I'm trying to get back into writing daily. Mama Le Guin gave me writing homework in her landmark writing guide, [i]Steering the Craft[/i], but I don't currently have any projects or ideas that I want to work on. So I want to use YOURS! I will try to deliver each lore bite within a day or so, but I do work full time so some days are busier than others and I tend to be much more productive on the weekend!
-----
[b]Currently:[/b] Open for business! [emoji=thorntail tongue size=1]
[indent][emoji=normal eyes size=1]PWYW - treasure, gems, or unhatched eggs all OK! (Not that you have to pay the value of an unhatched egg or more! No minimum.)
[emoji=special eyes size=1] You provide the inspiration: A dragon (or more), a snippet or overview of existing lore, a situation you want to see written! You don't need extensive existing lore to request - but just be sure to specify anything that's important to you in terms of characterization, relationships, or setting!
[emoji=normal eyes size=1] You choose the prompt from a list of prompts below!
[emoji=special eyes size=1] I provide you approximately a few paragraphs of lore based on the prompt and your inspiration!
[/indent]
[b][url=https://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/3458989/1#post_60178047]My lore/writing thread here.[/url][/b]
[b][size=4]Prompts:[/size][/b]
[quote=Le Guin 1]
Write a paragraph to a page of narrative that’s meant to be read aloud. Use onomatopoeia, alliteration, repetition, rhythmic effects, made-up words or names, dialect—any kind of sound effect you like—but NOT rhyme or meter.
[/quote]
[quote=Le Guin 2]
In a paragraph or so, describe an action, or a person feeling strong emotion -- joy, fear, grief. Try to make the rhythm and movement of the sentences embody or represent the physical reality you're writing about.
[/quote]
[quote=Le Guin 3]
Write a paragraph to a page (150–350 words) of narrative with no punctuation (and no paragraphs or other breaking devices).
[/quote]
[quote=Le Guin 4]
Write a paragraph of narrative, 100–150 words, in sentences of seven or fewer words. No sentence fragments! Each must have a subject and a verb.
[/quote]
[quote=Le Guin 5]
Write a half page to a page of narrative, up to 350 words, that is all one sentence.
[/quote]
[quote=Le Guin 6]
Write a paragraph of narrative (150 words) that includes at least three repetitions of a noun, verb, or adjective (a noticeable word, not an invisible one like was, said, did).
[/quote]
[quote=Le Guin 7]
Write a short narrative (350–1000 words) in which something is said or done and then something is said or done that echoes or repeats it, perhaps in a different context, or by different people, or on a different scale.
[/quote]
[quote=Le Guin 8]
Write a paragraph to a page (200–350 words) of descriptive narrative prose without adjectives or adverbs. No dialogue. The point is to give a vivid description of a scene or an action using only verbs, nouns, pronouns, and articles.
Adverbs of time (then, next, later, etc.) may be necessary, but be sparing. Be chaste.
[/quote]
[center][b]Will do:[/b] FR lore, OCs
[b]Won't do:[/b] Smut (romance OK), real-life pairings or people, anything against FR TOS
Expect, given the prompts, that your result might be a bit experimental! Also, I do know the basics of canon FR lore but if you want me to adhere to very specific canon lore, please let me know so I can look it up!
You can feel free to use your lore bite in any way - just please give me a small credit if it fits :)
[/center]
I'm trying to get back into writing daily. Mama Le Guin gave me writing homework in her landmark writing guide, Steering the Craft, but I don't currently have any projects or ideas that I want to work on. So I want to use YOURS! I will try to deliver each lore bite within a day or so, but I do work full time so some days are busier than others and I tend to be much more productive on the weekend! Currently: Open for business!
PWYW - treasure, gems, or unhatched eggs all OK! (Not that you have to pay the value of an unhatched egg or more! No minimum.)
You provide the inspiration: A dragon (or more), a snippet or overview of existing lore, a situation you want to see written! You don't need extensive existing lore to request - but just be sure to specify anything that's important to you in terms of characterization, relationships, or setting!
You choose the prompt from a list of prompts below!
I provide you approximately a few paragraphs of lore based on the prompt and your inspiration!
Write a paragraph to a page of narrative that’s meant to be read aloud. Use onomatopoeia, alliteration, repetition, rhythmic effects, made-up words or names, dialect—any kind of sound effect you like—but NOT rhyme or meter.
