Eddie’s Words

[Edema Rue]

Just now, The Wandering Wizard said:

WOAH :OOO

That's all I can say. OH WAIT PLEASE WRITE MORE ABOUT HER!!! SHE'S A REALLY COOL VILLIAN :DDD

THANKS WIZZY!! I will!!

[Edema Rue]

@The Wandering Wizard, I wrote the beginning of her story! I'll hopefully write more tomorrow, depending on how life goes.

Spoiler

Liz takes a deep breath. “The only place to start is as a child, I suppose. I was always a little different than the other children. Or maybe I wasn’t, but I showed it more than they ever did, at least. I saw patterns in every life, and I always got so fixed on things…”

  When I was about 8, my parents put me in charge of one of our piglets. I still had my other chores, of course, but the piglet was mine. If I didn’t take care of it, no one would. I focused so completely on that pig. I gave it love, attention, everything my 8 year old mind could conceive that a piglet needed. Eventually, my parents killed the pig. I cried. It’s foolish, of course; no farmer’s child cries at the death of a farm animal. But I did. My father said that all children cry the first time, that he was sorry he’d given me that pig to look after. But do you know, even through my tears, I remember being distinctly grateful?

That, more than anything, is what I felt was different about me. I felt the pain, I wept at having something I loved taken from me, but I was also glad that I’d had the chance to lose it. Isn’t that odd? I hated the pain, didn’t want it to ever come back, but I also saw how I changed after feeling it. I saw how I grew. And I wanted that growth. When I was nine, my mother died. I didn’t stop crying for days. My brothers and father all tried to cheer me up, but nothing they did changed it. When I was ready, I got up. I smiled. And I thanked my mother’s spirit for giving me strength, even as I longed to have her back.

Several months later, a trader came to our village. He had a strange item with him that I’d never seen before. It was a book, the first one I ever saw. With the help of the innkeeper’s wife, a sweet woman who was more educated than the rest of our town together, I learned to read it. The power I found in those words was incredible. Once again, I found that I had given myself to something that could not last forever. My father, concerned at how distant I had become, learned what I was doing. But this new love of mine didn’t end in disappointment. I was 9 years old, but he sat me down and spoke to me like an equal. He told me of a place I could learn to read more books, learn to have more than a farm. He told me he would never make me stay in a place I had outgrown.

And yet, my heart still broke, for I knew he was right. I had outgrown our little farm, our old wooden fence, our barn, our fields. He told me to work for what I wanted, and promised me that he would stand by me wherever I went. I was grateful; of course I was grateful. I was a child, and I had recently learned, through my book, that the parents of most heroes abandoned them, died, left them. I thought I was a hero then, of course I did. Is there any child that doesn’t fancy themself a hero? Oh, but I don’t mind. I found something better. 

The innkeeper’s wife taught me all she knew and then some. I took the money I needed from traders for years as they passed through our village. When I turned 16, I left, went on to the Academy. And it was there that I met Ian…yes, boy, Iandenn Marsvall. Don’t look so shocked! I know you know his name. Everyone knows his name the same way they know mine. If it surprises you that we were friends, then I ought to stop talking now. No? As I thought. Give me a moment, then, to collect my thoughts.

 

[The Wandering Wizard]

2 minutes ago, Edema Rue said:

@The Wandering Wizard, I wrote the beginning of her story! I'll hopefully write more tomorrow, depending on how life goes.

  Hide contents

Liz takes a deep breath. “The only place to start is as a child, I suppose. I was always a little different than the other children. Or maybe I wasn’t, but I showed it more than they ever did, at least. I saw patterns in every life, and I always got so fixed on things…”

  When I was about 8, my parents put me in charge of one of our piglets. I still had my other chores, of course, but the piglet was mine. If I didn’t take care of it, no one would. I focused so completely on that pig. I gave it love, attention, everything my 8 year old mind could conceive that a piglet needed. Eventually, my parents killed the pig. I cried. It’s foolish, of course; no farmer’s child cries at the death of a farm animal. But I did. My father said that all children cry the first time, that he was sorry he’d given me that pig to look after. But do you know, even through my tears, I remember being distinctly grateful?

That, more than anything, is what I felt was different about me. I felt the pain, I wept at having something I loved taken from me, but I was also glad that I’d had the chance to lose it. Isn’t that odd? I hated the pain, didn’t want it to ever come back, but I also saw how I changed after feeling it. I saw how I grew. And I wanted that growth. When I was nine, my mother died. I didn’t stop crying for days. My brothers and father all tried to cheer me up, but nothing they did changed it. When I was ready, I got up. I smiled. And I thanked my mother’s spirit for giving me strength, even as I longed to have her back.

Several months later, a trader came to our village. He had a strange item with him that I’d never seen before. It was a book, the first one I ever saw. With the help of the innkeeper’s wife, a sweet woman who was more educated than the rest of our town together, I learned to read it. The power I found in those words was incredible. Once again, I found that I had given myself to something that could not last forever. My father, concerned at how distant I had become, learned what I was doing. But this new love of mine didn’t end in disappointment. I was 9 years old, but he sat me down and spoke to me like an equal. He told me of a place I could learn to read more books, learn to have more than a farm. He told me he would never make me stay in a place I had outgrown.

And yet, my heart still broke, for I knew he was right. I had outgrown our little farm, our old wooden fence, our barn, our fields. He told me to work for what I wanted, and promised me that he would stand by me wherever I went. I was grateful; of course I was grateful. I was a child, and I had recently learned, through my book, that the parents of most heroes abandoned them, died, left them. I thought I was a hero then, of course I did. Is there any child that doesn’t fancy themself a hero? Oh, but I don’t mind. I found something better. 

The innkeeper’s wife taught me all she knew and then some. I took the money I needed from traders for years as they passed through our village. When I turned 16, I left, went on to the Academy. And it was there that I met Ian…yes, boy, Iandenn Marsvall. Don’t look so shocked! I know you know his name. Everyone knows his name the same way they know mine. If it surprises you that we were friends, then I ought to stop talking now. No? As I thought. Give me a moment, then, to collect my thoughts.

 

YAY!!! IS AMAZING AND I LOVE HER AS A VILLIAN!!

[Edema Rue]

Just now, The Wandering Wizard said:

YAY!!! IS AMAZING AND I LOVE HER AS A VILLIAN!!

Thank you!! I'm excited to get into her story deeper!!

[The Wandering Wizard]

1 minute ago, Edema Rue said:

Thank you!! I'm excited to get into her story deeper!!

I AM TOO!!!! EXCITED TO READ IT THAT IS!!!!!!!

[Szeth's Facepalm]

8 minutes ago, Edema Rue said:

@The Wandering Wizard, I wrote the beginning of her story! I'll hopefully write more tomorrow, depending on how life goes.

  Reveal hidden contents

Liz takes a deep breath. “The only place to start is as a child, I suppose. I was always a little different than the other children. Or maybe I wasn’t, but I showed it more than they ever did, at least. I saw patterns in every life, and I always got so fixed on things…”

  When I was about 8, my parents put me in charge of one of our piglets. I still had my other chores, of course, but the piglet was mine. If I didn’t take care of it, no one would. I focused so completely on that pig. I gave it love, attention, everything my 8 year old mind could conceive that a piglet needed. Eventually, my parents killed the pig. I cried. It’s foolish, of course; no farmer’s child cries at the death of a farm animal. But I did. My father said that all children cry the first time, that he was sorry he’d given me that pig to look after. But do you know, even through my tears, I remember being distinctly grateful?

That, more than anything, is what I felt was different about me. I felt the pain, I wept at having something I loved taken from me, but I was also glad that I’d had the chance to lose it. Isn’t that odd? I hated the pain, didn’t want it to ever come back, but I also saw how I changed after feeling it. I saw how I grew. And I wanted that growth. When I was nine, my mother died. I didn’t stop crying for days. My brothers and father all tried to cheer me up, but nothing they did changed it. When I was ready, I got up. I smiled. And I thanked my mother’s spirit for giving me strength, even as I longed to have her back.

