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atypicalamortentia · 10 months

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Riddle's Diary || Tom Riddle

Synopsis - A few days into your last year at Hogwarts, you wake up to find an unusual diary nestled between your class books. After uncovering its secret, the diary very quickly becomes the only thing you can think about.

Warnings - SFW.

Notes - All characters a 18+

Word Count - 4k.

[Caffeinate Me]

You weren’t exactly sure where the diary came from. You had woken up one morning to find it neatly nestled between your class books on your bedside table. You had asked around Hogwarts to see if anybody had put it there, alas nobody had owned up to placing it in your belongings.

The diary itself was plain black and made of leather. The unrecognised name of ‘Tom Marvolo Riddle’ was written in gold on the bottom of the very back of the diary. As you studied the diary, your first instinct was to flick through the pages but when you did, you saw they were all empty. It was as if the diary was brand new. Unused. You shrugged and placed the diary neatly back where it had been and went about your day as usual, forgetting all about it until you returned back to your dorm room that evening.

When everybody had gone to bed and you were sure everybody was asleep, you grabbed the diary and made your way down to the common room where you sat at a desk facing a window, looking out at the clear night sky. You admired the diary for the second time today and sighed. “Where did you come from?” You muttered to the diary. You opened it to the middle page and inspected the lining of the book. You were looking for any evidence that there had been pages ripped out, but the lining of the diary remained intact suggesting that there hadn’t been. Just as you were about to close the book and head back to bed, words appeared on the page in front of you:

Hello.

You shook your head and squeezed your eyes shut tightly before reopening them and looking at the page the words had appeared on. There was nothing there. “I must be going mad,” you whispered to yourself. You were about to close the diary once more before words appeared on the page again:

No, you’re not going mad.

Then, as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared without a trace. You picked up the diary and looked closely at the page.

My name’s Tom Marvolo Riddle. What’s yours?

You gasped loudly. What sort of magic was this? You watched as the words disappeared from the page before you looked at the ink pot that sat neatly on the corner of the desk you were sitting at. “Am I really going to do this?” You asked yourself before picking up the feathered quill pen and writing your name on the page of the diary. You waited for a few seconds, not sure what you were expecting to happen but just like the words you had seen, your name simply disappeared from the page. In its place was a response:

That’s a pretty name for a pretty girl.

The words were gone and the page was yet again blank. Did a diary really just call you pretty? You shook your head once again and allowed the quill in your hand to glide across the page as you wrote your reply:

What is this book?

You waited a few seconds before a response came.

My diary.

“But why would somebody enchant a diary?” You asked aloud to yourself.

So I can live forever.

“Oh,” you frowned at the words on the page. Whatever it was, whoever it was, they could hear you speak? This was magic you had never encountered before, nor even knew was possible. You didn’t respond to the diary and instead looked out of the window as your mind whirled with possibilities. You still didn’t even know where this diary had come from and now you were up in the middle of the night talking to it? When you finally looked down at the page, you saw another sentence:

It’s late. You should go to bed beautiful.

You closed the diary without writing a goodbye. You were shaken and confused. “It is late,” you mumbled to yourself looking at the grandfather clock situated in the corner of the common room. This all had to be one weird dream. You would wake up in the morning to no diary that could hear you or write to you and you’d tell your best friends about it and you’d laugh about the weird dream. Yeah. That would happen. You grabbed the diary and stood up, making your way back to the girls dorm and climbing back into bed. You placed the diary back where it was when you found it and fell into a deep sleep.

You were the last to wake in the morning and the first thing you did was look for the diary. There it was, right where you left it. So it wasn’t a weird dream? You opened the diary and waited for words to appear, but none did. “Maybe I was just so sleep deprived I imagined the whole thing,” you whispered to yourself. You waited for a few more moments and still no words appeared. “What am I thinking?” You groaned and threw the diary onto the bed before getting ready for the day to come.

Your first class of the day was potions. It was probably your favourite class, but as you sat and listened to Professor Snape drawl on about various different potions you just couldn’t concentrate. No matter how hard you tried. Your mind kept lingering back to the diary and the night before. After potions class you had a free period. You tended to sit in the library and study, but yet again you couldn’t concentrate. You found yourself sneaking back to the common room and acquiring the diary, placing it in your bag before going to your second, and final, class of the day. You found yourself peering at the dairy in your bag throughout the lesson through the corner of your eyes, not paying attention to the Professor that was trying to teach you Defence Against The Dark Arts. The lesson was soon over and you evaded your friends to head back to the common room in an attempt to communicate with the diary once more. You sat at your bed, pen in hand, and began to scrawl onto the page in front of you.

Was I dreaming last night?

You waited a second and before you knew it, the words you wrote had disappeared leaving a response in its wake.

No.

Your eyes widened and your heart began to thump desperately in your chest. You shook your head and watched as the words left the page until it was blank once more. You were about to write back about how insane this was but the diary beat you to it.

You think this is crazy, don’t you?

You nodded and cried out, “yes!”

It’s not. It’s magic.

“Well duh,” you groaned loudly.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Your friend's voice came from the other side of the girls' dorm. You panicked and snapped the diary shut before throwing it under your pillow just in time for your friend to walk in.

“I’m fine,” you said, blinking rapidly at her.

“I heard you say ‘yes’ extremely loudly,” she looked around the room realising nobody else was in there but you. “Who were you talking to?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

You frowned and shrugged, making up a quick lie. “Just thought of the answer to some homework I have. Been thinking about it for days and it finally came to me.”

“That’s… good…” Your friend said slowly before backing out of the room leaving you alone yet again. When you were sure she was gone, you grabbed the diary back from under your pillow and opened it.

Ashamed of me?

The diary wrote. You raised an eyebrow and wrote back instantly.

You’re a diary.

That’s not a no.

You scoffed. You weren’t ashamed per say, just confused. It was a damn talking diary! You needed to find out more about the diary before you let people see you with the damn thing. You sat crossed-legged on the bed, pen in hand, and continued to talk to the diary.

So. Tell me about yourself.

The diary responded instantaneously with a counter question:

Why don’t you tell me about yourself, pretty girl?

You rolled your eyes. Out of all the magical things you thought would make a blush rise to your cheeks, a diary certainly wasn’t one of them.

Stop calling me “pretty girl”.

Why should I?

You bit your bottom lip as you wrote back furiously.

You don’t know what I look like.

Are you sure about that?

You paused and looked around the room. Surely your friends weren’t pulling a prank on you with this diary were they? When you didn’t answer, the diary continued to write to you.

Why don’t I show you who I am?

Your heart continued to beat rapidly in your chest and before you knew it, you were being sucked into the diary. You looked around the room and recognised it as your dorm room. The diary was nowhere to be found and so, not sure what had happened you smoothed down your uniform and began to walk out of the room. Things looked exactly the same and you made your way out of the common room to the grand staircase. There, you saw a man with curly hair and the most piercing brown eyes standing at the bottom of the staircase. He looked on as someone was taken away, covered by a sheet - someone had died? You didn’t recognise the man and his robes were slightly different to yours and it was then that you realised you were in a different time era. The cogs were turning in your head when suddenly you were interrupted by a voice you were familiar with. “Tom?” You looked to see Professor Dumbledore standing in front of the man, shielding his view as the body was wheeled away.

“Tom?” You asked loudly, but nobody turned to look at you. “Tom Marvolo Riddle?”

“What’s happened Professor?” Tom asked Professor Dumbledore who looked on sadly, placing his hand on the man’s shoulders.

As the pair talked, you walked next to Dumbledore and waved a hand in front of his face. When he didn’t acknowledge you, you began to realise what was happening. These were memories. Tom’s memories to be exact. The two began to fade away and suddenly you were left alone in the corridor before you were sucked back out of the diary and onto your bed. You blinked a few times and looked at the diary that lay on your bed. “What the hell was that?” You asked yourself, opening the diary to the first page.

That was a memory of mine, my dear. You see, I used to be a student at Hogwarts.

You raised an eyebrow before picking the pen back up and scribbling back.

Used to be?

Yes, used to be. A long time ago.

“That explains why I didn’t recognise you,” you said, knowing that the diary would respond to your mumbling.

Exactly. Who could forget a handsome face like mine?

The diary replied. You yet again rolled your eyes and scoffed. The diary wasn’t wrong though, he was extremely handsome.

What are you thinking about?

The diary asked. This made you think about what you were thinking about and instantly you shook your head as if trying to shake the thoughts from your brain.

Nothing.

Came your response. You continued to shake your head, not allowing the thoughts to re-enter your mind of Tom Riddle. You bid your goodbyes before closing the diary and placing it back under your pillow - not allowing the diary time to say goodbye.

An hour had passed since you last spoke to the diary and you were already itching to talk to it again… To talk to him again. Despite having your friends around you, sometimes you felt like an outcast. Somebody who didn’t belong. This diary was making you think… Was making you feel. “This is ridiculous,” you whispered to yourself as you walked down the hall to the Great Hall. You opened the large doors to the Great Hall and were met with crowds of people gathering around their house tables, eating away at the large feast that was spread out across the long tables.

“Y/N!” Your friend called, standing up and waving her arms to catch your attention. “Over here!” You smiled weakly at her and walked over to your house table, settling down next to your friend. “Where have you been? We haven’t seen you all day!”

“I erm…” You whispered, looking down at your skirt. “I’ve not been feeling well. I’ve been in the girls dorm for most of the afternoon, just resting.”

“Are you feeling better?” Another one of your friends asked you, to which you just nodded a response. “Good.”

You began to eat the food on your plate silently as you continued to think back to Tom Riddle's memory. There was no denying that if that man was Tom Riddle, he was extremely handsome. Charmingly handsome. His brown eyes were inviting as he looked past Dumbledore at the gurney the covered body was laying on. They twinkled as if they were harbouring a deep secret, one you were sure you could get out of the diary if you asked.

