lifestyle and culture. There are certain tribes with more privilege than others (e.g. some are more rich than others, some withhold more Chi than others), which of course will cause some kind of resentment from others. Not only that, but the actions the leaders/kings take also affect their relationship with other tribes. The people suffer from all of this too; if a king, for example, dislikes a certain tribe, his people will also dislike it too.

I'm trying to write these kinds of relationships as realistically as possible, because TFLOC's story is almost entirely based on the coexistence of Chima's tribes. How do you, or any other writer, tackle this in their stories? Any tips? Thanks :)

How to Write Geopolitical Relationships Between Kingdoms in Any Fictional Story

Thank you so much for this submission, I'll try my best to give you a professional, and detailed explanation so you don't have to do as much research as I did (lol).

Introduction

Geopolitical relationships are the intricate connections and dynamics that exist between kingdoms in a fictional world. These relationships play a crucial role in shaping the political, social, and economic landscape of your story. By understanding and effectively portraying these relationships, you can add depth and intrigue to your narrative. I'll try my best to provide you information and help you explore the elements of geopolitical relationships and provide tips on how to write realistic and engaging connections between kingdoms in your fictional story.

What are Geopolitical Relationships?

Geopolitical relationships refer to the intricate connections and interactions between different kingdoms in your fictional world. It encompasses various aspects such as geography, history, culture, and economics. These relationships determine how kingdoms interact, cooperate, or clash with each other, shaping the overall political and social landscape of your story.

Why are They Important in Fictional Stories?

Geopolitical relationships are important in fictional stories for several reasons. Firstly, they add a layer of realism and authenticity to your narrative, making the world you've created feel more immersive. By understanding the geopolitical dynamics, readers can engage with the story on a deeper level.

Moreover, these relationships serve as a catalyst for conflict and suspense. They provide opportunities for power struggles, alliances, betrayals, and dramatic plot twists. When done effectively, geopolitical relationships can captivate readers and keep them hooked throughout the story.

How to Write Realistic Geopolitical Relationships

(Now, the good part.)

To write realistic geopolitical relationships in your fictional story, you need to consider several key elements. These elements include geography, history, culture, and economics. Let me help you explore each of them in detail:

Geography

Geography plays a crucial role in shaping geopolitical relationships. Consider the physical location of the kingdoms, including their natural resources and borders. A kingdom located near valuable resources may have an advantage in trade negotiations or military capabilities. By understanding the geographical factors, you can develop realistic relationships between kingdoms.

History

The past interactions between kingdoms significantly influence their present relationships. Historical events such as wars, trade agreements, and alliances shape the attitudes, trust, and animosity between kingdoms. Take into account the history of your fictional world and the impact it has on the geopolitical landscape.

Culture

The different cultures of the kingdoms are an essential aspect of geopolitical relationships. Explore their distinct values, beliefs, customs, and social structures. These cultural differences can create tensions, misunderstandings, and alliances between kingdoms. By delving into the cultural aspects, you can enhance the authenticity and complexity of your geopolitical relationships.

Economics

Economic systems and trade relations are crucial factors in geopolitical relationships. Consider the economic capabilities of each kingdom and how they influence their interactions. Trade agreements, rivalries, and military capabilities are all elements that can be influenced by the economic dynamics between kingdoms. By incorporating these aspects, you can create more realistic and engaging geopolitical relationships.

How to Write Realistic Geopolitical Relationships

Now that we have explored the key elements of geopolitical relationships, let's discuss some practical tips on how to write them effectively:

Do your research: To create believable geopolitical relationships, take inspiration from real-world history and geography. Understanding how real nations interacted can provide valuable insights for crafting realistic relationships between your fictional kingdoms.

Be consistent: Once you have established the geopolitical relationships between your kingdoms, strive for consistency throughout your story. Ensure that the actions and decisions of the kingdoms align with their established relationships. This consistency will make the narrative more coherent and enhance the credibility of your world.

Use conflict: Geopolitical conflict can be a fantastic source of drama and suspense in your story. Introduce clashes of interests, political intrigue, and power struggles between kingdoms. Utilize the tensions and rivalries to create compelling conflict that drives the plot forward.

