growth
note: contains Pearlcatcher pearl juice, i.e. contains 'vomiting' to some extent.
Rain from the previous days had made the mossy stones of the castle give off the invigorating smell of wet dirt and mould. Dried leaves that had fluttered in were now just a pulpy mess, decaying in the corners of the broken room. Only insects called this place their home. Soft moonlight shone through the ruin's long cracks like a torch, casting the round pearl perched carefully in the dragon's hands in a cool light.
The edges of the twinkling silks that wrapped his body were damp, clinging to his scales instead of flowing as they would in the daylight. He caressed the pearl in spite of his discomfort, eyes shut behind the veil. Whispers of an old language drifted from the Pearlcatcher, imparting memories from one of his many decades of life to his treasure.
A black liquid began to dribble from his lips, its consistency as thick as treacle. A drop dripped down onto his mahogany scarf, staining it. Arching his neck, he heaved, coating both the orb and his hands in the mucous. Coughs and hacks later, he finished. The spot on his scard had cured the outer layer to a lustrous white, adding to another of the many blotches and specks of the same white upon his clothing.
Wiping away the spittle from his mouth, the Pearlcatcher surrounded the pearl in a pink light, levitating it from his hands. Then, unceremoniously, he peeled off the liquid that was beginning to harden from his hands and tossed it to the side, adding to the glimmering pile of claw-shaped objects from previous times.
With a flick of his tail, he turned to the exit, his pearl one memory larger than before.
growth
note: contains Pearlcatcher pearl juice, i.e. contains 'vomiting' to some extent.
Rain from the previous days had made the mossy stones of the castle give off the invigorating smell of wet dirt and mould. Dried leaves that had fluttered in were now just a pulpy mess, decaying in the corners of the broken room. Only insects called this place their home. Soft moonlight shone through the ruin's long cracks like a torch, casting the round pearl perched carefully in the dragon's hands in a cool light.
The edges of the twinkling silks that wrapped his body were damp, clinging to his scales instead of flowing as they would in the daylight. He caressed the pearl in spite of his discomfort, eyes shut behind the veil. Whispers of an old language drifted from the Pearlcatcher, imparting memories from one of his many decades of life to his treasure.
A black liquid began to dribble from his lips, its consistency as thick as treacle. A drop dripped down onto his mahogany scarf, staining it. Arching his neck, he heaved, coating both the orb and his hands in the mucous. Coughs and hacks later, he finished. The spot on his scard had cured the outer layer to a lustrous white, adding to another of the many blotches and specks of the same white upon his clothing.
Wiping away the spittle from his mouth, the Pearlcatcher surrounded the pearl in a pink light, levitating it from his hands. Then, unceremoniously, he peeled off the liquid that was beginning to harden from his hands and tossed it to the side, adding to the glimmering pile of claw-shaped objects from previous times.
With a flick of his tail, he turned to the exit, his pearl one memory larger than before.
@
Uyi I'm so sorry if you don't want anyone posting here but I just wanted to tell you how good you are at writing ? all these stories are so interesting even if they are tidbits~!
@
Uyi I'm so sorry if you don't want anyone posting here but I just wanted to tell you how good you are at writing ? all these stories are so interesting even if they are tidbits~!
he him / usually only log on to do dailys
@
BiscuitTheDog
i dont mind people posting here~
thank you very much for the compliment! im glad that my writing is interesting to read, i try even when im super sleepy. it's good to know that my ability to write hasnt gone down~
@
BiscuitTheDog
i dont mind people posting here~
thank you very much for the compliment! im glad that my writing is interesting to read, i try even when im super sleepy. it's good to know that my ability to write hasnt gone down~
no problem! keep writing, you're awesome :)
no problem! keep writing, you're awesome :)
he him / usually only log on to do dailys
steady
"Why have you brought us here, teacher?"
Grey clouds loomed on the horizon of the sea. Wet wind sporadically picked up and dropped off, ranging from calm breezes that gingerly brushed the edges of their cloths, to lashing whips that threatened to toss them down the cliff the two stood on. The apprentice had to brace themself during the worst of it, yet the mentor remained as still as a brick wall, unfazed.
"I hoped you would realise yourself." The wrinkled Guardian leant on their staff, eyes shut. "Tell me, what do you notice around us?" A clump of seaweed flew off from their beard as another gust passed through.
Facing towards the ocean, of which was beginning to rile up, the apprentice Guardian placed a bland, ceramic jug, that had been tied around their waist, on the ground in front of them. Threads of blue water began to wrap around their claws, but the cough of the teacher made them pause.
"There is no need for the familiar to see the storm coming."