“Y/N?” Your friend shouted, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you, grabbing your attention from your thoughts. “I said have you done the potions homework?”

You looked at your friend with a mouthful of food and shook your head. Gulping the food down, you began to speak. “When is it due? I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“Like what Y/N?” Your friend hissed silently. “This is our last year for goodness sake! Get your head in the game or you’ll fail your exams!”

You straightened your body and nodded. “You’re right.”

“I know,” she smiled, brushing off her shoulder playfully. You turned back to your food and continued eating in silence as your friends around you chattered and laughed. Before you knew it, you were making your way back to the common room quickly, alone yet again. You walked up the moving staircases, being careful not to get trapped on the revolving stairs as you hurriedly made your way back to your dorm. You got into the girls dorm and slammed the door shut behind you. When you realised you were alone you walked over to your bed and picked up your pillow revealing the leather diary you had been thinking about non-stop for the last twenty-four hours. You could tell in your gut that this diary was going to become a problem for you. You picked it up and sat down on your bed opening the book.

Did you miss me?

Your eyes widened at the words on the page.

No.

You lied.

Liar.

No.

This continued for several minutes before you gave in.

I suppose I missed the company you seem to bring me.

You wrote. Your heart was yet again thumping in your chest as you scribbled the words on the empty, yellow parchment.

How cute.

Cute? You wouldn't exactly call it ‘cute’. It was more sad than anything. Talking to a diary, memories of somebody from the past as opposed to your kind, caring and loving friends. You gripped the diary tightly between your fingers, folding the book ever-so-slightly. Your leg was bouncing off the floor as you thought about what to say to Tom next. Alas you didn’t have to think before more words were scrawled on the page.

How was your day?

“My day?” You mumbled to yourself, grasping the pen tightly in your hand as you began to write back.

My day was okay. I haven’t been able to concentrate on my studies today.

And why is that?

“This damned diary,” you said loudly. You placed the diary, open, next to you gently on the bed and stood up. With your head in your hands, you grasped your hair and pulled ever-so-slightly whilst groaning in frustration.

What is it about my diary that is so distracting to you, my dear?

You looked down at the diary on your bed and sighed. You picked it up again and replied.

It’s like having a constant friend in my bag.

You didn’t have to wait long for Tom’s reply.

A friend?

“Yes, a friend,” you whispered in a hushed voice.

But, that’s a good thing isn’t it? To have a friend with you at all times, no matter where you are. No matter what you do.

You thought for a moment. You supposed it was a good thing, but again you knew this diary was going to become a problem for you if you kept it.

I have to give your diary away.

You wrote on the empty page after much deliberation.

NO!

Tom replied. There was an urgency in his writing. The capitalisation of the letters sent your heart into a frenzy. This diary, this Tom Riddle, had been in your life for roughly twenty-four hours now and you were already starting to feel attached.

Why do you have to give my diary away, pretty girl?

You bit your bottom lip as you ran the pads of your fingers across the parchment. The words dissolve off the page in the blink of an eye. The thought of that handsome boy in the memory calling you a pretty girl brought a blush to your face. You shook your head. You couldn’t be thinking like that. You didn’t know a thing about this Tom Riddle, about this diary.

We should meet.

The words flashed on the page.

“Meet? How could we possibly meet?” You asked the diary, confusion laced your voice.

Magic.

Came the reply. In an instant you were sucked into the diary yet again. You stood up off the bed and brushed yourself off, taking in the room around you: you were in another memory. There was movement in the corner of the room and your eyes shot to the darkness of the room's corner. A figure loomed in the shadows and your heart began to thump, your ears began to ring and your legs began to shake. Were you trembling out of fear? Out of anticipation? You weren’t quite sure.

“I’ve been very anxious to meet you,” a voice came from the shadows. Stepping into the light, the curly haired male from the first memory stood in front of you.

“T-Tom?” You asked, ears still ringing.

The man took a few steps towards you, a twisted smile graced his lips as he spoke confidently in response. “Yes. It’s me.”

“H-How is this even possible?” You asked. You were breathless as Tom continued to stalk towards you.

“It’s simple magic really,” Tom replied. He was now standing mere feet away from you and you could truly admire his features in the girls dorm light. “Have you been as anxious to meet me as I have to meet you?”

You shook your head as your throat ran dry. You gulped down a lump and spoke, trying your best to sound unaffected by him. “You’re just a memory.”

“I may be just a memory, but that doesn’t mean I’m not real,” he whispered, bringing his face closer to yours. He looked deeply into your eyes before his gaze dropped down to your lips and back up to your eyes again. “It doesn’t mean that what I don’t feel is real…”

“What do you mean?” You asked softly.

Tom brought a hand up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. His face was so close to yours that you could feel his breath on the side of your face. It was warm, intoxicating almost. You felt your heart flutter as his hand dropped from your hair and to your hand that rested next to you. He held it up to his heart which you could feel beating in tandem with your own. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I feel Y/N.”

You shook your head a ‘no’ as he spoke to you, lips gracing your ear seductively. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He pulled away from your face and stood up straight. Brown eyes twinkling in the dim light of the room, staring into your soul. “Liar,” he whispered, a chuckle escaping his lips.

“Tom…” You whispered breathlessly. You sucked in a breath and moved closer to him, touching his shoulders gently with shaky hands. “I can touch you?”

“Of course you can,” Tom smirked. “And I can touch you.” He responded with a hand ghosting your hip, pulling your body closer to his. Your heart was skipping beats at his touch and you looked up at him. “I can even kiss you, if you want me too.” Tom’s hands cupped your face as he brought it closer to his own, gaze flickering down to your lips seductively.

“Why would you kiss me?” You whispered to him, eyes burning into his own. You desperately wanted to look away out of embarrassment, but you kept strong.

“Because I’m in love with you,” he said so nonchalantly.

Your eyes widened and you stepped back at his words, visibly recoiling. “Excuse me?” You asked, raising your eyebrow.

“You heard me,” Tom replied as he dropped his hands from your cheeks and gripped onto your hip, earning a squeak from you. “I’m glad you found my diary.”

“I didn’t find it,” you whispered. “It was placed in my belongings and was there when I woke up the other morning.”

Tom hummed and with his free hand, stroked his chin. “Fate has brought us together then, my love. Together, we can do it.”

You pulled away from Tom’s grasp and looked at him with confusion on your face. “Do… What?”

“Open the Chamber Of Secrets, of course,” Tom replied. The Chamber Of Secrets? What on earth was the Chamber Of Secrets? Your face must have asked the question before you could vocalise it, and Tom chuckled. “You don’t know about the Chamber Of Secrets?” You shook your head. “What are they teaching you at this forsaken school,” Tom said whilst rolling his eyes.

“Magic,” you answered softly.

Tom continued to roll his eyes at your answer but he leaned in closer to you once more, his breath fanning across your face causing your entire body to shiver in anticipation. “Will you help me?” He asked. Without even thinking, you found yourself nodding a simple ‘yes’. Tom pulled away from your ear and smirked down at you. “Good. Good. We shall waste no time and get to work immediately.”

“Okay…” You nodded slowly. You looked into Tom’s eyes and felt your palms get sweaty almost instantly at the way he was looking at you. There was a hint of need there, possession maybe. Whatever it was, you couldn’t quite place it.

“About that kiss,” Tom whispered huskily, stepping one step closer to you so that he was now invading your personal space. “Would you like it?”

Before you even thought about it, your head was nodding a ‘yes’. Tom was grinning at you, licking his lips before he placed them on yours softly. You whimpered the second his lips touched yours but melted into the kiss almost immediately. You felt Tom’s hands rest on your hips, gripping tightly and pulling you flush against his chest protectively. Tom wasted no time in deepening the kiss, pushing you backwards until your back hit a wall behind you. You were suddenly trapped and wouldn’t be able to get away from him if you wanted to. Your cheeks were on fire as you felt Tom bite down on your bottom lip between his teeth before he pulled away and looked at you.

“How was that?” He asked breathlessly. His arms had fallen from your hips and were now resting on either side of your head as he leaned above you against the wall.

“Best fake kiss I’ve ever had,” you whispered, voice low and nervous.

“I think it’s time I return you to your time,” Tom said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I just wish I could keep you here with me… Forever.”

You blushed furiously at his words and before you knew it, you were being transported out of the diary and you were sitting back on your bed in the girls dorm. The diary was once again open and a few words were sprawled on the page for you to see:

Come visit me again soon sweetheart.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom marvolo riddle #tom marvolo riddle x reader #lord voldemort #lord voldemort x reader #voldemort #voldemort x reader #harry potter #harry potter imagines #harry potter x reader #harry potter imagine #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle imagines #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle fluff

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whumpster-dumpster · 1 year

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Hello! Your blog is amazing, thanks for it! Can you imagine some whump prompts for dark academia?

I'm not very familiar with the dark academia aesthetic but I can try!

Papercuts

Ink to the eyes

Poisoned tea/coffee

Constant all-nighters

Topical poison on book pages

Burns from candles or sealing wax

Elegant "love" letters from a stalker

A fall from the ladder/stairs in the library

Dabbling too deep into tomes of dark magic

Whumper punishing Whumpee for poor calligraphy

Eyestrain/headaches from long reading and low light

Hand injuries from writing for too long without breaks

Whumper plucking Winged Whumpee's feathers for quill pens

Hiding bruises and/or scars under their cardigans/blazers/tweed

Overheating in said fashion (or caught in cold weather without it)

Whumper blackmails Whumpee after getting ahold of their private writing

Whumper inflicting wounds on Whumpee that are meant to emulate tragic classical art

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 7 months

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I think Rollo needs to seriously chill out 😭 maybe read him a calming story or something miss Raven

Will Today be the Day?

In an attic tucked away from the eyes of the world, a young man toiled away at a writing desk. The quill, his implement of choice. Written word, the scripture he preached to an audience of one.