Don't be afraid to change things: If you find that the initial geopolitical relationships need adjustments to serve your story's plot, feel free to modify them. As long as the changes are well-justified within the context of your story, altering the relationships can add unexpected twists and keep readers engaged.

Conclusion

Geopolitical relationships are a vital component of fictional storytelling. By understanding and portraying these relationships realistically, you can enrich your narrative and captivate readers. Remember to consider the elements of geography, history, culture, and economics when crafting these relationships. By conducting proper research, maintaining consistency, utilizing conflict, and being flexible with adjustments, you can create engaging geopolitical relationships that truly bring your fictional world to life.

(That was a handful of words lol)

Additional Tips I Use for Writing Geopolitical Relationships in Fictional Stories:

Think about the motivations of the different kingdoms. What are their goals? What are their fears?

Consider the role of individual characters within the geopolitical landscape. How do they influence or interact with the different kingdoms?

Use the geopolitical relationships to create conflict and suspense in your story.

Don't hesitate to change the geopolitical relationships as your story progresses. Flexibility can lead to more exciting plot developments.

TheWriteAdviceForWriters 2023

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chezzywezzywritinghelp · 2 years

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Conflict Narrative

Conflict narrative is the type of plot a story follows. Describing and writing for a type of conflict narrative is the driving force for the plot. Any show, movie, book, play - everything follows a type of conflict narrative or several conflict narratives.

This post will be explaining the several categories and then how to write for them.

Internal vs. External Conflicts

Internal : this is a conflict that happens within a character. It relates deeply to statc vs. dynamic characters, referring to my former post. It often leads to character development or the lack thereof, because the character(s) are actively fighting their own desires and beliefs.

External : this is set against the character(s). It’s a physical manifestation often, and the external forces stand in the way of a character(s)’s goals and dreams, creating tension and opposition.

Often, these come together and a story SHOULD include both to create an interesting and realitistic narrative. After all, real life always includes both internal and external conflicts.

Six types of Literary Conflicts

*side note : man refers to the human race (or whatever species the protagonist happens to be) and not the gender.

Man vs. Self : It’s self-explanatory. This is an internal conflict where Man may be trying to decide what is morally correct in a situation or how to improve their mental health. (ex. Les Miserables or The Handmaid’s Tale.)

Man vs. Man : It’s a direct competition between two characters. One Man’s wants is conflicting with another Man. This conflict can take the form as something small, such as a fist fight, or can encompass the entire plot as a fight for power. (ex. The Secret Garden or The Hunger Games.)

Man vs. Nature : It’s also self-explanatory. It can be a survival situation where Man is striving to survive a tsunami, or it can be a Planet of the Apes situation. (ex. Moby Dick or Into the Wild.)

Man vs. Supernatural : Man is fighting against something that is not manifested into out reality. This is usually used in horror and fantasy and science fiction. Man could be fighting ghosts to a big, murderous lizard. (ex. Scooby-Doo or It.)

Man vs. Technology : In another form, it can be worded as tradition vs. progress, depending on the defition of ‘progress’ in the novel in question. It can be something science fiction-y such as fighting robots to a tell-tale about the importance of tradition. (ex. Farenheit 451 or A Wrinkle In Time.)

Man vs. Society : This is where Man is going against a large, driving force that controls society. An example is the government, social norms, or traditions. They either are attempting to survive or fight against the external conflict. (ex. Lord of the Flies or 1984.)

How do you write and create conflicts?

It is good to note what type of genre it is and what the general plot will be. Usually, just from the gist, it is obvious what at least one conflict is. However, most books include at least two or three. when trying to conjure up the conflict, ask these questions :

What is the protagonist(s)’s main desire?

What is their unconcious desire?

What is the worst thing that can happen to this character?

What characters, institutions, or forces can bring this antagonism into relaity (if it isn’t already)?

What is/are the character(s) like and how do they create friction in the conflict?

These genral questions will reveal a lot when it comes to the nature of the plot. you can read any book, watch any movie or show, play any video game, and ALL of them will exhibit at least two of the conflicts above and flesh it out (at least, if it’s a good form of entertainment).

#original writing #creative writing #writing advice #writerblr #writblr #writer things #vocabulary #vocab #conflict #conflict types #entertainment #books and novels #novel #original character #original novel #bookblr #book

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neerbear · 1 month

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them, yet again!

currently working on the LAST illustration for this project

after that, I have a cute little fandom dump I plan on doing (which fandom? surprise!)

anyways, can these two stop being awkward and just kiss already?

