Eddie’s Words

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

3 minutes ago, Ookla the Believer said:

I think...this might count as some of my creepy writing. I might write more with it, sorry if the ending feels unsatisfying, it's the way it is because I'm hoping to add to it. Anyway...enjoy, as always thoughts, feedback, and psychiatrist recommendations are more than welcome  

Dancer:

  Hide contents

Dance:

The girl spun.

She twirled.

She was maddeningly beautiful, every motion precise and delicate and exactly as it should be.

She whirled, alone in a spotlight.

That, at least, was how she looked from a distance. The boy watching was entranced. He stood in the dark, and to him she was light incarnate. The sequins on her dress looked like diamonds, her hair like the nectar of the gods, her eyes like…like something, the boy was sure, only he didn’t know what to compare them too; there was nothing in the realm of mortals that could even come close to matching them.

He stumbled towards her, and after a few steps he noticed something. A set of strings. This…this girl, this angel, this goddess…was a puppet? Every movement suddenly seemed staged, artificial. He started to turn away, to disappear back into the darkness, but her eyes. They were too alive for any sort of doll.

And so the boy took another step.

And the girl danced on. 

And then the boy saw the needles. Razor sharp. So tiny it took him a moment to realize what he was watching. They glistened dangerously, and they danced with the girl. So that was it. The strings were pulling her away from the needles, keeping her safe. She was being controlled, but that was okay, because controlled was better than dead.

Only, as the boy came closer, he saw that that wasn’t right, either. The girl was fighting the strings. Her perfect hands were faintly purple, she was pulling so hard against them. Blood dripped from her wrists where they cut into her skin. She was smiling, but her beautiful eyes were wide and afraid. And there were tears dripping from her chin. He watched, awed, as one pooled, then flew outward as she leapt into the air over a needle that had been ready to dig into her calf. The tear looked like a shooting star.

The strings raised into the air with the girl, though it was clear they hadn’t caused the jump. They caught her, though. Just before the girl’s pointed toe touched the floor, the strings tightened even more around her wrists. She didn’t react. Didn’t even pause in her dance. She spun upwards, twisting herself through the strings in a knot so complicated the boy feared she would be trapped in the tangle of glistening silver, but all at once she spun and was back on the ground.

The boy, now only a few feet outside her circle of light, suddenly heard a tune. It wasn’t as though the music had just started; it was more like it had always been there, in the back of his mind, and he was only now becoming aware of it. He couldn’t quite place the instrument; it was higher than any violin he’d ever heard, and yet more resonant than a cello, and in a moment it was deeper than one, too. The melody was fast, but surrounded by harmonies it sounded as though each note lasted an eternity. It twisted in his mind, wrapping itself around him until he wanted to look away from the dancer to check if there were strings tied around his own wrists.

But he couldn’t look away. Another tear flew off the girl’s face, and he felt one of his own fall softly to the floor. He tried to blink it away, but he couldn't stand to miss a single moment of her dance. 

She strained against her strings, dodging every poisoned needle that dared try to dig into her flawless skin. She tried to look down, but another string, one the boy hadn’t noticed until now, yanked her head up. She added the motion into her dance, following her head into the air and flipping backwards. 

And then she saw the boy. She stared into his eyes, pausing for just a hundredth of a second…but the magic did not pause with her. The strings wrenched her to the side, and a needle flew into the center of her back. She arched forward, convulsing violently, and another flew and stuck into her temple. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and the music echoed the noise she could not make.

The boy stumbled back, gasping. 

The dancer still watched him.

But she was not dancing any longer.

A morbidly beautiful pink foam seeped from her open mouth, dripping with the tears that were no longer flying stars but falling rain.

She struggled for a moment longer, but everything about her had…dulled. Even her dress seemed less like a diamond and more like a melodramatic costume. Blood dripped down her pale skin, down her cheek, down her back, down her wrists and her neck.

The boy stumbled back further, desperate to get away. Finally he turned and ran headfirst into the darkness, not caring what he would find there.

Behind him, he thought he heard laughter.

But when he turned to look, he saw only the girl, hanging limp from her strings, her eyes closed.

The laughter only grew louder.

 

O.o woah...is beautifully terrifying!!

[Weaver of Lies he/him]

6 minutes ago, Ookla the Believer said:

I think...this might count as some of my creepy writing. I might write more with it, sorry if the ending feels unsatisfying, it's the way it is because I'm hoping to add to it. Anyway...enjoy, as always thoughts, feedback, and psychiatrist recommendations are more than welcome  

Dancer:

  Reveal hidden contents

Dance:

The girl spun.

She twirled.

She was maddeningly beautiful, every motion precise and delicate and exactly as it should be.

She whirled, alone in a spotlight.

That, at least, was how she looked from a distance. The boy watching was entranced. He stood in the dark, and to him she was light incarnate. The sequins on her dress looked like diamonds, her hair like the nectar of the gods, her eyes like…like something, the boy was sure, only he didn’t know what to compare them too; there was nothing in the realm of mortals that could even come close to matching them.

He stumbled towards her, and after a few steps he noticed something. A set of strings. This…this girl, this angel, this goddess…was a puppet? Every movement suddenly seemed staged, artificial. He started to turn away, to disappear back into the darkness, but her eyes. They were too alive for any sort of doll.

And so the boy took another step.

And the girl danced on. 

And then the boy saw the needles. Razor sharp. So tiny it took him a moment to realize what he was watching. They glistened dangerously, and they danced with the girl. So that was it. The strings were pulling her away from the needles, keeping her safe. She was being controlled, but that was okay, because controlled was better than dead.

Only, as the boy came closer, he saw that that wasn’t right, either. The girl was fighting the strings. Her perfect hands were faintly purple, she was pulling so hard against them. Blood dripped from her wrists where they cut into her skin. She was smiling, but her beautiful eyes were wide and afraid. And there were tears dripping from her chin. He watched, awed, as one pooled, then flew outward as she leapt into the air over a needle that had been ready to dig into her calf. The tear looked like a shooting star.

The strings raised into the air with the girl, though it was clear they hadn’t caused the jump. They caught her, though. Just before the girl’s pointed toe touched the floor, the strings tightened even more around her wrists. She didn’t react. Didn’t even pause in her dance. She spun upwards, twisting herself through the strings in a knot so complicated the boy feared she would be trapped in the tangle of glistening silver, but all at once she spun and was back on the ground.

The boy, now only a few feet outside her circle of light, suddenly heard a tune. It wasn’t as though the music had just started; it was more like it had always been there, in the back of his mind, and he was only now becoming aware of it. He couldn’t quite place the instrument; it was higher than any violin he’d ever heard, and yet more resonant than a cello, and in a moment it was deeper than one, too. The melody was fast, but surrounded by harmonies it sounded as though each note lasted an eternity. It twisted in his mind, wrapping itself around him until he wanted to look away from the dancer to check if there were strings tied around his own wrists.

But he couldn’t look away. Another tear flew off the girl’s face, and he felt one of his own fall softly to the floor. He tried to blink it away, but he couldn't stand to miss a single moment of her dance. 

She strained against her strings, dodging every poisoned needle that dared try to dig into her flawless skin. She tried to look down, but another string, one the boy hadn’t noticed until now, yanked her head up. She added the motion into her dance, following her head into the air and flipping backwards. 

And then she saw the boy. She stared into his eyes, pausing for just a hundredth of a second…but the magic did not pause with her. The strings wrenched her to the side, and a needle flew into the center of her back. She arched forward, convulsing violently, and another flew and stuck into her temple. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and the music echoed the noise she could not make.

The boy stumbled back, gasping. 

The dancer still watched him.

But she was not dancing any longer.

A morbidly beautiful pink foam seeped from her open mouth, dripping with the tears that were no longer flying stars but falling rain.

She struggled for a moment longer, but everything about her had…dulled. Even her dress seemed less like a diamond and more like a melodramatic costume. Blood dripped down her pale skin, down her cheek, down her back, down her wrists and her neck.

The boy stumbled back further, desperate to get away. Finally he turned and ran headfirst into the darkness, not caring what he would find there.

Behind him, he thought he heard laughter.

But when he turned to look, he saw only the girl, hanging limp from her strings, her eyes closed.

The laughter only grew louder.

 

That was beautiful, terrifying, sad, haunting, and perfect. You are a great poet Eddie!

 Now I want more, please give me more to this story!

[Edema Rue she/her]

4 minutes ago, Ookla the Raveness said:

O.o woah...is beautifully terrifying!!

Thanks Wiz!!

