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[quote=Prices]
[columns][size=4]100 words or less
100 - 300 words
300 - 500 words
500 - 1000 words
1000 or more words
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[quote=Lore]
Abandoned by his parents as an egg, Alo was hatched in the crumbling streets of the Hewn City to a small clan of jaded mercenaries, who sought to make a living in the shaded ruins after the loss of their territories in the crags of Reedcleft Ascent. Hungry to rebuild their ranks, they turned to adopting orphaned hatchlings from the poverty-stricken outskirts of the city, and quickly cast out any who could not prove themselves useful.
Left to compete with his fellow hatchlings for a place in the clan, Alo quickly grew withdrawn and violent, and through his outbursts developed an impressive skill in fighting that soon saw him officially inducted into the clan’s ranks. Here, his aggressive nature only worsened as each act of violence was rewarded with treasure, gems, and praise from the clan’s leader, Tsair, who Alo had come to view as a father-figure. However, Alo’s temper proved to be his downfall shortly after Tsair found a mate, and his attention turned to his own young hatchlings.
Abruptly starved of the attention from Tsair that he craved, Alo rapidly became envious of his mentor’s family. When the eldest came of age to learn to fight, Tsair eagerly recruited Alo as his mentor, unaware of the seething hatred that the blue dragon had built towards his young. This frustration bubbled over within their training sessions as Tsair continued to ignore Alo’s efforts in favour of praising his small, clumsy heir’s crude attempts to wield a sword, and, lacking emotional control, when Alo finally snapped, he gave no resistance to the urge to lash out; an act that resulted in his exile, not only from the clan that had raised him, but also from any other he encountered as the story of the injured youngling spread.
Lost, stripped of all purpose, Alo wandered alone for months, slowly making his way to the Windswept Plateau in an attempt to reconnect with any small part of the dragons he had called his family. However, upon his arrival at the Ascent, Alo stumbled across a small temple, where he found an order of spirit guides, who dedicated their lives to putting the departed to rest. Here, they welcomed him in from his long journey, in spite of the rumours that preceded him, with food and a warm bed, where Alo spent the night lying awake in the midst of an epiphany-yielding session of self-reflection.
The next morning, Alo signed onto the ranks of the spiritualists, who tutored him in not only their traditions for tending to the dead, but also meditation and mindfulness. Gradually, through practise and overflowing patience from his peers, Alo was able to calm his raging emotions and, while he could never be rid of his anger, it slowly moulded into a fierce protective streak towards those who had finally filled the empty ache in his heart that had lingered since his hatching.
Every ten years, the clan would perform a year-long pilgrimage across Sornieth, to visit a shrine in each of the elemental regions. However, Alo’s sixth pilgrimage proved to be his last; as one of the few dragons among the clan trained in combat, Alo volunteered readily to guard the procession, as it wasn’t unusual for the clan to run into ne’er-do-wells on their ancient route. As the clan trudged through the thick undergrowth of the Viridian Labyrinth, they were ambushed by a band of thieves who had claimed a section of the underused path as their new territory. Though their numbers were large, few of the spiritualists knew how to fight, and many had taken vows of pacifism, thus they were quickly overwhelmed.
Seeking his friends’ safety above all else, Alo lingered behind as they ran in an attempt to slow their attackers, and while he offered a fierce fight, he was quickly overwhelmed and dealt a fatal blow that left him bleeding out, once again alone. However, as the light seeped from his vision and his body numbed, rather than the dark void that Alo had expected, instead colour began to consume his vision, shimmering and ever-shifting even once it had shaped itself into the rough silhouette of a vibrant creature reminiscent of a Wildclaw. Though he has no memory of the vision speaking, Alo distinctly remembers the offer it gave; his life, for his colours. Unable to fight his loyalty to his clan, Alo accepted with little thought on the matter, and awoke to the luscious green of the Labyrinth. Without pause, he rushed after his clan, only to find their bodies, strewn in a grim trail that led him to the only other survivor; his dear friend, Kiln, who barely clung to life.
Remembering the strange Wildclaw, whose name – the Colour Castaway – lingered in his mind despite having no introduction, Alo quickly reasoned that the creature would appear and propose a similar deal to his friend. As such, Alo concluded that it would be better to let the Castaway heal his friend than attempt so himself, and risk losing them to infection later. Excited, he watched as Kiln’s body turned pale, and his limbs went limp, only for seconds, then minutes, then hours to pass without sign of movement. Finally, reality dawned on Alo, reigniting the rage he had long learned to cast aside. Unable to chase the Colour Castaway for his, in Alo’s mind, betrayal, he instead pursued the clan that had killed his own, and exacted his revenge, slaughtering them one by one.
When the final foe hit the floor, the rage drained from Alo as if someone were forcefully dragging it from his soul, and in its place a hollow apathy developed. Calmly, he returned to his friends and collected them together, cleaned their bones, and carried them onwards, towards the next shrine.
With each day that passed, Alo found his scales, already paled from their deep navy hue to a faded azure, continued to lose their pigment, until his once solid colours were a patchwork of near-translucent white and sky blue that slowly settled into an unmistakable pattern. Though initially he denied his new nature, with each new dragon that recognised him, and labelled him as a monster, a Wight, he lost his disbelief. However, as if out of pity, his new colours offered him protection from those who rejected him; in the blue, cloudy sky, Alo was invisible to any below him, and his body was now entirely immune to the elements, allowing him to travel beyond the reaches of his living kin at the very edges of the sky, where the cold would frost all but a Wight’s unfeeling wings.
Once again an exile, Alo followed the path of the pilgrimage doggedly, until he reached home, where he could hide from prying eyes and those who would hunt him for his rare nature, and his exquisite hide. At the temple, he carefully performed the clan’s traditional funeral rights, to finally put his friends, who he had carried for nearly a year on his back, to rest. However, when it came time to bury them, he found himself, guiltily, setting a bone from each dragon back inside his pack, not through longing for a memento, but selfish fascination with the momentary relief it gave to the empty longing that had taken hold of his heart.
Though his intention throughout his journey had always been to stay once he reached the temple, and rebuild the clan, within days of settling in, Alo found himself incessantly pacing, overcome with a need to move. It only took a handful more for him to crack, and he set out on his journey, pack in tow, towards the first shrine; a path he could walk in his sleep.
As he travelled, Alo stumbled across more bodies, each forgotten in the wilds. As he had for his clan, he collected the fallen’s skeletons and carried them with him to the next shrine on his path, to bury at its foot after taking his payment in the form of a bone, or another morbid charm, in an attempt to hold onto the burst of emotion that their collection provided. Another year lapsed, and again when he reached the temple, he could not bring himself to remain within its walls, despite his now much heavier pack.
