Prompt: A Drama in Three Parts
Have you heard of the quaint coffee shop
That sits at the corner of the town?
There's a mysterious sorta air, they say
That envelopes it round and round
The door shrieks sonnets on its hinges
Its lights squeal in opera as they turn on
And if you stay for just a while
You'll hear the coffee machine's siren song
The weeping waitstaff will serve you
A cup of milky coffee light and mellow
The latte art swirling in different designs
As you breathe in the steam and swallow
And it tastes like teardrops bathed in honey
Vanilla powder dusted in stolen gold
Envy and betrayal turned bitter
By kings and queens and fools
And it tastes like the breezes on a journey
Of gallant knights and quests and lies
Of swords through hearts of good and evil
Of nectar strained from hemlock vise
So when the last drop leaves the porcelain
It shakes you to the core
Sends your heartstrings singing
As you ask for more and more
Until you're drowned in a symphony of laments
Of all those things that never came to be
Lost in the complicities of the human mind
Buried by comedy and tragedy
~
Have you heard of the quaint coffee shop
That sings melodies of tragic verse?
I pray you don't become entranced by its stories
Because immersion in drama is a curse
Prompt: A Drama in Three Parts
Have you heard of the quaint coffee shop
That sits at the corner of the town?
There's a mysterious sorta air, they say
That envelopes it round and round
The door shrieks sonnets on its hinges
Its lights squeal in opera as they turn on
And if you stay for just a while
You'll hear the coffee machine's siren song
The weeping waitstaff will serve you
A cup of milky coffee light and mellow
The latte art swirling in different designs
As you breathe in the steam and swallow
And it tastes like teardrops bathed in honey
Vanilla powder dusted in stolen gold
Envy and betrayal turned bitter
By kings and queens and fools
And it tastes like the breezes on a journey
Of gallant knights and quests and lies
Of swords through hearts of good and evil
Of nectar strained from hemlock vise
So when the last drop leaves the porcelain
It shakes you to the core
Sends your heartstrings singing
As you ask for more and more
Until you're drowned in a symphony of laments
Of all those things that never came to be
Lost in the complicities of the human mind
Buried by comedy and tragedy
~
Have you heard of the quaint coffee shop
That sings melodies of tragic verse?
I pray you don't become entranced by its stories
Because immersion in drama is a curse
[img]https://i.imgur.com/7yRBY6S.png[/img]
a dramatic watering of plants :D
featuring Nightlilac's fen :0
a dramatic watering of plants :D
featuring Nightlilac's fen :0
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[columns][img]http://40.media.tumblr.com/8d2f2365c3327ab50c180027952d1042/tumblr_nti067xMTN1repldoo10_250.png[/img][nextcol][center][color=#7EB269][font=sylfaen][size=5]A delightful laughter fills the air. The Windsinger watches a bird land on the edges of his book, another attempting to perch on his wiggling brush. He praises the bird’s efforts regardless of the outcome, inviting you to sit with him and observe the animals. After a moment he laughs again, watching their dainty feet come to grips with their new determined sitting place.[/center][/size][/font][/color][nextcol][img]http://40.media.tumblr.com/8d2f2365c3327ab50c180027952d1042/tumblr_nti067xMTN1repldoo10_250.png[/img][/columns]
[img]https://i.ibb.co/TMS9nph/wind-dad-small-2.png[/img]
[img]https://i.ibb.co/JRzkdDH/speech-bubble-bottom.png[/img]
[center][color=#7EB269][font=sylfaen][size=5]“Look at them! So keen to try, no matter the outcome! I do applaud their effort! I rather like birds, you know. Such free, windbound creatures. The way in which they navigate the very skies, and the very wind I create! As if it is nothing for them to do such a thing, in their inherent nature! How very admirable!”[/size][/font][/color][/center]
[color=#7EB269][font=sylfaen][size=7]Today’s Prompt:[/size][/font][/color]
[center][color=#7EB269][font=sylfaen][size=5][b]If You Had A Chance To Change Your Fate...[/b]
[b]ART PROMPT[/b]: Outfit swap! Draw a protagonist and antagonist swapping outfits. If your characters don’t have outfits or you’re not a character artist, you are free to take creative liberties with this prompt, such as perhaps a gene swap or palette swap, etc.
[b]WRITING PROMPT[/b]: Write about a protagonist following the past memories that are events of a tragic antagonist, like their ghost, at first unseen and unable to interact. But in the end they have the choice to undo their past and change it’s pattern - will they take the option?
[center][img]https://image.ibb.co/k4t3py/fancy-wind-v2.png[/img][/center]
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A delightful laughter fills the air. The Windsinger watches a bird land on the edges of his book, another attempting to perch on his wiggling brush. He praises the bird’s efforts regardless of the outcome, inviting you to sit with him and observe the animals. After a moment he laughs again, watching their dainty feet come to grips with their new determined sitting place.
|
|
“Look at them! So keen to try, no matter the outcome! I do applaud their effort! I rather like birds, you know. Such free, windbound creatures. The way in which they navigate the very skies, and the very wind I create! As if it is nothing for them to do such a thing, in their inherent nature! How very admirable!”
Today’s Prompt:
If You Had A Chance To Change Your Fate...
ART PROMPT: Outfit swap! Draw a protagonist and antagonist swapping outfits. If your characters don’t have outfits or you’re not a character artist, you are free to take creative liberties with this prompt, such as perhaps a gene swap or palette swap, etc.
WRITING PROMPT: Write about a protagonist following the past memories that are events of a tragic antagonist, like their ghost, at first unseen and unable to interact. But in the end they have the choice to undo their past and change it’s pattern - will they take the option?
A bit late for the Day 19 prompt, but here's my take! Busy with attending and all that lol.
Morning Coffee
The clerk yawned, as she shambled her way to work. Business as usual, another early shift at the grocery store. In a half-asleep daze, her feet were on autopilot, walking along those same grey sidewalks. Her eyes were half-lidded, a living zombie walking the streets of the city.
She barely managed to jerk her head up, to see the incoming lamp pole. She halted, steadying herself on the offending scenery. That all-nighter was taking its toll. The cashier shook her head in a vain attempt to clear the brain fog.
Just then, a warm, bitter scent snaked its way down the street. Coffee. The clerk perked up, looking down the alleyway of small mom and pop shops. Her veins were already inundated with coffee from yesterday, what was one more? She wandered around, eyes skimming over the array of shops.