1 minute ago, Ookla the foolish said:

That was beautiful, terrifying, sad, haunting, and perfect. You are a great poet Eddie!

 Now I want more, please give me more to this story!

Yay, thank you! Hehe, I hopefully will tomorrow, depending on how life goes. 

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

Just now, Ookla the Believer said:

Thanks Wiz!!

Yay, thank you! Hehe, I hopefully will tomorrow, depending on how life goes. 

Yes more please!

Also you should check hunger games when you get a chance, is not necessary but is interesting

[Weaver of Lies he/him]

Just now, Ookla the Believer said:

Thanks Wiz!!

Yay, thank you! Hehe, I hopefully will tomorrow, depending on how life goes. 

I hope you can, as I said it’s great. But life can sometimes get in the way, and life comes first.

 

[Edema Rue she/her]

20 hours ago, Ookla the Believer said:

I think...this might count as some of my creepy writing. I might write more with it, sorry if the ending feels unsatisfying, it's the way it is because I'm hoping to add to it. Anyway...enjoy, as always thoughts, feedback, and psychiatrist recommendations are more than welcome  

Dancer:

  Reveal hidden contents

Dance:

The girl spun.

She twirled.

She was maddeningly beautiful, every motion precise and delicate and exactly as it should be.

She whirled, alone in a spotlight.

That, at least, was how she looked from a distance. The boy watching was entranced. He stood in the dark, and to him she was light incarnate. The sequins on her dress looked like diamonds, her hair like the nectar of the gods, her eyes like…like something, the boy was sure, only he didn’t know what to compare them too; there was nothing in the realm of mortals that could even come close to matching them.

He stumbled towards her, and after a few steps he noticed something. A set of strings. This…this girl, this angel, this goddess…was a puppet? Every movement suddenly seemed staged, artificial. He started to turn away, to disappear back into the darkness, but her eyes. They were too alive for any sort of doll.

And so the boy took another step.

And the girl danced on. 

And then the boy saw the needles. Razor sharp. So tiny it took him a moment to realize what he was watching. They glistened dangerously, and they danced with the girl. So that was it. The strings were pulling her away from the needles, keeping her safe. She was being controlled, but that was okay, because controlled was better than dead.

Only, as the boy came closer, he saw that that wasn’t right, either. The girl was fighting the strings. Her perfect hands were faintly purple, she was pulling so hard against them. Blood dripped from her wrists where they cut into her skin. She was smiling, but her beautiful eyes were wide and afraid. And there were tears dripping from her chin. He watched, awed, as one pooled, then flew outward as she leapt into the air over a needle that had been ready to dig into her calf. The tear looked like a shooting star.

The strings raised into the air with the girl, though it was clear they hadn’t caused the jump. They caught her, though. Just before the girl’s pointed toe touched the floor, the strings tightened even more around her wrists. She didn’t react. Didn’t even pause in her dance. She spun upwards, twisting herself through the strings in a knot so complicated the boy feared she would be trapped in the tangle of glistening silver, but all at once she spun and was back on the ground.

The boy, now only a few feet outside her circle of light, suddenly heard a tune. It wasn’t as though the music had just started; it was more like it had always been there, in the back of his mind, and he was only now becoming aware of it. He couldn’t quite place the instrument; it was higher than any violin he’d ever heard, and yet more resonant than a cello, and in a moment it was deeper than one, too. The melody was fast, but surrounded by harmonies it sounded as though each note lasted an eternity. It twisted in his mind, wrapping itself around him until he wanted to look away from the dancer to check if there were strings tied around his own wrists.

But he couldn’t look away. Another tear flew off the girl’s face, and he felt one of his own fall softly to the floor. He tried to blink it away, but he couldn't stand to miss a single moment of her dance. 

She strained against her strings, dodging every poisoned needle that dared try to dig into her flawless skin. She tried to look down, but another string, one the boy hadn’t noticed until now, yanked her head up. She added the motion into her dance, following her head into the air and flipping backwards. 

And then she saw the boy. She stared into his eyes, pausing for just a hundredth of a second…but the magic did not pause with her. The strings wrenched her to the side, and a needle flew into the center of her back. She arched forward, convulsing violently, and another flew and stuck into her temple. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and the music echoed the noise she could not make.

The boy stumbled back, gasping. 

The dancer still watched him.

But she was not dancing any longer.

A morbidly beautiful pink foam seeped from her open mouth, dripping with the tears that were no longer flying stars but falling rain.

She struggled for a moment longer, but everything about her had…dulled. Even her dress seemed less like a diamond and more like a melodramatic costume. Blood dripped down her pale skin, down her cheek, down her back, down her wrists and her neck.

The boy stumbled back further, desperate to get away. Finally he turned and ran headfirst into the darkness, not caring what he would find there.

Behind him, he thought he heard laughter.

But when he turned to look, he saw only the girl, hanging limp from her strings, her eyes closed.

The laughter only grew louder.

 

Okay okay okay, I finished this scene. There isn't even a pause, really the whole thing should be read straight through. It's still kind of messy, but I'm really happy with this one. I don't even know why, I just...like it  (also sorry, this one is a little longer)

Dancer, part 2: (hesitantly called Chorus)

Spoiler

And so the boy kept running.

He ran through an endless dark.

The music was gone, but the image of the girl remained in his mind.

She was dead, he was sure of that, but the boy couldn’t make himself believe it. She had danced so wonderfully. She had been more than human. She had been above any creature he had seen before…if she was a goddess, surely she was above death also?

Her laughter echoed through his mind. The boy was no longer sure if he was really hearing it or if it was only his imagination. And so he ran, ran on and on, away from her corpse, away from the only spot of light in this strange world.

He didn’t have time to get distracted. He had to hurry. He had to…

He had to do…something.

He had to get…somewhere.

Why couldn’t he remember where? Why couldn’t he…where was he?

In the distance, the boy saw another spot of light. Every instinct told him to turn, to go around it, to avoid it, but he found himself walking towards it instead. 

This spotlight was bigger.

It held an entire chorus.

And they were not beautiful.

Their skin was pale, yes, but it was not the smooth buttermilk of the dancer. It was the pasty wax of a corpse. Their clothing shone, yes, but with a strange and tainted light that was somehow worse than any darkness could be. And their eyes…their eyes were to the dancer’s what a worm is to a god. Those who still had eyes, anyway. Some of them didn’t. And as the boy watched, he realized that all of them were missing parts of themselves. 

The boy didn’t noticed he was still walking until he heard the singing.

The dancer’s music had been lovely, but it was shallow and petty, he realized that now. As wonderful as that sound was, comparing the two was like comparing a masterpiece to a child’s mud painting. It was laughable. 

As the dancer was a master of her art, this chorus was a master of theirs. 

For a moment, there was but a single note. Then, without pausing to breathe, for breath was a weakness that was not tolerated here, it split into dozens of harmonies.

There was no pause, no break in the music. 

And oh, the music. 

There was no way to describe the wordless cacophony, the beautiful, terrible song. 

The song.

All thoughts fled from the boy’s mind. He couldn’t run, didn’t run, why would he want to run, to leave the embrace of this ethereal music? He forgot the dancer, forgot the needles, the strings, the death. He lost himself in the song.

After a moment, he let his eyes slide shut. It was better when he couldn’t see the monsters that were making such beauty. It was…it was…

The boy was falling, he must be, he couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet. Was he breathing? He couldn’t tell. All was lost in darkness and song.

He forced his eyes open. The creatures greeted him, with their sneering faces and their decaying bodies. 

The boy realized something, then.

Such a choir must surely have a conductor.

It took him a few minutes of searching to find it; his eyes kept slipping off the chorus, away from the tattered clothing, the sunken skin, the exposed bones and the missing limbs. And the utter lack of blood…it was disconcerting, to say the least. Still, eventually the boy saw it. A solid black whip inlaid with gold.

It flitted between the singers, who were still singing, who hadn’t even paused to breathe. And, now that the boy was watching it, he saw that any time a singer looked weak, looked ready to pause, any time the sound was less than perfect (though of course to him, it was too magical to need any sort of correction), the whip was right there, slashing at their backs, their ribs, their arms, their legs. These people…had they been human, once? 

No wonder they looked so ragged. The boy shivered involuntarily. The whip couldn’t kill them, could it? The music would fail, the chorus would break, the harmony would be shattered. But, the boy supposed, they don’t need legs to sing. Arms, either. And there was no blood to get in the way…though, looking at their faces, the boy decided that no blood didn’t necessarily mean no pain.

The boy watched them for a long time. They steadily grew more haggard, more injured. 