Over the years, the traditions and stories of his clan have been lost to the world, and the shrines are now only known as burial grounds, which mysteriously grow with each yearly passage of the strange, sombre Skydancer, who vanishes the next day into the cloud-spotted sky. Rumours state that if a clan offers him food and shelter on his arrival, he will protect them until his dying breath.
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[quote=300 - 500 words]
Of all the rooms that could have served as the entrance to the Frostguard's hidden tunnels, you were not expecting it to be a bar. The room is alive with music and chatter, and bathed in the warm, honey glow of a crackling enchanted fire. Despite the cheer that crowds the centre of the room, at the edges you spy numerous weary souls, nursing their aching wounds with large glasses of liquers and frothy brews.
As you approach the bar, you are greeted with a broad smile from the large Guardian tender. Everything about the dragon is warm, from his thick winter gear to his sympathetic eyes.
"Need a drink?" He offers as he wipes dry a fresh glass. You clamber up onto one of the tall seats to sit level with the bar. "Maybe some food too?" The blue dragon adds with a laugh as the scent of thick stew wafts past your nostrils, and a hungry growl escapes your stomach.
"I don't have much money." You confess sheepishly after a quick check of your pockets. Even the kindest city has cruel corners, and it is far too late that you realise that you wandered through one.
"Don't worry; everything down here's on the house. It's how the Frostguard has always worked: We look after our own, and anyone Ater trusts enough to let down here. He's a hard dragon to impress." Powell regards you with a sort of pride, and you allow yourself to smile back. He is perhaps the friendliest dragon you have met yet in the whole mountain.
"In that case..." You place your order for a hearty helping of the food and drink your stomach demands, and it is brought to you quickly from a back room by a shy, crimson Serthis. The appearance of the Beastclan catches you momentarily off guard, but the patrons move politely out of his their way as they return to what you assume to be the kitchen, and you dismiss the unexpected encounter.
"So, what brings you all the way down here? Not many folks up in the city even know this place is more than a rumour." Powell asks as you dig into your meal; it is good, and hums with magical warmth.
"I have some questions, actually."
"Well then, ask away." Powell pulls up a chair, and waves a smaller Wildclaw from across the room to take his place tending the patrons.[/quote]
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[quote=500 - 1000 words, example 1]
The library is quiet; even your footsteps on the gnarled wood floor are muffled among the endless maze of ancient tomes. Despite their age, not a single book wears a layer of dust; each is well-worn and visibly loved. The peace of the grand library is a kind reprieve from the relentless bustle of the mountain city.
Between the towering rows, you frequently stumble upon small, round islands of comfortable cushions and chairs, each flooded with silent dragons and the rustle of turning pages. High on the shelves, faes snuggle on thin walkways biased solely to their tiny frames. You envy their sanctuary as you are forced to squeeze past a gaggle of guardians who, despite their massive size, insist on hosting a book club in one of the smaller clearings.
As you progress through the library, the crowd begins to thin, until the only dragons you encounter are solitary and busy reading through ancient texts. It is as you round the corner onto a fallen pile of books that a revelation hits you; you have not seen a single librarian. Worse, despite your best attempts, the library offers no indication to where each section lies. In fact, the library has no directions at all. You are, currently, the very definition of lost.
Much faster than your previous, mystified meander, you trek between the bookshelves in search of familiarity. The titles of the books however, are all foreign.
Salvation comes in the form of a door. It is old, and iron-wrought, but light peaks out from beneath the warped base. Gently, you knock, and the door swings wide to reveal a small, bespectacled fae surrounded by pages of intricate caligraphy.
"What? What do you want?" She quickly snaps from her work to glare up at you from the floor. You wonder for a moment why she does not have a desk, until you see the corner of a drawer poking out from one of the giant stacks of paper and books in the corner.
"I'm lost." You reply, only to receive a flat, impatient stare over the rims of the fae's half-moon glasses.
"Everyone who comes this far into my library is lost. Now, tell me what you want, what you're looking for." You doubt she'll be amused, nor amicable, if you ask the way to the exit. Instead, you elect to confess your original intentions.
"I want to learn more about the Froslands, and the Frostguard." It was clearly the right answer; the tiny fae perked her fins, though her expression remained bored.
"If you want to know the history, I have several volumes right here." She taped a stack of books with her tail. "However, for a better perspective I suggest you go talk to the Frostguard's soldiers yourself. I'm still only half way through writing up their biographies." Pointedly, she glanced down to her unfinished pages of text and the quill still in her hand.
"Why not let them write their own biographies?" Finally, the librarian demonstrated some range of emotion; a derisive snort and chuckle at your suggestion.
"Please, writing is an art; one that the vast majority lack the skill to pull off. Imagine how boring those books would be!" You glare at her, but she seems to take no notice. Rather, she is abruptly distracted with scribbling onto a large, fold-out map that she foraged from her pile.
"Here, go see these dragons; they should be at least a little interesting to talk to.... Just be careful. Not all of them are as friendly as me." You refrain from disputing that statement in favour of taking the map, lest you quickly have your quest ended early by a surley librarian with sharp claws and the red glint of a plague-carrier in her eyes. In immaculate handwriting, she has marked off a plethora of locations - many outside of the mountain, and many that appear to be deeper in the mountain than you knew were accessible - alongside which are the names and rudimentary, yet recognisable, doodles of each dragon.
"What about you? Who even are you, and how'd you get all these books?" Her next laugh is softer than the giggle she had at your expense.
"Oh honey," With a coy smile, she catches your gaze over the top of her spectactles. Despite yourself, you are unable to look away from her vividly red eyes. "I'm just a very good librarian."
Suddenly, you are in the library again, staring at unbroken shelves. The titles of the tomes around you indicate that this was where you found the door. Had it not been a dragon you were just talking to, you would dismiss the encounter as a moment of sheer madness. However, dragons were known well throughout Sorneith for using their natural magics to perform some peculiar feats. Generously though, she had left the books you wanted in a neat stack by your feet.
As you turn to start your journey for answers, you realise that you are still lost.[/quote]
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[quote=500 - 1000 words, example 2]
Cold.
Her final memory was of the cold. A sensation nearly foreign to her skin in the centuries it had laid hidden beneath her thick pelt. All she could remember was the blistering, burning cold.
Freezing.
The pain had burrowed into her very core, freezing her limbs while they still carried life. The red snow around her had turned white in moments beneath the relentless blizzard, filling her final recalled moments with blinding white, smothered silence and the cold.
Ice.