Le Guin 2 wrote:
In a paragraph or so, describe an action, or a person feeling strong emotion -- joy, fear, grief. Try to make the rhythm and movement of the sentences embody or represent the physical reality you're writing about.
Le Guin 3 wrote:
Write a paragraph to a page (150–350 words) of narrative with no punctuation (and no paragraphs or other breaking devices).
Le Guin 4 wrote:
Write a paragraph of narrative, 100–150 words, in sentences of seven or fewer words. No sentence fragments! Each must have a subject and a verb.
Le Guin 5 wrote:
Write a half page to a page of narrative, up to 350 words, that is all one sentence.
Le Guin 6 wrote:
Write a paragraph of narrative (150 words) that includes at least three repetitions of a noun, verb, or adjective (a noticeable word, not an invisible one like was, said, did).
Le Guin 7 wrote:
Write a short narrative (350–1000 words) in which something is said or done and then something is said or done that echoes or repeats it, perhaps in a different context, or by different people, or on a different scale.
Le Guin 8 wrote:
Write a paragraph to a page (200–350 words) of descriptive narrative prose without adjectives or adverbs. No dialogue. The point is to give a vivid description of a scene or an action using only verbs, nouns, pronouns, and articles.
Adverbs of time (then, next, later, etc.) may be necessary, but be sparing. Be chaste.
Will do: FR lore, OCs Won't do: Smut (romance OK), real-life pairings or people, anything against FR TOS
Expect, given the prompts, that your result might be a bit experimental! Also, I do know the basics of canon FR lore but if you want me to adhere to very specific canon lore, please let me know so I can look it up!
You can feel free to use your lore bite in any way - just please give me a small credit if it fits :)
Last edited on Feb 18, 2026 12:47:31 by Bloodbraidelf
Steel against stone. His hands absorb the uneven rhythm of the irregular wheel. His foot steadily motivates the turn. A spray of sparks pock his forearms but the singe is a temporary sting. The blade sharpens through adversity. His heartbeat thuds dully in his ears, it reverberates around his chest. He is a vessel; he is a hollowed-out drum. His lifeblood sloshes around inside, it tumbles and surges through his veins. But he is a bulwark against the tide. He is a vessel with a tight seal. The hands steady the blade on the stone. The ear overhears the charity collection next service for --
Blade bites flesh. Drops with a clang to the armory floor, scarlet following, red in the palm and red all over the mind, heartbeat like a drumbeat whaling on the sides of his temples. A roar builds in the eardrums, beating then receding, a roar that sounds like deep belly laughter - sounds like - two syllables cuffing him affectionately over the head, two syllables ruffling his hair, two syllables pincering his eyeballs until they burst into wet globules that slide down his cheeks. The hissssssss of the wheel grinding to a stop. The blade dulls with use.
Stone against steel. Breathe into the spin and lurch of the wheel. Blank the mind with the scream of metal. Blind the eyes with the ache of the palm. Urge the wheel with the pulse of the heel. The blade dulls, the blade sharpens.
Scuffle, shuffle, scrape; Prompt 7
Scuffle, shuffle, scrape. The gentle tap of clawtips on polished but wellworn wood. The sigh and slither of feathers on adjusted wings. He was trying to be quiet, but nothing had been the same since the break-in. And Zera hadn't slept well since - which irked her, because she could typically sleep through the clamor and bustle of a busy shop. But it was the difference in these sounds, the weight in those small sounds, that stayed her sleep - and this the third such night. Breathing out hard through her nose, she shook off the soft fibers of her nest and headed up the hatch.
"Dear one, there are teas to help with good digestion and a restful sleep," she said softly as she came through the hatchdoor. Through the gloom she caught the gleam of a watchful eye and heard a snort in greeting.
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not ill. Just keeping an eye on things."
"Keeping an eye on the thread and the needles? I thought that was Kleaver's job. Is she slacking?"
Jeriah shook his head and twitched the very tip of his tail. "You know what I mean."
"Dear one, those were just hatchlings, doing unwise and irritating hatchling things. It's up to their guardians to make sure they don't disturb any more peace, not you." Zera drew closer to the wildclaw and lightly brushed his flank with one of her fans, but he stiffened.
"You don't know what their intentions are. They could have been scouts - sent precisely because you would think they were just rowdy hatchlings." Jeriah huffed, and he continued with a steelier tone. "I've seen it."