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r-f-m-writes · 1 month

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Pretty, Dead Animals Chapter Four

Linette runs on Mondays.

It's ritual. A routine she had been honoring since she was fifteen and still in foster homes, trapped in the city.

It felt safer out on the flats of the desert, nowhere for predators to hide, no unexpected turns in the roads, just clear, calm sand stretching further than she could see.

Linette would have liked to listen to music while she ran, but the cost of headphones and a smartphone were luxuries that she couldn’t even dream of. The steady pound of sand under her shoes and even rushing of her breath was good enough as Linette sped across the ground, a pleasant sting in her legs and stain in her lungs as she moved.

It was mid morning. The sun sat high. She felt good, oddly optimistic for the week ahead as if there were a little spout of hope sprung up from the rubble of her heart.

Something good was coming Linette’s way. She could feel it.

~R.F.M~

Logan tugged at the length of chain to test its bearing again, watching the silver links go taught, pinching one after the other, all the way along to the stud tightened securely in the wall.

It didn’t budge.

Dropping the metal tether to the floor with a clatter, he stepped around the careful arrangement of scented markers and mindful coloring books to the mattress. Twin sized, brand new, made with top quality memory foam. It was pushed flush with the wall, right under the thick metal stud.

He hadn't bothered with a bedframe. Too much potential for her to hurt herself if she pitched a fit when she was brought home.

The sheets were white and pink, an organic blend with eight hundred thread count. Two pillows, just the same as what she had in her apartment and a light duvet with a single, beige fleece blanket folded into a square at the foot of the bed.

Other than the sleeping area, her room was sparse. No pictures hung from the walls, no clutter on the floor, nothing that she could make into a weapon or use to hurt herself. It was perfect.

Logan would buy her things, of course. If she was good, his girl could have whatever she wanted. Books. Movies. A full screen TV. Clothes and makeup.

New, pretty toys to play with that were more fun than the single raggedy old bunny she doted over.

Linette could have whatever she wanted if she was good.

But if she was bad?

Logan lifted a hand to rub along the hinge of his jaw while he stared at the length of chain.

If she was bad, then it would be Logan who got whatever he wanted.

#ao3 original work #original writing #original poem #original work #ao3 writer #ao3feed #original novel #original character #original female character #original male character #dead dove fic #dead dove do not eat #dark romance #dark writing #prettydeadanimals #pda #rfmwrites

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yet-another-heathen · 4 months

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Fire on the Mountain - V

2,611 words. Original Work: The Jackal of An-Nadr.

For new readers, The Jackal is an ongoing whump series set in 1,200 BCE, where pre-Islamic fantasy meets the love of bloody sword fights, worlds that are as vivid and alive as the characters, and the agonizing loss being dragged away from home into a life you never asked for.

<< | previous | next | >>

Chapter Warning | defiant whumpee, cauterization of an already agonizing wound, manhandling, non-con drugging (aphrodisiac, repurposed as a sedative), ancient medical practices, vivid hallucinations, staring up into your captor's eyes and begging with everything you have for them to stop, UNREALITY, xenophobia

Taglist | @killtheprotagonist @secretwhumplair @ink-and-salt @kixngiggles @brutal-nemesis @thebewilderer @whumpsical @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whimperwoods @shydragonrider @pizzasthengym @thecyrulik @ceph-the-writing-spook @mylifeisonthebookshelf @ohwhumpydays @redwingedwhump @whump-queen

The big ifrit had gone up to summon the others. Nadeem was left to try to pull himself back together. His head was a mess of that golden, swirling pleasure, and he couldn’t push it to the background no matter how he tried.

He wanted so badly to get up, to run. But his dizziness left him clinging to the bed, barely able to move.

Something was happening to the room around him. As he lay there trying to breathe through the waves of sensation, the shadows began to move.

Some very far-away part of his mind felt like it was being lit on fire. He watched it from the window above his sisters' beds, barely making out shapes in the night as the blue sky over the hills burned. He wanted to wipe the fog from his eyes, but when he tried all it did was blur the light.