Her fur crackled and groaned as tentatively, she pushed, and found her legs able to move, if barely under the heavy tomb of snow that pinned her down. Her jaw creaked and cracked with frozen drool, and her eyes refused to open. Yet, beneath her frost-matted pelt, her skin did not shiver, nor did her bones cry from the stiff cool that had sunk its claws deep into their marrow.
Slowly, she pulled a paw at the snow; it was thick, compacted, almost solid ice.
Ancient.
It held easily as she clawed the loose scrapes into her moulded cavern, as did the next gouge, and the next. Gradually, the balance shifted, pushing her ice-wrapped body further into the tunnel with each offering of ice to take her place. Finally, her eyes opened, only to meet endless, pale black.
The narrow tunnel was deathly silent and still, save for the rhythmic scrape of her frosted claws against its walls. She could only pray that she was digging upwards.
It was endless. Clawful after clawful of packed permafrost came away, and sealed the tunnel behind her, but light remained absent. The quiet was maddening.
Perhaps this is my punishment. The thought pounced upon her red-stained shoulders. Her back felt unusually solid. But what for? She had remained loyal all of her life, fallen in service to her deity, her creator. Why should she be punished? Had her sisters and brothers suffered the same fate?
The snow was growing looser. Or perhaps it was only her imagination… The dark was growing brighter. Bluer.
Strength surged her exhausted limbs, driving her forwards in a frenzy. Twice, she slipped as the snow grew fluffy and the world turned blue-white, crumbling her tunnel inward to briefly hold her.
When the breeze touched her fur, she surged upwards without hesitation.
The tundra stretched outwards for miles, beyond the horizon, cast in the bright glow of the blue moon that hung above her, slowly drifting its way towards slumber. Hiacies hauled herself from her hole to face untouched plains, blank compared to her last recollection of fallen friends, a raging blizzard and blood-spattered banners. The scent of her kin, her pack, her family, was gone, replaced by the faded stink of countless unknowns.
Step by wavering step, she strode over the emptied battlefield, towards the looming shadow of home; the Fortress stood as her only familiar landmark, its path dotted by unfamiliar, broken trees with thick, jaded trunks.
The walls were closer than she remembered, thickened outwards by centuries-worth of layered Nevermelt Ice – a slow patching process she had dutifully assisted in many enough times to know that such progress could not be achieved within a mortal lifetime. Her pale image shimmered in the strong, smooth walls, quickening her step with each unfamiliar feature that was revealed to her until her paws were pressed against the comforting, cool walls, her eyes locked onto the withered, magic-marred dragon that stared back at her.
Icewarden what has become of me?
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[quote=1000 + words]
Over everything else, it was a waste. The reaching fields of her home, pockmarked and crawling with living plague, had never been pretty, but it had had held a certain, nostalgic tint of rose in Scree’s mind, and she had even heard visiting denizens of the Gladekeeper’s lands compliment the view of the sunset. The Contagion had supported her birth clan, worthy of being called a kingdom, for generations. It had never been kind, but through its lacking mercy it had gifted them strength.
It was hard to believe that the castle she perched on now, broken and crumbling, was the same place she had called home so many years ago; the legacy of centuries, ruined; its people, already dust.
The crown in her claws felt lighter than she remembered, though when Scree had held it last, she had been less than half her size, and more than two thirds her age. The relic of a future she had been denied was laughably brittle: The bones of the clan’s founders were hollow, and old, but when her grandfather had worn it, the crown had looked as strong as stone. She supposed there was a reason he had been so respected or, more likely, feared. Plaguemother knew that for all she had loved him, the thought of crossing him had been one she was never willing to entertain.
The temptation was there, to snap the crown, and watch it crumble into dust, to join the fate of its final bearer. That the territory was in such dire disrepair felt like his final, mocking blow before her cousin had succumbed to his current, less-than-living state. She had spent so many years in unnecessary fear, woken by flickering shadows in the night to wonder if they had finally found her, and she would have to run again. It was already an insult to have her revenge, after so long dreaming of blood and victory, cruelly denied. Compounded with the knowledge that she could have returned safely long ago, that her nightmares could have ended with just a few words of the news… Scree regretted not racing back the moment she had her strength, to make sure her claws were the ones to stop her traitorous cousin’s poisoned heart.
“I have to confess, I am relieved. I still have the scars from fighting your cousin’s assassins.” Scree’s wings twitched outwards in surprise as a large shadow loomed behind her, but the familiar rumble of her mate stilled their attempt to unfold. Her gaze turned upwards to greet the opal-scarred Guardian, but soon fled back to the razed expanses. Prime watched her quietly for a moment, the chuckle at his own comment dead in his chest from a mere taste of the melancholy mood of his small mate. Rather than pressing another attempt to brighten his charge, he instead lay down to rest his head beside her on the unsteady edge of the castle tower.
“I would have liked to repay them for the harm they did to you.” Scree’s tail flicked back and forth as yet another regret was surfaced; though she had only fleeting memories of the wounds inflicted on her mate, before they had even known each other as friends, the scars he had earned protecting her still burned her pride.
“If they owe me a debt, they owe you their entire hoard.” It was an understatement, but one that brought a smile to Scree’s face.
“A kingdom, dear. They owe me a kingdom.” She corrected with a playful smirk – an expression that brought great relief to her worrying mate – and an emphatic glance to the crown resting in her claws.
“I would be reluctant to call the matter settled until they handed you the whole of Sornieth.” Prime didn’t miss the ambitious twinkle that filled Scree’s eyes at the thought of taking the world, but her content with their current life saw it fade before the Mirror could rekindle the power-lust she had once suffered in her youth.
“I pity the dragon foolish enough to take a loan from you.” The pair shared a brief laugh that quickly faded into the morose silence smothering the wastes. Scree looked back down at the bleached crown in her grasp, stained red at the edges by the residue of her cousin’s long-finished decay. The disappointment stung deep behind the frustration and anger, burrowing deeper with every moment as the adrenaline’s grip slowly slackened.
“I had hoped that I could take it all back. I spent my whole life training, and now everything that I learned is useless.” Scree sighed. Her wings hung low, as if the weight in her heart were pulling at the edges.
“Perhaps. I’m sure you don’t need to know the clan’s laws by rote, now… But I think there’s plenty that still comes in handy.” Prime turned his head better towards his mate, to fix their gazes together. “You remain a great leader, even if it is not of the clan you were born to rule.”
“A small pack is hardly comparable.” Scree protested, but her tone was weak, betraying her pride over her elite strike team. “I still would have liked the choice…” Prime would have missed her murmur, had the world around them not been so deathly quiet.