On a whim, she picked the rattiest one, out of the way in the side alley. It'd either have the cheapest, worst coffee of the day, or be some kind of hipster new age mix of beans and tequila. She honestly wasn't sure which one would be worse. Then again, one became inured to mediocrity when working in retail. It was practically a requirement.
Opening the wooden front door, the scent of coffee intensified. The storefront was quiet, darkened by curtained windows. Normally this would have been perhaps a calming or meditative environment. Yet, she could feel a tense undercurrent to the quiet room. It was almost... menacing.
She crept forward wooden floorboards creaking under her feet. There were no menus, just an ornate handbell on the front desk. Were they closed? The clerk furrowed her brow. She was not leaving without her morning coffee. She shrugged, and rang the bell, its clanging noise echoing in the room.
The glassware rattled, and curtains billowed as a strange wind picked up indoors. The clerk braced herself covering her mouth from the dust swirling around inside. The air became cold, as a figure began to manifest behind the counter.
“Who dares summon Vaz’tul, Lord of the Brewery?!” The clerk peeked over her arm, to see a translucent humanoid on the other side. He appeared muscled, with a burning aura of strength, though he looked like he pulled his wardrobe from medieval Arabia. He twirled his mustache with flourish, before looking down on the young lady.
“Lord of the Brewery? You couldn’t pick a better title?” She asked quizzically.
“...Wait. Why aren’t you kneeling before me? Brewery is the most supreme of arts!” The spectral figure looked confused, tilting his head at the lack of prostration. The clerk shrugged nonchalantly.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m not sure if you’re a ghost or hologram or whatever. I just want my morning coffee. Can you do an Espresso?” She deadpanned at the spirit. Vaz’tul was taken aback by the boldness of his guest. However, he shook himself, and once again puffed out his chest.
“Of course, do you require a demonstration of my power? I have prepared the finest extract across the seven sands; a mere ‘espresso’ will be no match!” With a flourish of his hand, the boilers and cutlery came to life, sizzling and whistling with animated preparation. The clerk crashed in a dusty armchair, tapping away at the armrest. If this was some kind of gimmick, she at least gave it credit for going all the way.
After a fair bit of noise and clanging in the kitchens, the spirit returned, holding aloft a tray with an ornately painted cup. If she strained her ears, she swore she could hear a piano in the back. Theme music for a simple cup seemed a bit much. He grinned, and deftly laid the drink before her.
“Now, witness my excellence!” He smiled, and waited patiently for her to drink. Behind the bravado, he seemed almost expectant. The clerk shrugged it off, and turned her attention to the drink. It had a warm, dark scent as she lifted it up. She almost felt more alert just smelling it. Gingerly, she took a sip of the dark liquid.
The flavor was rich and vibrant, the world becoming sharper around her as her senses perked up. The bitterness of the drink was underlaid with a subtle sweetness, an exquisite combination. Drinking such a marvellous taste, she felt almost like she was floating, higher and higher from her seat. She drank deep of the liquid, savouring its delicate taste. Before she knew it, she was back in her seat, the empty cup in her hand. The spirit, watching her expression, seemed a bit smug.
“That… wasn’t half bad,” she finally spoke. “But y’know, this place is rather drab. You’d probably get more business in an upscale place, like the shopping mall or something.”
“Are you saying that my skills alone are not worthy? How can that be?”
“No, no. The stuff’s good, but you need to sell it better. Tidy things up a bit, make it fancy. You’ve got the personality down, I’ll admit.” She wasn’t sure why she was delaying her arrival at work to help the spooky bartender, but he seemed harmless enough. Vaz’tul himself nodded along, a notepad scribbling his guest’s advice.
“This will get me more subjects?”
“Well, customers, but yeah. You could definitely make a chain from this stuff.” She left a number of dollars on the counter, plus tip. He’d need some money to renovate the place. She then waved off the strange spirit, and headed off to her significantly more boring cashier job.
Perhaps she would come back for more tomorrow. That coffee was really good, and even a ghost could use some company.
A bit late for the Day 19 prompt, but here's my take! Busy with attending and all that lol.
Morning Coffee
The clerk yawned, as she shambled her way to work. Business as usual, another early shift at the grocery store. In a half-asleep daze, her feet were on autopilot, walking along those same grey sidewalks. Her eyes were half-lidded, a living zombie walking the streets of the city.
She barely managed to jerk her head up, to see the incoming lamp pole. She halted, steadying herself on the offending scenery. That all-nighter was taking its toll. The cashier shook her head in a vain attempt to clear the brain fog.
Just then, a warm, bitter scent snaked its way down the street. Coffee. The clerk perked up, looking down the alleyway of small mom and pop shops. Her veins were already inundated with coffee from yesterday, what was one more? She wandered around, eyes skimming over the array of shops.
On a whim, she picked the rattiest one, out of the way in the side alley. It'd either have the cheapest, worst coffee of the day, or be some kind of hipster new age mix of beans and tequila. She honestly wasn't sure which one would be worse. Then again, one became inured to mediocrity when working in retail. It was practically a requirement.
Opening the wooden front door, the scent of coffee intensified. The storefront was quiet, darkened by curtained windows. Normally this would have been perhaps a calming or meditative environment. Yet, she could feel a tense undercurrent to the quiet room. It was almost... menacing.
She crept forward wooden floorboards creaking under her feet. There were no menus, just an ornate handbell on the front desk. Were they closed? The clerk furrowed her brow. She was not leaving without her morning coffee. She shrugged, and rang the bell, its clanging noise echoing in the room.
The glassware rattled, and curtains billowed as a strange wind picked up indoors. The clerk braced herself covering her mouth from the dust swirling around inside. The air became cold, as a figure began to manifest behind the counter.
“Who dares summon Vaz’tul, Lord of the Brewery?!” The clerk peeked over her arm, to see a translucent humanoid on the other side. He appeared muscled, with a burning aura of strength, though he looked like he pulled his wardrobe from medieval Arabia. He twirled his mustache with flourish, before looking down on the young lady.
“Lord of the Brewery? You couldn’t pick a better title?” She asked quizzically.
“...Wait. Why aren’t you kneeling before me? Brewery is the most supreme of arts!” The spectral figure looked confused, tilting his head at the lack of prostration. The clerk shrugged nonchalantly.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m not sure if you’re a ghost or hologram or whatever. I just want my morning coffee. Can you do an Espresso?” She deadpanned at the spirit. Vaz’tul was taken aback by the boldness of his guest. However, he shook himself, and once again puffed out his chest.