One of them saw him, and then the others, and then the boy realized that they weren’t just singing anymore, they were singing to him. The desperate souls were trying to…to what? To warn him?

Or to entice him? 

And so the boy found himself running again. 

The song disappeared more quickly than he would have thought possible.

The light did, too.

And once again, the boy was alone in the dark.

He fell to his knees and wept.

He cried for the song. For its beauty, and for the pain of its absence. For the art that was built on such terrible, terrible pain.

Eventually, though, the boy stood up. He moved numb legs, and thus he walked. His empty heart thumped against his chest, and thus he lived. He inhaled tasteless air, and thus he breathed. He opened tired eyes, and thus he saw.

There were other things in the darkness.

There was a band of skeletons whose instruments were carved of glistening white bone. The bones of their comrades. 

There was a painter, consumed by his masterpiece, painting a world until it swallowed him whole.

There were others, too. There were some that couldn’t be seen. There was a place where, if he stood still, he tasted something sweet, something that could only be the ambrosia of some glorious pantheon. But if he lingered, the sweetness suddenly seemed metallic, bitter, bloody, until he couldn’t tell the difference between them.

There was a patch of darkness that was darker than the rest.

There was a pair of lovers, weaving around each other without ever touching. 

The boy wandered for a long time, anonymous in the darkness. Occasionally he would feel a breath of air on his cheek, hear a footstep behind him, and he would know that there were others in the darkness. Other wanderers.

The boy wandered and lost himself in the spotlights he never entered. He wandered until that became all he was; a Wanderer. Was that his name? Did a creature like him, never seen, never heard, warrant a name?

Wanderer watched the acts. No two were the same, though he saw other dancers, other choruses, other bands and other painters and other tastes and other smells.

And eventually, something odd began to happen. 

The artists would look up as he approached, as if they heard something. But they no longer met his eyes. They no longer saw him. He was becoming, he realized, a part of the darkness. And that scared the boy. But that did not scare Wanderer, and there was more of Wanderer than there was of the boy. And so he wandered. 

He wandered for what could have been minutes, could have been hours, could have been years or possibly centuries. He wandered among the familiar strangers. Among all the variations of acts he knew.

Until he saw something new. 

Wanderer saw a pinprick of light in the darkness. A spotlight. An exhibit. He walked toward it, as he always did, as he always had.

But as it grew, Wanderer frowned.

The spotlight shone on an empty patch of floor. 

There was no dancer.

No performer.

No music filled his ears;

No new smells or tastes.

And Wanderer’s heart started to pound. He glanced around, though the darkness yielded nothing and the spotlight remained empty.

And so Wanderer stepped into the radiant circle.

And the brilliance blinded eyes that had been watching for too long.

And the glow burned away the shadows he had cloaked himself with.

And the boy wandered no more.

 

[Weaver of Lies he/him]

5 minutes ago, Ookla the Believer said:

Okay okay okay, I finished this scene. There isn't even a pause, really the whole thing should be read straight through. It's still kind of messy, but I'm really happy with this one. I don't even know why, I just...like it  (also sorry, this one is a little longer)

Dancer, part 2: (hesitantly called Chorus)

  Hide contents

And so the boy kept running.

He ran through an endless dark.

The music was gone, but the image of the girl remained in his mind.

She was dead, he was sure of that, but the boy couldn’t make himself believe it. She had danced so wonderfully. She had been more than human. She had been above any creature he had seen before…if she was a goddess, surely she was above death also?

Her laughter echoed through his mind. The boy was no longer sure if he was really hearing it or if it was only his imagination. And so he ran, ran on and on, away from her corpse, away from the only spot of light in this strange world.

He didn’t have time to get distracted. He had to hurry. He had to…

He had to do…something.

He had to get…somewhere.

Why couldn’t he remember where? Why couldn’t he…where was he?

In the distance, the boy saw another spot of light. Every instinct told him to turn, to go around it, to avoid it, but he found himself walking towards it instead. 

This spotlight was bigger.

It held an entire chorus.

And they were not beautiful.

Their skin was pale, yes, but it was not the smooth buttermilk of the dancer. It was the pasty wax of a corpse. Their clothing shone, yes, but with a strange and tainted light that was somehow worse than any darkness could be. And their eyes…their eyes were to the dancer’s what a worm is to a god. Those who still had eyes, anyway. Some of them didn’t. And as the boy watched, he realized that all of them were missing parts of themselves. 

The boy didn’t noticed he was still walking until he heard the singing.

The dancer’s music had been lovely, but it was shallow and petty, he realized that now. As wonderful as that sound was, comparing the two was like comparing a masterpiece to a child’s mud painting. It was laughable. 

As the dancer was a master of her art, this chorus was a master of theirs. 

For a moment, there was but a single note. Then, without pausing to breathe, for breath was a weakness that was not tolerated here, it split into dozens of harmonies.

There was no pause, no break in the music. 

And oh, the music. 

There was no way to describe the wordless cacophony, the beautiful, terrible song. 

The song.

All thoughts fled from the boy’s mind. He couldn’t run, didn’t run, why would he want to run, to leave the embrace of this ethereal music? He forgot the dancer, forgot the needles, the strings, the death. He lost himself in the song.

After a moment, he let his eyes slide shut. It was better when he couldn’t see the monsters that were making such beauty. It was…it was…

The boy was falling, he must be, he couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet. Was he breathing? He couldn’t tell. All was lost in darkness and song.

He forced his eyes open. The creatures greeted him, with their sneering faces and their decaying bodies. 

The boy realized something, then.

Such a choir must surely have a conductor.

It took him a few minutes of searching to find it; his eyes kept slipping off the chorus, away from the tattered clothing, the sunken skin, the exposed bones and the missing limbs. And the utter lack of blood…it was disconcerting, to say the least. Still, eventually the boy saw it. A solid black whip inlaid with gold.

It flitted between the singers, who were still singing, who hadn’t even paused to breathe. And, now that the boy was watching it, he saw that any time a singer looked weak, looked ready to pause, any time the sound was less than perfect (though of course to him, it was too magical to need any sort of correction), the whip was right there, slashing at their backs, their ribs, their arms, their legs. These people…had they been human, once? 

No wonder they looked so ragged. The boy shivered involuntarily. The whip couldn’t kill them, could it? The music would fail, the chorus would break, the harmony would be shattered. But, the boy supposed, they don’t need legs to sing. Arms, either. And there was no blood to get in the way…though, looking at their faces, the boy decided that no blood didn’t necessarily mean no pain.

The boy watched them for a long time. They steadily grew more haggard, more injured. 

One of them saw him, and then the others, and then the boy realized that they weren’t just singing anymore, they were singing to him. The desperate souls were trying to…to what? To warn him?

Or to entice him? 

And so the boy found himself running again. 

The song disappeared more quickly than he would have thought possible.

The light did, too.

And once again, the boy was alone in the dark.

He fell to his knees and wept.

He cried for the song. For its beauty, and for the pain of its absence. For the art that was built on such terrible, terrible pain.

Eventually, though, the boy stood up. He moved numb legs, and thus he walked. His empty heart thumped against his chest, and thus he lived. He inhaled tasteless air, and thus he breathed. He opened tired eyes, and thus he saw.

There were other things in the darkness.

There was a band of skeletons whose instruments were carved of glistening white bone. The bones of their comrades. 

There was a painter, consumed by his masterpiece, painting a world until it swallowed him whole.

There were others, too. There were some that couldn’t be seen. There was a place where, if he stood still, he tasted something sweet, something that could only be the ambrosia of some glorious pantheon. But if he lingered, the sweetness suddenly seemed metallic, bitter, bloody, until he couldn’t tell the difference between them.

There was a patch of darkness that was darker than the rest.

There was a pair of lovers, weaving around each other without ever touching. 

The boy wandered for a long time, anonymous in the darkness. Occasionally he would feel a breath of air on his cheek, hear a footstep behind him, and he would know that there were others in the darkness. Other wanderers.

The boy wandered and lost himself in the spotlights he never entered. He wandered until that became all he was; a Wanderer. Was that his name? Did a creature like him, never seen, never heard, warrant a name?

Wanderer watched the acts. No two were the same, though he saw other dancers, other choruses, other bands and other painters and other tastes and other smells.

And eventually, something odd began to happen. 

The artists would look up as he approached, as if they heard something. But they no longer met his eyes. They no longer saw him. He was becoming, he realized, a part of the darkness. And that scared the boy. But that did not scare Wanderer, and there was more of Wanderer than there was of the boy. And so he wandered. 