“If the clan had still lived, you wouldn’t have had one.” Scree’s first instinct was to argue; Prime read it easily from the defensive flare of her wings, but a simple look was all it took to calm the brewing storm of ire and encourage Scree to think. It was a bittersweet freedom, and hard to swallow with the years of being promised a throne replaying in her head.
“We could stay, if that’s what you want. It would take work, but we could rebuild.” Prime offered, shaking Scree from her thoughts. Her eyes cast over the ruined fields again, then down to the collapsing stone under her feet. A pang of homesickness hit, hard, recalling the years of joy within the castle’s walls… Memories she knew to be tainted by want of fewer nightmares and denial of the dread she had long-ago learned to twist into ambition. There was the knowledge, too, that if they did rebuild, they could do better: She had learned much about true leadership in the happy years out of her grandfather’s shadow.
Scree shook her head, and set the crown down on the cracked stone wall.
“It would be a waste of time; my claim to the throne is as dead as the rest of this place.” Scree looked up towards her mate, who met her with an expression filled with pride. “Besides,” she grinned, “I have everything I need already.”
“So do I.” Prime agreed. They were small words, but they felt as mighty as the blue-winged Guardian who spoke them in her heart.
Scree turned towards the edge of the tower again, this time aimed towards the sky, but she was forced to pause as her mate’s paw crossed her path to collect the ageing crown.
“If it helps,” Scree stared up at him in confusion as he turned the comparatively-tiny crown in his onyx claws, “You will always be royalty to me.” His tone was softer than distant thunder falling from a cleansing storm as he gently placed the crown onto Scree’s baffled head. The pale mirror paused her waiting response as her mate adjusted the gruesome adornment, while the membranes of her wings flushed an even deeper red than normal from the flustering flattery.
“You just want to be a king.” She accused as Prime withdrew his claws, earning her a rumbling chuckle that shook free several stones from the castle’s loose crenulations.
“Well, I do like the title.” The vividly red Guardian agreed as he stood, and stretched out his wings in preparation for the long flight south that stood ahead of them. “However, I don’t think I have the personality for it.”
“Oh, really?” Scree gave her wings an experimental flap, to drive away the aches of too long sitting still. The joints protested loudly at the abrupt motion with a resounding crack; a reminder of the extra years of flying between her and when she had last taken to the sky from these towers.
“Yes, I’m not spoiled.” Before his tease could reach Scree’s ears, Prime had launched into the air, knowing that Scree would have to wait a moment before she followed as the mighty gust from his wings threatened to flatten her. He was chased by an indignant screech, but his pace remained lazy and confident. He, unlike others, had the privilege of being spared the worst of Scree’s ego-fuelled temper.
The claws that kicked his side moments later when his swift mate caught up to him held little force and left behind no sting, but the air around Prime was not spared from his charge’s grumbling. It ended quickly however… More so than normal, which was enough to prompt Prime to turn his head and search for his mate in her usual spot, gliding on the updrafts above his wings. Her expression was sombre, but not unhappy, as she watched the fields of her past home fall away below them.
“Love?” Prime prompted Scree’s attention to meander back to him. The smile on her face was sad, and he mirrored it easily with sympathy for all that his mate had lost. The emotions, he was assured by her flight, were heavier in his charge’s heart than his own; they lagged her wing beats and dragged her pace with a growing tiredness. Gently, the Guardian drifted upwards, his back offered up as a chariot to the Mirror flying above him. Her claws were light against his thickly-plated back as she landed.
Prime adjusted his flying to favour his mate’s comfort with well-practised ease as the smaller dragon wandered along his spine to settle on his shoulder blades. The weight of her, warm and secure between his wings, was an endless well of comfort for him.
“Thank you.” Scree sighed, releasing the built tension from her body with the escaping breath, while the last of her emotional excitement fled in the passing wind, leaving in its place an exhausted and pervading numbness that she gladly welcomed in place of the hurt and anger.
“Rest.” Was Prime’s only response, made powerful by his concern. Scree was not one to argue this time, and set her head down on her mate’s warm scales, over a spot she knew to carry a particularly powerful pulse, so that the thrumming of his heartbeat could be her lullaby while her giant mate carried them home.[/quote]
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Examples
Lore wrote:
Abandoned by his parents as an egg, Alo was hatched in the crumbling streets of the Hewn City to a small clan of jaded mercenaries, who sought to make a living in the shaded ruins after the loss of their territories in the crags of Reedcleft Ascent. Hungry to rebuild their ranks, they turned to adopting orphaned hatchlings from the poverty-stricken outskirts of the city, and quickly cast out any who could not prove themselves useful.
Left to compete with his fellow hatchlings for a place in the clan, Alo quickly grew withdrawn and violent, and through his outbursts developed an impressive skill in fighting that soon saw him officially inducted into the clan’s ranks. Here, his aggressive nature only worsened as each act of violence was rewarded with treasure, gems, and praise from the clan’s leader, Tsair, who Alo had come to view as a father-figure. However, Alo’s temper proved to be his downfall shortly after Tsair found a mate, and his attention turned to his own young hatchlings.
Abruptly starved of the attention from Tsair that he craved, Alo rapidly became envious of his mentor’s family. When the eldest came of age to learn to fight, Tsair eagerly recruited Alo as his mentor, unaware of the seething hatred that the blue dragon had built towards his young. This frustration bubbled over within their training sessions as Tsair continued to ignore Alo’s efforts in favour of praising his small, clumsy heir’s crude attempts to wield a sword, and, lacking emotional control, when Alo finally snapped, he gave no resistance to the urge to lash out; an act that resulted in his exile, not only from the clan that had raised him, but also from any other he encountered as the story of the injured youngling spread.
Lost, stripped of all purpose, Alo wandered alone for months, slowly making his way to the Windswept Plateau in an attempt to reconnect with any small part of the dragons he had called his family. However, upon his arrival at the Ascent, Alo stumbled across a small temple, where he found an order of spirit guides, who dedicated their lives to putting the departed to rest. Here, they welcomed him in from his long journey, in spite of the rumours that preceded him, with food and a warm bed, where Alo spent the night lying awake in the midst of an epiphany-yielding session of self-reflection.
The next morning, Alo signed onto the ranks of the spiritualists, who tutored him in not only their traditions for tending to the dead, but also meditation and mindfulness. Gradually, through practise and overflowing patience from his peers, Alo was able to calm his raging emotions and, while he could never be rid of his anger, it slowly moulded into a fierce protective streak towards those who had finally filled the empty ache in his heart that had lingered since his hatching.