A girl in a feathered frock shawl stood off to the side. On the occasion that she leaned over to check up on him, he would shift an arm over the pages, covering their contents. The third time, she finally spoke up.

"Rollo-senpai, why don't you take a break from writing?" Raven suggested, gently placed a hand over his—the one which clutched onto a quill as though it were his lifeline.

His writing hand stilled, and an icy mask fell over his expression. Her touch, despite the gloves that prevented direct skin-to-skin contact, was hastily brushed off.

“I am aware of my own limitations.”

"I've claimed much the same before, and do you know where that landed me? In the school infirmary, being treated for a sprained wrist.” Raven paused, then slyly added, “Isn’t such hubris considered a sin?”

Rollo's mouth tightened. Miraculously, he set the quill down and swiveled to properly face her. "... You should know that I do not enjoy spending my time being idle. If you are going to insist that I rest, then I expect a fulfilling alternative."

"That shouldn't be an issue." Raven indicated a bookcase to her right, then at the various volumes sitting in stacks along the floor. "There are plenty of reading materials avaliable to you. It's a mix of my own works as well as those I've personally purchased."

His face creased at the idea. "I'm not certain the subject matter we're interested in aligns. You appear to be invested in... more fantastical stories rather than grounded historical works.”

"It wouldn't kill you to broaden your horizons and attempt a new genre every now and again. Shall I make you a recommendation?”

The offer was met with a sour look.

She sighed and picked up a book from the top of a pile, dusting off its cover. “This one takes place in your country. It's a fateful tale of foolish youths in love, the social and political strife between their families, and the bloodshed that results. It’s the perfect intersection between your interests and mine—I think you’d find it most intriguing.”

Raven held it out to him, expecting Rollo to accept. When his fingers failed to reach for the book (instead remaining stubbornly folded over his chest), she rolled her eyes and flipped open to the first page.

“… Very well. I’ll read it to you then. You’ll soon be praising my taste in literature, you’ll see!!”

He arched a brow, doubtful. Rollo tapped a finger against his arm. “I will be the judge of that, Miss Crowley. Now get on with it, if you please. Quickly, before I decide to pick up the pen once more.”

“Ah-HEM!!” Raven cleared her throat, summoning the grandest narrator voice she could manage. Her words came out as clear as a bell cutting through a new day.

"Two households, both alike in dignity... In the fair Fleur City, where we lay our scene…”

The sternness never left Rollo’s features, but they softened somehow. Was it a trick of the light making him appear more amicable? Or was if that he had allowed his eyes to drift shut, snuffing out the dark fire that perpetually burned in his pupils?

He was silent, and he listened.

The peace, temporary.

The silence, golden.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #Raven Crowley #Rollo Flamme #disney twisted wonderland #Rollo at the Writing Desk #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions

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thedawntreaders · 2 years

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none of the pevensies come back the same after living in narnia. everyone knows this. but while you all focus on how going between two worlds over an expanse of time affects their psyche, i'm here realizing that peter pevensie would be sick of using pencils and pens to write.

they feel weighted between his knuckles, he realizes in school, when scribbling down notes becomes a lot more tedious than he remembers it to be. still, he tries to manage. he also notices that he takes a little longer than the average person to flesh out a rough draft essay during class time, much to his distress. in narnia, he had the entire day to plan out what he was going to write and virtually unlimited resources; what can he do with only a notebook made for submission and a couple hours? still, he tries to manage.

the final straw however, is when the professor takes off his glasses in frustration and huffs out an order for peter to work on his "chicken scratch". that's when peter's ego takes a hit, and he snatches back the paper to look at it. what makes things worse is that the professor is right. peter's handwriting looks absolutely shaky and unintelligible, as if he were a baby learning how to write all over again.

he has to do something about it.

"peter? peter!" lucy snaps her fingers in front of him. he blinks, once, twice, and shakes his head.

"what?" lucy rolls her eyes, and nods to their sister.

"i don't like that look on your face, it's the face you make when you're planning something utterly ridiculous," susan comments with a squint. peter waves her off.

"it's nothing, don't worry about it." edmund snorts, keeping his eyes trained on the page of his art history book. "well now she definitely is going to."

later that week, susan has to be physically restrained by edmund and lucy.

turns out, most feathers found on the ground are crushed beyond repair underneath the footsteps of everyday people. so, in order to fetch proper quills, peter performs the ultimate sacrifice for himself and his siblings...

and lunges after a bird.

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scythidol · 9 months

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🐚 poet/writer inspired pronouns ✦

poet/poets . writer/writers . pen/pens . pencil/pencils . quill/quills . feather/feathers . page/pages . write/writes . poem/poems . paper/papers . coffee/coffees . tea/teas . note/notes . note/notepad/notepads . ink/inks . poetry/poetries . rhyme/rhymes . verse/verses . chapter/chapters . 00/00s . 01/01s . 02/02s (any number really, these are meant to be page/chapter numbers)

🐚 poet/writer inspired titles ✦

(prn) who writes masterpieces . the one who rhymes (prns) words . the one sipping (prns) coffee/tea/other drink . the author (of many poems) . (name) the writer . (prn) with a whole world in (prns) mind . the one spilling (prns) mind onto paper . the spilled ink . (prn) who dips (prns) quill into ink . the one filling pages with stories . (prn) who can transport you to another world (with just a few words)

requested by : @toffiga

#꒰ suggestions . . ꒱#pronouns #pronoun suggestions #pronoun ideas #titles #title suggestions #title ideas #poet #writer

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micyclemorton · 9 months

Text

ORPHEUS' WRITING - HEADCANONS

HOLLOW - Hollow’s script is thin and pointed, but he still tends to use cursive in an attempt to keep things neat. He’s harsh in his writing, often capitalising to show command in tone with little regard for the actual words. He writes exclusively in a crystalline, pale blue ink, preferring to use a quill for flair and control over the thickness of his lines. It hardly bleeds through the pages, seeming fragile - though drying quickly, there is something about it that appears urging to escape the page. To leave. To be lost.

HIGH ROLLER - High Roller barely has the time to write, though his handwriting runs. It’s a series of rapid loops and scrawls, penned in often bleeding black ball-point, just in order to keep track of his games. Almost all of his writing is done in a small notebook he keeps in a jacket pocket, the pen secured only by virtue of the cap and haphazardly stuck on or inside the pockets of his pants instead. He’s the only one able to decipher what’s written - save for the ever-vigilant Risktaker - and takes relief from that fact, though his rapid thoughts in the casino often leave him struggling to remember.

DUKE RAVEN - Duke Raven uses, as expected, a rather dramatic raven’s feather quill to write. He claims it was a gift from Duke White Raven, though this is unconfirmed. Though he has his own concerns, he keeps these in another book elsewhere, and is only ever seen scribbling down notes in a jagged shorthand when he’s following Paranormal Detective, so close as to step on his coat tails should they be longer. This ink colour and writing utensil differs depending on what’s available at the Expo, but his standardised notes (that he hides from others) are written with the feather in slate-grey ink, similar enough to a lead pencil (and oft mistaken for such, to his dismay).

EVIL THOUGHTS/VILLAIN CHARM - The ink or lead that these costumes both use is dull, lacking pen ink’s artificial sparkle, and always a violently dark shade of red. It drags across the page, smudging carelessly, and that’s the only exception to the darkness - where it bleeds through the pages, mostly cobbled scrap and frustrated loose sheets hurled into the waste-bin, the stain underneath is nauseatingly bright, fresh, and tacky to the touch as if never quite dry. In the case of pencil, other tones can be found in or around the script, wooden splinters pressed harshly enough into the papers to leave brown imprint.

FOLK WRITER - Folk Writer’s writing is mostly done in bound booklets, those he crafts himself, and he uses a brush with his ink as opposed to writing in a more modern sense. He writes, unbinds and places the pages before sealing anew, keeping the scripts as neat as he possibly can. Though he locks himself away to complete his work for concerning amounts of time, he decorates his writing room to be suitably bright, and hangs his own previous manuscripts on the walls. His brushes do create bleeds and stains, of course, though he regards the imperfections as another call to time in faith.

HOMESICK - Homesick writes endlessly, with all manner of instruments at his disposal, fervent in keeping his memories alive. It doesn’t matter to him, not at all, if things are messy or downright illegible. He pours himself into everything he writes, to the point of hoarse voice from harsh breathing and bloodied grip, whether unintentional or not. The loneliness twists into him as if pulling the words from his mind, so he uses it all as his release, hoping that one day his paper boats and cranes can sail back home and meet the ones he cares for most. Desperation seeps through every letter he places, accented only by the dark stain of teardrop fallen.

ORFEO - Orfeo’s writing reflects as he is: eternally lost. Wandering, sentences never finished, bullet points to directions never specified. The most notable thing, whatever implement or ink colour may meet his pages, is that his stories never end happily. He cannot comprehend a life shaped without tragedy, much as he’d like to try. His words are simple, detached lettering scratched into papers where ink runs dry. He heralds it, however much it hurts, as his only salvation, and keeps the pages in hand-woven notebooks that fall apart time and time again, never giving up until they rot through his fingers. He’s not a convicted man, no, and neither is his talent - he simply writes, even when in hazes of grey apathy, when his muse has left, just to stave off the life he cannot live.

SCREENWRITER - Even when not thinking of ideas for his next script, Screenwriter finds habits hard to break. He phrases simply, even though he’s not jotting bullet-points for a proper script, but leaves no detail unwritten. His handwriting itself is clearly legible and almost blocky, lacking any personal touches because of his constant need for formality to keep himself in place. Despite how lost he can feel, he also tends to write entire sprawling lists, detailing out his daily routines to the tiniest option just to give himself structure that a work day would pre-provide. He uses standard lead pencil, grateful for how he can erase and start again if his habits are shaken.

