The Black Rabbit knew it had some kind of controller, but it really didn’t mind. It felt quite assured it’s needs were taken care of, and it seemed to have a benevolent player. Well, benevolent to the Rabbit anyway.
They heard the clatter of divine chance and heard the words that brought a rush to their heart, which leaped like lightning in the night.
It’s blade danced true, it’s feet light and soundless, and it buried the knife easily and stylishly into its enemy, a shadow of death in the night, an omen of doom.
It was worth being dressed in a goth bunny outfit, it supposed, for that kind of power.
Username: username here Prompt response:A letter arrives in the mail one day with news of someone you lost. What does it say?
Thorne was never very good at paperwork. It had taken him all afternoon to slowly and laboriously pop open seals on envelopes, after he had meandered all over the estate pretending he didn't have a pile of letters he had to attend to. Now that they were open, he was obliged to read them. He did not. Bills in one pile, acquaintances in the other, invites to a fancy ball - well, that was read to see if it contained the word 'banquet' - and then this.
It started with simple greetings. His eyes glossed over that before he sat up.
"A slender figure, dressed in mint, travelling on a steed so fast it looked as though its legs were many. They stormed along the shore, and we could not catch up. We suppose this may be the person you seek.
The exact location will cost you 100 guineas. We will see you at the pub tonight."
He breathed in sharply, crumpling the letter in anger, before hastily unfolding it. So it was the pub tonight.
You cannot see, but you can hear and you can smell and you know you are not where you should be.
Her eyes had failed her. She couldn't open them, try as she might- and she fell into a panic trying to get them open. Strange Creature didn't know how long she flailed about trying to open before she realized that she didn't have eyes. Nobody had taken them, she hadn't been hurt- she just... seemingly had never had them. The muscles that opened them were atrophied, her lids a solid web of skin. Whimpering, she struck her hoof against the ground, not knowing what was happening.
The sound was lighter than it should have been. She was lighter than she should have been. She whisked her tail back and forth; not the solid, muscly thing she had carried her whole life, but something lighter, almost... delicate-feeling.
Her head, unburdened of its horns. Her fur, thinner and sparse. Skin wrinkled and soft, like the wing of a bat. As she nosed down her back, she realized what she was. She was a Zikwa, born of the caves, and born without eyes.
And that answered her question. The whole while she'd been hearing things unfamiliar to her, echoed drips and sounds out of proportion. The world sounded different, because it was different. She was in the caves again. But not the same caves that she'd been in before. Before, the caves were hot, humid, and full of a smoke that choked and invigorated, all at once. But these caves were different. The smoke had gone, the light from the obelisk... well, if it was down here, she couldn't see it.
It did occur to her that if she was a Zikwa now, and she couldn't see, it probably wasn't a problem. She knew quite a few Zikwa, and had gotten quite close to the ones who raised serpents. She took a deep breath, smelling the cold stone and distant water. In, out. In, out. She didn't need to panic, because she understood how Zikwa worked, to an extent.
No Zikwa, even those with fully-formed eyes, had particularly good vision. Their eyes were weak, picking up on motion and light and shape, and precious little else. But that didn't mean they weren't well-adapted to their subterranean world. All she needed to do was listen and smell and feel. Rely on her other senses, the ones that were heightened. Somebody would come for her, for that was another key element of being a Zikwa; you were rarely alone. They raised their children communally, fostering interdependence. They loved each other and were almost too clingy sometimes; they always liked to be in the company of others. If she was lost down here- which it felt like she was- she should just sit and wait, and somebody would come for her. She felt it in her bones.
She heard the scrabbling of claws first, then the clattering of hooves. "Sister!" came a voice. "What are you doing down here alone?"
"I... fell? I think? I may have hit my head, it's pretty hazy. I- I'm not sure what I was doing before I was down here. I don't think I'm hurt, I'm not in pain, I just can't remember exactly what happened."
"Stay where you are, we're coming to get you. You clearly took a tumble- you're down a crevice."
So that's why it was so echo-y down here. "How'd you know I was down here?"
At that, there was a chuckle. "Your tegu came to get us. She's on her way down to you now- listen!"
The scrabbling of claws came closer, then the prickle of claws as something climbed her leg and nestled into her shoulder. She pressed her nose to Trouble's snout. No matter what shape she was in, some bonds would always remain the same.
A woodworker, a carpenter, a potter; you use your hands to create things and you are building yourself a home, whatever that means.
Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a strange creature by herself in the bog.
It hadn't always been that way, though. Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived an old woman and her husband in a village, who dreamed of having a child. But be it ill fortune or ill health, they could not conceive– and so, they asked the bog for help before their twilight years.
They didn't ask the actual bog, mind you. They asked the fair folk who lived there- the will-o-wisps, the foxfire, the pookas- anybody who could help. They knew the help of the bog didn't come cheap, and often didn't come in the form you wanted, but they were desperate for a child of their own, and so they asked.
And the bog said yes.
The old woman and her husband were told to take a turnip and hollow it out, then carve a face into it. They were to put a candle inside and light it, letting it burn until it sputtered away. Then they were to make it a body from peat, to swaddle it, and to care for it like their very own for a month and a day, and they would have a child of their own.
And they did, but the bog's gifts don't always come in the form you wanted.