Every ten years, the clan would perform a year-long pilgrimage across Sornieth, to visit a shrine in each of the elemental regions. However, Alo’s sixth pilgrimage proved to be his last; as one of the few dragons among the clan trained in combat, Alo volunteered readily to guard the procession, as it wasn’t unusual for the clan to run into ne’er-do-wells on their ancient route. As the clan trudged through the thick undergrowth of the Viridian Labyrinth, they were ambushed by a band of thieves who had claimed a section of the underused path as their new territory. Though their numbers were large, few of the spiritualists knew how to fight, and many had taken vows of pacifism, thus they were quickly overwhelmed.
Seeking his friends’ safety above all else, Alo lingered behind as they ran in an attempt to slow their attackers, and while he offered a fierce fight, he was quickly overwhelmed and dealt a fatal blow that left him bleeding out, once again alone. However, as the light seeped from his vision and his body numbed, rather than the dark void that Alo had expected, instead colour began to consume his vision, shimmering and ever-shifting even once it had shaped itself into the rough silhouette of a vibrant creature reminiscent of a Wildclaw. Though he has no memory of the vision speaking, Alo distinctly remembers the offer it gave; his life, for his colours. Unable to fight his loyalty to his clan, Alo accepted with little thought on the matter, and awoke to the luscious green of the Labyrinth. Without pause, he rushed after his clan, only to find their bodies, strewn in a grim trail that led him to the only other survivor; his dear friend, Kiln, who barely clung to life.
Remembering the strange Wildclaw, whose name – the Colour Castaway – lingered in his mind despite having no introduction, Alo quickly reasoned that the creature would appear and propose a similar deal to his friend. As such, Alo concluded that it would be better to let the Castaway heal his friend than attempt so himself, and risk losing them to infection later. Excited, he watched as Kiln’s body turned pale, and his limbs went limp, only for seconds, then minutes, then hours to pass without sign of movement. Finally, reality dawned on Alo, reigniting the rage he had long learned to cast aside. Unable to chase the Colour Castaway for his, in Alo’s mind, betrayal, he instead pursued the clan that had killed his own, and exacted his revenge, slaughtering them one by one.
When the final foe hit the floor, the rage drained from Alo as if someone were forcefully dragging it from his soul, and in its place a hollow apathy developed. Calmly, he returned to his friends and collected them together, cleaned their bones, and carried them onwards, towards the next shrine.
With each day that passed, Alo found his scales, already paled from their deep navy hue to a faded azure, continued to lose their pigment, until his once solid colours were a patchwork of near-translucent white and sky blue that slowly settled into an unmistakable pattern. Though initially he denied his new nature, with each new dragon that recognised him, and labelled him as a monster, a Wight, he lost his disbelief. However, as if out of pity, his new colours offered him protection from those who rejected him; in the blue, cloudy sky, Alo was invisible to any below him, and his body was now entirely immune to the elements, allowing him to travel beyond the reaches of his living kin at the very edges of the sky, where the cold would frost all but a Wight’s unfeeling wings.
Once again an exile, Alo followed the path of the pilgrimage doggedly, until he reached home, where he could hide from prying eyes and those who would hunt him for his rare nature, and his exquisite hide. At the temple, he carefully performed the clan’s traditional funeral rights, to finally put his friends, who he had carried for nearly a year on his back, to rest. However, when it came time to bury them, he found himself, guiltily, setting a bone from each dragon back inside his pack, not through longing for a memento, but selfish fascination with the momentary relief it gave to the empty longing that had taken hold of his heart.
Though his intention throughout his journey had always been to stay once he reached the temple, and rebuild the clan, within days of settling in, Alo found himself incessantly pacing, overcome with a need to move. It only took a handful more for him to crack, and he set out on his journey, pack in tow, towards the first shrine; a path he could walk in his sleep.
As he travelled, Alo stumbled across more bodies, each forgotten in the wilds. As he had for his clan, he collected the fallen’s skeletons and carried them with him to the next shrine on his path, to bury at its foot after taking his payment in the form of a bone, or another morbid charm, in an attempt to hold onto the burst of emotion that their collection provided. Another year lapsed, and again when he reached the temple, he could not bring himself to remain within its walls, despite his now much heavier pack.
Over the years, the traditions and stories of his clan have been lost to the world, and the shrines are now only known as burial grounds, which mysteriously grow with each yearly passage of the strange, sombre Skydancer, who vanishes the next day into the cloud-spotted sky. Rumours state that if a clan offers him food and shelter on his arrival, he will protect them until his dying breath.
300 - 500 words wrote:
Of all the rooms that could have served as the entrance to the Frostguard's hidden tunnels, you were not expecting it to be a bar. The room is alive with music and chatter, and bathed in the warm, honey glow of a crackling enchanted fire. Despite the cheer that crowds the centre of the room, at the edges you spy numerous weary souls, nursing their aching wounds with large glasses of liquers and frothy brews.
As you approach the bar, you are greeted with a broad smile from the large Guardian tender. Everything about the dragon is warm, from his thick winter gear to his sympathetic eyes.
"Need a drink?" He offers as he wipes dry a fresh glass. You clamber up onto one of the tall seats to sit level with the bar. "Maybe some food too?" The blue dragon adds with a laugh as the scent of thick stew wafts past your nostrils, and a hungry growl escapes your stomach.
"I don't have much money." You confess sheepishly after a quick check of your pockets. Even the kindest city has cruel corners, and it is far too late that you realise that you wandered through one.
"Don't worry; everything down here's on the house. It's how the Frostguard has always worked: We look after our own, and anyone Ater trusts enough to let down here. He's a hard dragon to impress." Powell regards you with a sort of pride, and you allow yourself to smile back. He is perhaps the friendliest dragon you have met yet in the whole mountain.
"In that case..." You place your order for a hearty helping of the food and drink your stomach demands, and it is brought to you quickly from a back room by a shy, crimson Serthis. The appearance of the Beastclan catches you momentarily off guard, but the patrons move politely out of his their way as they return to what you assume to be the kitchen, and you dismiss the unexpected encounter.
"So, what brings you all the way down here? Not many folks up in the city even know this place is more than a rumour." Powell asks as you dig into your meal; it is good, and hums with magical warmth.
"I have some questions, actually."
"Well then, ask away." Powell pulls up a chair, and waves a smaller Wildclaw from across the room to take his place tending the patrons.
500 - 1000 words, example 1 wrote:
The library is quiet; even your footsteps on the gnarled wood floor are muffled among the endless maze of ancient tomes. Despite their age, not a single book wears a layer of dust; each is well-worn and visibly loved. The peace of the grand library is a kind reprieve from the relentless bustle of the mountain city.