THAT BITCH THE IMMORTAL - The Immortal uses distinct emerald green ink, spiking his letters as if warning of what lies beneath. Though he writes plainly - haphazardly keeping face - to others, there are many discarded notebooks that he keeps hidden, bleeding full of deep red ink. Long dried, near crumbling, but each and every one indicative of his descent into madness at the hands of nobody but himself. In these, he scrawls, feverish almost in his intent to pass blame to whoever or whatever he sees as his next target. His sentences are less sentences than they are barely-coherent streams and strings of words, broken with commas and other pausing punctuation but seldom given the relief of a full stop unless the ink blots to force it. The stylisation of his letters toward the end of the pile are even written using what appears to be a calligraphy pen, similar to the cramped text of darker familiarity.

“ABYSS” - “Abyss”’ writing digs and tears through the pages given, not a thought spared to legibility or otherwise. He scrawls with his claw, heedless of other’s intent to read, as if the anger that festers within his heart bleeds onto the pages. He uses no particular ink colour, but prefers black or red, purely for the way it reflects how he himself burns. More often than not, flecks and spatters or whole spills of ink dominate any documents, reminiscent of the ash and wreckage his thoughtless rampage leaves behind. He also tends to use FULL CAPITALISATION, his every word a demand as well as an attempt at futile conversation.

PIETY - Piety, on the other hand, is gentler. As gentle as a “Nightmare” can get. They are silent, seldom writing, but following with watchful gaze. When they do write, it is with an almost pitying air, cursive letters with loops and embellishments enough to drive mad. They’re mostly writing obituaries, not freeing, but nobody else needs to know what they keep in a tightly-bound white book at their waist. Nobody wants to. Their sentences are short, trailing, almost reluctant in voice, but they know well what they’re trying to convey. Notes penned in silence, black ink against stark white page, for only one set of eyes to see. He provides release only in naivety.

ROULETTE - Roulette, while not the owner of the fabled casino and not responsible for its advertisement, is the bright and gaudy face. His writing is large, blocky, clear enough for the most tired eyes to absorb. For this reason, his distinct pen-claw is uncertainly blunted into or traded for a rounder, calligraphic tip, though the sentiment is no less vicious. As unpredictable as his namesake, Roulette uses whatever methods he can get his hands on to keep people in the casino, while falling victim to it himself - the legibility of his writing is mostly defined by however long he’s been in the casino for, whether overall or in any given timeframe.

DUKE WHITE RAVEN - Duke White Raven, in parallel to his subordinate, uses a pluming white feather to write his correspondences. He doesn’t write often, preferring to keep to himself, but keeps his handwriting neat and speech formal. Though the distinctively bronze ink he uses has a tendency to leave small splatters, for he’s often rushed, it’s clear that he conducts himself well, and wishes not to confuse. His directions are clear and concise, often placed in bullet-points if he has no further detail to add. He’s also one of the few “Nightmare” skins that chiefly [perhaps solely] uses his pen-tip claw to write in private.

FAN VISIT - Fan Visit hasn’t been seen writing, no, not even with the pen-tipped claw that defines them as a “Nightmare” skin. But he does carry around a letter, hopefully, hidden beneath his hat [as opposed to anywhere on his person, as that would be unwilling exposure to the masses] penned carefully, pages scented with the flower he pinned to his lapel. This contains deep red ink, made personally of a mixture from the Ecosphere’s trailed petals and other binding liquids. Its handwriting is as legible as he can make it, but shakes every so often as his giddy excitement gets the better of him.

#idv #identity v #idv orpheus #idv nightmare #sorry im normal

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ettawritesnstudies · 1 year

Text

Stickers Masterlist!

(because I realized I didn't have a centralized version with image descriptions, big thank you to @mimzy-writing-online for reminding me to do this for accessibility and for writing most of these! All the titles in bold are also links to that sticker's purchase page on my kofi site!)

A Well Armed Author

Image ID: A glowing white cutlass sword surrounded by black swirls that almost resemble lightning, glowing old around the outline. The background is of a dark blue night sky. The sticker doesn't have any text.

Add it to the TBR

Image ID: A stack of five books with vibrant covers, and on their spines the stack reads "add it to the T B R." TBR stands for "To Be Read". The books are orange, then yellow, green, blue, and red. The background is purple and they sit on a brown wooden table.

Chekhov's Gun

Image ID: A cartoon hand holding a detailed handgun that is still smoking. The font says, "Checkov's Gun Leaves No Survivors" in black font with a background of blood spatters behind it.

"Research"

Image ID: A web browser with a purple background, as if in incognito mode. The search engine is called "Forbidden Knowledge" and in the search bar it says, "It's for 'research' I swear . . ." There are five open background tabs with different searches, listed as follows: Preserving mummies in space. Is embalming fluid flammable? Can you survive an autopsy? What if you microwave lava? How to build a trebuchet. There are bookmarks in the pinned bar for writing related websites, including: Behind The Name, Archive of Our Own, Pinterest, Tumblr, NaNoWriMo, Write or Die, and Wordpress

Figured Out and Red String Society

Image ID: Two variations on the same design. They have different black text on a white background with a pale green surrounding border covered in colorful post it notes with red string connecting them. The first one says “Don’t worry. I’ve got this whole thing figured out” The second one says "Proud Member of the Red String Society" and the last line of each is underlined in red.

Houseplants Version 1 and Houseplants Version 2

Image ID: The first sticker says "My houseplants are alive but my characters aren't" on a white square with a light brown boarder. Dainty branches of leaves are drawn around the border in different shades of green. This is Houseplants V1. The other sticker shares the same art style as the fifth but it says, "My house plants and my characters are dying." This is Houseplants V2

Editing Elixer and Plotting Potion

Image ID: The first sticker shows a bottle of red ink with a black feather quill pen dipped inside. The bottle is labeled “editing elixir." The second image is a bottle of blue ink labeled “plotting potion” with an off-white feather quill pen.

#stickers #sticker shop #etta's art #kofi shop #writing humor #writeblr #writing community #self promotion

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elsewhereuniversity · 2 years

Note

Would you like a pen? It’s a purple gel pen, and it only writes your most mediocre memories down in perfect detail. I would keep it but I’ve traded away quite a bit of my memories, so almost everything comes out as scribbles

Sure, it’s far from the worst pen I’ve seen.

Take this, a charm for a charm: a quill made from a dark grey feather. If you hold it as if you write and then let your mind go blank, it will guide your hand across the page, writing out your secrets in ink that shines like gold.

It might be too optimistic to hope that this would let you at least learn the content of your lost memories, but the quill is yours either way.

#charms #the pen drawer

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dungeonmastertyrant · 4 months

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Wizard (Order of Scribes)

Magic of the book-that's what many folk call wizardry. The name is apt, given how much time wizards spend poring over tomes and penning theories about the nature of magic. It's rare to see wizards traveling without books and scrolls sprouting from their bags, and a wizard would go to great lengths to plumb an archive of ancient knowledge.

Among wizards, the Order of Scribes is the most bookish. It takes many forms in different worlds, but its primary mission is the same everywhere: recording magical discoveries so that wizardry can flourish. And while all wizards value spellbooks, a wizard in the Order of Scribes magically awakens their book, turning it into a trusted companion. All wizards study books, but a wizardly scribe talks to theirs!

Wizardly Quill: At level 3, as a bonus action, you can magically create a Tiny quill in your free hand. The magic quill has the following properties:

The quill doesn't require ink. When you write with it, it produces ink in a color of your choice on the writing surface.

The time you must spend to copy a spell into your spell book equals 2 minutes per spell level if you use the quill for the transcription.

You can erase anything you write with the quill if you wave the feather over the text as a bonus action, provided the text is within 5 feet of you.

This quill disappears if you create another one or if you die.

Awakened Spellbook: Using specially prepared inks and ancient incantations passed down by your wizardly order, you have awakened an arcane sentience within your spellbook.

At level 2, while you are holding the book, it grants you the following benefits:

You can use the book as a spellcasting focus for your wizard spells.

When you cast a wizard spell with a spell slot, you can temporarily replace its damage type with a type that appears in another spell in your spellbook, which magically alters the spell's formula for this casting only. The latter spell must be of the same level as the spell slot you expend.

When you cast a wizard spell as a ritual, you can use the spell's normal casting time, rather than adding 10 minutes to it. Once you use this benefit, you can't do so again until you finish a long rest.

If necessary, you can replace the book over the course of a short rest by using your Wizardly Quill to write arcane sigils in a blank book or a magic spellbook to which you're attuned. At the end of the rest, your spellbook's consciousness is summoned into the new book, which the consciousness transforms into your spellbook, along with all its spells. If the previous book still existed somewhere, all the spells vanish from its pages.

Manifest Mind: At level 6, you can conjure forth the mind of your Awakened Spellbook. As a bonus action while the book is on your person, you can cause the mind to manifest as a Tiny spectral object, hovering in an unoccupied space of your choice within 60 feet of you. The spectral mind is intangible and doesn't occupy its space, and it sheds dim light in a 10-foot radius. It looks like a ghostly tome, a cascade of text, or a scholar from the past (your choice).

While manifested, the spectral mind can hear and see, and it has darkvision with a range of 60 feet. The mind can telepathically share with you what it sees and hears (no action required).

Whenever you cast a wizard spell on your turn, you can cast it as if you were in the spectral mind's space, instead of your own, using its senses. You can do so a number of times per day equal to your proficiency bonus, and you regain all expended uses when you finish a long rest.

As a bonus action, you can cause the spectral mind to hover up to 30 feet to an unoccupied space that you or it can see. It can pass through creatures but not objects.

The spectral mind stops manifesting if it is ever more than 300 feet away from you, if someone casts Dispel Magic on it, if the Awakened Spellbook is destroyed, if you die, or if you dismiss the spectral mind as a bonus action.

