Currently Poking My Brain With A Stick And Hoping A Plot Idea For One Of My Fics Falls Put

Short Story I wrote based on a D&D Character concept

Ophelia Carlisle was a liar.

She wore masks of mirrors reflecting back an image of yourself you could trust. Draped in fine golden chains, her eyes twinkling like jewels and dazzling the eye so that the dagger at her side remains unnoticed.

Be a rose her mother had said. Dainty and beautiful and the picture of grace. Be the rose, so that others may not see your thorns until it is far too late.

Ophelia Carlisle was a liar, but she was also the lie.

Ophelia the Tiefling, born into squalor and taken in by a family of nobles out of the goodness of their hearts. Raised and taught well in the art of politics and spinning dazzling words in a rich tapestry of conversation that would leave all who had the pleasure of knowing her enraptured. A child who grew and blossomed into a woman of great renown, once draped in golden finery and precious velvet, now travelling in relative secrecy, searching for a way to restore her family to the honour and favour of the crown they had so long dreamed of. Bravely choosing to take on her father’s dying wish and see his dream of their family finally stepping into the light of respect and recognition realised after so long in the dark.

But Ophelia Carlisle was a liar, and also the lie.

Thalia Drabek was taken in by a noble house, it’s true, but for a purpose. She was chosen for her beauty and her ability at magic and stealth off the streets by a family looking for a tool he could use in a giant game of chess. She was taken without her consent to a house laid in rich marble and dazzling sculpted fountains to be a spy in high society. Taught well in espionage and stealth so that she may assist them in their mission to clear out the corruption that permeated the royal courts. But their mission, as she discovered, was a lie. One told to keep her under their thumb and believing themselves righteous, fighting for good when in reality it was merely a bid for control. When she discovered this, she made preparations to disappear but was discovered. In the process of fighting her way to freedom from the family’s clutches she faked her death and resurfaced under the name Ophelia Carlisle. In hopes she could remain free.

Thalia Drabek, however, was nothing more than a fabrication and a falsehood.

Isla Blackthorne had never seen the inside of a ballroom until her late teens, and at the time she worked as a servant for the noble house of Drabek. Before then she had lived in squalor with an absent father and a mother who worked so hard for their lives that it killed her. Even as a child Isla looked upon the nobles who trussed themselves up in finery with an envy that went beyond the want of a poor child. She dreamed for so long that one day she might find herself whisked away to a home with a hall of mirrors and a table filled to the bursting with cakes and delicacies every morning for breakfast.

She snuck on grounds of a mansion whenever she could, and watched as people in glistening gowns twirled with partners on a marble tiled floor and her heart ached for the kind of luxury and comfort and joy they seemed to take so easily for granted.

But it always seemed like a pipe dream.

In the meantime, she learned well how to lie, how to sell a bottle of piss like it was the finest of wines. She swindled hundreds out of their coin, ran scams and tricked those same nobles out of their coin and all the fineries they enjoyed with wit and dedication. She learned well how to imitate their way of speaking, walking, acting. In time she found herself able to infiltrate even the most well-guarded of parties and events and convince people out of sizeable donations with a voice sweet as honey as she promised to pay them back in time. She took the names of noble houses and wore them like aging badges that could get her anything she wanted with just her words. But she always lived adjacent to their splendour. Never quite able to reach their level of honest respect and well-known golden reputation.

In her life she had made many enemies like this, flying too close to the sun and being burned one too many times. More than once, she’d been caught in the act, and only barely escaped with her life. Swapping out names and masks and clothes to keep herself safe. It’s easier to pretend after all, to be something you’re not, than to admit that every good quality about yourself is a lie, one borrowed from those who truly deserve their respect and admiration. However much she resents them for having what she never will. A stable household, a family that loves her and never had to worry about where their next meal would come from. A life lived like a fairytale, the same one she told herself every night as a child.

Isla Blackthorne, however much she swayed the hearts of many who heard her tragic tale, was nothing more than a fiction.

The once Lady Czarina of Whitehall though, played a dangerous game.