Between the towering rows, you frequently stumble upon small, round islands of comfortable cushions and chairs, each flooded with silent dragons and the rustle of turning pages. High on the shelves, faes snuggle on thin walkways biased solely to their tiny frames. You envy their sanctuary as you are forced to squeeze past a gaggle of guardians who, despite their massive size, insist on hosting a book club in one of the smaller clearings.
As you progress through the library, the crowd begins to thin, until the only dragons you encounter are solitary and busy reading through ancient texts. It is as you round the corner onto a fallen pile of books that a revelation hits you; you have not seen a single librarian. Worse, despite your best attempts, the library offers no indication to where each section lies. In fact, the library has no directions at all. You are, currently, the very definition of lost.
Much faster than your previous, mystified meander, you trek between the bookshelves in search of familiarity. The titles of the books however, are all foreign.
Salvation comes in the form of a door. It is old, and iron-wrought, but light peaks out from beneath the warped base. Gently, you knock, and the door swings wide to reveal a small, bespectacled fae surrounded by pages of intricate caligraphy.
"What? What do you want?" She quickly snaps from her work to glare up at you from the floor. You wonder for a moment why she does not have a desk, until you see the corner of a drawer poking out from one of the giant stacks of paper and books in the corner.
"I'm lost." You reply, only to receive a flat, impatient stare over the rims of the fae's half-moon glasses.
"Everyone who comes this far into my library is lost. Now, tell me what you want, what you're looking for." You doubt she'll be amused, nor amicable, if you ask the way to the exit. Instead, you elect to confess your original intentions.
"I want to learn more about the Froslands, and the Frostguard." It was clearly the right answer; the tiny fae perked her fins, though her expression remained bored.
"If you want to know the history, I have several volumes right here." She taped a stack of books with her tail. "However, for a better perspective I suggest you go talk to the Frostguard's soldiers yourself. I'm still only half way through writing up their biographies." Pointedly, she glanced down to her unfinished pages of text and the quill still in her hand.
"Why not let them write their own biographies?" Finally, the librarian demonstrated some range of emotion; a derisive snort and chuckle at your suggestion.
"Please, writing is an art; one that the vast majority lack the skill to pull off. Imagine how boring those books would be!" You glare at her, but she seems to take no notice. Rather, she is abruptly distracted with scribbling onto a large, fold-out map that she foraged from her pile.
"Here, go see these dragons; they should be at least a little interesting to talk to.... Just be careful. Not all of them are as friendly as me." You refrain from disputing that statement in favour of taking the map, lest you quickly have your quest ended early by a surley librarian with sharp claws and the red glint of a plague-carrier in her eyes. In immaculate handwriting, she has marked off a plethora of locations - many outside of the mountain, and many that appear to be deeper in the mountain than you knew were accessible - alongside which are the names and rudimentary, yet recognisable, doodles of each dragon.
"What about you? Who even are you, and how'd you get all these books?" Her next laugh is softer than the giggle she had at your expense.
"Oh honey," With a coy smile, she catches your gaze over the top of her spectactles. Despite yourself, you are unable to look away from her vividly red eyes. "I'm just a very good librarian."
Suddenly, you are in the library again, staring at unbroken shelves. The titles of the tomes around you indicate that this was where you found the door. Had it not been a dragon you were just talking to, you would dismiss the encounter as a moment of sheer madness. However, dragons were known well throughout Sorneith for using their natural magics to perform some peculiar feats. Generously though, she had left the books you wanted in a neat stack by your feet.
As you turn to start your journey for answers, you realise that you are still lost.
500 - 1000 words, example 2 wrote:
Cold.
Her final memory was of the cold. A sensation nearly foreign to her skin in the centuries it had laid hidden beneath her thick pelt. All she could remember was the blistering, burning cold.
Freezing.
The pain had burrowed into her very core, freezing her limbs while they still carried life. The red snow around her had turned white in moments beneath the relentless blizzard, filling her final recalled moments with blinding white, smothered silence and the cold.
Ice.
Her fur crackled and groaned as tentatively, she pushed, and found her legs able to move, if barely under the heavy tomb of snow that pinned her down. Her jaw creaked and cracked with frozen drool, and her eyes refused to open. Yet, beneath her frost-matted pelt, her skin did not shiver, nor did her bones cry from the stiff cool that had sunk its claws deep into their marrow.
Slowly, she pulled a paw at the snow; it was thick, compacted, almost solid ice.
Ancient.
It held easily as she clawed the loose scrapes into her moulded cavern, as did the next gouge, and the next. Gradually, the balance shifted, pushing her ice-wrapped body further into the tunnel with each offering of ice to take her place. Finally, her eyes opened, only to meet endless, pale black.
The narrow tunnel was deathly silent and still, save for the rhythmic scrape of her frosted claws against its walls. She could only pray that she was digging upwards.
It was endless. Clawful after clawful of packed permafrost came away, and sealed the tunnel behind her, but light remained absent. The quiet was maddening.
Perhaps this is my punishment. The thought pounced upon her red-stained shoulders. Her back felt unusually solid. But what for? She had remained loyal all of her life, fallen in service to her deity, her creator. Why should she be punished? Had her sisters and brothers suffered the same fate?
The snow was growing looser. Or perhaps it was only her imagination… The dark was growing brighter. Bluer.
Strength surged her exhausted limbs, driving her forwards in a frenzy. Twice, she slipped as the snow grew fluffy and the world turned blue-white, crumbling her tunnel inward to briefly hold her.
When the breeze touched her fur, she surged upwards without hesitation.
The tundra stretched outwards for miles, beyond the horizon, cast in the bright glow of the blue moon that hung above her, slowly drifting its way towards slumber. Hiacies hauled herself from her hole to face untouched plains, blank compared to her last recollection of fallen friends, a raging blizzard and blood-spattered banners. The scent of her kin, her pack, her family, was gone, replaced by the faded stink of countless unknowns.
Step by wavering step, she strode over the emptied battlefield, towards the looming shadow of home; the Fortress stood as her only familiar landmark, its path dotted by unfamiliar, broken trees with thick, jaded trunks.
The walls were closer than she remembered, thickened outwards by centuries-worth of layered Nevermelt Ice – a slow patching process she had dutifully assisted in many enough times to know that such progress could not be achieved within a mortal lifetime. Her pale image shimmered in the strong, smooth walls, quickening her step with each unfamiliar feature that was revealed to her until her paws were pressed against the comforting, cool walls, her eyes locked onto the withered, magic-marred dragon that stared back at her.
Icewarden what has become of me?