Once you conjure the mind, you can't do so again until you finish a long rest, unless you expend a spell slot of any level to conjure it again.

Master Scriviner: At level 10, whenever you finish a long rest, you can create one magic scroll by touching your Wizardly Quill to a blank piece of paper or parchment and causing one spell from your Awakened Spellbook to be copied onto the scroll. The spellbook must be within 5 feet of you when you make the scroll.

The chosen spell must be of 1st or 2nd level and must have a casting time of 1 action. Once in the scroll, the spell's power is enhanced, counting as one level higher than normal. You can cast the spell from the scroll by reading it as an action. The scroll is unintelligible to anyone else, and the spell vanishes from the scroll when you cast it or when you finish your next long rest.

You are also adept at crafting spell scrolls, which are described in the treasure chapter of the Dungeon Master's Guide. The gold and time you must spend to make such a scroll are halved if you use your Wizardly Quill.

One with the Word: At level 14, your connection to your Awakened Spellbook has become so profound that your soul has become entwined with it. While the book is on your person, you have advantage on all Arcana checks, as the spellbook helps you remember magical lore.

Moreover, if you take damage while your spellbook's mind is manifested, you can prevent all of that damage to you by using your reaction to dismiss the spectral mind, using its magic to save yourself. Then roll 3d6. The spellbook temporarily loses spells of your choice that have a combined spell level equal to that roll or higher. For example, if the roll's total is 9, spells vanish from the book that have a combined level of at least 9, which could mean one 9th-level spell, three 3rd-level spells, or some other combination. If there aren't enough spells in the book to cover this cost, you drop to 0 hit points.

Until you finish 1d6 long rests, you are incapable of casting the lost spells, even if you find them on a scroll or in another spellbook. After you finish the required number of rests, the spells reappear in the spell book.

Once you use this reaction, you can't do so again until you finish a long rest.

Source: Tasha's Guide to Everything

#dnd class #wizard

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finnified · 4 months

Text

it was the first time in what feels like months that finneas has been down to the beach unsupervised.

it wasn’t that his friends meant to restrain him, obviously, and he knew that- it was simply that half of them were creatures from the ocean, and the other half were intimately familiar with the consequences of his wandering habits. so, whenever he needed the sea air to right his thoughts and order his steps, he’d grown used to being accompanied by joanna’s delicate steps or lazuli’s absent chatter.

tonight was different, though- finneas was quietly, blissfully unaccompanied. jo and inigo were off the island for some kind of date, the likes of which he completely ignored the minutiae of, lazuli was nowhere to be found this late at night (sure, he’d told her he wasn’t going to go out that night but if they really got down to it it wasn’t really even night anymore- the hour was something more like morning) and he’d yet to even think about broaching the topic of being near to the ocean with neb, so it was just him, and his thoughts and the stars.

adalwulff had been to sea and back again, but finneas had missed their docking and, knowing them, zie would find him if she needed. while they were still on the mainland together, it had spent a week locking its jaw every time it talked to xem, trying to remember the consequences that would ensue if it told xem dante had been tormenting it again. finneas wasn’t done looking over his shoulder, but he’d allowed himself to settle into some kind of wary comfort, placing the full weight of his trust onto the promise inigo had raised to him. he would be protected when he needed it.

it was such an odd feeling, to be surrounded by so many people who cared for his well being without receiving anything from it. it still didn’t make sense to finneas, as he wandered barefoot through the slow surf, the foam coalescing in the fur that was exposed under the hem of his pants. maybe it was just the kestrel culture he’d never shaken, where people could forever be thrown away if it put you one step further to the next richest achievement. it was inherently against the pirate nature of his companions to come alongside him when he was weak, but they still did- for some incomprehensible reason.

finn kicked up a small arc of salt water as he considered the factors in his mind. pity was always a possibility, but maybe not for lazuli or inigo- so what was the common factor?

he was wandering further and further from what was considered the kite shore, but he was too lost in his own thoughts to notice. mentally he returned over and over to the times they had all gone out on a limb for him- these unlikely compatriots who regularly put themselves in harm’s way for his sake. he cast his gaze from the sea to the stars, falling silent, allowing his thoughts to still.

“my, my, finneas, how you’ve moved up in the world! a beast let off its leash- have they finally succeeded in domesticating you?”

the tide rolled back around finneas’s paws as he froze in terror. months it had gone without hearing that voice, and then he was suddenly yanked around by the shoulder to face it’s owner.

without his embroidered blue jacket, dante was the perfect visage of some holy force come down to smite it. the white sleeves of the kestrel’s shirt billowed around his hands, and- finneas jolted back a step as he realized- the pearl-handled pistol dante clutched at his side. his perfect blonde hair had at some point been cropped from shoulder-length down to a much shorter, sharper style that laid flat across his head. dante achuart looked clean, and perfect, and fake- like a flawless visage ripped straight from finneas’s mind just to torment him.

it couldn’t even dare to take another step back into the surf as dante stared it down. a thousand alarm bells were going off in it’s head all at once, none of them he could respond to. at some point it gasped, realizing it has forgotten to breathe in its terror, and dante laughed, a nightmarish thing.

“your little flock keeps quite a short leash on you, don’t they, finneas?” the blonde kestrel offered conversationally, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with this situation. finneas stumbled through another breath, his chest hitching.

“my friends- they look after me- care about me,” he tried, although the effect was undercut by the fact that he could barely hear himself over the waves.

“oh yes, they do!” dante’s tone was disconcertingly cheery, not at all aligning with the disposition of a man armed and dangerous. “it will forever escape me how you managed to get inigo amor on your side- although he’s gone and courted a nightingale, so maybe fraternizing just runs in his blood.” for a second, it seemed as though dante was speaking more to himself than to finneas, until his cold blue gaze snapped back to the kite with a sneer. “or maybe it’s you.”

finn’s step backward didn’t even get a chance to hit the water before dante’s hand connected with his shoulder once more and the slender kite was yanked forward. the cool muzzle of the pistol rested heavy against finn’s chest as dante’s hand flew up from its shoulder to its chin, gripping it harshly and staring it down.

“you’ve gotten real full of yourself, finneas, thinking you can get away with showing me up publicly.” if looks could kill, dante’s eyes would have rent finneas asunder a thousand times in the existing moment alone. the whole depths of the ocean he was pinned under were reflected in that hateful gaze. “no matter who your little friends are, no matter who you try to hide behind or what you do or where you go, you will always be below me, as only a creature can.”

finneas’s breath caught on the intake as dante twisted the pistol into its frock-coat. “i don’t want any more of your games, finneas. no more tricks, no more hiding behind lovesick fools- if i come for you, you are not allowed to run. the rules never changed.”

the speed thoughts were moving through his head didn’t match the speed that time seemed to be moving outside his body. through the haze, inigo’s reminder came to him again- he can’t hurt you while i’m on your side. despite the absurdity of it all, finneas found itself believing him.

“i’m not beholden to your rules anymore,” and although finneas’s voice was still horrible, and shaking, it was louder than before. he granted himself half a second too long to look at dante’s face as the kestrel processed what finn had said before the smaller man yanked himself out of the pale grasp he was trapped in.

finneas’s shoulder exploded in pain.

the recoil sent him falling backwards into the shallow water as he cried out in agony, eyes screwed shut as if eliminating his sight would mitigate the damage. in rapid succession, something pinged near the side of his head and then struck him in the side- the kite couldn’t even manage a cry. he peeled his eyes open as a heavy weight landed on his chest- dante’s boot. the ghostly visage of his tormentor floated in and out of his vision as finneas struggled to focus his vision.

“what a shame, you idiot beast. i was thinking for a moment you could be reasoned with.”

and like that, it was over- the weight picked up off his chest, the pale wrath gone. he heard all of two steps on the sand before the waves rushed back up and engulfed his face. it was all he could to haul himself up with a jolt before his side exploded in pain and his head impacted the sand again.

he was going to die there, off the shore of a kestrel beach. the realization hit him like a cannonball.

finneas slowly maneuvered his uninjured arm to try to feel the injury in his side while simultaneously levering himself up to sitting. his fingers brushed over something cold and metallic, and then the wound gained strength once more. finneas couldn’t stop himself from yowling, although he could feel his brain beginning to simply stop processing the sensation of pain. that had been another bullet.

the kite heaved a massive breath, valiantly ignoring how his side screamed out in pain, and tilted his head back to see the sky. his pain receptors being stressed to their limit was making his mind foggy. the endless expanse of stars glittered above him, disappearing into the diffusing light where the sky met the sea. beautiful, but cold and unwelcoming. why was he just lying there? the kestrel town square wasn’t that far. he could go see his parents.

deliriously, finneas twisted his good elbow behind himself and rolled up to his knees, clutching the gaping hole in his side. he blurrily scanned the beach as he rose out of the water- the pearl revolver laid in the sand, but dante was nowhere to be found. if it squinted, it could see the faint impression of his boot prints and the path they led to the main walk off the beach. it knew that wasn’t the only way.

excruciatingly, he pushed one of his feet under himself, and shakily rose to standing. sunrise was not-quite-but-nearly filtering over the horizon. he could make his way by what little light he had. one foot in front of the other, ignoring the bloody trail he left in the silt, step by agonizing step until the sand gave way to cobbled stone. finneas cast his gaze to the buildings rising around him. none of these homes were familiar to him, except for-

a nightingale banner fluttering proudly in the early morning breeze, hanging from one of the windows of the houses near the beach.

the features of the house cut into sharper clarity as he stared. the intricately painted double doors, the dainty and beautiful beaded curtains visible through the stained glass windows. his mind, addled from blood loss, spat out a fragment of a memory; more of a sensation than anything concrete- the feeling of stumbling out of a bar, clutching a purple satin vest in his grasp.

jo and inigo’s house. he’d be safe there.

it was all he could do to drag himself up their front doorstep, his shoulder sliding down their beautiful front doors with a wet thump. he’d have to help them clean off the blood he was dragging all over the place.

not now, though. now, he needed to rest. despite of- or perhaps aided by- the thumping of his heart and the incessant radiating pain in his shoulder and his side, finneas’s eyes slipped closed, and then it was dark.