“Of course, do you require a demonstration of my power? I have prepared the finest extract across the seven sands; a mere ‘espresso’ will be no match!” With a flourish of his hand, the boilers and cutlery came to life, sizzling and whistling with animated preparation. The clerk crashed in a dusty armchair, tapping away at the armrest. If this was some kind of gimmick, she at least gave it credit for going all the way.
After a fair bit of noise and clanging in the kitchens, the spirit returned, holding aloft a tray with an ornately painted cup. If she strained her ears, she swore she could hear a piano in the back. Theme music for a simple cup seemed a bit much. He grinned, and deftly laid the drink before her.
“Now, witness my excellence!” He smiled, and waited patiently for her to drink. Behind the bravado, he seemed almost expectant. The clerk shrugged it off, and turned her attention to the drink. It had a warm, dark scent as she lifted it up. She almost felt more alert just smelling it. Gingerly, she took a sip of the dark liquid.
The flavor was rich and vibrant, the world becoming sharper around her as her senses perked up. The bitterness of the drink was underlaid with a subtle sweetness, an exquisite combination. Drinking such a marvellous taste, she felt almost like she was floating, higher and higher from her seat. She drank deep of the liquid, savouring its delicate taste. Before she knew it, she was back in her seat, the empty cup in her hand. The spirit, watching her expression, seemed a bit smug.
“That… wasn’t half bad,” she finally spoke. “But y’know, this place is rather drab. You’d probably get more business in an upscale place, like the shopping mall or something.”
“Are you saying that my skills alone are not worthy? How can that be?”
“No, no. The stuff’s good, but you need to sell it better. Tidy things up a bit, make it fancy. You’ve got the personality down, I’ll admit.” She wasn’t sure why she was delaying her arrival at work to help the spooky bartender, but he seemed harmless enough. Vaz’tul himself nodded along, a notepad scribbling his guest’s advice.
“This will get me more subjects?”
“Well, customers, but yeah. You could definitely make a chain from this stuff.” She left a number of dollars on the counter, plus tip. He’d need some money to renovate the place. She then waved off the strange spirit, and headed off to her significantly more boring cashier job.
Perhaps she would come back for more tomorrow. That coffee was really good, and even a ghost could use some company.
did i write this instead of sleeping? absolutely. do i regret it? not really. this prompt was particularly inspiring! warnings for verbal abuse in the beginning, but it turns out okay in the end. i can't give away more than that, but i hope you enjoy it~
“And this will help me learn how to defeat Nimue?”
“Yes. But be careful not to alter her memories.”
Iliana takes the vial the wizard proffers and drinks.
“For better or for worse, I suppose,” he mutters.
She’s on the verge of asking him what that means when her vision goes black.
“I don’t know why I put up with your whining, you’ll never amount to anything anyways. I’m ashamed to call you my daughter. How did I raise such a quitter?”
“I’m sorry.”
“If it weren’t for my mercy, you’d be out on the streets already. You should be glad to have a roof over your head.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Shut up, Nimue.”
Iliana shudders in relief when she sees child-Nimue (isn’t it strange, to think that the sorceress was once a human child?) and her father at a lake.
She’s had enough of the memories where he’s reprimanding Nimue. It’s high time he give her a proper childhood.
But as the memory progresses, Iliana’s initial relief turns to fear. She watches as the man leads the girl away from the shallows she’s splashing in, then leaves her at the deep end of the lake by herself. “Come on, swim back. How else are you going to learn?”
“Please, help!” Nimue screams.
“Help!” he mocks.
Iliana’s never wanted to punch someone more.
“Please,” the girl sobs.
Iliana is in the midst of wading into the lake when she remembers the wizard’s warning.
“I told you not to alter the memories. You almost ruined her life, not to mention almost ended your own. After nearly drowning in that lake, Nimue grew up resenting others for not helping her when she needed it most. One of the many reasons that she became who she is now.
“What would have happened if I had succeeded?”
“You would have drowned, but Nimue would have been taken into a different home after your death was investigated. She would have grown up happy, and married the baker’s son once she came of age. They had two children together.”
“Why didn’t you let me change it?”
“Because it’s not what she would want. At least, I think so.” He sighs. “If you had succeeded, I would have been her childhood best friend. I suppose fate comes around in mysterious ways.”
“I suppose it does,” and Iliana means it, truly, but she has a plan now.
Their final battle is fierce, but there is only one winner. There can only be one winner.
“Kneel, Nimue.”
She spits, but does as Iliana orders. To do otherwise would be utter folly.
“I’m sorry about what your father did to you.”
“How do you know what happened and what didn’t?” Nimue sneers, but her voice quivers.
“Let’s just call it a bit of magic. What he did doesn’t shape you forever. Not unless you let it.”
“What do you know?”
“You can always change.”
“But I can’t anymore, don’t you see?” she starts to cry in a way that only a practiced crier can (god, she hates crying). “I can’t do it. I just can’t. Call me weak all you like, because as much as I hate myself for it, I don’t know anything other than hatred and sorrow and anger and pain. And I’m terrified to change, because what if someone hurts me again?”
Iliana’s heart breaks.
“That won’t happen,” she says firmly.
“You don’t know that.”
“True, I don’t. But I will be here for you.”
“You don’t know that either.” At least she’s stopped crying.
“Clearly I at least care about what happens to you, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“Are you aware we’re enemies?” the sorceress asks condescendingly. “I appreciate it and all, but I don’t exactly need a therapy session. Believe me when I say I’ve had plenty of time to think about my father’s past actions.”
“When I saw your memories, I had the option of changing them. Of undoing your past, and making it so that you would never turn into what you are now. And you know what? I regret choosing not to do that now, because maybe I wouldn’t be stuck here trying to help someone who clearly doesn’t appreciate it.”
Nimue is shocked into silence for a heartbeat.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“For what?”
Everything crumbles in that moment. “Being an inconvenience. Being a failure. Everything,” she chokes out as her composure disintegrates for the second time (she hates that she’s so weak).
“Look, if we’re going to have a snippy conversation you can’t go bursting into tears every other minute,” Iliana says gently (she’s beautiful when she cries).
Nimue gives her a watery smile. “How about just a friendly conversation?”
“I’d like that.”
As it turns out, a friendly conversation leads to many more. And it was in one of these friendly conversations that Nimue worked up the courage to tell Iliana that she loved her.