1000 + words wrote:
Over everything else, it was a waste. The reaching fields of her home, pockmarked and crawling with living plague, had never been pretty, but it had had held a certain, nostalgic tint of rose in Scree’s mind, and she had even heard visiting denizens of the Gladekeeper’s lands compliment the view of the sunset. The Contagion had supported her birth clan, worthy of being called a kingdom, for generations. It had never been kind, but through its lacking mercy it had gifted them strength.
It was hard to believe that the castle she perched on now, broken and crumbling, was the same place she had called home so many years ago; the legacy of centuries, ruined; its people, already dust.
The crown in her claws felt lighter than she remembered, though when Scree had held it last, she had been less than half her size, and more than two thirds her age. The relic of a future she had been denied was laughably brittle: The bones of the clan’s founders were hollow, and old, but when her grandfather had worn it, the crown had looked as strong as stone. She supposed there was a reason he had been so respected or, more likely, feared. Plaguemother knew that for all she had loved him, the thought of crossing him had been one she was never willing to entertain.
The temptation was there, to snap the crown, and watch it crumble into dust, to join the fate of its final bearer. That the territory was in such dire disrepair felt like his final, mocking blow before her cousin had succumbed to his current, less-than-living state. She had spent so many years in unnecessary fear, woken by flickering shadows in the night to wonder if they had finally found her, and she would have to run again. It was already an insult to have her revenge, after so long dreaming of blood and victory, cruelly denied. Compounded with the knowledge that she could have returned safely long ago, that her nightmares could have ended with just a few words of the news… Scree regretted not racing back the moment she had her strength, to make sure her claws were the ones to stop her traitorous cousin’s poisoned heart.
“I have to confess, I am relieved. I still have the scars from fighting your cousin’s assassins.” Scree’s wings twitched outwards in surprise as a large shadow loomed behind her, but the familiar rumble of her mate stilled their attempt to unfold. Her gaze turned upwards to greet the opal-scarred Guardian, but soon fled back to the razed expanses. Prime watched her quietly for a moment, the chuckle at his own comment dead in his chest from a mere taste of the melancholy mood of his small mate. Rather than pressing another attempt to brighten his charge, he instead lay down to rest his head beside her on the unsteady edge of the castle tower.
“I would have liked to repay them for the harm they did to you.” Scree’s tail flicked back and forth as yet another regret was surfaced; though she had only fleeting memories of the wounds inflicted on her mate, before they had even known each other as friends, the scars he had earned protecting her still burned her pride.
“If they owe me a debt, they owe you their entire hoard.” It was an understatement, but one that brought a smile to Scree’s face.
“A kingdom, dear. They owe me a kingdom.” She corrected with a playful smirk – an expression that brought great relief to her worrying mate – and an emphatic glance to the crown resting in her claws.
“I would be reluctant to call the matter settled until they handed you the whole of Sornieth.” Prime didn’t miss the ambitious twinkle that filled Scree’s eyes at the thought of taking the world, but her content with their current life saw it fade before the Mirror could rekindle the power-lust she had once suffered in her youth.
“I pity the dragon foolish enough to take a loan from you.” The pair shared a brief laugh that quickly faded into the morose silence smothering the wastes. Scree looked back down at the bleached crown in her grasp, stained red at the edges by the residue of her cousin’s long-finished decay. The disappointment stung deep behind the frustration and anger, burrowing deeper with every moment as the adrenaline’s grip slowly slackened.
“I had hoped that I could take it all back. I spent my whole life training, and now everything that I learned is useless.” Scree sighed. Her wings hung low, as if the weight in her heart were pulling at the edges.
“Perhaps. I’m sure you don’t need to know the clan’s laws by rote, now… But I think there’s plenty that still comes in handy.” Prime turned his head better towards his mate, to fix their gazes together. “You remain a great leader, even if it is not of the clan you were born to rule.”
“A small pack is hardly comparable.” Scree protested, but her tone was weak, betraying her pride over her elite strike team. “I still would have liked the choice…” Prime would have missed her murmur, had the world around them not been so deathly quiet.
“If the clan had still lived, you wouldn’t have had one.” Scree’s first instinct was to argue; Prime read it easily from the defensive flare of her wings, but a simple look was all it took to calm the brewing storm of ire and encourage Scree to think. It was a bittersweet freedom, and hard to swallow with the years of being promised a throne replaying in her head.
“We could stay, if that’s what you want. It would take work, but we could rebuild.” Prime offered, shaking Scree from her thoughts. Her eyes cast over the ruined fields again, then down to the collapsing stone under her feet. A pang of homesickness hit, hard, recalling the years of joy within the castle’s walls… Memories she knew to be tainted by want of fewer nightmares and denial of the dread she had long-ago learned to twist into ambition. There was the knowledge, too, that if they did rebuild, they could do better: She had learned much about true leadership in the happy years out of her grandfather’s shadow.
Scree shook her head, and set the crown down on the cracked stone wall.
“It would be a waste of time; my claim to the throne is as dead as the rest of this place.” Scree looked up towards her mate, who met her with an expression filled with pride. “Besides,” she grinned, “I have everything I need already.”
“So do I.” Prime agreed. They were small words, but they felt as mighty as the blue-winged Guardian who spoke them in her heart.
Scree turned towards the edge of the tower again, this time aimed towards the sky, but she was forced to pause as her mate’s paw crossed her path to collect the ageing crown.
“If it helps,” Scree stared up at him in confusion as he turned the comparatively-tiny crown in his onyx claws, “You will always be royalty to me.” His tone was softer than distant thunder falling from a cleansing storm as he gently placed the crown onto Scree’s baffled head. The pale mirror paused her waiting response as her mate adjusted the gruesome adornment, while the membranes of her wings flushed an even deeper red than normal from the flustering flattery.
“You just want to be a king.” She accused as Prime withdrew his claws, earning her a rumbling chuckle that shook free several stones from the castle’s loose crenulations.
“Well, I do like the title.” The vividly red Guardian agreed as he stood, and stretched out his wings in preparation for the long flight south that stood ahead of them. “However, I don’t think I have the personality for it.”
“Oh, really?” Scree gave her wings an experimental flap, to drive away the aches of too long sitting still. The joints protested loudly at the abrupt motion with a resounding crack; a reminder of the extra years of flying between her and when she had last taken to the sky from these towers.
“Yes, I’m not spoiled.” Before his tease could reach Scree’s ears, Prime had launched into the air, knowing that Scree would have to wait a moment before she followed as the mighty gust from his wings threatened to flatten her. He was chased by an indignant screech, but his pace remained lazy and confident. He, unlike others, had the privilege of being spared the worst of Scree’s ego-fuelled temper.