(face of a man who knows his friends are gonna kill him) uhhh… hey gang :3 !

#feather to quill and pen to page [writing]#oc: finneas [pirates smp]#oc: dante [pirates smp]#oc tag #he speaks [original posts]

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samrut · 7 months

Note

rusameliet 🧛‍♂️🐺?

[Okay - so definitely not a drabble, but I was in the mood to write for this prompt sitting in my ask box from a spooky drabble game I did awhile back.]

[Prompt List]

Tolys unfastened his cuff and rolled back his sleeve. The flame of the oil lamp flickered, reflecting off the numerous scars that stretched the length of his arm. He took the knife from the gilded serving tray and sliced into the flesh.

Blood oozed from the freshly made incision, dribbling from his arm and into the prepared goblet, partially filled with sheep's blood. He bled until the wound clotted, wiping away the excess with a pocketchief. Tolys presented the goblet to Braginsky, who had been observing him attentively from the dining table, head perched in his hand.

The vampire lord's spindly fingers wrapped around the ornate glass, helping himself to its contents. "You taste delicious today," he said, smiling, crimson pooling between his teeth.

Tolys cast a cold glare in his direction. The man's eyes, once as vibrant as the winter sky, had lost their gentle sparkle, replaced instead by a chilling void. He withdrew, positioning himself in the far corner of the room, watching with disinterest from a distance.

The newly appointed werewolf clan leader had come to renew their treaty. Even in human form, the wolfman was massive; every muscle in his body defined as though chiseled by a skilled artisan. Around his neck was a collection of carved bones from slain enemies, regarded as trophies amongst his kind.

Braginsky rarely entertained visitors, and when he did, it normally ended in bloodshed. Six months prior, Braginsky had hosted a vampire gathering. Many of the other lords had been in attendance, as well as their human servants.

The humans, hopeful that they would be turned for their years of servitude, had all been slaughtered, as was a ten-year tradition. The creation of new vampires was uncommon; they preferred to keep their numbers low to prevent undesired competition amongst their ranks. Tolys, who was not technically a servant, had been spared.

Tolys had been Braginsky's willing blood source for seven years. He was from a village of hunters that had been eradicated. At the time, Tolys was seventeen years of age, the eldest among the village's youth.

To ensure the safety of the remaining children, he had been offered the opportunity to sacrifice himself on their behalf. Tolys had begrudgingly accepted. He was never forced and always given the option to refuse, but Braginsky had threatened to hunt and kill the survivors if he did so.

The arrangement required Tolys to provide Braginsky human blood. Thankfully, he did not require much to sustain himself. Most of his nutrition could be obtained from animals.

Tolys had always done his duty willingly, and this had always amused Braginsky. Ivan had never laid a hand on him and had given him his word that he never would, unless permitted. Vampires were vile creatures but never broke their promises.

"Would you like something to drink?" Braginsky asked, licking clean his fangs.

"No," said the werewolf. He glanced over at Tolys, then back at Ivan, sneering, "Your human slave smells strange."

"You are mistaken, Mr. Jones. This human resides here on his own free will, isn't that right, Tolys?"

"Yes," Tolys mumbled, clenching his fists.

Braginsky hummed, delighted by his reply. He slid a piece of parchment towards Jones and dipped a feathered quill into the goblet, then proceeded to write his signature at the bottom of the page. His handwriting was effortlessly exquisite, the pen tip gliding over the parchment like an elegant dance.

"Please sign," said Braginsky, outstretching the quill for the wolfman to sign. Alfred hesitantly took the pen, gripping it in his fist with an odd expression.

"I do not read," said Jones. "I will not sign until I know what it is I am agreeing to."

"I assure you, it is no different than the current treaty."

"Him," growled Alfred, pointing a clawed finger at Tolys. "Let the human read it aloud."

"Tolys, if you would be so kind as to accommodate our guest," Braginsky said, beaconing him to the table.

Grimacing, the human approached the table and read monotonely from the parchment. The terms were what one would expect. Most of them discussed territory, and there was a hand-drawn map indicating the designated hunting grounds for each party.

Alfred crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, listening intently. He stared at Tolys in a trance-like state, his pale blue wolven eyes unwavering. The human intrigued him more than what was written.

"The humans have spread to this area," interrupted Jones, circling a location on the page with his finger. "It has a dense population and is not much use to my clan. What about we trade for something?"

Braginsky leaned in and grinned. "Interesting, and what is it you are wanting in exchange?"

"This human," Alfred said. "My people are in need of a teacher."

There was a momentary pause. The lord took a long glance at Tolys, then sighed.

"He is not mine to give," he finally replied.

"I will go," said Tolys. Braginsky's eyes widened in surprise. "You only require my blood. I do not technically have to stay here to provide you with such."

The vampire looked displeased, but regardless, the corners of his lips upturned menacingly. "This is true," he said, clicking his tongue. "I will make the changes to the treaty, and we can officiate it tomorrow evening. The sun will rise soon, and it will allow Tolys to gather his belongings."

The look in Ivan's eyes was terrifying. Tolys swallowed and adverted his gaze. Would he survive until then?

"I will return tomorrow," Jones said, standing to leave.

"There are many vacant guest rooms," Tolys quickly exclaimed, his voice wavering. "You have traveled far. It would be a waste of your time to go back, just to return the next day."

Braginsky laughed. It made Tolys' skin crawl.

"Yes, please stay," hissed Ivan, flashing his teeth dangerously.

Jones was not phased. He snorted and nodded in agreement, then replied simply, "Fine."

Tolys took the wolfman by the arm and tugged him to follow. "I will show you to your room," he said.

Jones looked at the human, bewildered, his cheeks flushed. It was the first time he had felt a human's touch. His hand was small, his fingers thin and delicate.

He followed Tolys without a word and was led up the spiraling staircase to a large bedroom. It was in need of cleaning. Every surface coated in a layer of filth, but Alfred did not seem to mind.

The wolfman sat on the bed, a plume of dust clouding the air. Tolys coughed, covering his mouth. "I apologize for the mess," he said, scrunching his nose.

"You are an odd human."

Tolys rubbed his arm and glared over his shoulder at the closed door. "So I have been told."

"He says you are not a servant," said Jones, laying back on the pillow, his arms folded behind his head. He raised a brow inquisitively and asked, "What are you?"

"Merely food," Tolys murmured back, turning away to depart.

#hetalia #spooky drabble game #spooky ask game #hetalia fic #my writing #hws lithuania #hws america #hws russia #not taking any more but might write the ones sitting in my ask box - eventually 😆#monstertalia #found the prompt list

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ramayantika · 1 year

Text

Letter to God

P.S: I have no idea what how why I got this idea, it struck me randomly while reading a book I no longer can remember, and I am not telling you what I am going to do with this writing piece, but yeah we might (if I pick my pen up after my entrances) get more stories sorta things with our beloved Indian gods writing to us 👀🌸

Dear God,

In this timeline, I may not pray as much as I think about you. Sometimes I refuse to believe that you exist when I see so much pain and suffering around me. I often think that if some God does exist up there and if he indeed has created us, could this Creator create pain and suffering in your most beloved creation?

If you love us so much, then why let that lone child on the dusty street go to sleep on an empty stomach? If you love us so much why did you take away the little girl who hadn't even learnt to walk and play?

But then when I come across your other marvellous form whom we humans call Mother Nature, I think that you indeed love us truly to soothe our eyes and souls with these beautiful blooms, lush trees and thick forests. Sometimes I come across you on the busy street while heading to work when I see a young man helping an old woman to cross the street.

I think I felt you around me on a cold winter night as I stared at the ceiling, wondering what to do ahead in life when every opportunity had shut its doors on my face. I felt a hand and heard a voice to not let that last flame of hope go away. The next week, I was called for an interview by my dream company.

Then God, a deep slumber after a tiring day at work took me to a very weird dream. I saw you there on a table. An ink bottle, a feather quill and thick parchment papers lay scattered on your table as you filled parchment after parchment with your writing. I saw how a whole range of emotions flicked through your eyes, how your face would glow as bright as the sun and after a while diminish. I saw how your lips curled into a childlike smile and how a lone tear fell on the wooden surface. You would look wistfully at the wall for a while, and then immerse yourself in writing another page without letting your hand stop even for a moment.

Somewhere that felt like my writer friend who lives an hour away from my home. When I read stories about you, I wonder have you written stories like us? Sages say that you write our fate and each story you write is how our lives are led.

Are you writing this letter to yourself or is it a human writing a letter to God?

We humans love stories. Some of us write while some of us hear and some love to read them. We have written plenty of stories about you. Centuries have passed by that some stories are now taken as the word of truth.

Can I read stories by you, God? No, not your writings about our lives. I anyway have a 9-5 job, a cute dog and a rented apartment. Maybe, I will meet the love of my life in the next five years. And truthfully speaking, this in no way would be an interesting story.

I want to know about your story, written by your hand. If you reside in us then do some of our mortal shades colour your life? Do your eyes sparkle when you look at a baby? Did your heart flutter when you saw your wife, the Goddess for the first time? Did you scratch your head deciding how to tackle a wicked demon who had asked a boon for immortality after deceiving another God?

I think I have left too many questions for you to answer and I have no idea when I will get an answer. If I am not wrong, just two days ago, I had asked you if I will get my promotion this year or not? Well, I hope you answer these questions in the letter first, my promotion can wait for some time.

And if you feel too generous to reveal some of your stories and secrets, you can send your stories to me, I would be happy to read them. Maybe, I can find some similarities in you? I hope that doesn't sound offensive to you because some people reading this letter might.