He wandered for what could have been minutes, could have been hours, could have been years or possibly centuries. He wandered among the familiar strangers. Among all the variations of acts he knew.

Until he saw something new. 

Wanderer saw a pinprick of light in the darkness. A spotlight. An exhibit. He walked toward it, as he always did, as he always had.

But as it grew, Wanderer frowned.

The spotlight shone on an empty patch of floor. 

There was no dancer.

No performer.

No music filled his ears;

No new smells or tastes.

And Wanderer’s heart started to pound. He glanced around, though the darkness yielded nothing and the spotlight remained empty.

And so Wanderer stepped into the radiant circle.

And the brilliance blinded eyes that had been watching for too long.

And the glow burned away the shadows he had cloaked himself with.

And the boy wandered no more.

 

Absolutely beautiful Eddie!

[Just-A-Stick she/her]

On 11/23/2023 at 9:36 PM, Ookla the Believer said:

Hmm…I wrote a scene…not sure how good it is, but I enjoyed it, and hopefully you will too!

Within a Wish:

  Reveal hidden contents

The boy had been in bed for a full three days. He’d lain, unmoving, eyes shut so that he could almost be sleeping. He was sleeping, he must be, for he still had a pulse. His heart still beat. His chest rose and fell softy. His lips were a pale pink, though they seemed vibrant against his nearly white face, which was, perhaps, made to look more pale by his dark brown hair. Was that…were his eyelids fluttering? No. No, they were still.

There was an older boy was sitting by his bedside, a boy who imagined that he’d seen his brother take a deeper breath, who imagined his brother, his Ryin, had started to awaken. The brother’s foot was tapping, though he wasn’t aware of it. He should have been. The tapping was the only noise in the small room. The brother finally looked away from Ryin. He looked up to the unfamiliar roof. To the unfamiliar rafters. And he wished. He wished for home. For the house he’d helped build, for the smell of their barn, for the smell of bread cooking in the hearth, the sound of his sister’s laughter and his mother’s singing. And he wished for the sound of Ryin’s knife quietly scratching away at some new project. 

He wished powerfully. His wish filled his heart and every part of his soul. His wish was so strong the inn should have collapsed in on itself until it became his home. His wish was the sort of wish that should have made the world right again, just by wishing it.

It didn’t. But as he leaned over to blow out the candle, to give in to the shadows that bled in from the window, a weak cough stopped him. He spun so quickly he dripped hot wax on his leg. It burned, but he didn’t care. Because Ryin’s eyes were open.

“Jae?” His voice was thin and raspy, and Jae scrambled to find a cup of water.

“I’m here, Ry…I’m here. Oh, stars.” He held out the water, suddenly unsure what to do.

Ryin slowly sat up. He looked…tired, which was to be expected, Jae supposed. His hair was damp, and his skin still looked deathly pale. Finally, he reached for the cup of water. Jae started to hand it to him, by the boy’s hand shook and he nearly dropped it, so Jae kept holding it, carefully helping his brother drink. Ryin had always been sickly but this…this was unlike anything that had happened before.

“How long has it been?”

“Three days,” Jae said. “I’m so sorry, Ry, if I’d known this would happen I never would’ve suggested…” Ryin was shaking his head.

“No,” he said firmly. As firmly as he could. He still looked half dead. “No. Jae, you don’t…it isn’t the Wish. It was my fault.”

“What did you do?” Jae demanded, guilt instantly transforming to fury. How dare he. How dare this boy take everything he had loved from him, demand he become something he would never be, then leave him to worry for three days by making a foolish choice in a world of magic? When Ryin didn’t answer, Jae leaned forward, glaring into the boy’s bright eyes.

“I didn’t want to come back,” Ryin whispered.

“What?”

“I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay there forever.”

“You idiot,” Jae scoffed, leaning back. “What’s wrong with you?” Ryin’s lip trembled. “Go ahead and cry about it,” he taunted. “Do it. See if I care.”

Ryin did cry, then. And Jae didn’t care. The tears filled the little boy’s eyes and then spilled down his cheeks, dripping off his chin. He tried to wipe them, but his hands were shaking too badly. “I wish I’d never woken up,” he whispered.

“You’re not the only one,” Jae muttered. “Get over yourself. We’re going home.” A part of him knew he should feel bad, but he didn’t. How could he? The boy deserved to feel some pain. He would apologize once they were safely home and everything was the way it should be.

Another tear dripped down Ryin’s cheek. “It hurts, Jae.”

“Do I look like I care?”

Ryin shook his head. “And that’s what hurts. You’re supposed to care.”

Jae sneered. He felt a pang of something in his heart, but it didn’t matter. He was too tired for this. He’d worked too hard for too long to let a child’s wishes make a fool out of him. “I don’t.”

“I know,” Ryin whispered, lip trembling. “And that’s why I should have stayed.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I Wish…” Jae shoved a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” he warned. “We’re going home, and you don’t get to use some stupid magic to drag me across the world with you again.”

Ryin looked up at him. He looked…terrified. But determined. Jae hated that look. He pressed down harder on Ryin’s face. “No Wishes.”

But Ryin didn’t need his voice to Wish, not any longer. He had been in the Wish itself, and his magic came like breathing. Came like carving. He Wished, and all the dreams he had hidden inside answered his call. Jae flew back against the wall and found himself unable to move. He was powerless against his brother’s Wish.

Ryin looked at Jae. Jae glared, and Ryin started to cry again. But his magic held firm, even as his heart crumbled. Wishes, after all, mean more to the broken than they ever can to the whole. “I found a home, Jae.”

“You have a home, idiot,” Jae snapped. 

Ryin shook his head. “I have a house. I have parents and a brother and a sister but I don’t have a home. But I found one. And I left it for you. I left it for this.”

Jae found himself speechless. “That’s…ridiculous…”

Ryin nodded. “It is. I should have stayed, but I didn’t, and now I can never go back to the only family that's ever really loved me.”

“We love you,” Jae protested half-heartedly.

“You don’t.”

“I…”

Ryin shook his head, pulling his blanket up to his chin. “I saw the way it could be. The way it should be. I saw a world where Mama never got sick, where you never got angry, where I was strong, and our house was full of laughter instead of quiet.”

“I’m not angry,” Jae snapped. Angrily. 

Ryin opened his mouth, looking equally angry, then stopped. He shook his head. “I don’t know why I bother to care about you,” he whispered. “This world doesn’t need me. This world doesn’t care. And it never will.”

Jae blinked. What had happened to his brother? This wasn’t the same foolish boy who had gone into the Wish. This was someone new. Someone…older. Wiser. “What happened to you?” He whispered, still unable to move.

“I found people who care,” Ryin whispered back. “I found a world where I’m not the weakest.” His eyes shone, bright and hopeful. “I found a world where I belong.”

“Then why’d you come back?” Jae asked, genuinely curious. “If it was that much better, why are you back here?”

Ryin looked down. “I didn’t choose to come back. Humans can’t stay in the Wish too long without…bad things happening. And the Wish cared enough to make sure that didn’t happen. It sent me back to this…to this hell because It cared.”

“This isn’t hell,” Jae said. “It’s home.”

Ryin shook his head. “I just came from heaven, Jae. I know exactly where I am.” He looked up, and his eyes, Jae realized in terror, were a deep black. “And I know exactly who made it that way.”

Ooh! I like it!  

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

40 minutes ago, Ookla the Believer said:

Okay okay okay, I finished this scene. There isn't even a pause, really the whole thing should be read straight through. It's still kind of messy, but I'm really happy with this one. I don't even know why, I just...like it  (also sorry, this one is a little longer)

Dancer, part 2: (hesitantly called Chorus)

  Hide contents

And so the boy kept running.

He ran through an endless dark.

The music was gone, but the image of the girl remained in his mind.

She was dead, he was sure of that, but the boy couldn’t make himself believe it. She had danced so wonderfully. She had been more than human. She had been above any creature he had seen before…if she was a goddess, surely she was above death also?

Her laughter echoed through his mind. The boy was no longer sure if he was really hearing it or if it was only his imagination. And so he ran, ran on and on, away from her corpse, away from the only spot of light in this strange world.

He didn’t have time to get distracted. He had to hurry. He had to…

He had to do…something.

He had to get…somewhere.

Why couldn’t he remember where? Why couldn’t he…where was he?

In the distance, the boy saw another spot of light. Every instinct told him to turn, to go around it, to avoid it, but he found himself walking towards it instead. 

This spotlight was bigger.

It held an entire chorus.

And they were not beautiful.