Born into wealth but nonetheless growing up believing in the lie her parents told her and everyone else to cover for their reputation. By the time she found out the truth, it was far too late to clear away the golden falsehoods that stuck and covered her history. Her father was a noble with close ties to the royal court, and her biological mother a woman made to sell herself for the privilege of bearing his child in secret, whilst his wife remained unable to bear a child for his purposes.

Czarina has no living memory of her true mother, and likely would not have known about it had it not been for her schooling. When she was a child, she knew a woman, who at times looked at her with an emotion she’d never been able to place. She was her primary nanny, who dressed her and made sure she was on time to all her summons. When she was six the woman gave her a gift, a little wooden bird she said her mother had carved for her that she was told to keep secret. Not even a few days later, when her mother spotted her fiddling with it during dinner, she clutched her hands with an iron tight grin and demanded to know where she’d gotten it. She cried and begged her not to be mad for bringing “her mother’s gift” to dinner and was demanded to explain herself. She would not know until far later that it would be the reason she never saw that nanny again.

Czarina, in time learned fast to keep secrets. As she grew, she was afforded more leeway and was taught well to treat life like a giant game of poker. Never letting anyone know the information in her hand, learning tricks and tells to accurately guess as to the cards held by those around her. Through her father she learned the complicated world of politics and the ruthlessness that lurked beneath the golden exterior. Through her mother, she learned how to weave a conversation with such intricacies that none could tell how empty the space behind her words truly was. From them both she learned how to tip the scales of any interaction in her favour, and that the only way to truly get what you wanted was to hold all the cards, and wait for just the right moment to use them.

In time when she looked in the mirror, all she could see was her mask of mirrors. A face that would show everyone just what they expected to see. And in time, she grew into the perfect picture of elegance, power and skill. The shining gem of her parents’ lives. A priceless jewel they could show off at extravagant balls to the highest of high society and use to not only gain their favour and respect, but also use as a tool to gather every dirty secret and manipulate their way to the top.

No one ever saw the true face of Czarina of Whitehall, likely not even herself; but there would always be the one who got dangerously close.

Isabella Wisteria was the daughter of a noble house barely a rung or so lower on the ruthless chain of renown that the Whitehalls so desperately sought to climb. She was a high elven woman with dark hair and sharp silver eyes framed in thin glasses who made Czarina’s heart flutter when she laughed and despite everything, managed to lift away just a little of the mask she had so long believed grafted to her skin forever.

That first night they danced, Isabella had stumbled her way into Czarina’s heart by making her laugh with a joke about the ancient wizards Ixhis and Melanoe that no one else seemed to understand. And after over 4 hours of deep conversation into various topics of interest and their theories, building towering cathedrals on the knowledge they’d collected over the years, Czarina could never forget her. Even if she wanted to.

They exchanged letters for what felt like a millennia, meeting up at events and after the mandatory greetings and small talk, sneaking away to a private alcove or the gardens to share conversation and deeper truths as the moon set. Isabella was a visionary at heart. A quick wit to rival her own and a never failing conviction in the face of injustice. A heart that longed for a world where the silenced could make themselves heard and the wherewithal to fight for it. Someone who looked at Czarina and made her believe, for the first time, that there could be more to herself than merely the empty husk of a glittering mask pulling the strings in her family’s favour.

The third night they met, hiding away from fellow partygoers and tucking themselves frantically away in a pantry to avoid notice, Carina found herself close enough to Isabelle that she could feel her warm breath on her face in the dark. She felt herself blush, against her will and all her carefully constructed composure slipped as the two locked eyes.

And after a moment’s hesitation, Czarina stopping halfway as she closed the gap between them, Isabella gave a small nod in unspoken consent, and, after tucking a loose hair behind Czarinas ear, the elven noble leant in and kissed her.

It was not Czarina’s first kiss by any means, nor the longest. But it lit up her world in a way no other kiss she’s ever shared, because for the first time it felt real. For the first time a kiss was shared not out of drunken haze, or to wrap someone tightly around her finger. For the first time it wasn’t an act that made her feel empty, and one she had to force herself to convince them she enjoyed.

