if tumblr explodes you can address a letter to my url and place it in any hollow log. to be clear i will not receive it. but it is an action you can take

You are allowed to like your own writing. You wrote it, it's tailored to yourself, you should enjoy it. You took plain words and put them in a beautiful order to create an awesome story. Beat that imposter syndrome and be proud.

“our teeth and ambitions are bared” is a zeugma

and it’s a zeugma where one of the words is literal and one is metaphorical which is the BEST KIND

I didn’t know about zeugmas until just now! That is so awesome, everybody: 

zeug·ma ˈzo͞oɡmə/

noun

ISN’T THAT AWESOME??

#in english class in high school my teacher had us write our own zeugmas in class#and one guy came up with ‘he fell from her favor… and the window’#i am forever looking for opportunities to use that one

She dropped her dress and inhibitions at the door.

What’s this? My favorite rhetorical device showing up on my dashboard?

IT HAS A NAMEEEE!! OH MY GOD!!!

I LOVE THIIIIIS!!!

One I’ve loved was “on their weekend trip they caught three fish and a cold”

I love these they’re like a pun and a metaphor wrapped up into one neat phrase

Vena Eolas: Journey of the Elvhen Spirit

Ch 2 

[Read it on AO3]

Trust between the clan and the Inquisition grew slowly and steadily, as things cared for with respect often do. The Inquisitor, or Mahanon as he kept insisting, started with closing the nearby tear in the Veil. A rift, he called it. That it had a name meant this wasn’t the first or only occurrence. As worrisome as that might be, the clan’s immediate safety came first. Once resolved and spare supplies shared among the clan, they didn’t linger and only asked permission to return as compensation. It was given; a test for both sides.

The Inquisitor visited often in the following weeks, bringing different companions each time. They stayed long enough to share news or goods but never lingered. Once Hawen was willing, he sent scouts in his stead. They brought gifts, but never frivolous tokens. They helped, always asking if there was a need first. The humans in their group were refreshingly respectful, at least while within the clan boundaries. The elves with them brought stories. They spoke highly of their city kin, surviving and thriving in places one might not expect. They brought tales from clans far away, how they were different and yet the same. It was how they learned the Inquisitor was First of his clan before a different path claimed him. Day by day, tensions eased. Happy greetings and laughter replaced stiff politeness and formality. 

She watched the young ones welcome the visitors first. They were fascinated with stories and the outside world, listening eagerly to every detail. The elders grumbled at their passionate interest but couldn’t deny the pursuit of knowledge. The world was changing whether they liked it or not. One in particular, Loranil, was always the first to seek out any sight of Inquisition uniforms. He was old enough to no longer need a mentor so he had more time to spend with the soldiers, even joining in their training from time to time.

The elders’ dark mood broke when the Inquisitor brought the clan items of importance. Most important was news of their missing members. Taven, Hawen’s First and most adept student, was located a week’s travel south. His company was safe and happily searching through ruins deep in the forests of the Emerald Graves. News of Valorin, Hawen’s second student, wasn’t so bright. The anger that drove him to leave the clan had poisoned his heart. Rather than work with others, he summoned a demon to do his bidding and it went terribly wrong. He couldn’t control it. His scorched body was found in an abandoned house near the human settlements. The Inquisitor brought him back and stayed through the following days to pay his respects at the funerary rites. Before he left, he gave Valorin’s sister Emalien an artifact long thought lost. It was the very artifact her brother gave his life to find. Though it did little to comfort her heart, it brought closure and the clan respected him for it. 

She kept herself apart from most of their interactions, content to watch and wait. All her experience with humans and dwarves had been distrustful at best and violent at worst. This group was different. They sparked her curiosity, chipping away at her initial distrust. Seeing how they worked together, regardless of origin, was fascinating.

Resolving to speak with them at their next visit, she busied herself with breaking down herbs for a new batch of poultices until she felt eyes at her back. Stretching her senses, she recognized the familiar, warm aura of her oldest friend. 

“You can talk with them, you know.” Hawen teased her lightly as he approached. “They aren’t nearly as terrible as I expected.”

“It helps that their leader is one of the People,” she agreed. “I cannot imagine one who was raised otherwise might see us in the same light.”

“True, though it seems his character is strong enough to carry that weight. One would hope that strength in any other person might look the same.”

“Have you made your decision then?”

[Read more on AO3]

Vena Eolas: Journey of the Elvhen Spirit

Ch 1

[Read it on AO3]

In the Golden Age of the Elvhenan, the height of the Elven empire, the boundaries between the waking world and that of spirits was thin. Magic flowed easily and grew as naturally as trees reached for the sun. Beings of physical and ethereal form lived together and learned from each other in harmony. Ethereal buildings floated in the sky, suspended by will and magic. No knowledge was far from reach and artistic and academic pursuits led the People forward. So it was for ages beyond telling until the Great War shattered all semblance of peace, The gods darkened the skies, and the Betrayer erected the Veil, rending their world to pieces forever.

Without their magic, the Elvhen people felt the touch of age for the first time. They were tormented by other races, driven from their lands, decimated by war, disease, and madness. Even the endless sleep and spiritual connection of Uthenera was denied to them. It had once been a refuge for elders when they tired of their physical forms. A place where they could travel the realm of spirit and dreams. The War had taken that, too. The Veil was stronger than any wall of stone and though many could still access a small amount of its magic, the rites of passage were lost to time. Only those who entered before its creation could fully wander. Those who tried after, only found silent sleep.