Their skin was pale, yes, but it was not the smooth buttermilk of the dancer. It was the pasty wax of a corpse. Their clothing shone, yes, but with a strange and tainted light that was somehow worse than any darkness could be. And their eyes…their eyes were to the dancer’s what a worm is to a god. Those who still had eyes, anyway. Some of them didn’t. And as the boy watched, he realized that all of them were missing parts of themselves. 

The boy didn’t noticed he was still walking until he heard the singing.

The dancer’s music had been lovely, but it was shallow and petty, he realized that now. As wonderful as that sound was, comparing the two was like comparing a masterpiece to a child’s mud painting. It was laughable. 

As the dancer was a master of her art, this chorus was a master of theirs. 

For a moment, there was but a single note. Then, without pausing to breathe, for breath was a weakness that was not tolerated here, it split into dozens of harmonies.

There was no pause, no break in the music. 

And oh, the music. 

There was no way to describe the wordless cacophony, the beautiful, terrible song. 

The song.

All thoughts fled from the boy’s mind. He couldn’t run, didn’t run, why would he want to run, to leave the embrace of this ethereal music? He forgot the dancer, forgot the needles, the strings, the death. He lost himself in the song.

After a moment, he let his eyes slide shut. It was better when he couldn’t see the monsters that were making such beauty. It was…it was…

The boy was falling, he must be, he couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet. Was he breathing? He couldn’t tell. All was lost in darkness and song.

He forced his eyes open. The creatures greeted him, with their sneering faces and their decaying bodies. 

The boy realized something, then.

Such a choir must surely have a conductor.

It took him a few minutes of searching to find it; his eyes kept slipping off the chorus, away from the tattered clothing, the sunken skin, the exposed bones and the missing limbs. And the utter lack of blood…it was disconcerting, to say the least. Still, eventually the boy saw it. A solid black whip inlaid with gold.

It flitted between the singers, who were still singing, who hadn’t even paused to breathe. And, now that the boy was watching it, he saw that any time a singer looked weak, looked ready to pause, any time the sound was less than perfect (though of course to him, it was too magical to need any sort of correction), the whip was right there, slashing at their backs, their ribs, their arms, their legs. These people…had they been human, once? 

No wonder they looked so ragged. The boy shivered involuntarily. The whip couldn’t kill them, could it? The music would fail, the chorus would break, the harmony would be shattered. But, the boy supposed, they don’t need legs to sing. Arms, either. And there was no blood to get in the way…though, looking at their faces, the boy decided that no blood didn’t necessarily mean no pain.

The boy watched them for a long time. They steadily grew more haggard, more injured. 

One of them saw him, and then the others, and then the boy realized that they weren’t just singing anymore, they were singing to him. The desperate souls were trying to…to what? To warn him?

Or to entice him? 

And so the boy found himself running again. 

The song disappeared more quickly than he would have thought possible.

The light did, too.

And once again, the boy was alone in the dark.

He fell to his knees and wept.

He cried for the song. For its beauty, and for the pain of its absence. For the art that was built on such terrible, terrible pain.

Eventually, though, the boy stood up. He moved numb legs, and thus he walked. His empty heart thumped against his chest, and thus he lived. He inhaled tasteless air, and thus he breathed. He opened tired eyes, and thus he saw.

There were other things in the darkness.

There was a band of skeletons whose instruments were carved of glistening white bone. The bones of their comrades. 

There was a painter, consumed by his masterpiece, painting a world until it swallowed him whole.

There were others, too. There were some that couldn’t be seen. There was a place where, if he stood still, he tasted something sweet, something that could only be the ambrosia of some glorious pantheon. But if he lingered, the sweetness suddenly seemed metallic, bitter, bloody, until he couldn’t tell the difference between them.

There was a patch of darkness that was darker than the rest.

There was a pair of lovers, weaving around each other without ever touching. 

The boy wandered for a long time, anonymous in the darkness. Occasionally he would feel a breath of air on his cheek, hear a footstep behind him, and he would know that there were others in the darkness. Other wanderers.

The boy wandered and lost himself in the spotlights he never entered. He wandered until that became all he was; a Wanderer. Was that his name? Did a creature like him, never seen, never heard, warrant a name?

Wanderer watched the acts. No two were the same, though he saw other dancers, other choruses, other bands and other painters and other tastes and other smells.

And eventually, something odd began to happen. 

The artists would look up as he approached, as if they heard something. But they no longer met his eyes. They no longer saw him. He was becoming, he realized, a part of the darkness. And that scared the boy. But that did not scare Wanderer, and there was more of Wanderer than there was of the boy. And so he wandered. 

He wandered for what could have been minutes, could have been hours, could have been years or possibly centuries. He wandered among the familiar strangers. Among all the variations of acts he knew.

Until he saw something new. 

Wanderer saw a pinprick of light in the darkness. A spotlight. An exhibit. He walked toward it, as he always did, as he always had.

But as it grew, Wanderer frowned.

The spotlight shone on an empty patch of floor. 

There was no dancer.

No performer.

No music filled his ears;

No new smells or tastes.

And Wanderer’s heart started to pound. He glanced around, though the darkness yielded nothing and the spotlight remained empty.

And so Wanderer stepped into the radiant circle.

And the brilliance blinded eyes that had been watching for too long.

And the glow burned away the shadows he had cloaked himself with.

And the boy wandered no more.

 

Oooooooo :3

[Edema Rue she/her]

54 minutes ago, Ookla the foolish said:

Absolutely beautiful Eddie!

 

42 minutes ago, Ookla-The-Stick said:

Ooh! I like it!  

 

20 minutes ago, Ookla the Raveness said:

Oooooooo :3

Thanks all! I had a lot of fun with it, probably more than I should have  

...I also tried to get the AI to make me something but...ah...

Spoiler

It tried.

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

Just now, Ookla the Believer said:

 

 

Thanks all! I had a lot of fun with it, probably more than I should have  

...I also tried to get the AI to make me something but...ah...

  Reveal hidden contents

It tried.

I mean it is accurate

[Just a Silvereye he/him]

Really cool! Weird but really cool

[TheRavenHasLanded he/him]

11 hours ago, Ookla the Believer said:

Okay okay okay, I finished this scene. There isn't even a pause, really the whole thing should be read straight through. It's still kind of messy, but I'm really happy with this one. I don't even know why, I just...like it  (also sorry, this one is a little longer)

Dancer, part 2: (hesitantly called Chorus)

  Reveal hidden contents

And so the boy kept running.

He ran through an endless dark.

The music was gone, but the image of the girl remained in his mind.

She was dead, he was sure of that, but the boy couldn’t make himself believe it. She had danced so wonderfully. She had been more than human. She had been above any creature he had seen before…if she was a goddess, surely she was above death also?

Her laughter echoed through his mind. The boy was no longer sure if he was really hearing it or if it was only his imagination. And so he ran, ran on and on, away from her corpse, away from the only spot of light in this strange world.

He didn’t have time to get distracted. He had to hurry. He had to…

He had to do…something.

He had to get…somewhere.

Why couldn’t he remember where? Why couldn’t he…where was he?

In the distance, the boy saw another spot of light. Every instinct told him to turn, to go around it, to avoid it, but he found himself walking towards it instead. 

This spotlight was bigger.

It held an entire chorus.

And they were not beautiful.

Their skin was pale, yes, but it was not the smooth buttermilk of the dancer. It was the pasty wax of a corpse. Their clothing shone, yes, but with a strange and tainted light that was somehow worse than any darkness could be. And their eyes…their eyes were to the dancer’s what a worm is to a god. Those who still had eyes, anyway. Some of them didn’t. And as the boy watched, he realized that all of them were missing parts of themselves. 

The boy didn’t noticed he was still walking until he heard the singing.

The dancer’s music had been lovely, but it was shallow and petty, he realized that now. As wonderful as that sound was, comparing the two was like comparing a masterpiece to a child’s mud painting. It was laughable. 

As the dancer was a master of her art, this chorus was a master of theirs. 

For a moment, there was but a single note. Then, without pausing to breathe, for breath was a weakness that was not tolerated here, it split into dozens of harmonies.

There was no pause, no break in the music. 

And oh, the music. 

There was no way to describe the wordless cacophony, the beautiful, terrible song. 

The song.

All thoughts fled from the boy’s mind. He couldn’t run, didn’t run, why would he want to run, to leave the embrace of this ethereal music? He forgot the dancer, forgot the needles, the strings, the death. He lost himself in the song.

