Infernal Serenade Snippet - Mother's Day Edition

I would love to see a fantasy novel where the lore that the reader / protagonist learns at first is not true

Ooo I loved this! It gave me the chills. It felt so visual to, I could just visualize each scene.

— An extra-narrative writing exercise based on my work, The Taste of Hallowed Earth

Heyo! You want people to chat with about your WIPs? Or your OCs? Even your art? Come join me on discord. Let's make friends and get some writing done! I'll even be creating writing/art events or challenges through the year. Advice will be posted, references, I even do research for people in need of it. I have channels for daily prompts or challenges.

"You don't know me. I'm not the same person anymore."

"That's okay. I'll get to know you again."

Oooo omg this is so interesting! Your descriptions are so vivid and beautiful. I was entranced the whole time. I could just picture the world in my head, and the ending had me so intrigued. Also, this is one of my favorite types of plots as a trans man.

Some fantasy thing I am fiddling with

She made the decision that from this day forward, she would no longer be Astrid, a peasant girl of unremarkable stock with no discernible direction. Now she’d go by Aegir, the name of her cousin who had passed from the sweating sickness many moons ago. Father’s work as a farrier kept him busy with the horses, mules, and donkeys of traders, merchants, and lower-tier nobles that kept their manors and homes close to Lykkested, the capital of Álfarune the northernmost province of the kingdom of Upplond, and the family’s name had spread far enough for those to know his high-quality work. Whilst Mother worked to help the village women watch the children and brew the mead and dark, stout ale that the village had become known for. All the while, Astrid desired to join King Ragnar’s court as a page and then a knight—a path forbidden to her.

Skinny but strong, a girl on the cusp of womanhood who lacked the curves that defined her gender at this age. Much for the better, in her opinion. Astrid wore a close-fitting under-tunic against her lean chest, with another tunic over it to hide even further. A sharp, chilly wind, smelled of brine and distant adventures, whipped off the Rømskog Sea that ruffled her reddish-brown hair—cropped short beneath the pointed ears of her people, and she even pierced the left tip with a sharp needle and kept an iron ring it, a boyish fashion and something her parents were against but did not stop their strong-willed girl.

That day, with her mind made up, Astrid—now Aegir—announced that she was her lost cousin, at least to those who did not personally know her or her family, who did not pass away but only took some time to heal from the sweating sickness. Arming herself with an iron short-sword shoved into a sheepskin sheath gave her the look of a young boy just before the age of training and education.

Despite the chill of fall on the back of the strong wind, the warming sun still proclaimed itself as summer, even if late in the season. Astrid sat on the low stone wall that surrounded her father’s tiny parcel of land, his hammer still going, even this late in the day. The land of the Álfarune was as breathtakingly beautiful and hauntingly dangerous as its people, that she felt herself proud to come from. From the sapphire-colored, icy waters to the jagged granite peaks, worn smooth by countless ages of wind and snow, that pierced the sky and were called the Backbone of the World. To the deep woods, filled with both the mundane and the magical. Their ancient trees, gnarled from the ages, twisted like arthritic fingers; their shadows cast long on those who sought to be under the shelter of their leaves. Just past the outskirts of the hamlet were fields full of ripening barley, millet, and other hardy crops that could survive and grow in the brief summers, a familiar sight that acted as a balm to soothe the anxiety in her stomach. And even now, it helped bolster her decision to leave the hamlet for Blomma Castle, and under the darkness of nighttime.

After the successful escape from her parents’ hut as they slept, Astrid took a deep breath of the sweet summer night air—honeysuckle, juniper berries, and the ever-present damp earth—a deep, cleaning breath, the first of many as she pursued her dreams, which did not include an arraigned marriage to Jozef. Her slightly-upturned nose crinkled in disgust at the mere thought of it. With no time to waste, she took off toward the western road; the ocean was a shimmering silver under the full moon. Leaving the village required careful steps; a bit of luck, and no patrolling guards or their echoing steps behind her, as she escaped from the outskirts.

The worn leather of her fur-fringed satchel creaked as Astrid adjusted the strap, its weight a familiar ache across her chest. A night-hawk cried overhead; its sharp call sliced through the subdued hum of the wind that rustled through tall sea-grasses. A shiver, born of the chilly wind and of apprehension, traced its path down her spine; she was young, undeniably so, and despite looking like a boy, was very much a tempting target in these lands, however safe they might be.