She saw this over and over as her spirit passed through their dreams; stories and legends of how her people used to live, used to be. At first she tried to connect with them, teach them the truth, or at least pass down some of her knowledge. Some cowered in fear, calling her demon. Others attacked. So few listened. After years beyond counting, it hurt worse than it helped. It was easier to watch from afar. Easier to keep her distance.

“Ha’hren, wake up! Please wake up!”

The urgently whispered words shot through the currents of the Fade, disturbing her peace for the first time in ages. Flinching at the sudden contact, she fled. There was no one who called her such, no one who needed her for anything good. Leaving her physical form behind had been the only safe choice and returning to it brought too much uncertainty. Releasing it was better. Wandering the expanse of the Spirit realm was better. Let them forget.

 “Ha’hren, please!”

It sought her again, like a desperate prayer; salt on her tongue and smoke in her eyes. Overwhelming her senses, it enveloped her in a cloud of darkness. She hissed in anger, carding her fingers through the fog that refused to part.

 “Ha’hren, help us!”

The surge of energy grew, now thick and bitter with fear. It wrapped around her arm like a vine, thorned and dangerous. It pulled, drawing her back to her body, back to the world she left behind. She had no choice. She never had a choice.

Her eyes flew open and she gasped for breath with lungs not used to the work. Light from even the lone candle by her side was too bright. Everything was so heavy. Her dress itched every inch of skin it touched. The bed beneath her was cold stone. She wasn’t alone. Squinting against the glare, she focused and saw a young elf, barely more than a child, clinging to her sleeve. The sound of their panicked breaths rang in her ears.

 “Ha’hren?”

They were the one that forced her return. She turned her head to look at them, feeling a twinge in her neck from muscles no longer used to movement. Stretching her aura, she felt their fear, sour and rotten. Beneath that, a wisp of hope, soft and light and pure.

She tried to speak and groaned instead. Her tongue was too fat, too dry. Her throat burned. Licking her lips, she tasted a trace of the honey and herbs, old and faint. The youth flinched, mumbled an apology, and pressed a small potion bottle into her hand. It hummed with magic that smelled like damp earth and sunshine. They helped her sit up and after a few careful sips of the viscous liquid her aches receded.

 “Why did you wake me, child?”

“The temple is under attack! Monsters! So many of them! The ground opened beneath us and they came out!” Their eyes darted around the room as if they expected something to jump out at any moment. “Some could fight. Not me. I ran. I, I did not know what else to do. If they found you asleep, they might -”

She raised a hand to silence them. Whatever animosity she might have for being woken faded. Traveling the Fade for the rest of her life was one thing. Dying was something entirely different. The taste of hope on this young one’s voice was too strong to turn away. Maybe this time it would be different.

 “Then I thank you for thinking of me, da’len. Come now. We should leave before these monsters find us.”

[Read more on AO3]

A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one

Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.

“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”

At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.

Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.

One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”

Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”

She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”

You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.

I love one (1) Dorian Pavus

(A very late continuation of the summer day series I started last year)

WIP Wednesday

Tagged last week by @in-arlathan thank you!!

My big acting project wraps at the end of this week (shameless plug) so I have time to work on my rewrite. So as a treat, here’s the new opening to chapter 1.

Passing this on to @serial-chillr, @pedlimwen, @johaerys-writes, @mogwaei, @schoute, and anyone else who wants to share.

Reblogging to update! New fic will be titled Vena Eolas, in honor of its roots. First chapter will post in the first week of April. I’ll be pulling Sule from AO3 and clearing out posts here when that happens. Fresh start, here I come!

Writing Masterpost

A list of the things I am writing / have written organized by fandom.

The Wayhaven Chronicles

Dragon Age: Inquisition

ur personality is defined by ur favorite line in hallelujah

tag your favorite line of hallelujah

“tag your favorite line of hallelujah” scans to Hallelujah.

…

you tried to read the words as prose but noticed how its scansion goes and now you can’t unhear the tune, so screw ya recall the phrase you love the most then once again reblog this post and tag your fav’rite line of hallelujah

okay that’s it I hate you all. like… fuckign done. i’ve hit the wall.

…I’m calling the Tumblr Cops to come subdue you

I hate the fact this fucking fits. I’m just about to call it quits. Now everything just sounds like hallelujah.

You pick a phrase, you pick a rhyme, repeat the sound another time, Five iambs, then an extra beat will do ya. Another rhyme, a rising note - congratulations, you just wrote Another goddamn verse to Hallelujah.

She’s probably swooping

Reblog the writers’ fortune cookie for luck!

Guys I reblogged this and then wrote an 8000 word story I didn’t even have a solid plan for. Reblog this shit.

stop shaming people for being passionate about the things that they love. stop mocking people for having unusual interests. like, honestly, i'm so tired of feeling embarrassed for being "too much". if being too much means having deep interests that fill my life with romanticism and excitement, then let me be!!! i'd much rather listen to anyone ranting about their latest obsession with 16th century swords than have a boring ordinary conversation with those who shame passionate people

“how’s the writing going?” i’m glad you asked! my room has never been cleaner and i’ve decided to take up baking

I have all my shopping and phone updates sorted and at right angled storage access in the fridge. I have finished the washing and the washing up, including putting away. If I open up purchase of a thumbdrive to fit my new phone I will be utterly unredeemable....

I'm sorry.

Dave Gemmell—one of the better-known British fantasy writers of a couple decades ago—came to visit us one time, and the subject of late-night chat turned to procrastination. "You know you've got trouble," he said, his voice ever so rueful, "when you know you should be writing, and instead you're scrubbing all the toilets in the house."