This kiss was real, and so was the love they shared. And for the first time nothing else mattered, and everything could be okay in a way she’d never known before.

Because Czarina, just Czarina, with not even a touch of Whitehall ambition or influence, was in love.

But the tale of Czarina of Whitehall, was not a love story.

8 months later, Isabella received her final letter from Czarina. It barely explained a thing. Czarina did not tell her about the months of blackmail and manipulation from her father, nor did she tell her about her love being repeatedly leveraged against her. It wasn’t a problem of Czarina having found love with the wrong person after all, it was because Czarina had found love at all. Because now that she had a weakness, allowed herself to love and care for someone, her father was all too ready to use it to control her, to twist her arm behind her back and allow him to tighten his hold on her. So much so that every attempt to counterbalance the scales were met with nothing, and the only way to loosen his hold, she could find, was to cut Isabella out of her life forever.

It didn’t matter to him what Isabella meant to her. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had been just a common whore she’d been toying with, or a project she was working on for her own amusement, or even her most trusted confidant. All that mattered, to him at least, was that she cared about her, enough to make her willing to do anything to keep her happy and safe.

And whether it was because he couldn’t have that, jealousy on his part, a mere opportunity he couldn’t help but exploit, or simply to teach her a lesson; none of that mattered in the end.

All Isabella would know, was that they couldn’t continue as they once had. That Czarina had loved her, that it had been fun while it lasted, but whatever relationship they had couldn’t continue. That Czarina couldn’t allow things to go any further than they had, because it too was a mask.

And in catching tears before they could meet the paper, Czarina told the greatest lie of her life. The lie that she had never cared as deeply as she had for Isabella. That she never would.

Isabella tried many times to find and talk to Czarina about the contents of her letter, about what she meant by them. She tried for months to get her to explain herself, tell her to her face that every moment they’d shared, all the private admissions and connection they’d felt had been a lie.

But Czarina continued to evade her. Keeping her at arm’s length and plastering on the perfect picture of the play girl bastard ex her love would hate with every fibre of her being.

No matter how much her heart ached.

In the end, Isabella was no longer a piece of the game her father could manipulate, and though Isabella was confused angry and heartbroken by her love’s betrayal, Czarina continued to play her part well. Now with a hollow in her chest and the deepest of regrets, even though she knew there was no other move she could make.

In time, the rumour mill moved on from the scandal she had caused, and her father and mother did too. In time there came the last day her father would ever give so much as a passing mention of her love, and Czarina and Isabella both could be free.

But though the courts and nobles may have forgotten, though her father and mother and family had likely forgotten, though Isabella in all her heart wrenching hurt had grieved and been forced to heal from what she had done enough to cast it behind her….

Czarina would never forget.

And in time, when that seed of hatred and resentment at her situation and her father and all he had twisted her into grew, when she had finally finished the long game between them that had stretched through her whole life and pulled all the right strings to land her father swallowed up by fish so much bigger than them all, he asked why, and she didn’t tell him all she had done or why. Only left their house in ruins behind her as her father cursed her name and her once mother’s blood stained the woman’s own hands, and her father was drained of everything he was worth.

He died never knowing she was to blame for the destruction of their house, as did her mother. As far as her father was aware, her greatest betrayal was refusing to fetch the doctors as the poison his enemies slipped into his drink took effect and rendered him paralysed and unable to fight back in his bed. As far as he knew, she was a coward who just watched from afar while he was forced to sign away all of his assets in his final moments, who had the gall to kiss his forehead and smile before leaving them all together.

As far as Isabella or any of the other nobles or servants had heard some part of Czarina had died beside her only family, who’d died in shame as the poorly constructed facade of their wealth and success finally crumbled around them. That she had been whisked away to safety by a distant relative or married off to a man in another country in a desperate attempt to retain her standing in spite of this. That she remained desperate to spend her days in recluse healing from the trauma coming home to the sight of such a brutal loss had left her, and the shame that came when his lies to her were finally uncovered.

But the shadows lurking beneath the masks that pulled the strings had just undertaken a far loftier goal.