Several months later, a trader came to our village. He had a strange item with him that I’d never seen before. It was a book, the first one I ever saw. With the help of the innkeeper’s wife, a sweet woman who was more educated than the rest of our town together, I learned to read it. The power I found in those words was incredible. Once again, I found that I had given myself to something that could not last forever. My father, concerned at how distant I had become, learned what I was doing. But this new love of mine didn’t end in disappointment. I was 9 years old, but he sat me down and spoke to me like an equal. He told me of a place I could learn to read more books, learn to have more than a farm. He told me he would never make me stay in a place I had outgrown.

And yet, my heart still broke, for I knew he was right. I had outgrown our little farm, our old wooden fence, our barn, our fields. He told me to work for what I wanted, and promised me that he would stand by me wherever I went. I was grateful; of course I was grateful. I was a child, and I had recently learned, through my book, that the parents of most heroes abandoned them, died, left them. I thought I was a hero then, of course I did. Is there any child that doesn’t fancy themself a hero? Oh, but I don’t mind. I found something better. 

The innkeeper’s wife taught me all she knew and then some. I took the money I needed from traders for years as they passed through our village. When I turned 16, I left, went on to the Academy. And it was there that I met Ian…yes, boy, Iandenn Marsvall. Don’t look so shocked! I know you know his name. Everyone knows his name the same way they know mine. If it surprises you that we were friends, then I ought to stop talking now. No? As I thought. Give me a moment, then, to collect my thoughts.

 

Damn I don’t have any context but that was really cool to read… you’re seriously an amazing writer and storyteller, I can tell just from that. Gonna read more and get more context :D

[Edema Rue]

20 minutes ago, Szeth's Facepalm said:

Damn I don’t have any context but that was really cool to read… you’re seriously an amazing writer and storyteller, I can tell just from that. Gonna read more and get more context

Thanks so much Facepalm!! The last thing on I put here is the only other context there is so far.

[Edema Rue]

Wiiiiiiizzzz I has more!!! And Facepalm too if you’re there!

Spoiler

    Ian was unlike anyone I’d known before, though I suppose that isn’t surprising, as I was a naive young girl from a tiny village. Still, he has remained different from others even as I’ve grown more worldly. And I doubt I shall ever forget the day we first met. I was fresh, a young girl in an academy filled almost entirely with clever young men. I’d gotten lost on the way to a beginning mathematics class; oh, but I forget myself. You’ve never even seen the Academy, have you? No, no, I didn’t think so. Let me set the scene…

    My journey to the Academy was not without its trials, but I arrived safely enough and enrolled. I was neither the smartest nor the most foolish, but I was there, and that was all I cared about. I wanted to take every class they offered. I wanted to learn it all. Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The mathematics classes, for some reason, are all clustered together on the far side of a thick glade of trees. The academy was deep in a forest, and many of the trees hadn’t been cleared. To get to the maths classrooms, we had to walk several hundred paces through the trees. There was a path, of course; how could there not be, with hundreds of students walking through daily? But the Academy is deliberately designed to be inconvenient, and…simply put, with no friends to lead me around, I found myself hopelessly lost in the woods. I’ve always had something of a temper. It’s a fault of mine that I’ve always hoped to rid myself of, but so far I’ve had no luck. 

    Regardless, when I saw a tall, golden-haired boy leaning on a tree, watching me wander in circles, I assumed he was mocking me. I marched right up to him, poked him in the chest, and said,     “You son of a goat! Stop laughing and get me out of this stupid forest.”

    He put his hands up innocently and looked down at me. It wasn’t because he was elitist, I realize that now, simply because he was more than a full foot taller than me. “I…assure you, my mother is not a goat.” He spoke with a strange accent I’d never heard before.

    “Oh, it was your father then?” I snapped.

    “I am completely human, actually,” he said. “Do you need help getting somewhere?”

    “Don’t patronize me,” I snarled at him. “I’m not an idiot.”

    He nodded. “No, you aren’t, and I’m sorry for making you feel that you are. I can leave, if you’d rather…”

    “No,” I said quickly. Too quickly. I blushed and added sheepishly,“I…uh…I’m not really sure where I am…”

    He nodded. “I thought so. Most people don’t come this far into the forest.” He beckoned for me to follow and started walking into the trees. “The mathematics classes are this way.”

    I followed, confused by his strange accent, his quiet voice, his gentle assistance. “Why were you out there?” I asked curiously. 

    He shrugged. “I enjoy the trees. You have so many of them here, yet all your people seem to do is complain about.”

    “O-kay. Okay. Yeah. Trees. Trees are great,” I said, thoroughly confused. He nodded, gestured, and I saw the path, right in front of us. “Thanks,” I murmured. He nodded again, and then turned and walked back into the trees. Still a little muddled by the experience, I made my way to the mathematics room, where I failed to comprehend anything the master taught. 

    I didn’t like maths. Nor did I like the magic classes, ironic, I know. But I still held on to the idea of becoming a scholar. Something in me refused to let go of an idea I had once loved, whether it continued to be appealing or not. I noticed, again, the difference between myself and the students around me. My first year, nearly half the students that started with me quit, including some who had seemed so passionate. Those who remained were determined, stubborn, certain. I didn’t feel any of those things. The masters were surprised when I stayed; they were consistently telling us that no dreamer survived long at the Academy. 

    And yet, that is the only way to describe the way I was back then. A dreamer. I fed on wishes and sang to the stars, imagining that they sang silently back. I nearly flunked maths that first year. I took a harder class the next year. I was in no way competent, but I lived like the fantastical version of myself that I imagined I already was. I stumped the masters. 

    And then I took my first philosophy class, and my dream shifted. Part of it was due to the ideas, the discussions, the way our words seemed to shake the foundations of the world. I found myself falling in love again. In love with an idea, as I have always been. Sometimes I think I really just love the idea of Ian, not the boy himself. I only ever seem able to love ideas…ah, but I’m growing eager again. I’m sorry, boy, I haven’t told stories like this in so long…

    Liz’s melodic  voice floated across the dank dungeon like cool water over an angry wound. “Are you well, my boy? You’re so quiet. I won’t continue if you don’t want me to…”

    Lon shook himself out of the trance he’d fallen into while she spoke. “No, no, don’t stop. Please.” 

    Liz nodded.

@The Wandering Wizard 

[The Wandering Wizard]

25 minutes ago, Edema Rue said:

Wiiiiiiizzzz I has more!!! And Facepalm too if you’re there!

  Hide contents

    Ian was unlike anyone I’d known before, though I suppose that isn’t surprising, as I was a naive young girl from a tiny village. Still, he has remained different from others even as I’ve grown more worldly. And I doubt I shall ever forget the day we first met. I was fresh, a young girl in an academy filled almost entirely with clever young men. I’d gotten lost on the way to a beginning mathematics class; oh, but I forget myself. You’ve never even seen the Academy, have you? No, no, I didn’t think so. Let me set the scene…

    My journey to the Academy was not without its trials, but I arrived safely enough and enrolled. I was neither the smartest nor the most foolish, but I was there, and that was all I cared about. I wanted to take every class they offered. I wanted to learn it all. Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The mathematics classes, for some reason, are all clustered together on the far side of a thick glade of trees. The academy was deep in a forest, and many of the trees hadn’t been cleared. To get to the maths classrooms, we had to walk several hundred paces through the trees. There was a path, of course; how could there not be, with hundreds of students walking through daily? But the Academy is deliberately designed to be inconvenient, and…simply put, with no friends to lead me around, I found myself hopelessly lost in the woods. I’ve always had something of a temper. It’s a fault of mine that I’ve always hoped to rid myself of, but so far I’ve had no luck. 

    Regardless, when I saw a tall, golden-haired boy leaning on a tree, watching me wander in circles, I assumed he was mocking me. I marched right up to him, poked him in the chest, and said,     “You son of a goat! Stop laughing and get me out of this stupid forest.”

    He put his hands up innocently and looked down at me. It wasn’t because he was elitist, I realize that now, simply because he was more than a full foot taller than me. “I…assure you, my mother is not a goat.” He spoke with a strange accent I’d never heard before.

    “Oh, it was your father then?” I snapped.