"Ah." Sheepishly, they picked up the jug and securely reattached it to themself.
A single, cracked nail pointed at the clouds above. "Tonight there will be torrential rain with thunder," a crack certified the mentor's statement, "which is the perfect weather to learn how to collect memories from the rain.".
The youngster played with a rope around their finger, frowning at the lesson. "Teacher, I haven't even learnt how to fully understand the Tidelord's songs from the sea. How can I learn to read memories from water that is falling?".
The elder snapped their staff onto the ground, the sharp noise startling the apprentice. "You won't be learning that today. You will be training your will to survive the onslaught the whole night with no shelter," they said, voice gruff. "We will remain up here, away from the waves, but do not underestimate the strength of the rain.".
Fat drops began to spatter down as the last of the starlight was hidden behind the cloak of the storm.
Pit. Pat.
steady
"Why have you brought us here, teacher?"
Grey clouds loomed on the horizon of the sea. Wet wind sporadically picked up and dropped off, ranging from calm breezes that gingerly brushed the edges of their cloths, to lashing whips that threatened to toss them down the cliff the two stood on. The apprentice had to brace themself during the worst of it, yet the mentor remained as still as a brick wall, unfazed.
"I hoped you would realise yourself." The wrinkled Guardian leant on their staff, eyes shut. "Tell me, what do you notice around us?" A clump of seaweed flew off from their beard as another gust passed through.
Facing towards the ocean, of which was beginning to rile up, the apprentice Guardian placed a bland, ceramic jug, that had been tied around their waist, on the ground in front of them. Threads of blue water began to wrap around their claws, but the cough of the teacher made them pause.
"There is no need for the familiar to see the storm coming."
"Ah." Sheepishly, they picked up the jug and securely reattached it to themself.
A single, cracked nail pointed at the clouds above. "Tonight there will be torrential rain with thunder," a crack certified the mentor's statement, "which is the perfect weather to learn how to collect memories from the rain.".
The youngster played with a rope around their finger, frowning at the lesson. "Teacher, I haven't even learnt how to fully understand the Tidelord's songs from the sea. How can I learn to read memories from water that is falling?".
The elder snapped their staff onto the ground, the sharp noise startling the apprentice. "You won't be learning that today. You will be training your will to survive the onslaught the whole night with no shelter," they said, voice gruff. "We will remain up here, away from the waves, but do not underestimate the strength of the rain.".
Fat drops began to spatter down as the last of the starlight was hidden behind the cloak of the storm.
Pit. Pat.
I absolutely love these! You're an amazing writer [emoji=pearlcatcher happy size=2]
@FourLeaf
your comment means a lot to me, thank you very much! im happy you like them a lot [emoji=bogsneak tongue size=2]
@
FourLeaf
your comment means a lot to me, thank you very much! im happy you like them a lot
unfamiliar
Thunk. Another arrow lodged a whole centimetre into the tree trunk. The archer, a short Wildclaw balanced on a branch a good ten metres away, scuttled from her makeshift nest to her target, bow slung on her back. Thick sap began to ooze out as she tugged each arrow back out, filling the air with the refreshing smell of pine. She licked the tips of them, cleaning them of the amber liquid. Six returned safely to the quiver, seven footsteps counted from behind.
The jaguar spots upon the visitor did not help to hide the Spiral's pink wings, sticking out like a black cat in the snow. A long trail of disturbed needles winded from far behind the dragon, some unfortunate flowers and mushrooms destroyed in the path. She hummed a pretty tune as she stopped right beside the bleeding tree, blissfully unaware of the archer perched above her as she unfolded a crinkled map from her side. Messy writing in red pen was scribbled all over it.
"Tsk tsk," she huffed as she looked up from the map, brow furrowed in annoyance. After stuffing her snout back into the map for a good minute, the Spiral grumbled as she placed it back into her satchel. Just as she was about to take a step, a shadow fell onto her from above, pinning her down to the ground.
"What-!"
"Shush, no, don't move." The Wildclaw whispered as she shoved her face into a pile of leaves, feet clamped down on her wings. Squirming like a worm, the Spiral's tail lashed against her before being pecked down by the archer's own tail. Her outstretched wings were covered by the dull brown of the archer's own wings.
The struggle between the two swiftly settled down as a bulky bear trundled through. Hefty paws thudding, its beady eyes glared around the area. The heavy breathing of the beast were the only sound in the vicinity, black claws gleaming under the filtered sunlight.
It watched. They waited.
And off it went, continuing its patrol of its grounds. The visitor attempted to get up, but the strong body of the archer far outmatched the spindly limbs of the Spiral. Another minute ticked by before she could finally get back up, face muddied and clothes dirtied.