"I do not doubt it," she replied, working to keep her fans from flaring. "You know I appreciate your care, but I don't need your h--"
She bit down viciously on the last word, nipping her tongue and drawing sweet blood, but it escaped and lay heavy between them.
"Of course not," Jeriah said, and left, flicking his tail behind him.
"Jeriah," Zera sighed after him, feeling dazed and tired, older than her years. Her heart ached and she cursed herself for hasty and unfelt words, but those years told her not to chase or call out. Back to the nest, and a silent, meager night's sleep. It could be fixed in the morning.
They did not speak of it over breakfast. Zera rose early and prepared brisket biscuits with rosemary, but Jeriah passed by the table and left the shop without a word. Little Shell gazed after him and then looked searchingly at Zera, but, bless her intuitive heart, knew better than to ask. Zera dumped the biscuits in the trash and remained angry at herself all morning.
When he reappeared in the afternoon, to all appearances his usual staid and pleasant self, she placed her weaving on the mantle and emerged into the late slanted rays with a practiced smile, but he had already gone into the garden, the door still closing on a swish of red tail.
"Jeriah," she called. "I'd welcome your opinion on a project."
No answer beside the rustling of the leaves. Feeling a fool aboveground and out of her depth, Zera retreated back to her lair and the understanding flash of needles.
"Oh, Zera," murmured Little Shell as she nosed her way down the staircase, blinking her small eyes in adjustment to the gloom and the densmell. "What is he trying to tell you?"
"Trying to tell me off, I expect," replied Zera, in a tone she hoped would foreclose the rest of this conversation. Little Shell averred with a toss of her regal head.
"You know he's hurting, not judging. What happened?"
"I only wanted him to go to sleep. The store does not require security. Those hatchlings will not dare be back. This is a safe place."
Little Shell nuzzled behind Zera's neck fans. "I see."
"I have been trying to make amends. I have been trying to help." Zera disliked the pleading note in her voice.
"Zera, he doesn't need your help. He needs your acceptance."
It was just like the young ones to cut right to the meat and the cold bone of you.
"Jeriah, I've been foolish," she called into the shadows. She saw no glimmer and heard no tapping of claws, but she knew he would not shirk what he thought was his duty. "I thought so quickly of amends that I failed to distinguish what damage I'd done."
She ran a claw down a draped cloak that shimmered and glimmered in the dimlight, considering.
"I know what it is like to feel misunderstood, as you know." She heard a slight rustling to her right but did not move towards it. "And I thought I knew of your pain, knew what it was like to have been a warrior. I have known warriors. But I have not known your war, and I should not presume you will trust my peace."
A small, sooty rabbit flopped across her claws, kicking her little feet in the air.
"In short, dear one, thank you. For loving us enough to protect." She cleared her throat, feeling a bit awkward for having said some of those words out loud. "Sleep well."
She gently turned Kleaver onto her feet and turned her head slightly in the direction from which the rabbit came, noting the glint of an eye. Jeriah bowed his head. She nodded in turn and headed back down the spiral steps, growing drowsier with each turned step, heavy and contented of heart.
I'll be safesies; Prompt 7
Kitten-proofing the village was harder than expected.
"CANNINBALL!!!"
An orange ball of fluff hurled itself off of a roof and bounced terribly off of a pile of sproingy moss. Larkspur's heart bounced with it, tied on a string to the trajectory of a seriously clumsy child with no self-preservation instinct.
Before that was the Incident of the Gutter-Slide. Earlier that week was the Alchemy of Village Pies. This kitten was going to be the death of her and everyone in North Botania.
"CAMELLIA!" she yowled, hoping she sounded angry and not worried-sick. "GET OVER HERE!"
The orange ball of fluff righted itself - but was it limping? did it look dazed? - and made its way over.
"What could have possibly possessed you --"
"I tol' Scilla that a feather would fall as fast as a stone if you dropt it from highup enough and they said NOWAY and I said YESWAY and they said prolly I would fall faster than even a stone because I'm so fluffy and I said no becuz that's not how grav'ty works and they said yes huh and so I decided to test it and --"
"Test it? With your own body? Off of a roof? Have you no sense?"
"But mom --"
"I told you --"
"BUT MOM! --"
"--for the last time--"
"BUT I WAS RIGHT!"
"TO STAY OUT OF TROUBLE!"
The words were ripped from Larkspur's kittenhood, pulled right out of Echinacea's many cold admonishments. How many times had they heard those words and quietly chafed against them, like graphite on paper? They squinted their eyes against sudden, fraught tears. What were they doing?