    “I am completely human, actually,” he said. “Do you need help getting somewhere?”

    “Don’t patronize me,” I snarled at him. “I’m not an idiot.”

    He nodded. “No, you aren’t, and I’m sorry for making you feel that you are. I can leave, if you’d rather…”

    “No,” I said quickly. Too quickly. I blushed and added sheepishly,“I…uh…I’m not really sure where I am…”

    He nodded. “I thought so. Most people don’t come this far into the forest.” He beckoned for me to follow and started walking into the trees. “The mathematics classes are this way.”

    I followed, confused by his strange accent, his quiet voice, his gentle assistance. “Why were you out there?” I asked curiously. 

    He shrugged. “I enjoy the trees. You have so many of them here, yet all your people seem to do is complain about.”

    “O-kay. Okay. Yeah. Trees. Trees are great,” I said, thoroughly confused. He nodded, gestured, and I saw the path, right in front of us. “Thanks,” I murmured. He nodded again, and then turned and walked back into the trees. Still a little muddled by the experience, I made my way to the mathematics room, where I failed to comprehend anything the master taught. 

    I didn’t like maths. Nor did I like the magic classes, ironic, I know. But I still held on to the idea of becoming a scholar. Something in me refused to let go of an idea I had once loved, whether it continued to be appealing or not. I noticed, again, the difference between myself and the students around me. My first year, nearly half the students that started with me quit, including some who had seemed so passionate. Those who remained were determined, stubborn, certain. I didn’t feel any of those things. The masters were surprised when I stayed; they were consistently telling us that no dreamer survived long at the Academy. 

    And yet, that is the only way to describe the way I was back then. A dreamer. I fed on wishes and sang to the stars, imagining that they sang silently back. I nearly flunked maths that first year. I took a harder class the next year. I was in no way competent, but I lived like the fantastical version of myself that I imagined I already was. I stumped the masters. 

    And then I took my first philosophy class, and my dream shifted. Part of it was due to the ideas, the discussions, the way our words seemed to shake the foundations of the world. I found myself falling in love again. In love with an idea, as I have always been. Sometimes I think I really just love the idea of Ian, not the boy himself. I only ever seem able to love ideas…ah, but I’m growing eager again. I’m sorry, boy, I haven’t told stories like this in so long…

    Liz’s melodic  voice floated across the dank dungeon like cool water over an angry wound. “Are you well, my boy? You’re so quiet. I won’t continue if you don’t want me to…”

    Lon shook himself out of the trance he’d fallen into while she spoke. “No, no, don’t stop. Please.” 

    Liz nodded.

@The Wandering Wizard 

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!

[Edema Rue]

31 minutes ago, The Wandering Wizard said:

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!

 

[Ravenclawjedi42]

I just read through this thread, and there’s some really good stuff here! I liked the Ace and Tallin scenes a lot, especially. Liz is a really cool character, too.

[Edema Rue]

14 minutes ago, Ravenclawjedi42 said:

I just read through this thread, and there’s some really good stuff here! I liked the Ace and Tallin scenes a lot, especially. Liz is a really cool character, too.

Thanks so much Jedi!! I like my words  (if you couldn't tell from all the fun I have during the hunger games)

If you have any feedback or prompts for me I'd love to hear it!

[Edema Rue]

Some things I have written in the last week!! (None of them are really relevant to anything, but I’ll try to write more with some of my other characters tomorrow).

Spoiler

I don’t want to care,

But I do. 

No, no, that’s not it, not it at all. I want to care. I want to care so badly. But caring gives you the power to hurt me. Caring turns your words from paper to metal; from origami to knives. But I want to. I see you hurting, you know. I see you trying. And I want to be there, to hold you when your heart is broken, to love you when you don’t think that anyone else can. 

When you’re a lonely sophomore, in a world where no one cares,

I will be there.

When I’m a senior, the one who gets the part and gets the guy,

I will make sure you never need to sit alone.

But…I’ve been promising myself that for years. I’ve been telling myself that I’ll always be there for you…as soon as you grow up. 

And I know, in my eyes, you’ll always seem immature. And I know that isn’t fair. And I know that maybe you’ll never want what I’m trying to give.

But I’m trying to care. I’m trying to be for you what I never had.

Do you understand what you have? 

It’s not easy for me either, you know.

I want to care about you, but…

Why do you hate me so much?

You’re not me. I know that. And I shouldn’t expect you to be.

Why, then, can you do everything I can, only better? 

I’m a little bitter, it’s true. But that isn’t what hurts the most. What hurts the most is that you don’t care about me. I don’t care if you’re a faster swimmer, a faster biker, a better reader, a better friend than I am. I don’t mind, I really don’t. That is, I don’t mind until you turn around and throw my weakness at me like a dagger to my heart. 

I’ll still be here for you, because I always will, but I’m not perfect, you know that. And one of my greatest faults? I need your love, your admiration. I need you to care. I can survive any suffering, but not unless you and so many others are there by my side. I can’t do this if you never know how much I’ve hurt for you. I can’t stand to even think about it, because I will not let my pain be taken for granted.

I hurt too, you know.

Those thoughts you have, you know what I mean, the ones you think only you have? I’ve thought them. I’ve felt them. And I can carry you through any of it. I can be here for you, always.

I live to love you, so why were you born to break me?

Because that’s what you’re doing. You’re breaking me, shattering my heart and soul into a thousand little pieces and then wondering why I wasn’t strong enough to cheerfully stand back up.

You mock me for my weakness, then expect me to be a hero too strong to be human.

I still love you, though. 

You hurt me. And you keep hurting me.

But I still love you.

And I’ll never stop.

But right now, I’m mad. I’m furious. I’m breaking.

So maybe,

One of these times,

I’ll let you feel the pain I’ve felt.

The pain you would have to live with daily,

If you didn’t have me.

The pain I live with,

Daily, 

Alone.

Do you want to be alone?

No?

I didn’t think so.

I’ll be back. I can never leave you for long; we’re family, and I’m not going to let you suffer and bleed and die, not as long as I’m alive to protect you.

But I can’t help you until my own wounds are healed. So maybe…

Stop cutting me?

That one…happened. 

Wiz, here’s the prompt you gave me  

Spoiler

Mina was thinking as she walked. It was nice. She hadn’t had time to think, just think, in a very long time. There was always something to be doing, something to focus on, but now she was alone, allowed to travel slowly. Allowed to think on a world that had waited for her while she worked. 

She looked up from the muddy road, admiring the soft blue of the sky and the contrast of the sharp black mountains that cut into it. Below the mountains were deep green pine trees, the space between them covered in wildflowers of every color imaginable and then some. People rarely had the time to admire such things, in a world that moved as quickly as this one; who stopped to pick flowers when there were crops to be sown, animals to be fed, houses to build and fix and maintain?

It was a pity. The work, yes, that was infinite. There would always be more work, more to do. The flowers, though…they had only a few weeks left, at most. Why should something so young, so fragile, so precious, be ignored in favor of a loop that would always be there? Infinity. But no, no, lives were not infinity. The farmers would pass on, and their children, and their children’s children. Nothing was truly infinite.

But nothing truly ended, either. Did it? Mina paused, stepping lightly to the edge of the road, the tips of her boots right on the line between mud and grass. She bent, the wind blowing her hair out behind her as she gently plucked a tiny yellow flower out of the ground. She lifted it to her face and continued walking. Then she grabbed the blossom and crushed it. The flower’s life was over, now. A short, meaningless thing. It had ended, and if one thing had an end then all things must have an end. But…it had seeds, didn’t it? And sending its seeds on would be allowing it to continue, in a way. Infinitely.

So, eyes curious, Mina opened the hand with the broken flower inside it. Smears of yellow stained her palm, the lifeblood of a creature that could not even comprehend life. Her hand burst into a small flame. The flower dissolved into smoke and floated away.

There. Now the flower truly had an end. It was gone, completely gone, and it could never again be remembered or noticed. Humans, Mina considered, must therefore be the same way. We cannot be infinite, because we can be destroyed easily, so easily. All things end. If a flower can end, its seeds destroyed, so can a person, with a tad more effort. And if a person could be ended, then why not a country? Why not a world?