For better or for worse, love will always find a way.
did i write this instead of sleeping? absolutely. do i regret it? not really. this prompt was particularly inspiring! warnings for verbal abuse in the beginning, but it turns out okay in the end. i can't give away more than that, but i hope you enjoy it~
“And this will help me learn how to defeat Nimue?”
“Yes. But be careful not to alter her memories.”
Iliana takes the vial the wizard proffers and drinks.
“For better or for worse, I suppose,” he mutters.
She’s on the verge of asking him what that means when her vision goes black.
“I don’t know why I put up with your whining, you’ll never amount to anything anyways. I’m ashamed to call you my daughter. How did I raise such a quitter?”
“I’m sorry.”
“If it weren’t for my mercy, you’d be out on the streets already. You should be glad to have a roof over your head.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Shut up, Nimue.”
Iliana shudders in relief when she sees child-Nimue (isn’t it strange, to think that the sorceress was once a human child?) and her father at a lake.
She’s had enough of the memories where he’s reprimanding Nimue. It’s high time he give her a proper childhood.
But as the memory progresses, Iliana’s initial relief turns to fear. She watches as the man leads the girl away from the shallows she’s splashing in, then leaves her at the deep end of the lake by herself. “Come on, swim back. How else are you going to learn?”
“Please, help!” Nimue screams.
“Help!” he mocks.
Iliana’s never wanted to punch someone more.
“Please,” the girl sobs.
Iliana is in the midst of wading into the lake when she remembers the wizard’s warning.
“I told you not to alter the memories. You almost ruined her life, not to mention almost ended your own. After nearly drowning in that lake, Nimue grew up resenting others for not helping her when she needed it most. One of the many reasons that she became who she is now.
“What would have happened if I had succeeded?”
“You would have drowned, but Nimue would have been taken into a different home after your death was investigated. She would have grown up happy, and married the baker’s son once she came of age. They had two children together.”
“Why didn’t you let me change it?”
“Because it’s not what she would want. At least, I think so.” He sighs. “If you had succeeded, I would have been her childhood best friend. I suppose fate comes around in mysterious ways.”
“I suppose it does,” and Iliana means it, truly, but she has a plan now.
Their final battle is fierce, but there is only one winner. There can only be one winner.
“Kneel, Nimue.”
She spits, but does as Iliana orders. To do otherwise would be utter folly.
“I’m sorry about what your father did to you.”
“How do you know what happened and what didn’t?” Nimue sneers, but her voice quivers.
“Let’s just call it a bit of magic. What he did doesn’t shape you forever. Not unless you let it.”
“What do you know?”
“You can always change.”
“But I can’t anymore, don’t you see?” she starts to cry in a way that only a practiced crier can (god, she hates crying). “I can’t do it. I just can’t. Call me weak all you like, because as much as I hate myself for it, I don’t know anything other than hatred and sorrow and anger and pain. And I’m terrified to change, because what if someone hurts me again?”
Iliana’s heart breaks.
“That won’t happen,” she says firmly.
“You don’t know that.”
“True, I don’t. But I will be here for you.”
“You don’t know that either.” At least she’s stopped crying.
“Clearly I at least care about what happens to you, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“Are you aware we’re enemies?” the sorceress asks condescendingly. “I appreciate it and all, but I don’t exactly need a therapy session. Believe me when I say I’ve had plenty of time to think about my father’s past actions.”
“When I saw your memories, I had the option of changing them. Of undoing your past, and making it so that you would never turn into what you are now. And you know what? I regret choosing not to do that now, because maybe I wouldn’t be stuck here trying to help someone who clearly doesn’t appreciate it.”
Nimue is shocked into silence for a heartbeat.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“For what?”
Everything crumbles in that moment. “Being an inconvenience. Being a failure. Everything,” she chokes out as her composure disintegrates for the second time (she hates that she’s so weak).
“Look, if we’re going to have a snippy conversation you can’t go bursting into tears every other minute,” Iliana says gently (she’s beautiful when she cries).
Nimue gives her a watery smile. “How about just a friendly conversation?”
“I’d like that.”
As it turns out, a friendly conversation leads to many more. And it was in one of these friendly conversations that Nimue worked up the courage to tell Iliana that she loved her.
For better or for worse, love will always find a way.
Decided to write another thing! Took the opportunity to write about something that happened to my last DnD character. He's dead now, unfortunately, but this event was something I'll remember for a looong time.
As was Written
The histories of the world are their own kind of story. Winding and twisting, one event built upon another, propped by the unknowable machinations of fate. Change and continuity characterizes the unending tale, pieced together by what evidence left behind. We can never truly see the past, leaving history a speculation that can never surely be confirmed. The only certainty of history is that the past cannot be changed.
Or can it?
As the teleportation magic dissipated, the archaeologist looked at his surroundings with surprise. Where he expected the homely furnishings of a laboratory, there was expansive forest. The world seemed real, yet far away, even the trees and sticks of the world phasing through his hands. Wandering and wondering, he and his companions came to a humble wooded village. A muted locale with few walking the streets. A woman prayed before the Lady of Harvest for hope. A child rocking back and forth, locked in their room. Innocent though they were, the plague had its claws in them, condemned to wither and die without action.
He knew of this. He had written it with his pen, presuming it a simple story, just a work of fiction from a spur of fancy. He knew not that his ink flowed from the river of time itself. Questions multiplied in his mind, wondering how and why, thrown from familiar caves of exploration to his unfamiliar homeland. Steeling himself, they set off, to follow the written path to its end. They sought to help, and in so doing, return.
There was one, a child. His name was Roni. He would be the one, guided by spectral hand, to the site of the cure. They did this carefully, deviating not from history’s written tale. They played the role of the unseen friend, keeping him company in his quarantine. Slowly they coaxed him out, towards the lonely shack in the Glen. The explorer knew the crystalline cure would reside there. They had little time.
Roni was cooperative, cheerful despite his imminent doom. He asked questions of the world, wondering of the sights and sounds on their path. Why was the sky blue? What was that flower over there? How did one know? Questions and curiosity, probing and wondering, an inquisitive mind that seemed to burst from his ailing body. The explorer could not answer, for he could not speak, but the curiosity was familiar. It was just like his own.