To find the Passerine, whoever they may be, and end them before they could use their secrets against them.

And as for Czarina herself well…. She had plenty of names and lies and the skills to wield them well enough to keep herself hidden no matter where she was. And Ophelia Carlisle was certainly far more appealing than the hollow space where the once Czarina of Whitehall had resided in ages past.

All that was left for her now, was to find the truth. Whatever it may be.

Finding A True Name

The woods are quiet at this time of morning, when the sun is barely peeking over the horizon and the forest be thick with mists and glittering with morning dew. At the base of an old oak I pick up an acorn and fashion its cap smooth like a bowl, carving down the stem into a base before I toss the seed high between a fork in the tree's upper branches.

I miss of course, but that's hardly the point. I have no offering for the little or hidden people, hardly believe in them besides an idle fascination with little rituals like these, a bowl of morning dew I'd carved but moments before and set aside between then twisting roots of the old tree, and a mandarin in my hand that I begin to peel as I lean against it and try to listen to the morning sounds of birds.

I hear a voice beside me ask what I am doing there, and I give a little shrug. It's a public forest, and I figured a morning walk would be nice, no need for the inquisition.

"You ever thought about climbing it?" they say, and I tilt my head. "When I was younger," I tell them, "I could climb a smooth pole if I wanted to, but no… not anymore. Maybe… maybe someday, but I'm not as sure those branches will hold me as I am,"

"This tree is special," they tell me, "It is old and it is tired, but it is a home to anyone who might seek its shade, for a price of course"

"Maybe," I tell them, "It's not like I didn't leave anything though,"

"So I see," they say, "but trees get water every time it rains, every night when the cool settles on their leaves, what could make them want some in a little bowl they can't even drink from?"

"Wasn't so much for the tree," I say, a small smile building on my lips as I pull free another piece of the mandarin and stick it in my mouth, "More for any hidden folk, should they want it," I swallow the piece of fruit down, "This oak gets plenty of what it needs, water, sunlight, nutrients from the soul, the freedom to grow, I figured all more it could want was some company, so that's what I offer it in exchange for shade,"

The other gives me an odd look, something of a little gleam in their emerald green eyes as they tilt their head a little to the side, blink twice, and ask me a question.

"Can I have your name, at least?" it asks, and I tell them of course. I give it readily enough.

The green eyed stranger frowns at me, "That's not your name," they say plainly.

"It is though," I say, "The one of my birth at least,"

"But it is not your name,"

"It is a name," I say, "they've never really seemed to stick to me, especially when I came out,"

"So what is your name?" they ask again.

"I already told you didn't I?"

They pout harder, "That's just a name, an empty name," they say, "It's not yours,"

By now I've caught on, whether fact or fiction or something in between,

"I suppose it's right to say I haven't one yet, I'm still trying to find it,"

"Was it taken?" they implore me, "No, that can't make sense if you could still give it freely,"

"I think it just died," I say, with another bite of the fruit in my hand, "It faded, with that part of me that didn't really consider anything else, or maybe it never really was mine to begin with," I swallow it down again, "I've been rotating between nicknames for now, but nothing quite feels right."

"I can feel them," it says, "Nameless, what an interesting thing you are, to be nameless and whole all at once, oh the fair folk would hate you and I would too, had I not the pleasure of your earnestness."

I give a little nod, despite the small swell of unease in my chest.

"Would you like some fruit?" I say, offering the other half, yet untouched but picked clean of skin and grit. It isn't often I can peel a mandarin without piercing it's flesh and spilling it's juices.

The Faerie smiles at me, a mouth full of needle like teeth and eyes that glimmer with gold flecked inside it's too bright eyes.

"I would like that," it says to me, and takes it readily. Popping some of the pulps in its mouth, one after another, and licking the juice from its lips as it chews. Turning over what remains in its hands and smiling a little to itself as it does so.

"What are you here for?" I ask it sweetly, pulling free a knife and idly making another bowl from a nearby acorn.

"I had wanted to steal you away," it says, and I stop a little at the declaration, "It's always fun to have better company in Faerie, with your name I might have been still able to leave something behind that would have others none the wiser,"

"And now?"