The total silence of the trees and forest animals around them told them they had been far too loud. But Camellia, clever kit, gazed into its parent's eyes.
"Mom," it said softly. "I'll be safesies. I promimse." It grinned a great big grin of crooked kittenteeth.
Larkspur couldn't believe the warmth that spread through their chest and straight down to their toes.
"You're right," they purred, nuzzling the astonishingly soft fur behind Camellia's ears. "That is all I really want. Only good trouble, okay?"
Things Yves knows; Prompt 2
Things Yves knows.
There are sixteen leaves on the cabbage that never wilts, eight on the inner ring, eight larger on the outer ring. They never wilt. Arrow was failed by Nestor. The sky today is blue and clear. It will rain. The cabbage that never wilts has eight larger leaves on the outer ring, eight on the inner ring. The sky is clear today, but it will rain. It always rains. There are seventeen ants marching on aer windowsill but soon they will all be dead. Nestor could have saved Arrow but they did not. Nestor has eight eyes on an inner ring and eight eyes on an outer ring and many more eyes beside that, eyes throughout the forest and in the clearings and in the place where Arrow was and all around the places Arrow was no longer, but they did not save Arrow. Arrow was not saved by Nestor. It will rain soon, though the sky is blue and clear, though no cat will expect the rain. There are sixteen ants marching on aer windowsill. There are fifteen ants marching on aer windowsill. There are thirteen ants marching on aer windowsill. Soon it will rain and soon they will all be dead. We all were failed by Nestor.
There are sixteen leaves on the cabbage, which never wilts. There were seventeen ants on aer windowsill but Yves has killed them all. There are eight plus eight plus many eyes of Nestor and Yves will convict them all. There was one Arrow and now Arrow is not, and Yves will save them all.
Memory wonders; Prompt 8
Memory dithers.
Sweeping the floors with their tail, they think about nothing and no one. Considering their to-do list; planning the day; Memory ticks off a box and crosses out a line. Dust swirls and settles where she stepped.
As she has been told to, she practices debate and studies history. The First Gate; the wars among the humans; the famine and struggle. She can't imagine it, so she memorizes it, reciting the dates and names to herself as she paces. Memory will be Somebody, but until then, she studies, she paces, and she plans. The notebook fills and Memory relaxes into the things she knows.
Memory wonders.
A bird alights on a tree branch, shaking the bough so an acorn tumbles to the ground, pursued by an oak leaf. Does the branch reach out? The acorn rolls, rests. The bird mocks, or questions, or laments with birdsong. The song rises and falls; the question, posed, pauses.
Shaking their head sends strands of fur into the air, landing among the dust. They add dusting to the list and draw a box, waiting to be checked.
Sysykalka Stare, Prompt 1
That cat is BACK again, yes, probing my cover for holes and gaps, no doubt. Her ingénue number won't work on me. Other cats make excuses to stop by the garden, exclaiming, "Ooh, the herbs," as if they knew catmint from chamomile, but those cats are easily put off by a signature Sysykalka Stare. This one, this Shprot, like spitting on the floor Shprot, shows more spine than those others. That's why she must be UP to something. She doesn't know that I've outwiled the one-eyed bartender, ordered wheat ale brazenly even though I was just a kit, and drank the whole vile thing without wobbling. I was the one who tricked Ruchy into lending me the book on the secret button ghost rituals even though I didn't even have a library card. Shprot doesn't stand a chance.
"Is that rosemary coming in?" she asks, pointing a paw to a patch of what she very well knows is parsley, a first salvo calculated just to catch me off guard.
"I wouldn't expect you to know, but it's rosemary," I reply, cutting my eyes.
"OHHH. I'm always forgetting rosemary. You know, one time I was baking cookies and Danae was telling me to..."
She's always going off on these stories about the other uninteresting cats in this village, as if to remind me I'm surrounded, trying to get me to surrender my secrets of the most succulent thyme and spicy dandelion. I must listen to the coded messages in the story but I find myself distracted by her dewy brown eyes, which are, to all appearances, lost in the memory, no trace of calculation or hornswoggle; and her paws wave around as if building the oven out of clay and forming the balls of rosemary cookie dough on an imaginary counter; and her tail is wagging behind her almost in delight. It's fascinating how well she acts. That kind of tail control is difficult even for a seasoned professional. She must have a lot of training.
"--and they tasted amazing!" She has paused and is looking at me, which makes me tug at the loose strings around my hood.