"Wow, th-thank you. I thought you were some bad guy, but obviously not." She chuckled as she wiped away the specks from her glasses.
The Wildclaw did not seem amused. "What are you doing here? Folk of your kind shouldn't be wandering this place unattended. Are you lost?" She questioned her.
"Oh, just looking for something." She finally turned her eyes to look at her surprise rescuer. Her mouth was open to start talking again, but instead she whipped out her map and rustled it open. Peering through her glasses, she looked down, then up, then down, then up again.
"Are you the guardian of these woods?"
"...yes. Yes, I am."
"Perfect!"
unfamiliar
Thunk. Another arrow lodged a whole centimetre into the tree trunk. The archer, a short Wildclaw balanced on a branch a good ten metres away, scuttled from her makeshift nest to her target, bow slung on her back. Thick sap began to ooze out as she tugged each arrow back out, filling the air with the refreshing smell of pine. She licked the tips of them, cleaning them of the amber liquid. Six returned safely to the quiver, seven footsteps counted from behind.
The jaguar spots upon the visitor did not help to hide the Spiral's pink wings, sticking out like a black cat in the snow. A long trail of disturbed needles winded from far behind the dragon, some unfortunate flowers and mushrooms destroyed in the path. She hummed a pretty tune as she stopped right beside the bleeding tree, blissfully unaware of the archer perched above her as she unfolded a crinkled map from her side. Messy writing in red pen was scribbled all over it.
"Tsk tsk," she huffed as she looked up from the map, brow furrowed in annoyance. After stuffing her snout back into the map for a good minute, the Spiral grumbled as she placed it back into her satchel. Just as she was about to take a step, a shadow fell onto her from above, pinning her down to the ground.
"What-!"
"Shush, no, don't move." The Wildclaw whispered as she shoved her face into a pile of leaves, feet clamped down on her wings. Squirming like a worm, the Spiral's tail lashed against her before being pecked down by the archer's own tail. Her outstretched wings were covered by the dull brown of the archer's own wings.
The struggle between the two swiftly settled down as a bulky bear trundled through. Hefty paws thudding, its beady eyes glared around the area. The heavy breathing of the beast were the only sound in the vicinity, black claws gleaming under the filtered sunlight.
It watched. They waited.
And off it went, continuing its patrol of its grounds. The visitor attempted to get up, but the strong body of the archer far outmatched the spindly limbs of the Spiral. Another minute ticked by before she could finally get back up, face muddied and clothes dirtied.
"Wow, th-thank you. I thought you were some bad guy, but obviously not." She chuckled as she wiped away the specks from her glasses.
The Wildclaw did not seem amused. "What are you doing here? Folk of your kind shouldn't be wandering this place unattended. Are you lost?" She questioned her.
"Oh, just looking for something." She finally turned her eyes to look at her surprise rescuer. Her mouth was open to start talking again, but instead she whipped out her map and rustled it open. Peering through her glasses, she looked down, then up, then down, then up again.
"Are you the guardian of these woods?"
"...yes. Yes, I am."
"Perfect!"
chosen
They say that she was the Flamecaller's chosen; she was the one to lead them all into war inspired, her eyes ablaze with mother's fire, mind honed with mother's wisdom, body trained with mother's claws. Words of glory were spread about her prowess in battle, reaching the ears of every hatchling and elder within the capital. Dragons gushed over her lush feathers and fur, colours as vibrant as a pheonix reborn from the ashes.
But what now? Stories still tell about her strength, but not with past enthusiasm. They still warn dragons of crossing her path, but with fear tinting their tongues instead of pride. Her decisions once backed by logic were now fueled with anger. Disease and curses have bleached her coat white, making her allies look upon her with alarm. Few who were sent to fight under her return unscathed from her overconfidence in the fights they fought.
Only her fiery eyes remained the same as when she first came to power.
chosen
They say that she was the Flamecaller's chosen; she was the one to lead them all into war inspired, her eyes ablaze with mother's fire, mind honed with mother's wisdom, body trained with mother's claws. Words of glory were spread about her prowess in battle, reaching the ears of every hatchling and elder within the capital. Dragons gushed over her lush feathers and fur, colours as vibrant as a pheonix reborn from the ashes.
But what now? Stories still tell about her strength, but not with past enthusiasm. They still warn dragons of crossing her path, but with fear tinting their tongues instead of pride. Her decisions once backed by logic were now fueled with anger. Disease and curses have bleached her coat white, making her allies look upon her with alarm. Few who were sent to fight under her return unscathed from her overconfidence in the fights they fought.