Red light poured into the dark as far-distant embers glittered and shifted, swimming with such incredible radiance that he couldn't tear his eyes away. Everything was still. Everything was so still, and so quiet, and so soft.

"Fahime, Hasti," he gasped. "wait—”

He was slipping. Everything was slipping.

The sound of footsteps returning down the ladder. Dark hands. A careful touch. Someone lifted him from the bed, weightlessness making his head swim. He glanced down, Fahime gathering herself in his kurta as the light played off his face. He pulled her closer, running a soothing hand over her hair.

“Nadi, are we safe?”

He didn't...this wasn't right…

What was happening to him?

"Of course we are," he reassured her, lifting her up so she could see, too. "Look. The wind is taking it away from the valley. See how it goes brighter near the top?”

"But won't it destroy the trees?”

His mouth twitched, blinking slowly toward the distance.

"Yes it will," he murmured, resting his cheek on her head. "But it will be alright, ukhti. Sometimes things have to be destroyed before they can grow again.”

---

He didn't know where they were taking him. Only that there were more hands on him than he could count, and that he was going whether he wanted to or not.

Tendrils of darkness and dreams were still tugging at his mind like water weeds at his feet, pulling him downward as if there were something waiting for him in the cold, black muck below. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

The bright light of day flickered and disappeared as he was taken below deck to a different part of the ship, feet barely touching the steps as he stumbled down the ladder.

Down into the mud, down into the shallows where the sunlight gleamed between wave crests. Blooming gold and green, casting columns of daylight through the silt.

The room they entered was like nothing he expected to see aboard a ship. One of the entire walls was lined with tall mosaic windows, arched at the tops into elegant points. They splintered and reformed in shapes Nadeem could swear were moving, casting white and lavender light throughout the room. The opposite wall towered with shelves, glittering with vials and dried bouquets of herbs. Rows of empty cots stretched onward toward the daylight pouring through the open space at the far side of the gallery. The air was soaked in smoke and the sweet, earthy perfume of decaying plants.

And then there was the table. A great, solid slab that looked as heavy and unmovable as the pillar it was pressed against. Metal instruments, the likes of which he had never before imagined or seen, were swaying gently where they lined in racks along that pillar. Though the discoloration around the hinges betrayed their age, there were so many sharp points gleaming in the light that it made him nearly crumble to his knees in panic.

Blood smeared across the wood as his injured foot caught on uneven deck planks, though the jarring pain was not nearly enough to stop him from skidding along as he was dragged toward the massive table at the center of the room.

One of the ifrit from before, the one with the white turban, was busy directing the others about the space. His voice was sharp and clear, hands gesturing and digging about in narrow wooden cupboards as he spoke.

"G̶͇̔e̵̮͑ẗ̵͍́ ̶̹̎ẖ̶̎i̴̢͋m̴̼͌ ̷͉̽ő̵̧ñ̵͓ ̴̧͝t̶̟̋h̵̼̀e̵̼͒ ̷̖̾t̶̲̃a̶͇͘b̴̲͝l̴̘͝e̷̖̓.̶̳̓ ̸͔̔N̶̪͘e̷̲͠s̴̠͝a̵͛͜r̶̜͠ē̶̢,̶̪͘ ̵̦̃h̴͈͘a̷̻̒ņ̷̃ď̵̖ ̴̗͛m̷̗̈́e̴̺͌ ̵̘̈́t̷͌͜h̸̺͐ë̶̘́ ̶̮̇s̶͉̾i̶̼̓l̶̻͆k̸͖̃ ̵̝̅m̵̛̺ḯ̷͚n̶͔͆t̶̯̕,̸͇̇ ̵͔̋i̸̟͆n̴͉̓ ̵̛̭ẗ̵̝h̸̥͋ȇ̵̮ ̴̈́ͅl̶̗̽ë̴͙́f̶͎̀t̵̟̚ ̵̰̓c̵̥͛u̸͈͐p̶͊ͅb̶̨̈ō̶̮ä̵̺́r̴͇̒d̵̢͂—"

"Let go of me!" Nadeem snarled. He seethed and clawed into the arms of his captors, but could do nothing to stop them as they lifted him onto the table.

The world was still dark and morphing and swaying around him, and there were so many hands with so many unbreakable grips holding him down and moving him. He could barely tell up from down.