But the world, she reasoned, is surely infinite. 

How many years to infinity? Could a mortal comprehend infinity? Surely not. No mortal could even imagine the time it took for a world to be born, to live, to die. Just as a flower could never comprehend the time it took for a person to live, to die, to cease to exist. 

Mina took another step forward, and suddenly the empty road in front of her filled with people dressed in pure white. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and knew that they were behind her as well. They held daggers, bows, swords, quarterstaffs. Mina kept walking as if she didn’t see them.

Mina couldn’t comprehend infinity, she realized that now, but perhaps the flower couldn’t comprehend the idea of a century; and yet, mortals could measure time by centuries. So, then, could the world measure its lifespan in terms of infinities? Eternities? Was it possible that infinity and eternity were, in fact, different things? 

Several arrows flew at her. Mina kept walking, feeling the wind as they blew past her cheeks. She was close to the strangers now, very close. Mina sighed and sat down; her feet hurt terribly, and she had time for a short break. Besides, this was the first dry patch of road she’d seen in miles. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of fresh air.

Infinity, to her, meant eternity; the words were interchangeable, two ways of saying forever. But to a world? To a star? To an entire galaxy? A forest knew what a century was, even if the little flowers within it didn’t. A world knew what an eternity was, even if the people that inhabited it couldn’t. New flowers grew every year; they were a part of the centuries the forest lived, even if they didn’t even last long enough to see the heat of summer. New people came into the world, even if none of them lived a fraction of the time it took to form an eternity.

Mina raised a hand, eyes still closed, and snagged a dagger from the air. In the same moment she twisted it around and threw it back, hearing a yelp of pain as a body fell to the ground. Were all people, then, infinite? Even as they died and were forgotten? If a gear in a machine broke, but the machine was fixed and carried on, could the gear be called infinite? 

Mina ducked below a sword, and then her arm snapped out and she grabbed it, slashing out wildly. It caught on something…someone. She heard laughter, and looked up to see a man…no, he was little more than a boy…holding a cut on his arm. The others had gathered in a circle around them, making a sport of the moment. A corpse was on the ground next to her. That was surprising. She stood smoothly, the sword moving almost of its own accord and slicing neatly through the boy’s neck. She walked towards the edge of the circle, smiling softly, letting the sword do as it pleased.

But humans were not simply gears in a machine. That was a poor comparison. They were more like the flowers in the forest; shallow, beautiful, and completely unnecessary. But oh, how the larger, older creation was made better by their existence, pitiful as they were. The sword gleamed in the sunlight, and several heads fell to the ground. Screams interrupted the birdsong.

Could the flowers be called infinite? Eternal? They were one, but not the other, and Mina believed it was the former. The flowers were infinite, because no matter how many of them were destroyed there would always be more. A wave of blood sprayed off her sword, splattering across a patch of yellow flowers. Deep red on bright gold.

But the flowers were not eternal, she realized, taking a step back and feeling leaves and petals flatten beneath her muddy boot. Brown, and gold, and red, and green. They were infinite, never ending, but they were not eternal, never ending. One without the other. 

A dagger cut appeared on her cheek. Small droplets of red fell down her face like the tears she would never shed. A moment later, the man holding the dagger was dead. She yanked her sword out of his gut.

Again, Mina made a connection, formed a reason, forced logic to bow to her will. If flowers could be infinite, so could people. People were infinite, because on every world they kept coming back.  It mattered not how long, they were infinite because they kept returning.

Mina stabbed the last living fool, and he died without a sound. She tossed the no longer shining sword over her shoulder, where it sank deep into the mud. Then she took a step forward, then another, falling into a rhythm. Soon, she turned a corner, leaving the long stretch of road as lonely as she’d found it. Only now, between the emerald trees and the rainbow of flowers, there were new colors. White linen, turning slowly red. What had been pale dust before was now mud so deep a brown it may as well have been black. 

Infinite, but not eternal. That was better, Mina supposed, than being eternal but not infinite. But to be both…was it possible for any but a god? 

A crow flapped glistening ebony wings, landing silently in a growing pool of blood. It bent down, and began to feast.

Infinite. Eternal. Perhaps, Mina thought, there is a way to be both. She took another step.

That one got long and rambling, but I like it a lot. 

Ok and then this one I put in an SU, but I’m going to put it here because I added another section to it. So here’s the first part:

Spoiler

I was sitting in a castle. I looked up, and I saw a mirror. And in that mirror, I saw myself. Only, it wasn’t me, not really. I was onstage, surrounded by people. Front and center. I was speaking, and they hung on my every word, and I raised a dagger and they gasped. The mirror was perfect, glowing and round and edged with gems. 

I turned, and there was another mirror. This one was bigger, more dramatic. In it, I was writing, writing, always writing. I held a quill and a bottle of ink. I wrote worlds, and I stopped being afraid.

I wandered through the hallways, looking into a thousand mirrors. Each one was a different, skewed person, and yet they were all me. 

I stood on a podium, holding a trophy.

I sang to an awed audience.

I sat at the center of a crowd.

I was alone, peaceful, a dagger in my hand.

I looked into the mirrors and saw a thousand lives.

And I cried.

There were mirrors for that too.

It made it worse.

Because in each different mirror, none of the others were present. 

In each life, there was no sign of everything else.

Each time, I had made a choice.

And I didn’t want to choose, even as I looked at all the joy. 

I sat in the center of a vortex of light, torn between every world that could be, and yet never will.

And then, rounding a corner, I saw another mirror.

It was not tall,

Not grand,

Not edged with silver or gold.

It had no jewels in its frame, no frame at all, in fact.

And in that little mirror, I saw a girl

Dressed in white.

Bowed before a throne.

And on that throne sat my Lord.

And in that moment, I felt every mirror shatter. I felt every life collapse. Because in that moment I stopped being torn. In that moment, I chose. I looked in the mirror and I swore to that girl that she would exist. It didn’t stop hurting; with every mirror crushed, shattered glass fell like rain. It tore through my skin, muscle and bone, it tore me to shreds and it hasn’t stopped hurting. And the glass didn’t leave, didn’t stop as it fell, it cut in and it stayed, invisible and deadly.

I chose my mirror, chose to serve, and with my choice a thousand people that have never lived never will. A thousand lives I’ve never had have left me for good. A thousand bridges burned. 

And in the midst of the smoke and the blood and the shards of broken glass, I smiled.

But the glass keeps cutting, and there are still little pictures in the little pieces, little lives that pull me close. It still hurts, and through the tears I know that it always will. But I chose a path, and I choose to smile at the pain, even as it rips my heart to pieces.

It will heal.

And here’s the second:

Spoiler

I woke up, at least I think that’s what happened. One moment I was flayed, being torn limb from limb. And then next I was here, in this strange bizarre cottage. I looked up, almost expecting a mirror, but no, there were none. The room was sparse, the furnishings ordinary. A sturdy wood chair, a table and sofa. I stood up, more than a little confused. And when I stood, I saw past the peasant’s furniture.

In the center of the room, floating in the air, was a perfect diamond. And I was reflected on each side.

And in that moment, I felt the terror creeping in, because in that moment I knew that I had let myself be worked into a cycle that could never end. Thinking I could be more had been foolish, and now…now I was trapped, just another person stuck looking at reflections for eternity.

Because that is what I saw, in the diamond. Reflections. Dozens of them. All wrapped up in the facets of one beautiful jewel. Perfectly balanced. Every dream I could wish for, tied together into a life so neatly it can only have been done through magic. 

The art of it was painful to behold. I chose! I yearned to shout. I chose, and it ripped me apart. Why am I now asked to take it back? Does my choice mean so little, Lord? Oh, I’d like to shout, to scream, to beg. But my heart is weak; my limbs are tired. Please, I would sob, if I had the strength to speak, I’m so tired. I don’t understand. Why force me into a mold and then show me perfection?

Is perfection what is required of me? How am I to make fragile glass into an unbreakable diamond?

I walked in a circle around that gem. I saw every life I had seen in the mirrors, only now they flowed together. It was beauty like I’d never imagined, exactly what a person should be. Exactly what a mortal could never be.