After a moment, he let his eyes slide shut. It was better when he couldn’t see the monsters that were making such beauty. It was…it was…

The boy was falling, he must be, he couldn’t feel the ground beneath his feet. Was he breathing? He couldn’t tell. All was lost in darkness and song.

He forced his eyes open. The creatures greeted him, with their sneering faces and their decaying bodies. 

The boy realized something, then.

Such a choir must surely have a conductor.

It took him a few minutes of searching to find it; his eyes kept slipping off the chorus, away from the tattered clothing, the sunken skin, the exposed bones and the missing limbs. And the utter lack of blood…it was disconcerting, to say the least. Still, eventually the boy saw it. A solid black whip inlaid with gold.

It flitted between the singers, who were still singing, who hadn’t even paused to breathe. And, now that the boy was watching it, he saw that any time a singer looked weak, looked ready to pause, any time the sound was less than perfect (though of course to him, it was too magical to need any sort of correction), the whip was right there, slashing at their backs, their ribs, their arms, their legs. These people…had they been human, once? 

No wonder they looked so ragged. The boy shivered involuntarily. The whip couldn’t kill them, could it? The music would fail, the chorus would break, the harmony would be shattered. But, the boy supposed, they don’t need legs to sing. Arms, either. And there was no blood to get in the way…though, looking at their faces, the boy decided that no blood didn’t necessarily mean no pain.

The boy watched them for a long time. They steadily grew more haggard, more injured. 

One of them saw him, and then the others, and then the boy realized that they weren’t just singing anymore, they were singing to him. The desperate souls were trying to…to what? To warn him?

Or to entice him? 

And so the boy found himself running again. 

The song disappeared more quickly than he would have thought possible.

The light did, too.

And once again, the boy was alone in the dark.

He fell to his knees and wept.

He cried for the song. For its beauty, and for the pain of its absence. For the art that was built on such terrible, terrible pain.

Eventually, though, the boy stood up. He moved numb legs, and thus he walked. His empty heart thumped against his chest, and thus he lived. He inhaled tasteless air, and thus he breathed. He opened tired eyes, and thus he saw.

There were other things in the darkness.

There was a band of skeletons whose instruments were carved of glistening white bone. The bones of their comrades. 

There was a painter, consumed by his masterpiece, painting a world until it swallowed him whole.

There were others, too. There were some that couldn’t be seen. There was a place where, if he stood still, he tasted something sweet, something that could only be the ambrosia of some glorious pantheon. But if he lingered, the sweetness suddenly seemed metallic, bitter, bloody, until he couldn’t tell the difference between them.

There was a patch of darkness that was darker than the rest.

There was a pair of lovers, weaving around each other without ever touching. 

The boy wandered for a long time, anonymous in the darkness. Occasionally he would feel a breath of air on his cheek, hear a footstep behind him, and he would know that there were others in the darkness. Other wanderers.

The boy wandered and lost himself in the spotlights he never entered. He wandered until that became all he was; a Wanderer. Was that his name? Did a creature like him, never seen, never heard, warrant a name?

Wanderer watched the acts. No two were the same, though he saw other dancers, other choruses, other bands and other painters and other tastes and other smells.

And eventually, something odd began to happen. 

The artists would look up as he approached, as if they heard something. But they no longer met his eyes. They no longer saw him. He was becoming, he realized, a part of the darkness. And that scared the boy. But that did not scare Wanderer, and there was more of Wanderer than there was of the boy. And so he wandered. 

He wandered for what could have been minutes, could have been hours, could have been years or possibly centuries. He wandered among the familiar strangers. Among all the variations of acts he knew.

Until he saw something new. 

Wanderer saw a pinprick of light in the darkness. A spotlight. An exhibit. He walked toward it, as he always did, as he always had.

But as it grew, Wanderer frowned.

The spotlight shone on an empty patch of floor. 

There was no dancer.

No performer.

No music filled his ears;

No new smells or tastes.

And Wanderer’s heart started to pound. He glanced around, though the darkness yielded nothing and the spotlight remained empty.

And so Wanderer stepped into the radiant circle.

And the brilliance blinded eyes that had been watching for too long.

And the glow burned away the shadows he had cloaked himself with.

And the boy wandered no more.

 

holy- sheesh- just wow.

[Edema Rue she/her]

9 hours ago, Ookla the Dreamer said:

Really cool! Weird but really cool

Thanks! Hehe I'm a weird sort of person.

2 hours ago, Ookla of Ravens said:

holy- sheesh- just wow.

Thank you  

[Edema Rue she/her]

So this is with my bestie Liz, she's from a project that I'm really hoping will actually go somewhere. But since I mostly write short scenes and then connect them later, you can still read it and enjoy it even if you haven't read anything else I've written with her  

To Siylna:

Spoiler

Asylum…

What an interesting word that is.

What interesting things it implies.

The first thought is safety; asylum is a place of rest, a place with no fear, a place of healing. A place where the sun is warm and it’s okay to be still. Where there is, and always will be, peace.

And the second is when it all goes wrong. Where healing is implied, but hurting is the reality. When rest is the hope, and death is the reality. It sparks a picture of...well, of my dungeons. Dark hallways, screams that echo down them to ears that refuse to hear, blood that stains the stones, and, of course, my apprentices.

And the last is a boy. A young boy. Running towards a grand cathedral. Tears drip down dirt stained cheeks. He clutches a loaf of bread. And he runs inside. There are guards chasing him, but they are held back at the door. The boy is granted sanctuary, asylum, safety. 

But no, no. That isn’t the last thought. Because dozens more follow. Thoughts of friendship. Thoughts of trust. Thoughts of a warm fire on a cold day. Thoughts of a safe inn after months of hard travel. Asylum…

And then my mind flits back to the dungeon. The one filled with pain. And it begins to feast.

To devour the hurt.

To thrive off the misery of others.

My hungry spirit finds its asylum as it destroys the safety of others. And perhaps it can never be satisfied, but oh, their pain tastes so wonderful…

I know these are not normal thoughts. Perhaps I am insane. I have considered the idea. I haven’t dismissed it, rather I’ve realized that I don’t mind if I am or not. We are all insane to some degree. And if I am more than the rest…well. At least I’m not alone. I have all the world, and above them I have you, and I have Ian. And if we are alone together…well. That’s how it’s always been, has it not?

Ah, but I ramble and reminisce. It has been too long since I’ve seen you. Ian hates me, you know. I see it in his eyes. But he misses those old days, too. One moment he’ll look utterly heartbroken, and the next he’ll be ready to destroy me. My dungeon has not been kind to him. He’s growing, though. Changing from the boy we knew into…

Into a hero.

I hope your games are working, my friend. Because Ian is becoming stronger than either of us expected. 

And I wouldn’t want to win this bet too easily, now, would I? That would be terribly boring after all the trouble we’ve both gone through to get here. Come visit soon, dear Siylna. I think you’ll be surprised at the progress I’ve made with our frightened friend. His back is straight, and when I beat him he stands back up. Every time. I’m falling in love with him all over again. With the fire in his eyes, with the way he silently promises to destroy me…I look forward to the day that he does, almost, for it will mean that I have done my job well…

Ah, but I begin to ramble yet again. I will make do with saying that it won’t be much longer now.

With love,

Liz

Liz looked up from the letter, sighing contentedly and setting her quill down. She stepped lightly to the window and climbed out onto the roof. The city spread below her. She’d sat her before, the night she killed the king. Then the city had been full of laughter and lights. Now it was dark, as though hiding in terror. She had done that. 

One person. She was one person. She had killed a king and stolen his crown. And, someday soon, Ian would try to kill her and take hers. He couldn’t, of course. Death was no longer something to be feared. Liz had spoken to him, called his name, and Death had bowed before her. But she would allow herself to be imprisoned when Ian came for her…yes. Yes. Some time on a throne would be good for Ian. It would teach him what her torture hadn’t. 

Liz grinned and tossed a dagger behind her, into the throat of the figure that had been silently approaching, ready to kill. 

What fun it was to be a Queen.

 

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

3 minutes ago, Ookla the Believer said:

So this is with my bestie Liz, she's from a project that I'm really hoping will actually go somewhere. But since I mostly write short scenes and then connect them later, you can still read it and enjoy it even if you haven't read anything else I've written with her  

To Siylna:

  Hide contents

Asylum…

What an interesting word that is.

What interesting things it implies.

The first thought is safety; asylum is a place of rest, a place with no fear, a place of healing. A place where the sun is warm and it’s okay to be still. Where there is, and always will be, peace.