You might think the jack-of-the-lantern came to life, the wrinkles of the wizened turnip warping into the wrinkles of a baby, the spattered wax melting into the puppy fat of a child of their own. But no, as the turnip rotted and blackened, as the peat crumbled into dust, the fair folk came and traded it for a changeling- a pooka, a puca, a puck. Whatever you called it, she was one of their own, and she looked it. Her dark hair was always in her eyes, and she had a strange, goatish look to her. Even when she was as human as her parents, there was the shadow of a tail, the hint of a horn- and she preferred the company of wild things in the swamp to the comforts of home.
Still, her parents loved her, as all good parents do. They'd asked for a child of their own, and they'd been given one, even if she was a strange creature.
The rest of the village... wasn't so inclined. The adults thought little of her, and the children thought of her too much. They didn't trust her, with her wilding ways and preference for days and nights in the fens. And the eldest of the village tsked their wagging tongues, complaining deeply that her parents couldn't even go to a witch or the proper fair folk, those what lived under the hills; at least then, the changeling would have been of some use. This one just walked the moors and talked to the creeping beasts. She wasn't wild enough to keep wolves from the flocks, wasn't wise enough to be a sage herself; she was just... strange.
And she knew it, of course, because she was strange, not stupid. She knew what she was, a child of both worlds, and truth be told she resented none for it. She liked her parents, she liked knowing about village life, but she also loved the bog water and the magic within it. She was as good a daughter as any deserved; maybe sometimes she wasn't the most steadfast, maybe sometimes she shirked her chores to go a-wander, but what child didn't? What child wouldn't, when you grew up on the edge of a place that was truly great and truly wild? One of the last such places, though of course none knew it at the time. But at the same time, she knew what she was, and she knew that her place was neither here nor there.
So when her parents passed, she buried them in the kirkyard, packed what she wanted into a cart, and left without so much as a goodbye. Saying so would be claiming a world that wasn't hers. If the villagers wanted her, they'd know where to find her. They'd know where to seek her out, know where to go for her. There wasn't much she could do for them. She wasn't a proper fairy; couldn't do magic, couldn't make charms, couldn't promise you love or fortune or anything anybody would want. But she wasn't fully one of them; she was safe in the bog, safe from harm, safe from getting lost or fooled by the fairy fire.
She set up her home, framed with bog oak, harder than iron. She thatched her roof with sedges and reeds, weaving the flats into the rounds. Her little home was heated with blocks of peat she cut by hand, and her parents' belongings decked the walls. Here, a tapestry her mother had made when she was little. There, the table and three chairs her father had carved. But here, on the floor, a rush mat she'd created with what she'd found outside. There, dried herbs she'd gathered. On the table domestic she had pitchers of bladderwort, carnivorous plants she nurtured alongside her own meals. The creatures of the bog- all the creeping beasts, the water snakes, the newts, the turtles- came wandering in, and she cared for them all.
And sometimes, the beast that came wandering wasn't a beast at all, but a lost human, gone from their village. She cared for those, too, just like the others, giving them what they needed. A warm bowl of soup, shelter for the night, directions towards home... or directions to somewhere new. She had her feet in both worlds, never choosing nor feeling forced to choose. Time in her cottage was just as liminal, and her guests always found themselves on a new footing with a new perspective.
Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a strange creature by herself in the bog. But even though she lived by herself, she was never truly alone.
Username: beejoux Prompt response: prompt response here
Curiosity liked the cat.
That's what she always been told, but Trifling had always just scoffed at the notion. It didn't make any sense to the girl; being curious was wanting to know more, learn more, so how could that ever be bad?
Well. Now she understood.
She'd been told not to touch the book. It was creepy, gave off bad vibes. Voices had been adamant she not mess with something she didn't understand. But she hadn't listened. She'd been too curious. How could a book hurt anything?
Now she was hiding in a closet, hand clamped over her mouth and breath held as she heard the horrifying drag of the thing she'd accidently unleashed. It'd gone after her family, after Voices. It'd hurt so many people...
Tears trailed down dark cheeks. The girl whimpered, barely a sound, but enough. The beast paused, then the closet door was ripped from its hinges.
Trifling had time to scream, to finally take in the full horror of what she'd brought about.
I'm sorry...
Your life is a horror story, a testament to everyone of what not to do.
They woke to the sound of bird song and the scent of sweet honeysuckle filtering in from the open cottage window. The sun was up, they could feel it warm across their face, and as Haven stirred beside them the little witch smiled to themself, stroking a hand down their familiar/s back.
It was summer, soon the air would be heavy with heat and humidity, but I'm these early hours it was perfect.
As they sat up a d swung their legs down from their little loft they couldn't see the leaflings and budding flowers that followed every step they took across the dirt floor, but they knew they were there, could feel them.
The rest of the swamp was a balance of thriving life and decay, and Born could appreciate that balance; one day they would join that circle and go neck to the earth. But for now, they'd bring life. The clearing around the cottage was a wealth of green and colorful blooms. Their own private little sanctuary. Beautiful and safe.
Congrats!! Please post your preference lists in this thread. As a reminder, you can only win one pet/familiar and one kin for this event and the zikwa/sand dog pairs count as both so if you choose that option, you cannot win any more kin/familiars from this booth! You can totally still participate for those sweet, sweet pebbles, however, or just for any writing/AU exercises that you feel like! There may also be a raffle at the end of the event for some AU art...
In stealing a page from blue's book: you cannot choose from the same pool as the people before you. This means if Person 1 picks a sun/moon kio, then Person 2, 3 and 4 etc cannot pick a sun/moon kio as well.