And when I pitted my will against that of the diamond, it was me who broke. It was me who fell out of the cottage and back to the castle of flames and blood and sharp glass.

I fell, and as I slammed into the ground, vision going dark, I was grateful for the pain. Because it was a pain I understood. 

The pain in my heart was a pain I knew; the longing and the naive beliefs cut me, but that pain was nothing to the pain in my mind when I’d seen the diamond. 

Because to be cut is one thing. But to be cut for a reason you cannot comprehend? To hurt and hurt and never know why?

Greater pain and a reason were my choice that day, and a large part of me knows that I chose wrong. 

I suppose I would be angry at that, oh yes, I would be very angry…if there had been a right choice. 

So…yeah there ya go! Have some words!!

(there was a ton of italics in all of those, especially the last one, but I’m on mobile and I really don’t have the energy to go back and put it all in. So…sorry if it’s confusing).

[The Wandering Wizard]

12 minutes ago, Edema Rue said:

Some things I have written in the last week!! (None of them are really relevant to anything, but I’ll try to write more with some of my other characters tomorrow).

  Hide contents

I don’t want to care,

But I do. 

No, no, that’s not it, not it at all. I want to care. I want to care so badly. But caring gives you the power to hurt me. Caring turns your words from paper to metal; from origami to knives. But I want to. I see you hurting, you know. I see you trying. And I want to be there, to hold you when your heart is broken, to love you when you don’t think that anyone else can. 

When you’re a lonely sophomore, in a world where no one cares,

I will be there.

When I’m a senior, the one who gets the part and gets the guy,

I will make sure you never need to sit alone.

But…I’ve been promising myself that for years. I’ve been telling myself that I’ll always be there for you…as soon as you grow up. 

And I know, in my eyes, you’ll always seem immature. And I know that isn’t fair. And I know that maybe you’ll never want what I’m trying to give.

But I’m trying to care. I’m trying to be for you what I never had.

Do you understand what you have? 

It’s not easy for me either, you know.

I want to care about you, but…

Why do you hate me so much?

You’re not me. I know that. And I shouldn’t expect you to be.

Why, then, can you do everything I can, only better? 

I’m a little bitter, it’s true. But that isn’t what hurts the most. What hurts the most is that you don’t care about me. I don’t care if you’re a faster swimmer, a faster biker, a better reader, a better friend than I am. I don’t mind, I really don’t. That is, I don’t mind until you turn around and throw my weakness at me like a dagger to my heart. 

I’ll still be here for you, because I always will, but I’m not perfect, you know that. And one of my greatest faults? I need your love, your admiration. I need you to care. I can survive any suffering, but not unless you and so many others are there by my side. I can’t do this if you never know how much I’ve hurt for you. I can’t stand to even think about it, because I will not let my pain be taken for granted.

I hurt too, you know.

Those thoughts you have, you know what I mean, the ones you think only you have? I’ve thought them. I’ve felt them. And I can carry you through any of it. I can be here for you, always.

I live to love you, so why were you born to break me?

Because that’s what you’re doing. You’re breaking me, shattering my heart and soul into a thousand little pieces and then wondering why I wasn’t strong enough to cheerfully stand back up.

You mock me for my weakness, then expect me to be a hero too strong to be human.

I still love you, though. 

You hurt me. And you keep hurting me.

But I still love you.

And I’ll never stop.

But right now, I’m mad. I’m furious. I’m breaking.

So maybe,

One of these times,

I’ll let you feel the pain I’ve felt.

The pain you would have to live with daily,

If you didn’t have me.

The pain I live with,

Daily, 

Alone.

Do you want to be alone?

No?

I didn’t think so.

I’ll be back. I can never leave you for long; we’re family, and I’m not going to let you suffer and bleed and die, not as long as I’m alive to protect you.

But I can’t help you until my own wounds are healed. So maybe…

Stop cutting me?

That one…happened. 

Wiz, here’s the prompt you gave me  

  Hide contents

Mina was thinking as she walked. It was nice. She hadn’t had time to think, just think, in a very long time. There was always something to be doing, something to focus on, but now she was alone, allowed to travel slowly. Allowed to think on a world that had waited for her while she worked. 

She looked up from the muddy road, admiring the soft blue of the sky and the contrast of the sharp black mountains that cut into it. Below the mountains were deep green pine trees, the space between them covered in wildflowers of every color imaginable and then some. People rarely had the time to admire such things, in a world that moved as quickly as this one; who stopped to pick flowers when there were crops to be sown, animals to be fed, houses to build and fix and maintain?

It was a pity. The work, yes, that was infinite. There would always be more work, more to do. The flowers, though…they had only a few weeks left, at most. Why should something so young, so fragile, so precious, be ignored in favor of a loop that would always be there? Infinity. But no, no, lives were not infinity. The farmers would pass on, and their children, and their children’s children. Nothing was truly infinite.

But nothing truly ended, either. Did it? Mina paused, stepping lightly to the edge of the road, the tips of her boots right on the line between mud and grass. She bent, the wind blowing her hair out behind her as she gently plucked a tiny yellow flower out of the ground. She lifted it to her face and continued walking. Then she grabbed the blossom and crushed it. The flower’s life was over, now. A short, meaningless thing. It had ended, and if one thing had an end then all things must have an end. But…it had seeds, didn’t it? And sending its seeds on would be allowing it to continue, in a way. Infinitely.

So, eyes curious, Mina opened the hand with the broken flower inside it. Smears of yellow stained her palm, the lifeblood of a creature that could not even comprehend life. Her hand burst into a small flame. The flower dissolved into smoke and floated away.

There. Now the flower truly had an end. It was gone, completely gone, and it could never again be remembered or noticed. Humans, Mina considered, must therefore be the same way. We cannot be infinite, because we can be destroyed easily, so easily. All things end. If a flower can end, its seeds destroyed, so can a person, with a tad more effort. And if a person could be ended, then why not a country? Why not a world?

But the world, she reasoned, is surely infinite. 

How many years to infinity? Could a mortal comprehend infinity? Surely not. No mortal could even imagine the time it took for a world to be born, to live, to die. Just as a flower could never comprehend the time it took for a person to live, to die, to cease to exist. 

Mina took another step forward, and suddenly the empty road in front of her filled with people dressed in pure white. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and knew that they were behind her as well. They held daggers, bows, swords, quarterstaffs. Mina kept walking as if she didn’t see them.

Mina couldn’t comprehend infinity, she realized that now, but perhaps the flower couldn’t comprehend the idea of a century; and yet, mortals could measure time by centuries. So, then, could the world measure its lifespan in terms of infinities? Eternities? Was it possible that infinity and eternity were, in fact, different things? 

Several arrows flew at her. Mina kept walking, feeling the wind as they blew past her cheeks. She was close to the strangers now, very close. Mina sighed and sat down; her feet hurt terribly, and she had time for a short break. Besides, this was the first dry patch of road she’d seen in miles. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of fresh air.

Infinity, to her, meant eternity; the words were interchangeable, two ways of saying forever. But to a world? To a star? To an entire galaxy? A forest knew what a century was, even if the little flowers within it didn’t. A world knew what an eternity was, even if the people that inhabited it couldn’t. New flowers grew every year; they were a part of the centuries the forest lived, even if they didn’t even last long enough to see the heat of summer. New people came into the world, even if none of them lived a fraction of the time it took to form an eternity.

Mina raised a hand, eyes still closed, and snagged a dagger from the air. In the same moment she twisted it around and threw it back, hearing a yelp of pain as a body fell to the ground. Were all people, then, infinite? Even as they died and were forgotten? If a gear in a machine broke, but the machine was fixed and carried on, could the gear be called infinite? 

Mina ducked below a sword, and then her arm snapped out and she grabbed it, slashing out wildly. It caught on something…someone. She heard laughter, and looked up to see a man…no, he was little more than a boy…holding a cut on his arm. The others had gathered in a circle around them, making a sport of the moment. A corpse was on the ground next to her. That was surprising. She stood smoothly, the sword moving almost of its own accord and slicing neatly through the boy’s neck. She walked towards the edge of the circle, smiling softly, letting the sword do as it pleased.