And the second is when it all goes wrong. Where healing is implied, but hurting is the reality. When rest is the hope, and death is the reality. It sparks a picture of...well, of my dungeons. Dark hallways, screams that echo down them to ears that refuse to hear, blood that stains the stones, and, of course, my apprentices.

And the last is a boy. A young boy. Running towards a grand cathedral. Tears drip down dirt stained cheeks. He clutches a loaf of bread. And he runs inside. There are guards chasing him, but they are held back at the door. The boy is granted sanctuary, asylum, safety. 

But no, no. That isn’t the last thought. Because dozens more follow. Thoughts of friendship. Thoughts of trust. Thoughts of a warm fire on a cold day. Thoughts of a safe inn after months of hard travel. Asylum…

And then my mind flits back to the dungeon. The one filled with pain. And it begins to feast.

To devour the hurt.

To thrive off the misery of others.

My hungry spirit finds its asylum as it destroys the safety of others. And perhaps it can never be satisfied, but oh, their pain tastes so wonderful…

I know these are not normal thoughts. Perhaps I am insane. I have considered the idea. I haven’t dismissed it, rather I’ve realized that I don’t mind if I am or not. We are all insane to some degree. And if I am more than the rest…well. At least I’m not alone. I have all the world, and above them I have you, and I have Ian. And if we are alone together…well. That’s how it’s always been, has it not?

Ah, but I ramble and reminisce. It has been too long since I’ve seen you. Ian hates me, you know. I see it in his eyes. But he misses those old days, too. One moment he’ll look utterly heartbroken, and the next he’ll be ready to destroy me. My dungeon has not been kind to him. He’s growing, though. Changing from the boy we knew into…

Into a hero.

I hope your games are working, my friend. Because Ian is becoming stronger than either of us expected. 

And I wouldn’t want to win this bet too easily, now, would I? That would be terribly boring after all the trouble we’ve both gone through to get here. Come visit soon, dear Siylna. I think you’ll be surprised at the progress I’ve made with our frightened friend. His back is straight, and when I beat him he stands back up. Every time. I’m falling in love with him all over again. With the fire in his eyes, with the way he silently promises to destroy me…I look forward to the day that he does, almost, for it will mean that I have done my job well…

Ah, but I begin to ramble yet again. I will make do with saying that it won’t be much longer now.

With love,

Liz

Liz looked up from the letter, sighing contentedly and setting her quill down. She stepped lightly to the window and climbed out onto the roof. The city spread below her. She’d sat her before, the night she killed the king. Then the city had been full of laughter and lights. Now it was dark, as though hiding in terror. She had done that. 

One person. She was one person. She had killed a king and stolen his crown. And, someday soon, Ian would try to kill her and take hers. He couldn’t, of course. Death was no longer something to be feared. Liz had spoken to him, called his name, and Death had bowed before her. But she would allow herself to be imprisoned when Ian came for her…yes. Yes. Some time on a throne would be good for Ian. It would teach him what her torture hadn’t. 

Liz grinned and tossed a dagger behind her, into the throat of the figure that had been silently approaching, ready to kill. 

What fun it was to be a Queen.

 

Heeheehee yes!!!!!!! I really hope this one goes somewhere too as it's amazing!!!! And I love it all!! <333

[Weaver of Lies he/him]

31 minutes ago, Ookla the Believer said:

So this is with my bestie Liz, she's from a project that I'm really hoping will actually go somewhere. But since I mostly write short scenes and then connect them later, you can still read it and enjoy it even if you haven't read anything else I've written with her  

To Siylna:

  Hide contents

Asylum…

What an interesting word that is.

What interesting things it implies.

The first thought is safety; asylum is a place of rest, a place with no fear, a place of healing. A place where the sun is warm and it’s okay to be still. Where there is, and always will be, peace.

And the second is when it all goes wrong. Where healing is implied, but hurting is the reality. When rest is the hope, and death is the reality. It sparks a picture of...well, of my dungeons. Dark hallways, screams that echo down them to ears that refuse to hear, blood that stains the stones, and, of course, my apprentices.

And the last is a boy. A young boy. Running towards a grand cathedral. Tears drip down dirt stained cheeks. He clutches a loaf of bread. And he runs inside. There are guards chasing him, but they are held back at the door. The boy is granted sanctuary, asylum, safety. 

But no, no. That isn’t the last thought. Because dozens more follow. Thoughts of friendship. Thoughts of trust. Thoughts of a warm fire on a cold day. Thoughts of a safe inn after months of hard travel. Asylum…

And then my mind flits back to the dungeon. The one filled with pain. And it begins to feast.

To devour the hurt.

To thrive off the misery of others.

My hungry spirit finds its asylum as it destroys the safety of others. And perhaps it can never be satisfied, but oh, their pain tastes so wonderful…

I know these are not normal thoughts. Perhaps I am insane. I have considered the idea. I haven’t dismissed it, rather I’ve realized that I don’t mind if I am or not. We are all insane to some degree. And if I am more than the rest…well. At least I’m not alone. I have all the world, and above them I have you, and I have Ian. And if we are alone together…well. That’s how it’s always been, has it not?

Ah, but I ramble and reminisce. It has been too long since I’ve seen you. Ian hates me, you know. I see it in his eyes. But he misses those old days, too. One moment he’ll look utterly heartbroken, and the next he’ll be ready to destroy me. My dungeon has not been kind to him. He’s growing, though. Changing from the boy we knew into…

Into a hero.

I hope your games are working, my friend. Because Ian is becoming stronger than either of us expected. 

And I wouldn’t want to win this bet too easily, now, would I? That would be terribly boring after all the trouble we’ve both gone through to get here. Come visit soon, dear Siylna. I think you’ll be surprised at the progress I’ve made with our frightened friend. His back is straight, and when I beat him he stands back up. Every time. I’m falling in love with him all over again. With the fire in his eyes, with the way he silently promises to destroy me…I look forward to the day that he does, almost, for it will mean that I have done my job well…

Ah, but I begin to ramble yet again. I will make do with saying that it won’t be much longer now.

With love,

Liz

Liz looked up from the letter, sighing contentedly and setting her quill down. She stepped lightly to the window and climbed out onto the roof. The city spread below her. She’d sat her before, the night she killed the king. Then the city had been full of laughter and lights. Now it was dark, as though hiding in terror. She had done that. 

One person. She was one person. She had killed a king and stolen his crown. And, someday soon, Ian would try to kill her and take hers. He couldn’t, of course. Death was no longer something to be feared. Liz had spoken to him, called his name, and Death had bowed before her. But she would allow herself to be imprisoned when Ian came for her…yes. Yes. Some time on a throne would be good for Ian. It would teach him what her torture hadn’t. 

Liz grinned and tossed a dagger behind her, into the throat of the figure that had been silently approaching, ready to kill. 

What fun it was to be a Queen.

 

Liz is back!!! I’m excited to hopefully see more.

[Wittles he/him]

14 hours ago, Ookla the Believer said:

So this is with my bestie Liz, she's from a project that I'm really hoping will actually go somewhere. But since I mostly write short scenes and then connect them later, you can still read it and enjoy it even if you haven't read anything else I've written with her  

To Siylna:

  Hide contents

Asylum…

What an interesting word that is.

What interesting things it implies.

The first thought is safety; asylum is a place of rest, a place with no fear, a place of healing. A place where the sun is warm and it’s okay to be still. Where there is, and always will be, peace.

And the second is when it all goes wrong. Where healing is implied, but hurting is the reality. When rest is the hope, and death is the reality. It sparks a picture of...well, of my dungeons. Dark hallways, screams that echo down them to ears that refuse to hear, blood that stains the stones, and, of course, my apprentices.

And the last is a boy. A young boy. Running towards a grand cathedral. Tears drip down dirt stained cheeks. He clutches a loaf of bread. And he runs inside. There are guards chasing him, but they are held back at the door. The boy is granted sanctuary, asylum, safety. 

But no, no. That isn’t the last thought. Because dozens more follow. Thoughts of friendship. Thoughts of trust. Thoughts of a warm fire on a cold day. Thoughts of a safe inn after months of hard travel. Asylum…

And then my mind flits back to the dungeon. The one filled with pain. And it begins to feast.

To devour the hurt.

To thrive off the misery of others.

My hungry spirit finds its asylum as it destroys the safety of others. And perhaps it can never be satisfied, but oh, their pain tastes so wonderful…

I know these are not normal thoughts. Perhaps I am insane. I have considered the idea. I haven’t dismissed it, rather I’ve realized that I don’t mind if I am or not. We are all insane to some degree. And if I am more than the rest…well. At least I’m not alone. I have all the world, and above them I have you, and I have Ian. And if we are alone together…well. That’s how it’s always been, has it not?