Only her fiery eyes remained the same as when she first came to power.
smell
note: i used plague imagery in this, so squeamish beware
Locals had been complaining about a wretched smell lingering about the forest hunting route. The reports were varied in their description of it, ranging from milk that had been left festering in heat for a week, to an infected wound with that sick sweetness wrapped around. Rafflesia, corpse flower, rotten rabbits. None of the dragons could handle stepping anywhere near the path; nobody could, except for the one without a sense of smell.
She held a stubby gnarled staff in her small hands, leaning her weight on it as the white Fae thought. Mushed autumn leaves formed the beginning of the path, willow trees dangling their wispy branches over. No warrior nor hunter to guide her, only the shaking hatchling that was fear, clinging to her feet. Rabid wolves waited ahead, along with centaur with their knocked arrows that patrolled their territory. Perhaps her wings will tangle in the thorns lining the bushes, or perhaps her frail body will collapse from fatigue.
One step, and another. Repeat. A nagging thought in her mind warned her of the dangers, her weakness, the unknown, threatening to toss away the courage she had gathered. She hesitated. One step, and another. And repeat.
She kept on repeating, until it became a habit. Her previously jittery eyes, that jumped at any breeze or crack of a twig, enjoyed counting the pebbles scattered along the side of the stream that accompanied the path. Her stride grew from tip-toes to a sturdy gait, her staff butt feeling the path ahead. The wet ground didn't bother her, nor did the damp branches that grazed her fins from time to time. Repeat. No chirping birds nor croaking frogs accompanied her, but it was early in the morning, she reasoned.
One step, and another. One step, and stop. Her staff ran into something, forcing the Fae to trip and bump into it.
A wall. No, not a wall, it was too squishy. It was tough leather, stretching as it lifted and lowered. Scuffs and tears littered its surface. It was as warm as a snake hibernating in a cove for the winter. Looking up, crow feathers are longer than an outstretched Spiral blocked out the forest cover. They were broken and jagged, missing thousands of the fine black filaments that made them up. Between the cracks, the Fae could spot raw flesh, yellow mould creeping, consuming it. Shards of bone were jabbed haphazardly into it, clear juice dripping down towards the soddy mud beneath the Fae's feet, flowing into the stream she carelessly strolled along earlier.
Perhaps this was the source of the stench that caused the forest to be so silent.
smell
note: i used plague imagery in this, so squeamish beware
Locals had been complaining about a wretched smell lingering about the forest hunting route. The reports were varied in their description of it, ranging from milk that had been left festering in heat for a week, to an infected wound with that sick sweetness wrapped around. Rafflesia, corpse flower, rotten rabbits. None of the dragons could handle stepping anywhere near the path; nobody could, except for the one without a sense of smell.
She held a stubby gnarled staff in her small hands, leaning her weight on it as the white Fae thought. Mushed autumn leaves formed the beginning of the path, willow trees dangling their wispy branches over. No warrior nor hunter to guide her, only the shaking hatchling that was fear, clinging to her feet. Rabid wolves waited ahead, along with centaur with their knocked arrows that patrolled their territory. Perhaps her wings will tangle in the thorns lining the bushes, or perhaps her frail body will collapse from fatigue.
One step, and another. Repeat. A nagging thought in her mind warned her of the dangers, her weakness, the unknown, threatening to toss away the courage she had gathered. She hesitated. One step, and another. And repeat.
She kept on repeating, until it became a habit. Her previously jittery eyes, that jumped at any breeze or crack of a twig, enjoyed counting the pebbles scattered along the side of the stream that accompanied the path. Her stride grew from tip-toes to a sturdy gait, her staff butt feeling the path ahead. The wet ground didn't bother her, nor did the damp branches that grazed her fins from time to time. Repeat. No chirping birds nor croaking frogs accompanied her, but it was early in the morning, she reasoned.
One step, and another. One step, and stop. Her staff ran into something, forcing the Fae to trip and bump into it.
A wall. No, not a wall, it was too squishy. It was tough leather, stretching as it lifted and lowered. Scuffs and tears littered its surface. It was as warm as a snake hibernating in a cove for the winter. Looking up, crow feathers are longer than an outstretched Spiral blocked out the forest cover. They were broken and jagged, missing thousands of the fine black filaments that made them up. Between the cracks, the Fae could spot raw flesh, yellow mould creeping, consuming it. Shards of bone were jabbed haphazardly into it, clear juice dripping down towards the soddy mud beneath the Fae's feet, flowing into the stream she carelessly strolled along earlier.
Perhaps this was the source of the stench that caused the forest to be so silent.