"Have you taken acting lessons?" I ask, managing to stare directly near her nose.
She laughs. "Was my story that good? Aw, thank you! We should hang out more often." This is like her catchphrase. She says it so often I wonder if it's a code word. "We could go to Gardenhome Theatre, if you like acting."
"Your schedule is wide open, I presume," I say innocently.
She laughs like the most irritating wind chime.
"You remembered! Right, I have the week off!"
A trap. I knew it.
Who are you?, Prompt 8
The problem is: Who are you if you're a ghost?
Does the experience of being a ghost layer on top of the cat you were before? Or does it replace you? Or is it an echo, as to a gale a breeze?
Lichen sits on top of a statue that they recognize. Well, they float on top of it, it must be said. And they think, and they think, and they think. But despite not tiring, not requiring food or water, and possessing the patience that comes with experiencing death, they can't plumb the souldepths to find out: Who are they? And: Who is this statue to them?
The feeling that arises - from where? from what stomach? - when they look at the statue can't be coincidence. Nostalgia is not a ghost. And the sadness - and the sadness - and the grief, tearing through, or among, them. They have asked Rain, "Why?" and they have asked Rain, "Who?" and in their stead they have beseeched the rain and the sky itself, but the unknowing persists. And so does Lichen. Despite.
The cat in the statue is dead. Lichen is certain: Statues aren't built of the living, and besides, no cat in the village compares. But why is there a statue of one cat and a ghost of the other? Is Lichen "of" the same cat that lived? Is the statue?
Is the feeling an acknowledgement that the statue and the ghost are the same, not a memory of life?
Lichen sits on top of the statue they recognize. Lichen paws the statue's eyes, which don't blink. Lichen wails, which the birds can't hear, and which twitches the ear of a cat in a house in the village, sleeping, and twinges their heart, and interrupts their dreaming: The only effect of Lichen, the ghost.
Steel against stone. His hands absorb the uneven rhythm of the irregular wheel. His foot steadily motivates the turn. A spray of sparks pock his forearms but the singe is a temporary sting. The blade sharpens through adversity. His heartbeat thuds dully in his ears, it reverberates around his chest. He is a vessel; he is a hollowed-out drum. His lifeblood sloshes around inside, it tumbles and surges through his veins. But he is a bulwark against the tide. He is a vessel with a tight seal. The hands steady the blade on the stone. The ear overhears the charity collection next service for --
Blade bites flesh. Drops with a clang to the armory floor, scarlet following, red in the palm and red all over the mind, heartbeat like a drumbeat whaling on the sides of his temples. A roar builds in the eardrums, beating then receding, a roar that sounds like deep belly laughter - sounds like - two syllables cuffing him affectionately over the head, two syllables ruffling his hair, two syllables pincering his eyeballs until they burst into wet globules that slide down his cheeks. The hissssssss of the wheel grinding to a stop. The blade dulls with use.
Stone against steel. Breathe into the spin and lurch of the wheel. Blank the mind with the scream of metal. Blind the eyes with the ache of the palm. Urge the wheel with the pulse of the heel. The blade dulls, the blade sharpens.
Scuffle, shuffle, scrape; Prompt 7
Scuffle, shuffle, scrape. The gentle tap of clawtips on polished but wellworn wood. The sigh and slither of feathers on adjusted wings. He was trying to be quiet, but nothing had been the same since the break-in. And Zera hadn't slept well since - which irked her, because she could typically sleep through the clamor and bustle of a busy shop. But it was the difference in these sounds, the weight in those small sounds, that stayed her sleep - and this the third such night. Breathing out hard through her nose, she shook off the soft fibers of her nest and headed up the hatch.
"Dear one, there are teas to help with good digestion and a restful sleep," she said softly as she came through the hatchdoor. Through the gloom she caught the gleam of a watchful eye and heard a snort in greeting.
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not ill. Just keeping an eye on things."
"Keeping an eye on the thread and the needles? I thought that was Kleaver's job. Is she slacking?"
Jeriah shook his head and twitched the very tip of his tail. "You know what I mean."
"Dear one, those were just hatchlings, doing unwise and irritating hatchling things. It's up to their guardians to make sure they don't disturb any more peace, not you." Zera drew closer to the wildclaw and lightly brushed his flank with one of her fans, but he stiffened.