Part of him was drifting, untethered, even as his own heartbeat grew deafening in his ears.

The woman from that night around the fire was leaning against one wall with her arms crossed, watching them. Their eyes made brief, but searing eye contact, before his attention was torn away.

"Ṕ̵̱a̴͖͌s̴̤͐s̸̝̀ ̷̼͘m̷̜̕e̸͠ͅ ̷͚̈t̷̛ͅḣ̵͚a̸̹̔t̵͕͑ ̶̺̕s̶̳͌t̸̠̀r̸̭̐a̷̢̚p̸̢͝.̸̼͒ ̴̞͆W̸̬͊a̶͔͋t̵͎̓ċ̷̺h̸͝ͅ ̴̟̇h̵͚͊í̴̝s̶͚͋ ̷̱̑t̵̂ͅę̴̕ë̸͚́ţ̷́ĥ̷̳!̵̠̈".

Leather straps were cinched tight around his wrists and chest, the wide buckles tightening until he could hardly move. What was this? He wrenched and fought, gasping when someone grabbed his injured foot and strapped it down even harder than the rest of him.

Oh no. No no no no—

Someone shouted from the other side of the room where it stood open to the daylight on the opposite side of the instrument wall. Nadeem tried to turn and look, but two long hands pressed into either side of his head and turned his back up. The big ifrit that had captured him was bowed over his head, keeping his face steady and forcing him to look away from what was happening. Making him meet its eyes.

It spoke quietly to him, low words tumbling from its lips as it watched his face.

"L̷̲̏o̸͕͝o̶͕͠ķ̴̿ ̵̢̈́a̶̰̍t̸̅͜ ̸̬̑m̵̦͊e̶͖̾.̸̲̎"

The world was spinning, this was all so wrong—

"Coenta help me, I'll curse your bloodline to oblivion!" He twisted in his restraints, what very little he could. "Get off!"

In the very corner of his vision he saw another ifrit, a burly older woman with hair like a halo, hand something long and straight to the one with the white turban. He tried to focus on it, to see what he was holding...

And his stomach dropped through his spine.

His entire body arced off the table in absolute panic, thrashing so hard the leather straps and their hardware creaked with strain.

"NO! No, nonono, DON'T!" he yelled, almost dislocating his shoulders in his effort to get away, thrashing so hard that several of the ifrit crowded closer to push him back down. "Keep it, no, keep it away from me—"

A long metal iron sent ripples out into the air around it, the tip glowing orange with heat.

The ifrit circled around toward his foot, nodding once to his captor.

"Ľ̷̺o̵͙͑o̵͇̒k̶̪̈́ ̵͕̂ą̶͠t̴̯͑ ̷̇͜m̷̰̐e̶̝͆,̵͍̈́ ̷͔̇s̸̡̒w̴͍̓ĕ̶̬e̴̲̚t̷̲͝h̸̠͠e̵̟̿ä̴͇́r̴͈̀t̸̮̏," the ifrit above him tilted his face back up, obscuring his view of the iron. "T̵͕̀h̶̃ͅe̶̩͊r̸͈̓è̷̘.̵̨͆ ̸͖̃J̸̞̊u̶̘̒s̷̘͝t̶̰̃ ̷̢̓l̸͉͛o̸̩̍o̸͖͂k̷̦̈ ̶̝̋a̴̘̎t̶̛̳ ̵̻̽m̵̞͐e̴̦̓.̶͔̏"

"NO, no, not this! Oh gods please, I can't—" Nadeem felt the heat getting closer to him, and every attempt at hiding his terror crumbled. He stared up into its eyes as open fear poured across his face, stark and open beneath the ifrit's gaze. "No no no NO NO—"

His vision went white, heat spearing up his entire leg with agony like nothing he had never felt before. Everything was pain, so bright his mind couldn't truly process it. And Nadeem lost every ounce of control over his voice, and screamed.

And immediately the sound of metal clattered violently against wood. Every set of hands jerked away from his body at once.

He was sobbing through the darkness as the world swam back into existence, heat radiating up his foot like he was still being burnt. He was babbling at them to make it stop. The shocked eyes of every ifrit in the room fixed on him. The iron lay discarded on the wood behind his torturer, as though it had been flung violently out of his hand. Smoke was beginning to pour from the wood beneath it, smoldering and threatening to light.