But humans were not simply gears in a machine. That was a poor comparison. They were more like the flowers in the forest; shallow, beautiful, and completely unnecessary. But oh, how the larger, older creation was made better by their existence, pitiful as they were. The sword gleamed in the sunlight, and several heads fell to the ground. Screams interrupted the birdsong.

Could the flowers be called infinite? Eternal? They were one, but not the other, and Mina believed it was the former. The flowers were infinite, because no matter how many of them were destroyed there would always be more. A wave of blood sprayed off her sword, splattering across a patch of yellow flowers. Deep red on bright gold.

But the flowers were not eternal, she realized, taking a step back and feeling leaves and petals flatten beneath her muddy boot. Brown, and gold, and red, and green. They were infinite, never ending, but they were not eternal, never ending. One without the other. 

A dagger cut appeared on her cheek. Small droplets of red fell down her face like the tears she would never shed. A moment later, the man holding the dagger was dead. She yanked her sword out of his gut.

Again, Mina made a connection, formed a reason, forced logic to bow to her will. If flowers could be infinite, so could people. People were infinite, because on every world they kept coming back.  It mattered not how long, they were infinite because they kept returning.

Mina stabbed the last living fool, and he died without a sound. She tossed the no longer shining sword over her shoulder, where it sank deep into the mud. Then she took a step forward, then another, falling into a rhythm. Soon, she turned a corner, leaving the long stretch of road as lonely as she’d found it. Only now, between the emerald trees and the rainbow of flowers, there were new colors. White linen, turning slowly red. What had been pale dust before was now mud so deep a brown it may as well have been black. 

Infinite, but not eternal. That was better, Mina supposed, than being eternal but not infinite. But to be both…was it possible for any but a god? 

A crow flapped glistening ebony wings, landing silently in a growing pool of blood. It bent down, and began to feast.

Infinite. Eternal. Perhaps, Mina thought, there is a way to be both. She took another step.

That one got long and rambling, but I like it a lot. 

Ok and then this one I put in an SU, but I’m going to put it here because I added another section to it. So here’s the first part:

  Hide contents

I was sitting in a castle. I looked up, and I saw a mirror. And in that mirror, I saw myself. Only, it wasn’t me, not really. I was onstage, surrounded by people. Front and center. I was speaking, and they hung on my every word, and I raised a dagger and they gasped. The mirror was perfect, glowing and round and edged with gems. 

I turned, and there was another mirror. This one was bigger, more dramatic. In it, I was writing, writing, always writing. I held a quill and a bottle of ink. I wrote worlds, and I stopped being afraid.

I wandered through the hallways, looking into a thousand mirrors. Each one was a different, skewed person, and yet they were all me. 

I stood on a podium, holding a trophy.

I sang to an awed audience.

I sat at the center of a crowd.

I was alone, peaceful, a dagger in my hand.

I looked into the mirrors and saw a thousand lives.

And I cried.

There were mirrors for that too.

It made it worse.

Because in each different mirror, none of the others were present. 

In each life, there was no sign of everything else.

Each time, I had made a choice.

And I didn’t want to choose, even as I looked at all the joy. 

I sat in the center of a vortex of light, torn between every world that could be, and yet never will.

And then, rounding a corner, I saw another mirror.

It was not tall,

Not grand,

Not edged with silver or gold.

It had no jewels in its frame, no frame at all, in fact.

And in that little mirror, I saw a girl

Dressed in white.

Bowed before a throne.

And on that throne sat my Lord.

And in that moment, I felt every mirror shatter. I felt every life collapse. Because in that moment I stopped being torn. In that moment, I chose. I looked in the mirror and I swore to that girl that she would exist. It didn’t stop hurting; with every mirror crushed, shattered glass fell like rain. It tore through my skin, muscle and bone, it tore me to shreds and it hasn’t stopped hurting. And the glass didn’t leave, didn’t stop as it fell, it cut in and it stayed, invisible and deadly.

I chose my mirror, chose to serve, and with my choice a thousand people that have never lived never will. A thousand lives I’ve never had have left me for good. A thousand bridges burned. 

And in the midst of the smoke and the blood and the shards of broken glass, I smiled.

But the glass keeps cutting, and there are still little pictures in the little pieces, little lives that pull me close. It still hurts, and through the tears I know that it always will. But I chose a path, and I choose to smile at the pain, even as it rips my heart to pieces.

It will heal.

And here’s the second:

  Hide contents

I woke up, at least I think that’s what happened. One moment I was flayed, being torn limb from limb. And then next I was here, in this strange bizarre cottage. I looked up, almost expecting a mirror, but no, there were none. The room was sparse, the furnishings ordinary. A sturdy wood chair, a table and sofa. I stood up, more than a little confused. And when I stood, I saw past the peasant’s furniture.

In the center of the room, floating in the air, was a perfect diamond. And I was reflected on each side.

And in that moment, I felt the terror creeping in, because in that moment I knew that I had let myself be worked into a cycle that could never end. Thinking I could be more had been foolish, and now…now I was trapped, just another person stuck looking at reflections for eternity.

Because that is what I saw, in the diamond. Reflections. Dozens of them. All wrapped up in the facets of one beautiful jewel. Perfectly balanced. Every dream I could wish for, tied together into a life so neatly it can only have been done through magic. 

The art of it was painful to behold. I chose! I yearned to shout. I chose, and it ripped me apart. Why am I now asked to take it back? Does my choice mean so little, Lord? Oh, I’d like to shout, to scream, to beg. But my heart is weak; my limbs are tired. Please, I would sob, if I had the strength to speak, I’m so tired. I don’t understand. Why force me into a mold and then show me perfection?

Is perfection what is required of me? How am I to make fragile glass into an unbreakable diamond?

I walked in a circle around that gem. I saw every life I had seen in the mirrors, only now they flowed together. It was beauty like I’d never imagined, exactly what a person should be. Exactly what a mortal could never be.

And when I pitted my will against that of the diamond, it was me who broke. It was me who fell out of the cottage and back to the castle of flames and blood and sharp glass.

I fell, and as I slammed into the ground, vision going dark, I was grateful for the pain. Because it was a pain I understood. 

The pain in my heart was a pain I knew; the longing and the naive beliefs cut me, but that pain was nothing to the pain in my mind when I’d seen the diamond. 

Because to be cut is one thing. But to be cut for a reason you cannot comprehend? To hurt and hurt and never know why?

Greater pain and a reason were my choice that day, and a large part of me knows that I chose wrong. 

I suppose I would be angry at that, oh yes, I would be very angry…if there had been a right choice. 

So…yeah there ya go! Have some words!!

(there was a ton of italics in all of those, especially the last one, but I’m on mobile and I really don’t have the energy to go back and put it all in. So…sorry if it’s confusing).

*hugs*

They're beautiful Rue, just like you <3

[Edema Rue]

12 minutes ago, The Wandering Wizard said:

*hugs*

They're beautiful Rue, just like you <3

Ahfieodjwiciwkcjwinfrhwicnwlcimenzuckex <3 Thanks Wiz.

[The Wandering Wizard]

3 minutes ago, Edema Rue said:

Ahfieodjwiciwkcjwinfrhwicnwlcimenzuckex <3 Thanks Wiz.

Always Rue :)

[Edema Rue]

Hiiiiii!! Because it's almost 1am, and because it's almost Halloween, here!

Blood:

Spoiler

The children stood huddled together around the corpse, silent. The corpse, and the blood-splattered boy. He looked up, the blood on his face sharp and red against his pale skin. 

“Nick?” Rina whispered. She was the oldest, a full 12 years old, though Nick was only a few months younger. The boy looked up at her, eyes wide and afraid. He looked down at his hands, which matched his face: pale and bloody. And holding tightly to a wooden stake embedded in the corpse in front of him. He let go if it and tried to stand, but stumbled, falling back to his knees.

He sat there, gasping, then started to cry. Tears mixed with blood and dirt and ran down his cheeks, down his chin, where they dripped onto the dusty floor. 

Rina took a shaky breath. “Nick…what did you do?”