"You don't know what their intentions are. They could have been scouts - sent precisely because you would think they were just rowdy hatchlings." Jeriah huffed, and he continued with a steelier tone. "I've seen it."
"I do not doubt it," she replied, working to keep her fans from flaring. "You know I appreciate your care, but I don't need your h--"
She bit down viciously on the last word, nipping her tongue and drawing sweet blood, but it escaped and lay heavy between them.
"Of course not," Jeriah said, and left, flicking his tail behind him.
"Jeriah," Zera sighed after him, feeling dazed and tired, older than her years. Her heart ached and she cursed herself for hasty and unfelt words, but those years told her not to chase or call out. Back to the nest, and a silent, meager night's sleep. It could be fixed in the morning.
They did not speak of it over breakfast. Zera rose early and prepared brisket biscuits with rosemary, but Jeriah passed by the table and left the shop without a word. Little Shell gazed after him and then looked searchingly at Zera, but, bless her intuitive heart, knew better than to ask. Zera dumped the biscuits in the trash and remained angry at herself all morning.
When he reappeared in the afternoon, to all appearances his usual staid and pleasant self, she placed her weaving on the mantle and emerged into the late slanted rays with a practiced smile, but he had already gone into the garden, the door still closing on a swish of red tail.
"Jeriah," she called. "I'd welcome your opinion on a project."
No answer beside the rustling of the leaves. Feeling a fool aboveground and out of her depth, Zera retreated back to her lair and the understanding flash of needles.
"Oh, Zera," murmured Little Shell as she nosed her way down the staircase, blinking her small eyes in adjustment to the gloom and the densmell. "What is he trying to tell you?"
"Trying to tell me off, I expect," replied Zera, in a tone she hoped would foreclose the rest of this conversation. Little Shell averred with a toss of her regal head.
"You know he's hurting, not judging. What happened?"
"I only wanted him to go to sleep. The store does not require security. Those hatchlings will not dare be back. This is a safe place."
Little Shell nuzzled behind Zera's neck fans. "I see."
"I have been trying to make amends. I have been trying to help." Zera disliked the pleading note in her voice.
"Zera, he doesn't need your help. He needs your acceptance."
It was just like the young ones to cut right to the meat and the cold bone of you.
"Jeriah, I've been foolish," she called into the shadows. She saw no glimmer and heard no tapping of claws, but she knew he would not shirk what he thought was his duty. "I thought so quickly of amends that I failed to distinguish what damage I'd done."
She ran a claw down a draped cloak that shimmered and glimmered in the dimlight, considering.
"I know what it is like to feel misunderstood, as you know." She heard a slight rustling to her right but did not move towards it. "And I thought I knew of your pain, knew what it was like to have been a warrior. I have known warriors. But I have not known your war, and I should not presume you will trust my peace."
A small, sooty rabbit flopped across her claws, kicking her little feet in the air.
"In short, dear one, thank you. For loving us enough to protect." She cleared her throat, feeling a bit awkward for having said some of those words out loud. "Sleep well."
She gently turned Kleaver onto her feet and turned her head slightly in the direction from which the rabbit came, noting the glint of an eye. Jeriah bowed his head. She nodded in turn and headed back down the spiral steps, growing drowsier with each turned step, heavy and contented of heart.
I'll be safesies; Prompt 7
Kitten-proofing the village was harder than expected.
"CANNINBALL!!!"
An orange ball of fluff hurled itself off of a roof and bounced terribly off of a pile of sproingy moss. Larkspur's heart bounced with it, tied on a string to the trajectory of a seriously clumsy child with no self-preservation instinct.
Before that was the Incident of the Gutter-Slide. Earlier that week was the Alchemy of Village Pies. This kitten was going to be the death of her and everyone in North Botania.
"CAMELLIA!" she yowled, hoping she sounded angry and not worried-sick. "GET OVER HERE!"
The orange ball of fluff righted itself - but was it limping? did it look dazed? - and made its way over.
"What could have possibly possessed you --"
"I tol' Scilla that a feather would fall as fast as a stone if you dropt it from highup enough and they said NOWAY and I said YESWAY and they said prolly I would fall faster than even a stone because I'm so fluffy and I said no becuz that's not how grav'ty works and they said yes huh and so I decided to test it and --"
"Test it? With your own body? Off of a roof? Have you no sense?"
"But mom --"
"I told you --"
"BUT MOM! --"
"--for the last time--"
"BUT I WAS RIGHT!"
"TO STAY OUT OF TROUBLE!"