The people around him were burning too. Smoke poured from their shoulders, their chests lit from within like embers surging to life with a change in the breeze. And every single one of them was staring at him.

The ifrit with the white turban was the first to break himself out of his shock. His fanged mouth snapped shut where he'd been gaping at Nadeem. He turned and scooped up the iron just before it could ignite.

"Y̵̖͐e̶̯̊ḙ̴͝z̶̯͂ǘ̴̦m̷̢̏ȏ̷̹n̵͇̅," he called. There was not a sound in all the room but his voice and Nadeem's crying. Then again when he didn't look up, "Y̷͈͒e̷͇̅e̷̯̅z̴̫͛ú̶ͅm̸̼̒ö̷͓n̶̗̂!̷̲́ ̵̫̃H̷̻͐o̵̭̎l̵͎̉d̷̾ͅ ̶̞̑h̷͍̒i̵̫̅m̶̠͝. T̵̲̓͝h̶̻͙̊́ë̴̟̪ ̷̜͇͋͑ȑ̵̗̼͋ȇ̶̲̦̚s̵͉̀t̵̫̫̑̋ ̷͉̘̾ọ̵̿̚f̵̙͒͑ ̶͎̺̈́y̶̰̲̆̀o̷̥͌u̷̒ͅ,̶͚́ ̶͕̯͗g̶̜̞͋̀ȇ̸̳͕́t̴̰͝ ̶̨̑̉ò̵͎̩ũ̶͈͒ṯ̵̤͝!̵̢̤̓̕"

His captor blinked, shook his head as if to clear it, then his hands returned to either side of Nadeem's head. Nadeem was still sobbing, every inch of him trembling with the violent aftershocks of the burn.

“D̸͖̑i̸̡̛d̶̗͝ ̷̻̒y̸̨̚o̵̼͂ú̵͓ ̶̡͝g̵͉͐ȅ̷̯t̴̢̑ ̸̢͂î̸͈ť̴̗?̵͎͗"

"N̷̰̈́ó̵͜,̷̛͜ ̴̙̂I̴̟̋.̴͎̓.̵̙͗.̶̢͐I̶͖͝'̸̧͛m̴̨̈ ̸̢̍g̶͓͐ö̷̩́ǐ̷̙ñ̶͖ǵ̷̜ ̸͙͐t̴̮͘o̴̠͌ ̴̜͛h̶͙͂a̶̙̋v̵͎̾e̸̬͆ ̷̥͊t̸̺̊ŏ̵͕ ̶̳͌d̸͉̑o̴̝̍ ̶͙̀i̶̭͘t̴̲̃ ̸̘̋á̶̫g̸̈́͜a̵͔͝i̷̳̎n̴̤̄,̸̡̈́ ̴̧͒Ĩ̵͇ ̷̜́d̴͚̃i̶̥͛d̵̪͝ṅ̸̡'̶̪̂t̶̩͑ ̸̤͑ĝ̷ͅe̷̖̕ţ̶̇ ̴̭̈́ę̵͐n̵̡͠o̵̜͒ǔ̴̙g̵̪̎h̸̖͠ ̴̳͆o̸̭̿f̶͖͑ ̶̖̃t̴̟͊h̷̞̽ȇ̴̤ ̶͈̐ẘ̸̤o̵͔̾u̸̬͋n̶̳͘d̶̜̒.̸͎͝ ̸̗̄P̸̦͊u̴̖̽t̸͈͗ ̴͈͛t̴̲́h̶͎͝i̸͉͝s̴̮̑ ̶͈̽i̵̝̍n̸̳̋ ̷̧̒h̸͍̏i̴͉͛ṡ̶͓ ̵͑ͅm̸̮̓o̶̭̐u̸̠͘t̶͖̄h̵͓̐.”

He didn't even have words to express his horror when the ifrit pried his mouth open and forced a leather bit between his teeth. A clawed hand clasped firmly over his mouth, muffling the horrified sobs and pleading cries that poured out of him behind it.

The ifrit raised the iron again, and there was nothing Nadeem could do but stare up into his captor's eyes as it was pressed into his wound all over again.