Anyway, God, I need to get back to the kitchen. My dinner is ready and my favourite show is going to come up on the television in five minutes.

I am hoping to receive a letter from you in this lifetime, rather than to visit you in your abode and know about you only to forget them after taking a new birth.

Good bye!

Yours,

Human

#samridhi writes #when gods hold the pen #p-1

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inscryptions · 6 months

Note

On the desk in Alhaitham’s office laid a book wrapped in a turquoise silk ribbon. The bow that tied it held something long and slender. Beside them, there was a plain white envelope with a leaf tucked partially into it.

Hello, dear Alhaitham! I must say getting chosen to find a gift for the Acting-Grand-Sage-re-turned-Scribe is truly an honor – you must be someone reliable and respected indeed. Still, it did leave me in quite a pickle: whatever could I give you that you don’t already have? I’m not well-versed in the world of scientific literature, as I much prefer to engage in artistic styles. I have, however, found this old book written in long-obsolete Mondstadtian. As a Haravatat graduate, I’m sure you have no problems with its modern version – here’s to me hoping this will prove to be more of a challenge to decipher. The contents also seem to be focused on the topic of linguistics of that time… so, about a millennium and a half ago? Maybe closer to two? Perhaps this book should actually be put in a museum at this point. In any case, I’m sure that with you it’ll be in good hands. I imagine such an intellectual as yourself must have penned a few papers on his own account. Ah, but if writing doesn’t strike your fancy, I suppose you could also use it as a… sophisticated bookmark. This quill is that of a gorgeous, however quite rare, bird I have encountered on one of my recent travels. It was actually rather hard to convince her to give it to me, haha! I hope it serves you well. May the wind guide you, Venti

The parcel on my desk piques my interest; not many would go out of their way to give me anything other than applications and forms thanks to the nature of my job. Then again, it's the winter holiday season, and as gifts are part of the traditions inherent in this time of year, I suppose it's not so farfetched for someone to offer me such a thing. The question, however, remains: who could have delivered this to me? I raise an eyebrow as I study the package before slipping the envelope open and reading the letter.

... Whoever this "Venti" is is very well-informed and well-traveled, given by the nature of his letter and the foreign leaf that lays on my desk. Well-connected, too, to have acquired an original copy of a treatise on the ancient Mond language, or a Mondstadter (more likely, what with the familiarity used in conjunction with the Anemo nation). Undoing the ribbon and setting the quill aside for the moment, I pick up the book and open it, paging through it with a delicate touch. All things considered, it's in lovely condition, so likely a part of a personal collection, perhaps Venti's own. The thought and care made with this selection makes me smile a little, and this is only half the gift. I force myself to skim through the book, as much as I itch to dive right into translating it and then digging into its content, and find myself satisfied with the challenge it presents. If I didn't know any better, I'd say this Venti knows me very well even though I've never met such a person. Intriguing...

Eventually, I set the book down and pick up the quill. The colors go perfectly with my attire, clearly denoting it my possession; the feather outright gleams in the lamplight. AndーI examine the gears, brushing against them with my finger and widening my eyes when they turn. Bookmark nothing, this is going to get mileage what with all the meetings I attend. It's certainly a better method of keeping my fingers occupied when I have nothing to write, in any case. I test the quill out with the ink at my desk, jotting down my signature and reveling in how smooth the nib is against the parchment. High quality indeed, my benefactor certainly has a keen eye for presents.

Actually, that inspires an idea for the perfect first work for this quill...

(Logic dictates, of course, that the appropriate response to highly appreciated gifts is to thank the sender.)

#🌿 inquiry form received (asks).#🌿 spiral ascent (events).#ghwishes2023 #🌿 wandering windbard (venti).#singer-of-skyward-sonnets #//hope you don't mind that i took the liberty of making the gears on the quill move #//saw them and went “oh that's the perfect fidget for him actually” <- (would do the exact same thing w/anything in my hands XD)

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nycorix · 2 years

Text

Lucienne & The Throne Room

Posting another excerpt from the sandman fic I am working on! It's going to be long and Involved lmao but this scene is pretty close to the beginning - basically, the weather in the Dreaming is fucked and Lucienne has taken it upon herself to investigate why. (Lucienne, the real MVP at all times)

More of this nonsense can be found in this post ! *~*~*

It only takes her three tries to find the throne room. She allows herself a moment of satisfaction, then lets herself in, bracing almost unconsciously.

She has no idea what to expect—the Dream Lord experiences as wide a range of emotions and troubles and snits as the mortals whose unconsciousness he curates, though he is loath to admit it. And while she is a firm believer in the concept of expressing one’s emotions in a healthy way, and Dream has made leaps and bounds of progress in the time she has known him, she also knows his instinct is still to suppress the above with a vigilance bordering upon desperation.

The trouble with this is it invariably leaks out through the cracks of his consciousness despite his best efforts, which directly affects the very fabric and nature of the Dreaming itself—which is, of course, the environment that she and Nuala and the rest of his subjects all reside in. Whatever this fog is, she is certain that it must be dealt with as early as possible.

The throne room is bitterly cold.

She can see her breath in clouds before her as she strides across the cavernous space. The chill from the fog itself has not yet left her bones, but this is worse; and she shivers, slipping her hands into the pockets of her coat almost unconsciously.

She can see him, seated at the base of the throne stairs, cloak pooled around him like a shadow. His breath is cloudless.

Apart from the clime of the room, Lucienne can see nothing amiss—he is wraithlike and ephemeral in presence, alabaster-pale, bent gracefully over his work in either brooding or concentration, the fall of his dark hair hiding the deep furrow of his brow—but all of this, of course, is normal.

In his lap is a ledger, ornate and leather bound; he holds a feather quill, pinched between finger and thumb as if it may break or disappear, etching across the empty pages perfect lines of his loopy scrawl.

So: official business, then. The dream journals of the mortals and others under his care dutifully write themselves in his absence, but very occasionally a spell will come upon him, a trance almost, nearly fitlike, and he will spend hours upon hours transcribing entries himself, usually for a specific Dreamer that has for some reason arrested his attention.

Lucienne clears her throat to announce her presence, stepping forward.

I did not call for a librarian, he says before she’s even halved the distance.

Lucienne, to her credit, does not break pace, though even after untold centuries of devoted service she will never fully be prepared for the weight his words command, the way they seduce and rebuff in equal measures. His voice is the rust on an old blade, the first breath of a storm, sharp ivory sheathed in the darkest velvet—but it is distant, here, his consciousness lost in the pages of some special Dreamer’s dreams, a monotone echo of habit rather than any true expression of disapproval.

“I know, my Lord,” she answers—drawing near enough to speak quietly, keeping enough distance to remain unable to read the journal. “But perhaps you may yet have use of my assistance?”

And she waits.

He makes a sound that is neither acquiescence, acknowledgement, or dissent, yet manages to somehow be all three at once. The ledger shifts in his lap, and he catches the edge with a thumb. He frowns, pen stilling. Turns a page. The shadows on his face deepen, and his shoulders slowly drop.

He looks up.

Is something the matter? He stares at her with the wide-open concern of someone just woken from sleep, stars glinting in the facets of his eyes.

She tilts her head in deference as her gaze sweeps up and down the whole of him. While nothing seems pressingly wrong, she knows better than to trust his appearance alone. “I was hoping to ask that question of you, sir,” she replies, with all the gentle respect she can muster.

He blinks. Of me. Why would you think to…

There’s a distinct confusion buried beneath his careful mask, mixed with a worry so tinged with the promise of panic that she relents and spares him the spiral of thought. He is, after all, still getting his bearings. Would be, she thinks, for some time yet—for it’s not just the present Dream work that’s preoccupying him.

“The weather, my Lord,” she explains, swallowing the start of a smile as a part of him visibly relaxes. “We were….” she pauses, delicately. “Unsure.”

Morpheus rises as she speaks, eyes falling shut as he turns his attention to the Dreaming. Between moments, in a motion so fluid it is almost indiscernible, the book and pen are folded into the lining of his cloak. Something in his expression resolves, and he exhales, long and soft, thin smoke guttering from his lips. When he opens his eyes, they are blue again. And when he opens his eyes the room warms, as if touched by the first rays of a sunrise.

Unsure, he repeats, a dry twist of amusement bringing an almost human quality to him. And of what do you require certainty, then - my condition, or my intent?

“Both, sir.” She gives honesty without hesitation; and this time, she does allow herself a smile in reflection of his own.

#the sandman #dream of the endless #fanfiction #lucienne the librarian #GODS he is FUN to write y'all. like I am essentially trying to paint a picture with words here #he's also a pathetic emo wet rat man and I cannot wait to make that even more apparent #my apologies lucienne #also: bonus points to anyone who can guess the Dreamer he's writing about here. lmao #kasey writes

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skampi835 · 1 year

Text

Serpent’s Lullaby - 01 - Letters for the Void

Fandom: Hogwarts Legacy

Language: english

Genre: Romantic Drama

Style within this chapter: hurt & comfort

Warnings: spoiler

Word Count within this chapter: 2.102

Summary -- Next Chapter

Link to Ao3

Link to fanfiktion.de (original german version)

With his wand raised in his right hand, he sat hunched over a simple, small wooden table. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as his clouded, steel-blue gaze was directed towards the general direction of the scratching quill on the parchment in front of him. The quill paused, dipped its sharpened end into an open inkwell that was also on the table, and then resumed its movements on the paper, scratching away.

Omnius Gaunt was unable to see the words he was writing, as he is blind. Writing was not a skill he necessarily needed for his livelihood, but he had painstakingly taught himself for his own sake. It was a difficult process, as the cryptic shapes of letters had been unknown to him for a very long time. How could he have known them when his world was mostly shrouded in darkness?