They came to that waterlogged shack, furnished by bloated books and rotting wood. The body of a fallen alchemist, frozen in time lay on the floor, frozen in an expression of shock. She did not see her death when it came, taking the form of a crystal lodged in her chest. It hummed with resonance, its colours standing out from the world. As he approached, the world became sharper, as the haze began to peel away. When the veil of written word was shattered, he understood.
Thirty-two would die, no matter what he did. The plague, left unchecked, would die with the village it had taken hostage. They would die, the essence of life drained bit by bit until they were naught but dust. Yet, the deed of saving them would not go unpunished.
Images flashed past his eyes. In an instant, he saw Roni grow up. His ambitions and hunger would rise along with him, as he pursued that same path of knowledge. Roni became Tyrone, as he sought more and more prestige for his academic work. The explorer was brought back, to the fateful night in the desert. His expedition was celebrating, drinking and toasting to a momentous discovery. It was the master stroke that would make their labor worth it, to propel their names into history. He remembered the excitement, rambling to his teacher the possibility of the discovery. They did not notice the explosives planted in the dark nor the deadly fluid that laced their feast.
He saw himself there. Clawing at the mounds of ash, tears down his face. He felt his nails break and bleed, as he tried to dredge his mentor’s corpse from the greedy sands. He kneeled there, an agonized cry of despair and fury rising from his chest. He stayed until the sun rose, and there was not a single tear left in his body. There was nothing to be done. They had lost.
Thirty-two would be killed by Tyrone’s hand.
It was a choice. The past was not solid here. The strings of fate revealed themselves, offering a chance for change. Yet, he hesitated. The voices of his companions echoed in the distance, far, far away from the space of the mind. What would his teacher think, the price of his life paid in blood? What would he think, burdened with blood on his hands? Tyrone the murderer wasn’t here. There was only Roni.
He grabbed his pen, that fateful device that led him here. Clearly and concisely, he wrote and wrote. He didn’t need to take out the reference, for he knew the words he had to write, down to the last letter. His focus sharpened to a quill’s point to communicate to a world in the past. The instructions written, he left it, where the child could reach. As his final act, he heaved the rotting bookcase, aided by his friends. With a crash and resounding shatter, the loop was complete.
He was thrown forward through time, back to where he belonged. History had not changed. Yet, in seeing the past with his own eyes, he knew. He saw its allure, the temptation to be lost in what could have been. He had refused. His justice would only lie in the future, and not in retrospect. He would find another way, free of innocent blood. Just as the past was written before him, he would write his own future.
Decided to write another thing! Took the opportunity to write about something that happened to my last DnD character. He's dead now, unfortunately, but this event was something I'll remember for a looong time.
As was Written
The histories of the world are their own kind of story. Winding and twisting, one event built upon another, propped by the unknowable machinations of fate. Change and continuity characterizes the unending tale, pieced together by what evidence left behind. We can never truly see the past, leaving history a speculation that can never surely be confirmed. The only certainty of history is that the past cannot be changed.
Or can it?
As the teleportation magic dissipated, the archaeologist looked at his surroundings with surprise. Where he expected the homely furnishings of a laboratory, there was expansive forest. The world seemed real, yet far away, even the trees and sticks of the world phasing through his hands. Wandering and wondering, he and his companions came to a humble wooded village. A muted locale with few walking the streets. A woman prayed before the Lady of Harvest for hope. A child rocking back and forth, locked in their room. Innocent though they were, the plague had its claws in them, condemned to wither and die without action.
He knew of this. He had written it with his pen, presuming it a simple story, just a work of fiction from a spur of fancy. He knew not that his ink flowed from the river of time itself. Questions multiplied in his mind, wondering how and why, thrown from familiar caves of exploration to his unfamiliar homeland. Steeling himself, they set off, to follow the written path to its end. They sought to help, and in so doing, return.
There was one, a child. His name was Roni. He would be the one, guided by spectral hand, to the site of the cure. They did this carefully, deviating not from history’s written tale. They played the role of the unseen friend, keeping him company in his quarantine. Slowly they coaxed him out, towards the lonely shack in the Glen. The explorer knew the crystalline cure would reside there. They had little time.
Roni was cooperative, cheerful despite his imminent doom. He asked questions of the world, wondering of the sights and sounds on their path. Why was the sky blue? What was that flower over there? How did one know? Questions and curiosity, probing and wondering, an inquisitive mind that seemed to burst from his ailing body. The explorer could not answer, for he could not speak, but the curiosity was familiar. It was just like his own.
They came to that waterlogged shack, furnished by bloated books and rotting wood. The body of a fallen alchemist, frozen in time lay on the floor, frozen in an expression of shock. She did not see her death when it came, taking the form of a crystal lodged in her chest. It hummed with resonance, its colours standing out from the world. As he approached, the world became sharper, as the haze began to peel away. When the veil of written word was shattered, he understood.
Thirty-two would die, no matter what he did. The plague, left unchecked, would die with the village it had taken hostage. They would die, the essence of life drained bit by bit until they were naught but dust. Yet, the deed of saving them would not go unpunished.
Images flashed past his eyes. In an instant, he saw Roni grow up. His ambitions and hunger would rise along with him, as he pursued that same path of knowledge. Roni became Tyrone, as he sought more and more prestige for his academic work. The explorer was brought back, to the fateful night in the desert. His expedition was celebrating, drinking and toasting to a momentous discovery. It was the master stroke that would make their labor worth it, to propel their names into history. He remembered the excitement, rambling to his teacher the possibility of the discovery. They did not notice the explosives planted in the dark nor the deadly fluid that laced their feast.
He saw himself there. Clawing at the mounds of ash, tears down his face. He felt his nails break and bleed, as he tried to dredge his mentor’s corpse from the greedy sands. He kneeled there, an agonized cry of despair and fury rising from his chest. He stayed until the sun rose, and there was not a single tear left in his body. There was nothing to be done. They had lost.
Thirty-two would be killed by Tyrone’s hand.
It was a choice. The past was not solid here. The strings of fate revealed themselves, offering a chance for change. Yet, he hesitated. The voices of his companions echoed in the distance, far, far away from the space of the mind. What would his teacher think, the price of his life paid in blood? What would he think, burdened with blood on his hands? Tyrone the murderer wasn’t here. There was only Roni.
He grabbed his pen, that fateful device that led him here. Clearly and concisely, he wrote and wrote. He didn’t need to take out the reference, for he knew the words he had to write, down to the last letter. His focus sharpened to a quill’s point to communicate to a world in the past. The instructions written, he left it, where the child could reach. As his final act, he heaved the rotting bookcase, aided by his friends. With a crash and resounding shatter, the loop was complete.