The boy shakes his head, overgrown brown hair falling to hide his face. “I…” his voice cracks. “I killed it.” He looks up, eyes red and wild. “I killed it!” He screams. He sounds desperate and wild. “I killed it,” he whispers one last time, before stumbling to his feet and running as far as he can from the corpse, to a corner of the hall, where he collapses.

The other children look to Rina. She is, after all, the oldest of them. She’s supposed to know what to do, even when their protector, brave Nick, falls apart. He isn’t supposed to do that, but they hope, with the pure hope of a child, that Rina will stick to the familiar path.

She does, it seems, smiling kindly to the younger children and walking over to Nick. “It’s okay,” she whispers, putting a hand on his back.

He spins, furious. “Okay? Okay? Nothing is ‘okay’, Rina. It’s dead, oh spirits, it’s dead and I killed it…there’s so much blood…”

Rina looked at him, and suddenly she began to cry too. She was twelve. Twelve. What was she to do in a room of scared children, trapped with the corpse of a…a…a monster? She glanced back, miserable. And then she noticed something. The wound in the monster’s chest wasn’t bleeding. “N-Nick?” She asked through her tears. “Where did the blood come from?”

The boy looked up at her, uncomprehending, then tugged at his shirt, revealing deep scratches, like something done by a beast. Then he turned away, leaning his head on the wall, and Rina saw the bite on his neck for the first time. “I’m hungry…” he murmured. “So very hungry…”

Rina took a step back, feeling a chill run up her spine. “We’ll…we’ll find something to eat. Oh, Nick, you were so brave…you saved us…do you remember?”

He looked up, eyes blank and unfeeling. “Something to eat…” And then he leapt at her, faster than seemed possible. His nails lengthened into claws, and he bit into her with fangs he hadn’t had a moment earlier.

A child screamed.

Little Ella began to cry.

And Nick looked up from the fresh corpse, licking bloody lips the same color as his eyes.

:::::::::

He was sitting in the corner, covered in blood, when they found him. They swept in, all majestic cloaks and dangerous eyes and sharp fangs leaving indents on deep red lips. None of them seemed to notice the children’s bodies, but they froze when they saw the corpse of the monster, the first corpse. And then they started looking closer, and realized that something was looking back.

Nick looked up from the puddle of blood he’d been eyeing. He watched the figures, watched them watching him, and hissed. One of them smiled.

“How interesting,” it said coyly. “Well. Come with us then, child.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “Food?” He asked, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded. “I’m hungry.”

“We can do that,” another one of them said. “We can get you the most lovely blood you’ll ever drink…just come along, now.”

Nick stood, then hovered, though he didn’t realize it. He floated over to them, smiling softly, then followed them out of the hall, leaving behind the bodies of people he’d once called friends in search of something better:

Blood.

It's not very good, but it exists, and I had fun writing it, and that's what matters most   

[justice magician]

That was so cool!! I enjoyed reading it!

[The Wandering Wizard]

7 hours ago, Edema Rue said:

Hiiiiii!! Because it's almost 1am, and because it's almost Halloween, here!

Blood:

  Hide contents

The children stood huddled together around the corpse, silent. The corpse, and the blood-splattered boy. He looked up, the blood on his face sharp and red against his pale skin. 

“Nick?” Rina whispered. She was the oldest, a full 12 years old, though Nick was only a few months younger. The boy looked up at her, eyes wide and afraid. He looked down at his hands, which matched his face: pale and bloody. And holding tightly to a wooden stake embedded in the corpse in front of him. He let go if it and tried to stand, but stumbled, falling back to his knees.

He sat there, gasping, then started to cry. Tears mixed with blood and dirt and ran down his cheeks, down his chin, where they dripped onto the dusty floor. 

Rina took a shaky breath. “Nick…what did you do?”

The boy shakes his head, overgrown brown hair falling to hide his face. “I…” his voice cracks. “I killed it.” He looks up, eyes red and wild. “I killed it!” He screams. He sounds desperate and wild. “I killed it,” he whispers one last time, before stumbling to his feet and running as far as he can from the corpse, to a corner of the hall, where he collapses.

The other children look to Rina. She is, after all, the oldest of them. She’s supposed to know what to do, even when their protector, brave Nick, falls apart. He isn’t supposed to do that, but they hope, with the pure hope of a child, that Rina will stick to the familiar path.

She does, it seems, smiling kindly to the younger children and walking over to Nick. “It’s okay,” she whispers, putting a hand on his back.

He spins, furious. “Okay? Okay? Nothing is ‘okay’, Rina. It’s dead, oh spirits, it’s dead and I killed it…there’s so much blood…”

Rina looked at him, and suddenly she began to cry too. She was twelve. Twelve. What was she to do in a room of scared children, trapped with the corpse of a…a…a monster? She glanced back, miserable. And then she noticed something. The wound in the monster’s chest wasn’t bleeding. “N-Nick?” She asked through her tears. “Where did the blood come from?”

The boy looked up at her, uncomprehending, then tugged at his shirt, revealing deep scratches, like something done by a beast. Then he turned away, leaning his head on the wall, and Rina saw the bite on his neck for the first time. “I’m hungry…” he murmured. “So very hungry…”

Rina took a step back, feeling a chill run up her spine. “We’ll…we’ll find something to eat. Oh, Nick, you were so brave…you saved us…do you remember?”

He looked up, eyes blank and unfeeling. “Something to eat…” And then he leapt at her, faster than seemed possible. His nails lengthened into claws, and he bit into her with fangs he hadn’t had a moment earlier.

A child screamed.

Little Ella began to cry.

And Nick looked up from the fresh corpse, licking bloody lips the same color as his eyes.

:::::::::

He was sitting in the corner, covered in blood, when they found him. They swept in, all majestic cloaks and dangerous eyes and sharp fangs leaving indents on deep red lips. None of them seemed to notice the children’s bodies, but they froze when they saw the corpse of the monster, the first corpse. And then they started looking closer, and realized that something was looking back.

Nick looked up from the puddle of blood he’d been eyeing. He watched the figures, watched them watching him, and hissed. One of them smiled.

“How interesting,” it said coyly. “Well. Come with us then, child.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “Food?” He asked, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded. “I’m hungry.”

“We can do that,” another one of them said. “We can get you the most lovely blood you’ll ever drink…just come along, now.”

Nick stood, then hovered, though he didn’t realize it. He floated over to them, smiling softly, then followed them out of the hall, leaving behind the bodies of people he’d once called friends in search of something better:

Blood.

It's not very good, but it exists, and I had fun writing it, and that's what matters most   

Twas very good!!!

[Edema Rue]

57 minutes ago, Justice_Magician said:

That was so cool!! I enjoyed reading it!

Yay, thanks for reading  

32 minutes ago, The Wandering Wizard said:

Twas very good!!!

Tank oo Wiz!!

[Cash67]

11 hours ago, Edema Rue said:

Hiiiiii!! Because it's almost 1am, and because it's almost Halloween, here!

Blood:

  Reveal hidden contents

The children stood huddled together around the corpse, silent. The corpse, and the blood-splattered boy. He looked up, the blood on his face sharp and red against his pale skin. 

“Nick?” Rina whispered. She was the oldest, a full 12 years old, though Nick was only a few months younger. The boy looked up at her, eyes wide and afraid. He looked down at his hands, which matched his face: pale and bloody. And holding tightly to a wooden stake embedded in the corpse in front of him. He let go if it and tried to stand, but stumbled, falling back to his knees.

He sat there, gasping, then started to cry. Tears mixed with blood and dirt and ran down his cheeks, down his chin, where they dripped onto the dusty floor. 

Rina took a shaky breath. “Nick…what did you do?”

The boy shakes his head, overgrown brown hair falling to hide his face. “I…” his voice cracks. “I killed it.” He looks up, eyes red and wild. “I killed it!” He screams. He sounds desperate and wild. “I killed it,” he whispers one last time, before stumbling to his feet and running as far as he can from the corpse, to a corner of the hall, where he collapses.

The other children look to Rina. She is, after all, the oldest of them. She’s supposed to know what to do, even when their protector, brave Nick, falls apart. He isn’t supposed to do that, but they hope, with the pure hope of a child, that Rina will stick to the familiar path.