It was thanks to his favorite aunt Noctua that Ominis had received a rough idea of the letters. The cosmopolitan Noctua, who had never scolded him for his initial, shaky attempts that, according to her, resembled the writing of a four-year-old. Instead, she had helped her blind nephew find a magical way to cleanly put letters on paper.

His loving aunt Noctua, who, as Ominis painfully learned last year, no longer be living. That had certainly been the case for a very long time.

Ominis attentively listened to the scratching of the feather that he directed over the parchment with his wand. With a connecting spell, it wrote the words he was thinking on the paper, which demanded his full concentration. In between, he also had to remember to dip the feather back into the inkwell without actively thinking about it. Otherwise, ‘inkwell’ would be written in every other line.

To the almost meditative sound of the scratching quill, initial dull sounds from the adjacent room of the small house were added. Creaking furniture, accompanied by a quiet yawn and shortly thereafter shuffling footsteps.

Ominis continued to focus on his letter, which he would not need much more time to complete. Meanwhile, his best friend announced his presence with another yawn after the door to the bedroom had been opened. Shuffling, unmotivated steps could be heard, stopping roughly at the level of the kitchen counter, interrupted by a soft sniffing sound. Ominis carefully floated the pen into the inkwell for a short break, so as not to accidentally ruin his almost finished work. »That's coffee you're smelling, Sebastian. I brewed some. It should be on the stove.«

A short moment passed as Sebastian looked around, seemingly surprised or puzzled. »How long have you been awake, Ominis? It's still very early.«

»For a while,« Ominis replied, turning his head vaguely in the direction where he heard Sebastian's voice. »I couldn't sleep. Did I wake you?«

»No,« Sebastian immediately replied. Unlike other witches or wizards who would often just shake their head and hastily add the word, embarrassed, since a blind person couldn't see it.

Ominis heard the kitchen cabinet door open and shortly after, Sebastian probably placing a ceramic mug on the kitchen counter. Meanwhile, he tapped his wand towards the feather, causing the connection spell to lift it from the parchment. It hovered above and then landed back onto the page, continuing to scratch away as if it had been waiting for this moment to continue its work.

As Sebastian poured the liquid into his cup, Ominis finished his letter. Shortly thereafter, in addition to the scratching of the quill, he heard the soft rustling of fabric and felt the warmth that settled on his hands. Apparently, Sebastian had opened the curtains at the windows to let in the daylight of a beginning summer day. An action that Ominis generally saw no need for, which is why he hadn't thought of it. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the warmth. »It's so convenient that you got the black wake-up potion,« Sebastian sighed contentedly, pushing the chair to the left of his friend back to take a seat on it.

Ominis didn't respond immediately. Only after he had finished the letter, carefully set aside the quill and freed it from his spell did he respond slightly sarcastically: »There must be some advantages to carrying that family name.«

Sebastian sipped quietly from his cup. There was a long moment when the two boys fell silent. Ominis was wondering what was on his friend's mind when Sebastian verbalized his thoughts with audible surprise: »Why are you writing a letter to Carol?«

»That's just how I felt,« Ominis replied, shrugging his shoulders and lifting the corners of his mouth. Unfortunately, Sebastian knew him too well to believe that he did something on a whim. So after a few seconds, Ominis added, »I wanted to remind her of your invitation. After all, you offered her to come to Feldcroft before the summer break.«

Plus, Ominis believed that it would do them both good if Carol accepted the invitation.

Sebastian's contemptuous snort confirmed Ominis' suspicion that he had done well to keep the last thought to himself. »That was four weeks ago,« grumbled his friend irritably.

Ominis took his time to lay his wand in front of him. At the moment, he didn't need it to get a sense of his surroundings and 'see’ as he did, which was a completely different experience than that of other witches and wizards. It was even a sensory impression that he found to be disturbing at this time. »Right. That means the holidays won't be over for another two weeks,« he said innocently.

His almost innocent remark seemed to bother Sebastian, who did not immediately respond as he usually would have. Instead, he let out a disapproving breath and slurped audibly at his hot beverage. Probably to formulate his argument clearly, he took a moment to collect his thoughts. »If Carol hasn't contacted me yet, then she doesn't need to. I mean, she's letting me down when she knows I'm looking for Anne. Tsk... such great friend.«

Ominis furrowed his eyebrows at the negative tone and tilted his head slightly to the side, causing his milky, steel-blue gaze to unfortunately pass right by Sebastian. »Yes, she is, Sebastian,« he spoke very diplomatically, to his own surprise. »You've never had such a great friend, to be honest. Because without Carol, you certainly wouldn't be here now.«

His serious tone made Sebastian pause to think, or at least to fall silent. But before he could come up with his next argument, Ominis decided to nip it in the bud by continuing in a factual manner: »Not everyone has such a strained relationship with their family, like you or I. Plus, Carol really needed the distance from all of that. You know what happened last year and how she was involuntarily dragged into everything. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have even passed a single O.W.L. under those circumstances.«

Ominis wasn't sure if he had won the debate with that, so he waited and listened for any suppressed negative sound. Instead, he heard a long, tired sigh. »Yeah...« began Sebastian, sounding exhausted, and sighed again. »Yes, you're right, Ominis. And to make matters worse, I've even gone and added to it. I'm sorry...«

»I know,« Ominis said in a reconciliatory tone, hoping his friend could sense it. »I know you feel immensely sorry for what you did, Sebastian. Plus, you are under immense stress because of the search for Anne. I can't imagine how it feels to lose a beloved family member in such a way. But I'm also sure that Anne is doing well. She needs distance, especially from you. What you did--«

»Was not without consequences,« Sebastian interrupted him mid-sentence. Well, that was one way to describe it, even though Ominis certainly wouldn't have considered that choice of words. Secretly, he wondered if it really contributed positively to Sebastian's development if he, like his friend, romanticized his deed.

It was true that Sebastian hadn't uttered a single Unforgivable Curse since then, but it was also about the murder of his own uncle. But who was he to judge Sebastian? Especially him, who himself had tortured a Muggle into unconsciousness with the Cruciatus Curse just so he wouldn't become a victim of it again?

Sebastian, suddenly, asked, »Do you even know where she lives?« and pulled Ominis' gloomy thoughts back to the pleasant present before they could get even more tangled. He also noticed that he must have been sitting crooked on the chair and slowly straightened himself up while orienting himself on the edge of the table.

Ominis' facial features wrinkled slightly as he contemplated the question Sebastian had just posed. Silently, he brought his right hand to his forehead, and his eyebrows raised with concern. »No,« he eventually confessed, pressing his lips together.

»You're writing a letter and you don't even know her address?« Sebastian's skeptical response was more than understandable. How could Ominis, of all people, have overlooked such a detail in the context of everything else?

»I don't regularly exchange addresses with others to cheerfully maintain pen pal relationships,« Ominis said bitterly.

Sebastian nodded in agreement with a friendly tone in his voice before taking another sip of his coffee. Now it was Ominis who sighed and lowered his head, staring at the parchment without really seeing it. He slumped his shoulders. All the effort and concentration he had put into writing the letter had been in vain. Ominis was annoyed that he hadn't realized this problem with exchanging correspondence earlier.

»Maybe she'll still come after all?« Sebastian suggested. His change of heart regarding Carol's presence in Feldcroft was probably due to the dejection that Ominis was unwittingly expressing all too clearly. It was Sebastian's charming way of making up for his outburst about their mutual friend and cheering up Ominis. And Ominis saw no reason not to respond to it, so he replied somewhat wearily, »Yes, maybe.«

»May I read the letter?« Sebastian asked, to keep the conversation flowing. Ominis was glad for it, as he had been dwelling on gloomy thoughts enough in the past few weeks. »Of course, if you can read it. I haven't written in over four weeks, so the handwriting might seem a bit unclear.«

The parchment was softly rustled across the wooden table as Sebastian turned the letter to be able to read it. He quietly set down his mostly empty mug and Ominis noticed him leaning over the table. »You worry too much, Ominis. Granted, it's not the prettiest handwriting...,« Sebastian explained with a hint of a grin in his voice, which even Ominis found highly infectious.

»Besides that, it's simply amazing that you taught yourself to write in this way,« Sebastian continued.

»I had no choice. It was necessary for the O.W.L. exams,« Ominis explained with a modest smile. »Plus, it's something that gives me some independence in my life.«

»Sometimes I forget that you're blind,« Sebastian said, softly chuckling with a hint of appreciation in his voice. It was a tone of voice that Ominis rarely heard when people spoke about him.

*****

Dear Carol,

I hope you are enjoying a delightful summer holiday.

Sebastian has taken me back in at Feldcroft. He and I have endeavored to locate Anne and establish communication with her, but unfortunately, to no avail. I can only hope that she is well and will reconnect with us when the time is right.

Summers in Feldcroft are scorching and oftentimes arid. The atmosphere is thick and swollen, and the scent of desiccated heather and rye fills the air.

I believe I have incurred a sunburn, though Sebastian refrains from commenting on it. Nevertheless, the uncomfortable, parched, and fervid sensation on my face speaks for itself. I wonder if I have acquired a semblance of color? Someone once told me that I have a very fair complexion.

Sebastian is making strides in tempering his ambition and employing his intellect more frequently, although I must occasionally remind him of its existence.

How are you faring? Are you with your family? I envision you taking a respite and embarking on a journey to a summer residence with your loved ones.

By the way, Sebastian's invitation remains open. Therefore, if you wish to join us at Feldcroft for the remainder of the holiday, even if only for a few days, you are most welcome. We would be overjoyed to have you.

If not, then we shall see each other again at Hogwarts.

Perhaps you will consider replying? I believe you are familiar with Sebastian's address, but if not, I shall inscribe it upon the envelope.

Warm regards,

Ominis Gaunt

#hogwarts legacy #fanfiction #ominis x oc #ominis gaunt #sebastian sallow #carol roswell #serpent's lullaby #ominis #ominis hogwarts legacy #sebastian hogwarts legacy

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