High in the inky sky, the moon, a pearl about to dip below the horizon, cast long shadows like darkened fingers. Between the trees, a faint, flickering light shone through—a tiny, defiant flame against the vast, dark forest. The crisp night air allowed the aroma of wood-smoke to linger, which mingled with the rich, savory aroma of roasting meat; her stomach growled, a low rumble against the evening. Who, she wondered, was cooking at this late hour?

****

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Oooo this was beautiful!

Here is the first lesson we can learn from the wandering druids: every grove is a sacred grove.

It does not matter if it is an ancient copse nestled in the heart of the forest, or a handful of shrubs sprouting anaemic from the oil-clogged veins of a city.

A garden that springs up on the rooftop of a building by mistake is still needful and worthy of our veneration. It will also need a little more help, since its connection to wider nature is much more tenuous.

An ecosystem cannot exist in isolation after all, so it is the work of those mortals who fractured it to kintsugi the fragments together. It is the work of the leafwalker to *show* the grove how to be sacred.

We see this in the roadside orchards planted by the druid Richmond Crabapple. Turning the highways into snaking green creatures, her trees offer shade to travellers and fruit to the needy. It is easy to remember a thing is sacred, after all, when it so obviously gives you life.

Here is the second lesson: everyone and everything is nature.

We are animals. Our towns and cities are animal habitats. The separation of the urban and the rural is as much a mental one as a physical. It is a mind game we play to give us the illusion of mastery, and to excuse the damage we do.

A good earthspeaker will tell you to listen to those who have stayed in conversation with the world. Those people who know the give and take of blood and bough and mulch. Those peoples who, so often, we have called savage. Those who we looked down on from our towers made of bones.

Listen. Listen and follow, if they will have you and if they will teach you.

We see this in the truce the druid Cambridge Ironweed made with the Skullcluster. This spirit takes the form of a pack of skeletal cats, and was thought to be a genus of demon predator. When Ironweed planted his feet in the dirt offered them his throat, he made himself a conversation between two worlds that should always have been one.

Now everyone in its domain lives with a skeletal cat. They know that, one day, they will die and it will eat the flesh from their bones. This is how their flesh and spirit will return to the earth.

Remember Ironwood's dying words: “Oh, you think we are special because we have souls? Here, let me show you how widely the river of the anima flows…”

Here is the third lesson: we tend that which we would see flourish.

If you would see people fed, grow food. If you would see forests thrive, tend trees. If you would see the a community safe from predators, grow thorns.

But never forget that anything that cures can also kill. Crops can choke a landscape and a sick landscape kills its creatures. A forest grown thick is fuel for wildfires. A town that is safe can forget it is part of a wider world and turn thorns into spears.

We see this in the work of the druid and rootweaver Devonport Blackwood.

The many buildings created by Blackwood are things of beauty not because of their aesthetic, but due to their function. In the towns and cities Blackwood traveled, they planted webs of needroot beneath the foundations. Needroot is weed-like in its dormant form, a wispy white root happy to live in pavement cracks and kiss the boots of commuters.

But if you need shelter? If you are desperate and vulnerable and cry your needs out like burnt offerings to the heavens? Well, if the heavens don't need you, the needroot will.

The structures it builds are strange things, bulbous and pale. They use whatever materials are to hand. They claim whatever space is unused (though not necessarily unowned). They look like nests built out of discarded tarmac, copper and mycelial strands - a mix of turnip-pale rubbery organic matter and urban detritus. As if someone had reconstructed the mythic roc from mushrooms and given it a building permit.

Everyone who needs a home in these places has one. This is the need Blackwood sought to tend.

But, because local landlords were rarely happy about this, they also left a twist in the tale.

So the needroot also provides every settlement with a communal poison garden. They are lush, lovely and deadly.

After all, many natural things need teeth to flourish.

---

This particular story was inspired by this post about druids, which y'all should read.

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white people go like “is anyone going to redesign this nonhuman evil character as a poc?” and not wait for an answer

new reblog game actually put in the tags what the blog you reblogged from tastes like

I love dandelions!

*puts a dandelion in your hair*

Reblog to put a dandelion in prev's hair

Speaking of, tempted to make a community myself, but since I have a variety of unconnected works, I have no idea what that would be a community for. Kind of reminds me of the idea I had to try and get myself posting again, mainly making like, a sort of dating sim kind of group of characters to play around with.

Y'all want me to make object head people for you to kiss? SFUIHSFU