Ah, but I ramble and reminisce. It has been too long since I’ve seen you. Ian hates me, you know. I see it in his eyes. But he misses those old days, too. One moment he’ll look utterly heartbroken, and the next he’ll be ready to destroy me. My dungeon has not been kind to him. He’s growing, though. Changing from the boy we knew into…

Into a hero.

I hope your games are working, my friend. Because Ian is becoming stronger than either of us expected. 

And I wouldn’t want to win this bet too easily, now, would I? That would be terribly boring after all the trouble we’ve both gone through to get here. Come visit soon, dear Siylna. I think you’ll be surprised at the progress I’ve made with our frightened friend. His back is straight, and when I beat him he stands back up. Every time. I’m falling in love with him all over again. With the fire in his eyes, with the way he silently promises to destroy me…I look forward to the day that he does, almost, for it will mean that I have done my job well…

Ah, but I begin to ramble yet again. I will make do with saying that it won’t be much longer now.

With love,

Liz

Liz looked up from the letter, sighing contentedly and setting her quill down. She stepped lightly to the window and climbed out onto the roof. The city spread below her. She’d sat her before, the night she killed the king. Then the city had been full of laughter and lights. Now it was dark, as though hiding in terror. She had done that. 

One person. She was one person. She had killed a king and stolen his crown. And, someday soon, Ian would try to kill her and take hers. He couldn’t, of course. Death was no longer something to be feared. Liz had spoken to him, called his name, and Death had bowed before her. But she would allow herself to be imprisoned when Ian came for her…yes. Yes. Some time on a throne would be good for Ian. It would teach him what her torture hadn’t. 

Liz grinned and tossed a dagger behind her, into the throat of the figure that had been silently approaching, ready to kill. 

What fun it was to be a Queen.

 

Oooh! tyranny! I like it! Very good characterization, it was done really effectively in such a short time.

[Edema Rue she/her]

1 hour ago, Ookla the Witless said:

Oooh! tyranny! I like it! Very good characterization, it was done really effectively in such a short time.

Thanks Wittles!! I struggle to write female characters well, I'm glad it's finally working!

[Edema Rue she/her]

(Yes, this is more Liz, but not really. It's a letter to Ian, the hero, from his actual love interest (and yes their entire relationship was set up by Liz, but it's still very real) I had fun writing it, it's helping me flesh out the actual story)

(sorry, I know I keep jumping around to a whole lot of different things).

From Mari:

Spoiler

You said she broke you.

You said she destroyed you.

You told me that everything she did ripped you into pieces so small you would never stand again.

And here you are.

Running.

Away from me.

I swept up your pieces. I sewed your bloody remains back into a person. I held your hand while you shuddered, and wiped away your tears when it became too much. 

I loved you when everyone looked at you and saw a monster. And now you’re...well...a king. And you've forgotten me. I never asked for anything in return. I never expected you to give anything back. It is enough for me to see that you are alive. That you can feel joy. That is worth the hours of stitching, the blisters on my fingers. That is worth every time you woke up afraid and clawed at my face and our blood ran together in a deep red river.

I don’t care.

I shouldn’t care.

I swore I wouldn’t care for you.

But I fell in love.

I fell in love with the way you fought everything that tried to keep you down. I fell in love with your strength. I fell in love with you.

And now I am torn, and bleeding, and broken. And instead of a needle, you hold a knife.

You changed so quickly.

From a hero to a villain.

I’m sure she’s proud of you.

Is that what she tells you, every time you visit her cell and try to kill her? That she's proud of what she made you?

Do you justify it, tell yourself her pain is payment for everything she did to you?

You aren’t the only one she hurt.

You aren’t the only one who broke in those dungeons.

You’re just the one who got out.

You’re just the one she loved. Maybe you didn’t see it. Maybe you’ve never seen it. But I saw. I saw the way she looked at you, even when she was hurting you. I saw the love in her eyes, even when she cackled at your tears. 

I saw it all, Ian.

If anyone had ever looked at me with half as much love as she looked at you with daily, I would take all your pain and more. If you ever looked at me with half as much…

Never mind.

She doesn't get to choose who you are, Ian. You do.

I...

I just…thought you should know.

Things have been better down here, since you took over; I’m even getting a letter to you! But...it's still bad. The food’s still moldy. The guards are still nearly as heartless as their former queen. It's still wet, and dark. And I’m still so cold. And it’s even more lonely here now that you’re gone.

I’m glad you came out on top, Ian.

And I don’t regret helping you.

But…for the sake of all of us down here. If you have any gratitude for the things I’ve done for you, and I’m not saying you need to, just…

I fell in love with a boy who was growing into a hero.

And now I see a hero wilting into a villain. Don’t lose what you had, Ian. Don’t let her take it from you. Revenge won’t get you anywhere.

Save the ones you still can.

Help us,

Or you are just as much of a monster as the Lady of Darkness.

We need you.

Mari

 

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

3 minutes ago, Ookla the Believer said:

(Yes, this is more Liz, but not really. It's a letter to Ian, the hero, from his actual love interest (and yes their entire relationship was set up by Liz, but it's still very real) I had fun writing it, it's helping me flesh out the actual story)

(sorry, I know I keep jumping around to a whole lot of different things).

From Mari:

  Hide contents

You said she broke you.

You said she destroyed you.

You told me that everything she did ripped you into pieces so small you would never stand again.

And here you are.

Running.

Away from me.

I swept up your pieces. I sewed your bloody remains back into a person. I held your hand while you shuddered, and wiped away your tears when it became too much. 

I loved you when everyone looked at you and saw a monster. And now you’re...well...a king. And you've forgotten me. I never asked for anything in return. I never expected you to give anything back. It is enough for me to see that you are alive. That you can feel joy. That is worth the hours of stitching, the blisters on my fingers. That is worth every time you woke up afraid and clawed at my face and our blood ran together in a deep red river.

I don’t care.

I shouldn’t care.

I swore I wouldn’t care for you.

But I fell in love.

I fell in love with the way you fought everything that tried to keep you down. I fell in love with your strength. I fell in love with you.

And now I am torn, and bleeding, and broken. And instead of a needle, you hold a knife.

You changed so quickly.

From a hero to a villain.

I’m sure she’s proud of you.

Is that what she tells you, every time you visit her cell and try to kill her? That she's proud of what she made you?

Do you justify it, tell yourself her pain is payment for everything she did to you?

You aren’t the only one she hurt.

You aren’t the only one who broke in those dungeons.

You’re just the one who got out.

You’re just the one she loved. Maybe you didn’t see it. Maybe you’ve never seen it. But I saw. I saw the way she looked at you, even when she was hurting you. I saw the love in her eyes, even when she cackled at your tears. 

I saw it all, Ian.

If anyone had ever looked at me with half as much love as she looked at you with daily, I would take all your pain and more. If you ever looked at me with half as much…

Never mind.

She doesn't get to choose who you are, Ian. You do.

I...

I just…thought you should know.

Things have been better down here, since you took over; I’m even getting a letter to you! But...it's still bad. The food’s still moldy. The guards are still nearly as heartless as their former queen. It's still wet, and dark. And I’m still so cold. And it’s even more lonely here now that you’re gone.

I’m glad you came out on top, Ian.

And I don’t regret helping you.

But…for the sake of all of us down here. If you have any gratitude for the things I’ve done for you, and I’m not saying you need to, just…

I fell in love with a boy who was growing into a hero.

And now I see a hero wilting into a villain. Don’t lose what you had, Ian. Don’t let her take it from you. Revenge won’t get you anywhere.

Save the ones you still can.

Help us,

Or you are just as much of a monster as the Lady of Darkness.

We need you.

Mari

 

OOOOOOOOOOO heeheehee this story is so cool and amazing :3

[Edema Rue she/her]

1 minute ago, Ookla the Raveness said:

OOOOOOOOOOO heeheehee this story is so cool and amazing :3

Aaaaah thanks Wiz!!!

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

4 minutes ago, Ookla the Believer said:

Aaaaah thanks Wiz!!!

If you stop I will poke you with my writie stick -_^

[Edema Rue she/her]

6 minutes ago, Ookla the Raveness said:

If you stop I will poke you with my writie stick -_^

Heeheehee

I couldn't stop if I tried.

[The Wandering Wizard he/him]

3 minutes ago, Ookla the Believer said:

Heeheehee

I couldn't stop if I tried.

I'll read and buy the book :3