Everything after that was a blur of darkness and rippling, uncontrollable agony. He came to as he was being carried across the deck, clinging to the big ifrit's smoke-drenched chest and weeping as they descended back into the cabin.

Furious shouts were being exchanged by what sounded like a dozen ifrit, their argument being cut off only when the deck hatch closed above them.

His keeper sat on the edge of the cot, cradling him in its arms.

"I̴̯̍ṯ̷̄'̸͓͛s̶͔͋ ̵͕͠o̴̝͘ṽ̴̤e̶̙͐r̵̺̐ ̵̦͒n̶̖̎ŏ̵̰w̸̛ͅ,̵̧̈́ ̸͓͐l̸̳̉í̶̭t̵͍͗t̵͇̏l̵͎̋e̷̅͜ ̵̢̎o̴̖͂n̶̛̝e̴͉̅.̶͈͐ ̷̪͌Ȉ̴̞t̶̳̉'̴͇̈́s̵̝̓ o̸̳̿ṿ̸͘ę̴̈r̸̹͋."

Nadeem's fingers were locked so tightly in the ifrit's sash that he couldn't figure out how to let go. He just buried his face against the fabric, trying to muffle the sound of his sobs now that he knew he couldn't stop.

Its chest rumbled with its words as it spoke to him, those strange sounds that could almost been hushing.

A few minutes later the deck hatch opened again, and the white-turbaned ifrit descended into the small space. Nadeem sank further into his captor's arms, trying to get as far away as he could.

"Don't ccome any c-loser—" he choked out, his voice reedy and thin.

But there was none of the expected malice in the ifrit's features. Only indiscernible worry, and a glance toward his captor that Nadeem had no way of reading.

When he reached for Nadeem's injured foot he yanked it away so fast he nearly knocked the breath out of his own lungs, tucking it under himself to keep it away.

His captor wrapped another arm around him, hushing him before looking to the other ifrit. "Ĥ̸͓a̴̺͠b̷͓̀ỉ̶͇b̵̀ͅi̷̥̊,̷̤͌ ̵̦̚ ̸̭̓g̴͈̾ì̵̗v̶͚͑e̵͖̕ ̶̰͒h̷̠̊i̸̡͑m̷̟͑ ̵̣̂a̵͔̓ ̴̜͛m̶͚̽o̸̦͒m̸̻͛ĕ̴̬n̸͉̿ț̵̀."

Nadeem nearly crumbled with relief when the other ifrit hesitated, then backed away.

Hands continued running up and down his back as he tried to get his breathing under control, sobs still tearing out of him with every fresh wave of pain. Had part of the iron poker been left in his foot? It felt like it was still burning him, so much deeper inside his body than it could have possibly gone.

The weight of a blanket settled carefully over his shoulders, tucked close to him. Only then did he realize his jaw was clattering, entire body shivering violently from head to toe.

"Ḥ̵͋ȇ̶̳'̶̟̈́s̸̩͠ g̷̫͒o̵̺̎i̶̤͐n̸̻͌g̷͖̕ ̵̢͂u̵̫̅n̸̥̉d̴͈̑ḛ̷͝r̶̩̀,” the other ifrit murmured, scrubbing a hand down his face. "...ā̵̰ñ̴͔d̵͎̈́ ̶̮͂Ị̶̀ ̵̬͗ṫ̶̲h̵̲̋i̷̲̐n̴̛͎k̴͖̓ ̴͍̂Ȉ̶̲ ̶̗͠m̴̹̏i̶̥͋g̷̩̎h̷̲̍t̴̙̓ ̵̰̕b̴̻͋e̴̢͠,̷͎̆ ̷̳̄t̶̙̔ȯ̷̝ȍ̷͜.̴̱͆ ̷̭͌Ÿ̴̡́è̴̫e̸̻͗ẕ̸̿ŭ̷͎m̵̪̄o̶̳̅n̸̦͆,̸̟̌ ̴̱̚t̶̫͐h̶͕͗į̸̛š̴̡ ̶̩̀ḯ̸̙s̶̹̊n̷̼̏'̴̧̉t̴̳̓ ̴̯͗ș̷́a̸̚͜f̷̖̔e̶͚̓, w̴͖̐͛e̸͕͂̏ ̶̝͠h̸̲̀̐ä̴̮͘v̶̛͍̟̄e̸̯̦̒̆ ̸̖̋t̵͖́̅ó̸͚—"