"I couldn't charge you if I wanted to," it giggles a little under its breath, "I haven't your name nor your thanks, instead I have two gifts freely given, and nothing but the utmost pleasantries from you on my and our friend's account, so I'll tell you what," they say, "I owe you a boon, and so meet with me whenever you are able, and I shall help you find your name, and it shall be all your own,"

"And yours?" I ask coyly, "May I have yours?"

They flick a finger by my ear and I laugh.

"Cheeky," they say, "but you may call me a friend,"

Do you want to write a good disabled character?

I've been seeing the topic of disabled characters being thrown around for a while now, especially when it comes to good or bad writing. Usually, the topic is what you shouldn't do. There are a lot of great posts explaining this, and I don't want to repeat what has already been said dozen of times. Instead, today, I would like to give you exemples of what I, as a disabled person, consider to be great writing, and give you further analysis on why do these characters work !

Toph from ATLA

Toph is a blind little girl who feels like she struggles to find her place in the world as her parents prevent her from doing anything but very simple activities as they fear she might get hurt

First of all, Toph is strong. Like, really strong. She's a champion who has won multiple prizes, she loves fighting, and she even became aang's mentor. She's not a cliché of a poor little girl who can't do anything on her own, and we love that.

The relationship with her parents is rather realistic and a good source of conflict for her character. Depending on the disability, family can get either overwhelmingly protective or deny you're struggling completely. Toph is in the first case, and her trying to prove to others and herself that she can do things on her own is excellent for character growth.

Her disability does define her. We have to stop demonizing the fact that yes, some people are disabled. Toph is blind, it's part of her character and she wouldn't be the same without that trait. While characters that aren't defined by their disabilities are a GREAT representation, sometimes it's really nice to see a character whose disability is an inherent part of themselves, especially when they don't care/are proud of it like Toph. Toph has no problem making jokes about it, even mocking people who forget it.

Her bending doesn't magically cure her disability. Too often in fiction, some characters are met with a cure that gets rid of all of their problems. That is not the case for Toph. Her bending does help her quite a lot, but she can't read, draw, she's completely lost when she's flying ... Everything isn't just solved by flipping a switch.

Edward from FMA/FMAB

Edward is an amputee whose goal is to find a solution to help his little brother recover his lost body and recover his own lost arm and leg that he lost after an accident.

While Edward's goal is directly linked with his disability, it doesn't define him completely. Edward mostly feels guilty towards his brother for his mistake, and seems to think more about his safety rather than recovering his own limbs. It's interesting to state since too often, disabled characters tend to have for only goal to "fix themselves"

Slowly throughout the manga/anime, his goals get more and more different, diverging completely from what he used to have in mind. This drives him even further away than him just trying to find a cure.

When you think of Edward, the first word you have in mind probably isn't disabled, despite it being shown in the first episode of both series. This character has a full personality, background, job, ideology and thoughts. He's not just "the disabled one"

Yet, with that in mind, Edward's disability is still a very important part of his life. His automails may malfunction. He needs them to be repaired rather often. The process to get them onto your body is extremely painful and you can see everything around it is very time consuming.

Eda from the Owl House

While Eda's curse isn't exactly like any other real disability (if you can find a way for my chronic pains to turn me into a harpy sign me up), her writing does have many, many similarities to chronic illnesses.

Eda is a women in her mid forties who slowly learns how to live as a criminal witch with two children to take care of and a curse that slowly grows more powerful with time

Eda's curse is something she deeply hates and desperately tries to get rid of, but it isn't something about her that's constantly shoved in our face. It does have consequences, but getting rid of this curse clearly isn't Eda's main goal during the series.

However, with that in mind, the curse does take a huge part of her life. She has to take a medication for it, with huge consequences if she forgets it, she slowly grows weaker until she's completely unable to perform something she used to be so good at (that thing being magic), the presence of the curse has a huge impact on her mental health ...