He was thrown forward through time, back to where he belonged. History had not changed. Yet, in seeing the past with his own eyes, he knew. He saw its allure, the temptation to be lost in what could have been. He had refused. His justice would only lie in the future, and not in retrospect. He would find another way, free of innocent blood. Just as the past was written before him, he would write his own future.
erm.. i removed myself from the pinglist.. why am i getting pinged still?
erm.. i removed myself from the pinglist.. why am i getting pinged still?
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hi, i'm etui
she/they
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edit: after writing 700 words I realized that Bespin wasn't supposed to interact with Wraith/Ekkreth at first but ¯\_(?)_/¯
Michael put his hand on her shoulder.
"Remember," he said. "If you change anything, anything at all in the past,"
"I won't be able to return."
"Right. You be careful out there, okay, Bespin?"
Her vision filled with white, and she was falling.
She landed in a desert. Sand billowed out and away from her impact point. She squinted at the blazing blue sky, not a single cloud in sight.
She walked toward the cluster of houses she saw in the distance. She watched all sorts of people, dressed in sun-bleached rags and with bandages wrapped around their arms. She dodged a group of kids that barreled past her. The smell of exotic spices filled the air, and she had to remind herself that she had to find Wraith.
But where could he be? How could this dusty little town be a part of his past? What did he even look like, back then?
I probably should've planned this better. Is it too late to call back Michael?
Someone bumped into her. "Oh! Sorry, my bad,"
She looked up, meeting heterochromatic blue-brown eyes.
No way.
For starters, this Wraith seemed to be in his mid-teens, which was impossible; Wraith first appeared about five years ago. This memory was 10 years ago.
But there was no mistaking that voice, with the lilting accent and drawn-out vowels. No mistaking the scar trailing from his temple to his jaw.
Unlike in the present day, those eyes were sparkling with mischievous intent and warmth.
He looked... happy.
It was hard to look at him without thinking of a flash of red and Starburst lying before her and-
What happened to you?
He picked up the bundle he must've dropped when they ran into each other. He smiled and started to move past her.
"Wait."
He turned around. His gaze flitted over her, and he started as if noticing her out-of-place clothing for the first time.
"Woah," he said. "We haven't had outsiders in Nyris for a long time. Who are you?"
Don't alter the past. You're just here for information.
"I... I'm just a nobody."
He gave her a wry look. "C'mon, people don't just go all the way out here for nothing. Hey, I'll help you get to wherever you need to go! I know Nyris inside out, and then you can leave with whatever you need!"
"Didn't your mom ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"
"No," he said. "There are less than a thousand people in this village and it's so boring. Please, let me help!"
You know what? I'll go along with it.
She recalled the embroidered plants on the edge of Wraith's cloak in the present.
"Alright," she said. "I'm looking for a... a flower. A red flower." At Wraith's suspicious glance, she added, "I'm a botanist."
He brightened. "Yeah! I know those! They grow at the edge, I'll just finish running my errands and I'll take you there."
"By the way... what's your name?"
"Ekkreth. And you?"
Ekkreth. Nice to meet you, Ekkreth. I hope I'll never see you again, although I know that isn't true.
"Call me Corvus."
Bespin took a few photos of the flower ("We call 'em Dawnblooms, because they bloom at dawn and they're red!") by the edge, which turned out to be a canyon splitting the desert in two as far as she could see. Ekkreth crouched next to her, staring in open curiosity at her phone. "What's that?" he asked.
Did this village not have any modern technology at all?
Well, yes. That much was obvious.
She looked at Ekkreth and wondered, not for the first time, how he became Wraith.
He looked at the sun sinking over the horizon and flinched. "Oh! Sorry, Corvus, it's getting late, I should head back. You probably should get going, too. The police don't want anyone out after dark."
She opened her mouth to respond when the whole world blurred and came back into focus. She was now standing in the yard of one of the houses. The stars were glittering coldly overhead.
There was a loud crash as a woman was dragged out of the house, her skin littered with contusions. Four hooded figures in pure white robes hauled her to an idling vehicle in front of the door. Neighbors were watching the scene unfold from the safety of their own houses.
"What are you doing?! STOP! Let her go!"
Ekkreth briefly appeared in the doorway before being pulled back, presumably by more hooded figures.
Everything slowed down.
She watched as Ekkreth pulled out a small, round object. He drew his arm back and threw the object toward the woman and her captors.
That's a bomb.
What-
This kid just threw a bomb at someone he cared about.
It was clear that she had a choice here.
Do I stop it from reaching its mark or do I let it happen? Which one leads to my present? Which one starts a whole new path?
If you change anything in the past, you'll be unable to return.
She remembered all her friends, her family, her life in the present.
I'm sorry, Ekkreth.
She threw herself to the back of the house just as the makeshift grenade exploded. She heard him scream, "THAT WASN'T THE SMOKE BOMB," and her heart wrenched in sympathy.
Then she remembered clutching Starburst's body in her arms and whatever pity she had for him dissipated.
But still...
The world blurred again and she was in the corner of a darkened room.
The room was all gray, black, smooth edges, with plain white lights in the ceiling. It was split in two by ballistic glass and a panel with vital signs and documents displayed on the glossy surface.
Ekkreth was the only splotch of color in this monochrome place, his hands cuffed to the table and a shock collar around his neck. There were tear tracks on his cheeks and his eyes were red. There were scuff marks on his wrists where he had clearly been pulling at his restraints.
Bespin found it hard to connect this pitiful teen to the stoic and capable assassin in her present.
There was a woman in a black suit with silver hair and unbelievably pale skin sitting across the table to him. Her back was to the glass, leaving Bespin unable to see her expression.
"I'm giving you a chance to save your brother," she said. "Join Iridia and he'll have the chance to live a life in luxury. He gets a proper childhood, and you get to train your powers. People that can manipulate electricity are very rare these days, you see."
"You killed my mother," he rasped.
The woman sounded like she was smirking. "No, you did."
Silence.
The air, quite literally, crackled with sparks for a few seconds.
How did I not notice this before?
Ekkreth's eyes, which seemed to glow with a hidden light, like the brightest supernova behind an infinitely dark blanket of nothingness, surrounded by cyan and amber galaxies, even back at Nyris.
His voice cracked.
"I'll do it. Just... please, keep him safe."
"Excellent."