The words were ripped from Larkspur's kittenhood, pulled right out of Echinacea's many cold admonishments. How many times had they heard those words and quietly chafed against them, like graphite on paper? They squinted their eyes against sudden, fraught tears. What were they doing?
The total silence of the trees and forest animals around them told them they had been far too loud. But Camellia, clever kit, gazed into its parent's eyes.
"Mom," it said softly. "I'll be safesies. I promimse." It grinned a great big grin of crooked kittenteeth.
Larkspur couldn't believe the warmth that spread through their chest and straight down to their toes.
"You're right," they purred, nuzzling the astonishingly soft fur behind Camellia's ears. "That is all I really want. Only good trouble, okay?"
Things Yves knows; Prompt 2
Things Yves knows.
There are sixteen leaves on the cabbage that never wilts, eight on the inner ring, eight larger on the outer ring. They never wilt. Arrow was failed by Nestor. The sky today is blue and clear. It will rain. The cabbage that never wilts has eight larger leaves on the outer ring, eight on the inner ring. The sky is clear today, but it will rain. It always rains. There are seventeen ants marching on aer windowsill but soon they will all be dead. Nestor could have saved Arrow but they did not. Nestor has eight eyes on an inner ring and eight eyes on an outer ring and many more eyes beside that, eyes throughout the forest and in the clearings and in the place where Arrow was and all around the places Arrow was no longer, but they did not save Arrow. Arrow was not saved by Nestor. It will rain soon, though the sky is blue and clear, though no cat will expect the rain. There are sixteen ants marching on aer windowsill. There are fifteen ants marching on aer windowsill. There are thirteen ants marching on aer windowsill. Soon it will rain and soon they will all be dead. We all were failed by Nestor.
There are sixteen leaves on the cabbage, which never wilts. There were seventeen ants on aer windowsill but Yves has killed them all. There are eight plus eight plus many eyes of Nestor and Yves will convict them all. There was one Arrow and now Arrow is not, and Yves will save them all.
Memory wonders; Prompt 8
Memory dithers.
Sweeping the floors with their tail, they think about nothing and no one. Considering their to-do list; planning the day; Memory ticks off a box and crosses out a line. Dust swirls and settles where she stepped.
As she has been told to, she practices debate and studies history. The First Gate; the wars among the humans; the famine and struggle. She can't imagine it, so she memorizes it, reciting the dates and names to herself as she paces. Memory will be Somebody, but until then, she studies, she paces, and she plans. The notebook fills and Memory relaxes into the things she knows.
Memory wonders.
A bird alights on a tree branch, shaking the bough so an acorn tumbles to the ground, pursued by an oak leaf. Does the branch reach out? The acorn rolls, rests. The bird mocks, or questions, or laments with birdsong. The song rises and falls; the question, posed, pauses.
Shaking their head sends strands of fur into the air, landing among the dust. They add dusting to the list and draw a box, waiting to be checked.
Sysykalka Stare, Prompt 1
That cat is BACK again, yes, probing my cover for holes and gaps, no doubt. Her ingénue number won't work on me. Other cats make excuses to stop by the garden, exclaiming, "Ooh, the herbs," as if they knew catmint from chamomile, but those cats are easily put off by a signature Sysykalka Stare. This one, this Shprot, like spitting on the floor Shprot, shows more spine than those others. That's why she must be UP to something. She doesn't know that I've outwiled the one-eyed bartender, ordered wheat ale brazenly even though I was just a kit, and drank the whole vile thing without wobbling. I was the one who tricked Ruchy into lending me the book on the secret button ghost rituals even though I didn't even have a library card. Shprot doesn't stand a chance.
"Is that rosemary coming in?" she asks, pointing a paw to a patch of what she very well knows is parsley, a first salvo calculated just to catch me off guard.
"I wouldn't expect you to know, but it's rosemary," I reply, cutting my eyes.
"OHHH. I'm always forgetting rosemary. You know, one time I was baking cookies and Danae was telling me to..."
She's always going off on these stories about the other uninteresting cats in this village, as if to remind me I'm surrounded, trying to get me to surrender my secrets of the most succulent thyme and spicy dandelion. I must listen to the coded messages in the story but I find myself distracted by her dewy brown eyes, which are, to all appearances, lost in the memory, no trace of calculation or hornswoggle; and her paws wave around as if building the oven out of clay and forming the balls of rosemary cookie dough on an imaginary counter; and her tail is wagging behind her almost in delight. It's fascinating how well she acts. That kind of tail control is difficult even for a seasoned professional. She must have a lot of training.