Another important thing is that this curse doesn't affect just her, but the ones she loves as well. Being unable to talk about her problem makes it difficult for her to form bonds with others, one of the main instances of that being with Raine, her ex-partner. The fact that she hides her pain and distress makes it even worse for everyone and she feels like she can't really ask for help.

Another really important thing that links her to real-life disabilities is that her mother is desperate to find a cure, even going to find quacks who pretend that they can help. At this point, eda doesn't think she can be cured, or at least not by any regular means, and feels distressed to see her mother repeatedly saying that she found a cure. This is something that happens a lot with disabled people and can be a great source of interpersonal conflicts.

Finally, Eda accepting her curse and taking it as a part of herself is a really healthy way to portray acceptation. She's not cured. She doesn't gain the magic she lost back. However, she does gain confidence and happiness with it

This is a happy birthday present for my friend, as sort of a thank you for getting me and our other friends into D&D. We've all been wanting to play for way too long, but it's thanks to them that we were finally able to play together and just have fun experiencing it for ourselves.

a collection of motivational insights regarding content creation and creative hobbies

and of course the classic

"POVyoureGertrudeRobinson.png"

A doodle and a quick extract from the monster au i've been developing because I love writing tragic backstories and i love gerry keay

Gerry here is what is more commonly known as a soul eater, a wraith or many other horrible ghosty ghoulies. He hunts by marking and stalking certain unfortunate individuals, waiting for that opportune moment right after death where he can devour their souls and the remants of their lifeforce to extend his life.

[Statment Begins]

He’s heaving and crying, shifting in an out of focus as eyes blink in and out of existence all while shuddering in his place in the circle. He’d thrown himself from his chair at some point, losing it in his desperate primal instinct to just crawl away even trapped with nowhere to go he were. Something awful pulling him apart from the core before it eases under the sigils tight grip. Heaving, hurting even when it ends, crying despite it all. Trying to force himself to take a breath, to work past the pain and fear keeping him locked tight, something blackened among the divots of claw marks carved into the wood of the floor.

Gerry is in the room now, he looks right to burn everything to the ground with agony and murder on his face. Gertrude, a mix of fury and sick unexpected fear of her own he can feel goes much deeper than him failing to die.

He forces himself to speak through raw, gasping breaths as he forces himself through the lock on his body. Still clutching his head and digging lines into what used to be his skull and moving just enough to look at her, eyes wide and voice shuddering as he tries to keep the growl of static of unwitting frantic compulsion from his throat.

“He knows what we tried to do,” is all he can force out

“We?!”

“Of course he does,” she snaps, tearing papers from the walls and stowing them away into open books, scrambling in a way none of them have ever seen before, “I’d wager the bond is more than enough to make him clear of that, even with the measures I put in place”

Gerry is steps between them.

“He’ll be here any minute now,” She says.

“What the fuck did you do?” Gerard thunders, form morphing, turning into something else. Something that towers over both of them and sends the world into shades of black and white. Permeating the world with thick ink tendrils that turn over filing cabinets behind him, as ink flows like blood out of the closed books on the shelves and from between the spaces in stacks of yellowed pages. The stench of death choking them both as his face twists into something horrible. Something that would have made the old Jon, the Jon who'd only ever known to fear Mr. Spider, choke on his fear.

He’d… he’d never seen Gerry look like that before.

“Gerard, now is hardly the time.” She grits out.

“Answer the fucking question!” he roars, "What the fuck did you do to him?!"

A yellow door opens, and all argument ceases with the man who walks through.

“What do you think, they were trying to do?”

Decided to do something just a little bit ballsy and post some sketches of a newer D&D character of mine I made for a friends home brew campaign.

I love you Nerites, my soft little goth baby fish man.

discourse about redemption arcs would vastly improve if instead of always asking “is this character redeemable?” people started asking “what message would it send to redeem this character?” and “would it be logical or satisfying on a narrative level to redeem this character?”

Oh my god yes!! i loved this fic!!

“I’m sorry, you were found alone.” 

please read @feathered-serpents‘s post-canon fic Out There, Somewhere I cannot stop thinking about it

I like to imagine that in any atla modern au, aang still, for some reason, finds a reason to beat ozai’s ass