"Ṅ̶͔o̶̡̾t̴̛̟ ̵̙̉n̴̰̈ó̸ͅw̶̯͘." Then, softer, "N̴̰̎o̵̰͌t̸̡͝ ̴̼̉n̸̗̍o̸͇̚w̶͖͑,̷̞̅ ̶͔͂h̸͕̿ä̴̹́b̷̬͗i̵̳͠b̷̭̀ỉ̶̭.̷͕̒ Ȉ̴̘ ̴͉̆ċ̷̗ã̷͚n̶͚̎'̷̠̀t̶̖̀…I̶͈̾ ̸̖͌c̸̛͈a̸̱͌ṉ̶̈'̴̞̉t̵̳́ ̴̲̌ľ̴̜e̷̮̾a̷̱̎v̷̜͋e̴̝̍ ̶͈͌i̶͔̍t̷̳̓ ̸̫̚ ̴͙̄l̷̈́͜i̸͇̇k̴̩̃e̶̻͊ ̷̖̍ṱ̷̃ẖ̶͝ȋ̸̢ş̸̊.̴͈͝."

It looked down where Nadeem had tucked his face against its chest, too sick with pain to care who or what he was clinging to.

"W̵̕ͅè̴̜'̷̮͝l̷̮̓l̵̦̈́ ̴̘̔f̵͙̋ḁ̷̉c̶̯̅e̴͍̋ ̴͝ͅĀ̵̻d̶͎̃r̸͎̎s̷̳̀i̶̛ͅa̵̡͂e̸͈͛ ̵͈̋ẉ̶̆h̷̩̒e̷̫͘n̶͚̾ ̷̫̉t̵̛̙h̸͇̀e̸̖̍ ̸͇̇t̵͚̚ì̷̜m̸̪̉ë̶͕́ ̸͇̀c̵̨͆ọ̴̉m̴͙̓ẻ̸̜s̷̹̕," he said, his body shifting against Nadeem's as he reached a hand out for the other ifrit's. "B̶̰̒u̵̙͗t̵̢͗ ̷̯͠n̶͖̕o̶̙̒t̷͍̃ ̸̘̔n̶͖̏ỏ̷̢ẁ̴͈."

The edges of reality had once more begun to blur. Dark, waking dreams spun through the shallows of his thoughts, pain spearing up through his foot as he waded out into the reeds.

Gods, he was losing it. But the water had to be safer than this.

He was still trembling a few minutes later when both ifrit coaxed his foot back out from underneath him. He had to bite back the whines of pain that pressed up his throat and against the back of his teeth, tears gathering uselessly in his eyes as he watched the ifrit turn his foot over and inspect it.

A moment before it began probing into the wound, a long hand clasped over his mouth. It was only just in time to suffocate the whine of pain that flooded out of him when the ifrit lifted a shallow bowl full of thick, white paste and began pressing the mixture into the wound. His nails dug into its skin, head going fuzzy and dark as black waves of agony rolled through his whole body. No matter how he struggled he couldn't pry his foot out of its grasp. He just sank down in its hands, while the big ifrit purred against his temple.

He'd never felt so hollow with exhaustion before in his life. He was still only one day past dying. Was this torture all that lay in store for him, now that he'd lost his chance to get away?

He wasn't going to survive. Not if this was what was waiting for him.

The ifrit was quick to bandage his foot, and then released him and let him once more hide his injury out of sight beneath his robes.

An uncaring part of his mind realized he'd sunk into the heat of its skin, eyes barely staying open as the adrenaline in his system crashed and whatever they had drugged him with took back over.

Ripples spread out around him at waist-height, opaque under the cold moonlight. The reeds stirred, wind caressing the nape of his neck.

He couldn't walk. There was no way he was getting away, even if he somehow got off the ship. He was helpless. He was stranded. The realization hit him like a sandstorm, dragging at his clothes and peppering his skin with pain.

They had burned him. He was alone. And he wasn't going to be able to get away.

The crickets sung in the reeds, nothing disturbing the water but him. All around him, for miles and miles, the dark spread silent and cold across the landscape.

He was alone.

He was never going to see his family again.

Nadeem fell to his knees, and plunged beneath the surface of the water.

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