She does, it seems, smiling kindly to the younger children and walking over to Nick. “It’s okay,” she whispers, putting a hand on his back.

He spins, furious. “Okay? Okay? Nothing is ‘okay’, Rina. It’s dead, oh spirits, it’s dead and I killed it…there’s so much blood…”

Rina looked at him, and suddenly she began to cry too. She was twelve. Twelve. What was she to do in a room of scared children, trapped with the corpse of a…a…a monster? She glanced back, miserable. And then she noticed something. The wound in the monster’s chest wasn’t bleeding. “N-Nick?” She asked through her tears. “Where did the blood come from?”

The boy looked up at her, uncomprehending, then tugged at his shirt, revealing deep scratches, like something done by a beast. Then he turned away, leaning his head on the wall, and Rina saw the bite on his neck for the first time. “I’m hungry…” he murmured. “So very hungry…”

Rina took a step back, feeling a chill run up her spine. “We’ll…we’ll find something to eat. Oh, Nick, you were so brave…you saved us…do you remember?”

He looked up, eyes blank and unfeeling. “Something to eat…” And then he leapt at her, faster than seemed possible. His nails lengthened into claws, and he bit into her with fangs he hadn’t had a moment earlier.

A child screamed.

Little Ella began to cry.

And Nick looked up from the fresh corpse, licking bloody lips the same color as his eyes.

:::::::::

He was sitting in the corner, covered in blood, when they found him. They swept in, all majestic cloaks and dangerous eyes and sharp fangs leaving indents on deep red lips. None of them seemed to notice the children’s bodies, but they froze when they saw the corpse of the monster, the first corpse. And then they started looking closer, and realized that something was looking back.

Nick looked up from the puddle of blood he’d been eyeing. He watched the figures, watched them watching him, and hissed. One of them smiled.

“How interesting,” it said coyly. “Well. Come with us then, child.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “Food?” He asked, surprised at how raspy his voice sounded. “I’m hungry.”

“We can do that,” another one of them said. “We can get you the most lovely blood you’ll ever drink…just come along, now.”

Nick stood, then hovered, though he didn’t realize it. He floated over to them, smiling softly, then followed them out of the hall, leaving behind the bodies of people he’d once called friends in search of something better:

Blood.

It's not very good, but it exists, and I had fun writing it, and that's what matters most   

oh GEEZ this makes me feel uncomfortable

You achieved your goal

[Edema Rue]

12 minutes ago, Cash67 said:

oh GEEZ this makes me feel uncomfortable

You achieved your goal

...sorry.

But also yay! Thank you!

[Edema Rue]

I had a lesson on gratitude in seminary today, and we were supposed to write things we were grateful for. Because I’m me, I wrote a poem

Here’s my paper:

Spoiler

And here’s my poem:

Gratitude:

Spoiler

I am grateful

For the sun,

The moon,

The stars.

For the mountains,

That hold me close

And hug me tight.

For the snow,

That falls from the sky

In a swirl of graceful brightness.

 

I am grateful for the life

That I am living.

For the pain,

That crushes my soul.

I am great full for the blood,

The aches,

The cracks,

The tears.

I am glad to have been hopeless

And blessed to find hope again.

 

I am grateful for the terror,

That never ends.

 

I am grateful for the panic

That teaches me to care.

 

I am grateful for the people,

That I have the chance to love.

I am grateful to have been forgotten,

So that I can always 

Listen to those who have been ignored.

 

I’m grateful for Love

Godly love,

And flawed mortal love.

Love that’s been given,

And love to give.

 

I’m grateful for music,

For friends,

For hurting

And healing,

For trust,

And hope.

To trust without needing to know,

To hope when the whole world is dark.

 

I’m grateful for a starry night sky,

Created by a Savior

A Savior who cares,

Who loves me,

And who is always there.

A master Teacher,

A perfect Friend.

My strength when I’m weak,

He holds me,

So that I can hold them.

 

I’m grateful for rest,

Even when it takes a long time.

A promise for the future,

Though it’s a long time off.

I’m grateful for a family

I’ve never even met;

Children I will have,

And a boy I will marry.

 

I’m grateful for the words,

The stories that have

Shown me worlds

And brought me home.

For the art,

That heals my soul.

 

I’m grateful for this world,

This life,

This pain.

Today, o Lord,

I am glad.

We live in a beautiful, broken world. There is much to be grateful for, even in the midst of darkness. 

 

[The Wandering Wizard]

4 minutes ago, Edema Rue said:

I had a lesson on gratitude in seminary today, and we were supposed to write things we were grateful for. Because I’m me, I wrote a poem

Here’s my paper:

  Reveal hidden contents

And here’s my poem:

Gratitude:

  Hide contents

I am grateful

For the sun,

The moon,

The stars.

For the mountains,

That hold me close

And hug me tight.

For the snow,

That falls from the sky

In a swirl of graceful brightness.

 

I am grateful for the life

That I am living.

For the pain,

That crushes my soul.

I am great full for the blood,

The aches,

The cracks,

The tears.

I am glad to have been hopeless

And blessed to find hope again.

 

I am grateful for the terror,

That never ends.

 

I am grateful for the panic

That teaches me to care.

 

I am grateful for the people,

That I have the chance to love.

I am grateful to have been forgotten,

So that I can always 

Listen to those who have been ignored.

 

I’m grateful for Love

Godly love,

And flawed mortal love.

Love that’s been given,

And love to give.

 

I’m grateful for music,

For friends,

For hurting

And healing,

For trust,

And hope.

To trust without needing to know,

To hope when the whole world is dark.

 

I’m grateful for a starry night sky,

Created by a Savior

A Savior who cares,

Who loves me,

And who is always there.

A master Teacher,

A perfect Friend.

My strength when I’m weak,

He holds me,

So that I can hold them.

 

I’m grateful for rest,

Even when it takes a long time.

A promise for the future,

Though it’s a long time off.

I’m grateful for a family

I’ve never even met;

Children I will have,

And a boy I will marry.

 

I’m grateful for the words,

The stories that have

Shown me worlds

And brought me home.

For the art,

That heals my soul.

 

I’m grateful for this world,

This life,

This pain.

Today, o Lord,

I am glad.

We live in a beautiful, broken world. There is much to be grateful for, even in the midst of darkness. 

 

*hugs*

That was beautiful

[Edema Rue]

Thanks, Wiz.

These words are a little less happy, sorry.

Poison:

Spoiler

I’m a little tired,

Of telling you sorry.

I’m a little tired,

Of apologizing once you’re through hurting me.

I’m a little tired,

Of your care ripping me apart.

I’m a little tired,

Of your love shattering my heart.

 

After the tears stop,

There’s a salty residue that remains.

It cracks,

When I smile.

It flakes away,

When I open my mouth to say “it’s okay”

My eyes feel dry

For hours after

I’m through with crying.

 

When you talk to me,

I’m reminded

Of everything 

I spend my life

Trying to forget.

 

When you come,

With your pretty words

And loving heart,

Nothing 

In me

Is enough.

When you’re here,

I’m breaking.

 

Your love is sharp

And careful

And smothering

And dangerous.

I want your love

Your pride,

Your trust,

Your help.

 

I want

A lot

Of

Things.

A

Lot

Of

Things

That

Hurt

Me.

 

You don’t want to hurt me,

But sometimes, 

When I’m

At my weakest,

Your love

Takes the form

Of a poisoned dagger.

 

And poison spreads,

And spreads,

And spreads.

Until it reaches

The heart.

And 

The heart

Stops

Pounding.

 

I’m a little tired,

Of letting my heart beat.

I’m a little tired,

Of being the worst.

I’m a little tired,

Of unending comparisons.

I’m a little tired,

Of the little things.

I’m a little tired,

Of trying.

I’m a little tired,

Of being alive.

 

And your poison,

Isn’t helping.

Even though

I know,

I

Helped

Create

It.

 

I spread it

Along the dagger;

I put

The weapon

In your hand.

I spit

In your

Eye.

 

And expected you

Not

To cut me.

Relationships are hard. Oh well.