She clapped and the handcuffs fell off. He rubbed his wrists gingerly, glaring at her.
"Where will he go?" he asked.
"I don't think you're in any position to be making demands," she replied.
A section of the wall slid into the ceiling and the woman made a shooing motion. "I'll see you in 72 hours. Get yourself looking presentable."
Ekkreth left and her's vision started to fade to white again.
Before she returned to the present, she heard someone say, "Set course to Typhe. We need to drop off the Wraith's package."
She opened her eyes. Michael was standing before her.
"Did you get the information you needed?"
She nodded.
"Ekkreth!" she shouted as loudly as she could. Which wasn't very loud. Red dripping from a hole in her chest. Fingers clutching and slipping on the knife buried in her torso.
Wraith froze. He strode to her spot on the floor and knelt next to her, grabbing her face and turning it toward him. His brow was furrowed.
"You're a good person," she said, although she knew it wasn't true. "Your brother... he's on-"
He let go of her.
"How do you know this?" he hissed.
She grinned. "Do you remember someone named Corvus? In a village named Nyris about 10 years ago? I can save your brother. I can save you. Turn yourself in, and you might even be allowed to walk free."
This, too, was a lie. The council would want him executed.
His face, the parts of it that weren't covered by the bandana he wore all the time, turned hopeful. He blinked, shaking his head slightly as if trying to forget what she said.
"No. Binary is happy where he is and doesn't need my interfering."
"Is he, though?" she said. It was getting harder to breathe. Haha. Wouldn't it be funny if her trip to the past was all for naught.
A struggle occurred. She could see it in his blue-brown eyes.
"He's on Typhe," she added helpfully. "Or at least that was where he was first sent."
Slowly, Wraith pulled out a medkit from the folds of his cloak. He pulled the knife out as quickly as he could and sprayed the wound with Cell-Gro.
"I won't join you," he said. "Remember. This doesn't change anything. And keep yourself out of my past, you screwball."
"I won't return."
edit: after writing 700 words I realized that Bespin wasn't supposed to interact with Wraith/Ekkreth at first but ¯\_(?)_/¯
Michael put his hand on her shoulder.
"Remember," he said. "If you change anything, anything at all in the past,"
"I won't be able to return."
"Right. You be careful out there, okay, Bespin?"
Her vision filled with white, and she was falling.
She landed in a desert. Sand billowed out and away from her impact point. She squinted at the blazing blue sky, not a single cloud in sight.
She walked toward the cluster of houses she saw in the distance. She watched all sorts of people, dressed in sun-bleached rags and with bandages wrapped around their arms. She dodged a group of kids that barreled past her. The smell of exotic spices filled the air, and she had to remind herself that she had to find Wraith.
But where could he be? How could this dusty little town be a part of his past? What did he even look like, back then?
I probably should've planned this better. Is it too late to call back Michael?
Someone bumped into her. "Oh! Sorry, my bad,"
She looked up, meeting heterochromatic blue-brown eyes.
No way.
For starters, this Wraith seemed to be in his mid-teens, which was impossible; Wraith first appeared about five years ago. This memory was 10 years ago.
But there was no mistaking that voice, with the lilting accent and drawn-out vowels. No mistaking the scar trailing from his temple to his jaw.
Unlike in the present day, those eyes were sparkling with mischievous intent and warmth.
He looked... happy.
It was hard to look at him without thinking of a flash of red and Starburst lying before her and-
What happened to you?
He picked up the bundle he must've dropped when they ran into each other. He smiled and started to move past her.
"Wait."
He turned around. His gaze flitted over her, and he started as if noticing her out-of-place clothing for the first time.
"Woah," he said. "We haven't had outsiders in Nyris for a long time. Who are you?"
Don't alter the past. You're just here for information.
"I... I'm just a nobody."
He gave her a wry look. "C'mon, people don't just go all the way out here for nothing. Hey, I'll help you get to wherever you need to go! I know Nyris inside out, and then you can leave with whatever you need!"
"Didn't your mom ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"
"No," he said. "There are less than a thousand people in this village and it's so boring. Please, let me help!"
You know what? I'll go along with it.
She recalled the embroidered plants on the edge of Wraith's cloak in the present.
"Alright," she said. "I'm looking for a... a flower. A red flower." At Wraith's suspicious glance, she added, "I'm a botanist."
He brightened. "Yeah! I know those! They grow at the edge, I'll just finish running my errands and I'll take you there."
"By the way... what's your name?"
"Ekkreth. And you?"
Ekkreth. Nice to meet you, Ekkreth. I hope I'll never see you again, although I know that isn't true.
"Call me Corvus."
Bespin took a few photos of the flower ("We call 'em Dawnblooms, because they bloom at dawn and they're red!") by the edge, which turned out to be a canyon splitting the desert in two as far as she could see. Ekkreth crouched next to her, staring in open curiosity at her phone. "What's that?" he asked.
Did this village not have any modern technology at all?
Well, yes. That much was obvious.
She looked at Ekkreth and wondered, not for the first time, how he became Wraith.
He looked at the sun sinking over the horizon and flinched. "Oh! Sorry, Corvus, it's getting late, I should head back. You probably should get going, too. The police don't want anyone out after dark."
She opened her mouth to respond when the whole world blurred and came back into focus. She was now standing in the yard of one of the houses. The stars were glittering coldly overhead.
There was a loud crash as a woman was dragged out of the house, her skin littered with contusions. Four hooded figures in pure white robes hauled her to an idling vehicle in front of the door. Neighbors were watching the scene unfold from the safety of their own houses.
"What are you doing?! STOP! Let her go!"
Ekkreth briefly appeared in the doorway before being pulled back, presumably by more hooded figures.
Everything slowed down.
She watched as Ekkreth pulled out a small, round object. He drew his arm back and threw the object toward the woman and her captors.
That's a bomb.
What-
This kid just threw a bomb at someone he cared about.
It was clear that she had a choice here.
Do I stop it from reaching its mark or do I let it happen? Which one leads to my present? Which one starts a whole new path?
If you change anything in the past, you'll be unable to return.
She remembered all her friends, her family, her life in the present.
I'm sorry, Ekkreth.
She threw herself to the back of the house just as the makeshift grenade exploded. She heard him scream, "THAT WASN'T THE SMOKE BOMB," and her heart wrenched in sympathy.
Then she remembered clutching Starburst's body in her arms and whatever pity she had for him dissipated.
But still...
The world blurred again and she was in the corner of a darkened room.