The claws that kicked his side moments later when his swift mate caught up to him held little force and left behind no sting, but the air around Prime was not spared from his charge’s grumbling. It ended quickly however… More so than normal, which was enough to prompt Prime to turn his head and search for his mate in her usual spot, gliding on the updrafts above his wings. Her expression was sombre, but not unhappy, as she watched the fields of her past home fall away below them.
“Love?” Prime prompted Scree’s attention to meander back to him. The smile on her face was sad, and he mirrored it easily with sympathy for all that his mate had lost. The emotions, he was assured by her flight, were heavier in his charge’s heart than his own; they lagged her wing beats and dragged her pace with a growing tiredness. Gently, the Guardian drifted upwards, his back offered up as a chariot to the Mirror flying above him. Her claws were light against his thickly-plated back as she landed.
Prime adjusted his flying to favour his mate’s comfort with well-practised ease as the smaller dragon wandered along his spine to settle on his shoulder blades. The weight of her, warm and secure between his wings, was an endless well of comfort for him.
“Thank you.” Scree sighed, releasing the built tension from her body with the escaping breath, while the last of her emotional excitement fled in the passing wind, leaving in its place an exhausted and pervading numbness that she gladly welcomed in place of the hurt and anger.
“Rest.” Was Prime’s only response, made powerful by his concern. Scree was not one to argue this time, and set her head down on her mate’s warm scales, over a spot she knew to carry a particularly powerful pulse, so that the thrumming of his heartbeat could be her lullaby while her giant mate carried them home.
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[center][size=6][font=papyrus][b]FAQ[/b][/font][/size][/center]
[size=4]
[b]Why won't you write NSFW?[/b]
I simply don't feel comfortable doing so (I'm ace for some context) and I also don't want to risk breaking the site's guidlines, even if the piece weren't to be posted/linked here.
[b]In my opinion, your writing sucks.[/b]
Well that's a shame, but that's why I made this shop. I want to get better at writing so that I can publish one day! If you have anything constructive to say, however, please feel free to contact me!
[b]Can you write a novel for me?[/b]
While I don't have a strict limit, I won't do more than a short story. I just don't have the time or energy to dedicate to such a big project centred around someone else's ideas, when my own big projects are still unfinished. I'd rather burn myself out writing something I'm passionate about than on a commission.
[b]I'm not happy with the finished commission, can I get a refund?[/b]
I don't do refunds right off the bat. If you're not happy, talk to me and I'll try to fix whatever's upsetting you. If, after several edits you still want your money back, I'm willing to refund for half of what you paid. (Otherwise it's just wasted time for me that I could spend on my own work, or another commission.) However, if you claim a refund you are not permitted to use my work anywhere, and if I see you doing so I will block you, and put the piece up as free to use by anyone who comes across it.
[b]Can I edit the finished product myself?[/b]
Yes, but please denote this next to where you credit me for the original piece! It would be poor practise for me to take credit for someone else's edits!
[b]What's with the name?[/b]
Honestly? I was trying to think of a pun that would express my tendency to have a more 'flowery' writing style, and this was as close as I could get. (Plus, illiteration!)
[b]How do I commission you?[/b]
Ping me and tell me a rough idea of what you want! Once I'm ready to take your order, I'll PM you, and we can hash out the details and sort out payment so I can get writing.
If I don't have any slots open, just ask to be added to the pinglist for when I next do!
[b]When do I pay?[/b]
You can pay at any point between placing the commission and when I finish the first draft!
[b]Do you take mixed payments?[/b]
Yes! Mix and match as much as you like!
[b]Do you accept festival currency?[/b]
Only during festivals, and only currency for the current festival.
[b]What about other forms of payment?[/b]
I also accept eggs/apparel/specialty items, valued by their current LAH (or marketplace/brewing price if they can be obtained through either of those two methods)
[b]How long will my commission take?[/b]
It can vary between commissions depending on how long the commission is, how difficult I find the subject to write, and, of course, IRL sometimes can surprise me, but I do my best to get your commissions done ASAP! Priority, of course, goes to whoever placed their commission first, so if you've filled my 5th slot, and I haven't finished the 1st yet, it may be up to a few weeks.
[b]I'm waiting on a commission, but I changed my mind.[/b]
If you change your mind, let me know! If you pay before I finish the first draft, I'll happily refund you!
[/size]
FAQ
Why won't you write NSFW?
I simply don't feel comfortable doing so (I'm ace for some context) and I also don't want to risk breaking the site's guidlines, even if the piece weren't to be posted/linked here.
In my opinion, your writing sucks.
Well that's a shame, but that's why I made this shop. I want to get better at writing so that I can publish one day! If you have anything constructive to say, however, please feel free to contact me!
Can you write a novel for me?
While I don't have a strict limit, I won't do more than a short story. I just don't have the time or energy to dedicate to such a big project centred around someone else's ideas, when my own big projects are still unfinished. I'd rather burn myself out writing something I'm passionate about than on a commission.
I'm not happy with the finished commission, can I get a refund?
I don't do refunds right off the bat. If you're not happy, talk to me and I'll try to fix whatever's upsetting you. If, after several edits you still want your money back, I'm willing to refund for half of what you paid. (Otherwise it's just wasted time for me that I could spend on my own work, or another commission.) However, if you claim a refund you are not permitted to use my work anywhere, and if I see you doing so I will block you, and put the piece up as free to use by anyone who comes across it.
Can I edit the finished product myself?
Yes, but please denote this next to where you credit me for the original piece! It would be poor practise for me to take credit for someone else's edits!
What's with the name?
Honestly? I was trying to think of a pun that would express my tendency to have a more 'flowery' writing style, and this was as close as I could get. (Plus, illiteration!)
How do I commission you?
Ping me and tell me a rough idea of what you want! Once I'm ready to take your order, I'll PM you, and we can hash out the details and sort out payment so I can get writing.
If I don't have any slots open, just ask to be added to the pinglist for when I next do!
When do I pay?
You can pay at any point between placing the commission and when I finish the first draft!
Do you take mixed payments?
Yes! Mix and match as much as you like!
Do you accept festival currency?
Only during festivals, and only currency for the current festival.
What about other forms of payment?
I also accept eggs/apparel/specialty items, valued by their current LAH (or marketplace/brewing price if they can be obtained through either of those two methods)
How long will my commission take?
It can vary between commissions depending on how long the commission is, how difficult I find the subject to write, and, of course, IRL sometimes can surprise me, but I do my best to get your commissions done ASAP! Priority, of course, goes to whoever placed their commission first, so if you've filled my 5th slot, and I haven't finished the 1st yet, it may be up to a few weeks.
I'm waiting on a commission, but I changed my mind.
If you change your mind, let me know! If you pay before I finish the first draft, I'll happily refund you!