"--and they tasted amazing!" She has paused and is looking at me, which makes me tug at the loose strings around my hood.
"Have you taken acting lessons?" I ask, managing to stare directly near her nose.
She laughs. "Was my story that good? Aw, thank you! We should hang out more often." This is like her catchphrase. She says it so often I wonder if it's a code word. "We could go to Gardenhome Theatre, if you like acting."
"Your schedule is wide open, I presume," I say innocently.
She laughs like the most irritating wind chime.
"You remembered! Right, I have the week off!"
A trap. I knew it.
Who are you?, Prompt 8
The problem is: Who are you if you're a ghost?
Does the experience of being a ghost layer on top of the cat you were before? Or does it replace you? Or is it an echo, as to a gale a breeze?
Lichen sits on top of a statue that they recognize. Well, they float on top of it, it must be said. And they think, and they think, and they think. But despite not tiring, not requiring food or water, and possessing the patience that comes with experiencing death, they can't plumb the souldepths to find out: Who are they? And: Who is this statue to them?
The feeling that arises - from where? from what stomach? - when they look at the statue can't be coincidence. Nostalgia is not a ghost. And the sadness - and the sadness - and the grief, tearing through, or among, them. They have asked Rain, "Why?" and they have asked Rain, "Who?" and in their stead they have beseeched the rain and the sky itself, but the unknowing persists. And so does Lichen. Despite.
The cat in the statue is dead. Lichen is certain: Statues aren't built of the living, and besides, no cat in the village compares. But why is there a statue of one cat and a ghost of the other? Is Lichen "of" the same cat that lived? Is the statue?
Is the feeling an acknowledgement that the statue and the ghost are the same, not a memory of life?
Lichen sits on top of the statue they recognize. Lichen paws the statue's eyes, which don't blink. Lichen wails, which the birds can't hear, and which twitches the ear of a cat in a house in the village, sleeping, and twinges their heart, and interrupts their dreaming: The only effect of Lichen, the ghost.
Last edited on Feb 01, 2026 17:55:38 by Bloodbraidelf
hello! i'd love a piece on Zera if you're interested with one of the last two prompts. she has a lore tie with her apprentice, and subsequently her apprentice's partner. she lives beneath her old clothing shop now run by her apprentice, but comes up for sun and socializing through a hatch in an offshoot room of the shop. the shop itself is in a small port town, and has an isolated pond and greenery out the back. between the three dragons, they have a couple pages of lore for any context that may be missing, and you can ask me as many questions as needed
i'm particularly interested in developing Zera's relationship to Jeriah. "Jeriah, Little Shell's mate, reminds Zera somewhat of her family in tendencies. a warrior he was built, of course, a warrior he will walk. but sometimes, when Zera pushes through the hatch into the shop, she can see him brewing tea, taking in the windowlight, a soft-furred heart beating against his shoulder, and know -- he is meant to be here." - quoted from her description.
let me know if youre interested and if you'd like to be paid in treasure or gems!
hello! i'd love a piece on Zera if you're interested with one of the last two prompts. she has a lore tie with her apprentice, and subsequently her apprentice's partner. she lives beneath her old clothing shop now run by her apprentice, but comes up for sun and socializing through a hatch in an offshoot room of the shop. the shop itself is in a small port town, and has an isolated pond and greenery out the back. between the three dragons, they have a couple pages of lore for any context that may be missing, and you can ask me as many questions as needed
i'm particularly interested in developing Zera's relationship to Jeriah. "Jeriah, Little Shell's mate, reminds Zera somewhat of her family in tendencies. a warrior he was built, of course, a warrior he will walk. but sometimes, when Zera pushes through the hatch into the shop, she can see him brewing tea, taking in the windowlight, a soft-furred heart beating against his shoulder, and know -- he is meant to be here." - quoted from her description.
let me know if youre interested and if you'd like to be paid in treasure or gems!
PWYW - treasure, gems, or unhatched eggs all OK! (Not that you have to pay the value of an unhatched egg or more! No minimum.)
You provide the inspiration: A dragon (or more), a snippet or overview of existing lore, a situation you want to see written! You don't need extensive existing lore to request - but just be sure to specify anything that's important to you in terms of characterization, relationships, or setting!
Whetstone; Fictional, Prompt 2