The room was all gray, black, smooth edges, with plain white lights in the ceiling. It was split in two by ballistic glass and a panel with vital signs and documents displayed on the glossy surface.
Ekkreth was the only splotch of color in this monochrome place, his hands cuffed to the table and a shock collar around his neck. There were tear tracks on his cheeks and his eyes were red. There were scuff marks on his wrists where he had clearly been pulling at his restraints.
Bespin found it hard to connect this pitiful teen to the stoic and capable assassin in her present.
There was a woman in a black suit with silver hair and unbelievably pale skin sitting across the table to him. Her back was to the glass, leaving Bespin unable to see her expression.
"I'm giving you a chance to save your brother," she said. "Join Iridia and he'll have the chance to live a life in luxury. He gets a proper childhood, and you get to train your powers. People that can manipulate electricity are very rare these days, you see."
"You killed my mother," he rasped.
The woman sounded like she was smirking. "No, you did."
Silence.
The air, quite literally, crackled with sparks for a few seconds.
How did I not notice this before?
Ekkreth's eyes, which seemed to glow with a hidden light, like the brightest supernova behind an infinitely dark blanket of nothingness, surrounded by cyan and amber galaxies, even back at Nyris.
His voice cracked.
"I'll do it. Just... please, keep him safe."
"Excellent."
She clapped and the handcuffs fell off. He rubbed his wrists gingerly, glaring at her.
"Where will he go?" he asked.
"I don't think you're in any position to be making demands," she replied.
A section of the wall slid into the ceiling and the woman made a shooing motion. "I'll see you in 72 hours. Get yourself looking presentable."
Ekkreth left and her's vision started to fade to white again.
Before she returned to the present, she heard someone say, "Set course to Typhe. We need to drop off the Wraith's package."
She opened her eyes. Michael was standing before her.
"Did you get the information you needed?"
She nodded.
"Ekkreth!" she shouted as loudly as she could. Which wasn't very loud. Red dripping from a hole in her chest. Fingers clutching and slipping on the knife buried in her torso.
Wraith froze. He strode to her spot on the floor and knelt next to her, grabbing her face and turning it toward him. His brow was furrowed.
"You're a good person," she said, although she knew it wasn't true. "Your brother... he's on-"
He let go of her.
"How do you know this?" he hissed.
She grinned. "Do you remember someone named Corvus? In a village named Nyris about 10 years ago? I can save your brother. I can save you. Turn yourself in, and you might even be allowed to walk free."
This, too, was a lie. The council would want him executed.
His face, the parts of it that weren't covered by the bandana he wore all the time, turned hopeful. He blinked, shaking his head slightly as if trying to forget what she said.
"No. Binary is happy where he is and doesn't need my interfering."
"Is he, though?" she said. It was getting harder to breathe. Haha. Wouldn't it be funny if her trip to the past was all for naught.
A struggle occurred. She could see it in his blue-brown eyes.
"He's on Typhe," she added helpfully. "Or at least that was where he was first sent."
Slowly, Wraith pulled out a medkit from the folds of his cloak. He pulled the knife out as quickly as he could and sprayed the wound with Cell-Gro.
"I won't join you," he said. "Remember. This doesn't change anything. And keep yourself out of my past, you screwball."
"I won't return."
[b]Prompt: If you had a chance to change your fate...[/b]
Outfit swap! I don't really have any "villains" and "heroes," so have two rivals that absolutely cannot stand each other.
The ghoul (left) is not happy her nice scrolls got taken away...
[img]https://imgur.com/MCe4v9k.png[/img]
(Translation, from left to right: "Ink lasts longer than blood," "When it comes to history," "All that is left is chaos." It's written so you can read it as "when it comes to history, ink lasts longer than blood" or "when it comes to history, all that is left is chaos" depending on who you're looking at ^^)
Prompt: If you had a chance to change your fate...
Outfit swap! I don't really have any "villains" and "heroes," so have two rivals that absolutely cannot stand each other.
The ghoul (left) is not happy her nice scrolls got taken away...
(Translation, from left to right: "Ink lasts longer than blood," "When it comes to history," "All that is left is chaos." It's written so you can read it as "when it comes to history, ink lasts longer than blood" or "when it comes to history, all that is left is chaos" depending on who you're looking at ^^)
Day 20
I did do the prompt, but it turned out too dark for Flight Rising guidelines, so I'll not post it here. But I used the god of justice to show those past memories to the protag, and I also had a bit of fun with a dialog between him and the god of trickery. So I'll post this here instead. I know this isn't quite the prompt, but I also want no ticket or anything for it. I was just having a good time.
Rel: So... Do not interfere with mortal affairs, huh?
Kerin: *sips tea*
Rel: Did the god of ORDER and JUSTICE actually break his own rules? For a mere mortal? Is that really the case?
Kerin: The prince did not know her full story. There was no way true justice could've been served. To judge someone, you need the details. Else, any verdict is meaningless.
Rel: So you decided to show him her memories?
Kerin: ... yes. I knew no other way. Words would not have done the same thing.
Rel: I agree. You, manipulating people... I didn't know you'd have it in you *winks*
Kerin: I did not manipulate. I only showed him the truth.
Rel: Of course, what else. *laughs* You know... you always act so strict, but your heart is actually as soft as chick's feathers.
Kerin: Shut up.
Rel: Your wish is my command~
Day 20
I did do the prompt, but it turned out too dark for Flight Rising guidelines, so I'll not post it here. But I used the god of justice to show those past memories to the protag, and I also had a bit of fun with a dialog between him and the god of trickery. So I'll post this here instead. I know this isn't quite the prompt, but I also want no ticket or anything for it. I was just having a good time.
Rel: So... Do not interfere with mortal affairs, huh?
Kerin: *sips tea*
Rel: Did the god of ORDER and JUSTICE actually break his own rules? For a mere mortal? Is that really the case?
Kerin: The prince did not know her full story. There was no way true justice could've been served. To judge someone, you need the details. Else, any verdict is meaningless.
Rel: So you decided to show him her memories?
Kerin: ... yes. I knew no other way. Words would not have done the same thing.
Rel: I agree. You, manipulating people... I didn't know you'd have it in you *winks*
Kerin: I did not manipulate. I only showed him the truth.
Rel: Of course, what else. *laughs* You know... you always act so strict, but your heart is actually as soft as chick's feathers.
Kerin: Shut up.
Rel: Your wish is my command~
