- Local time
- Today 9:25 AM
- Messages
- 14
- Age
- 24
- Pronouns
- she/her
hi, i'm crow! i have been writing and roleplaying for over a decade, and i thought i might try to reach out and meet new people 
my writing style and preferences
i usually write multi-paragraph posts (500 to 1,000+ words) as i naturally reach this length, depending on what i am given to work with. i consider myself detailed to the point of poetic, and i always do a deep dive pov; thoughts, feelings, reactions. the six senses. i try to seamlessly immerse others into the world/headspace i write. i don't go overboard with detail as i know that can be overwhelming - quality over quantity is my every day goal.
if you would like any writing examples, feel free to look at the examples below, stalk my profile or visit my tumblr - i write for the hbo war fandom on there!
i am more comfortable with mxf relationships and sometimes fxf (18+ concerning ages) i often prefer the female role in mxf, but i can have no problem making things fair and doubling up.
i am more than comfortable with violence and gore. as a true crime fanatic, i've seen and read everything. i've written extraordinary gore and violence, but i don't go overboard. what I will not stand for are graphic depictions of r*pe or anything sexually traumatic. i don't want to read that on here! the only sexual content i write is consensual. that being said, i do write smut but i don't want it to be the primary focus.
concerning smut, my kinks are: knife play, blood, choking, bondage (hands), dirty talk, degradation, hair pulling, switch, dom vs sub, dom vs dom, teasing, nicknames, marking (bites, hickeys)
my limits are: abuse, sodomy, extreme bdsm (full on leather suits, whips, 50 shades type shit), adultery, incest, anything to do with human waste, non-human, master x slave, anything violating the rules of the site
from you
i need someone to match my level as well as be grammar orientated (i only write in lowercase ooc). i always write in the third person and in past tense. i would very much appreciate equal effort when fleshing out the story and characters. sometimes i get excited and send paragraphs about scenarios for our characters
i love talking about the future for them
general communication. i can be ghost friendly, but sometimes i'd like to know if there's anything i can do to help keep the interest. please let me know if you no longer have the muse or inspiration for a thread. i don't want to spend time typing up a response just to get left hanging without a warning. i feel it's only fair. sometimes i spend one to two days writing as i take my time to make a quality post.
i appreciate as much realism as can be managed; realistic face-claims and no overly powerful and immune characters. everyone has issues. it helps to make characters feel real and relatable. i would also like any type of relationship (especially romantic) to develop slow, but not sluggish. the romance aspect doesn't have to be the ultimate central focus! i feel everything in the story should be balanced. feel free to bring in as many npc's or mains as necessary to the story!
for us
i have a part-time job, a novel to work on, and i am also on another writing site, but i can manage a couple replies a week if not more! i don't want to push myself, and the same goes for any writing partner. we all deal with daily challenges. mental health and other personal issues is first priority always. i will let you know if I have something going on. i love being able to chat out of roleplaying! i always love to connect with others
fandoms and originals
i have the most muse and inspiration for fandoms right now, especially canon x oc. i'm totally up for oc x oc as well! colored fandoms are those i am craving the most at the moment. definitely feel free to ask for any other characters not listed!
fandoms
// netflix's cursed
- comfortable writing pretty much anyone. looking for weeping monk/lancelot
// the witcher (netflix series. i haven't finished the book series!)
- i can comfortably write geralt and jaskier. looking for jaskier and cahir
// marvel
- comfortable with most characters. looking for bucky, pietro, and frank castle
// walking dead
- comfortable with some characters such as rick, daryl, dwight, glenn. looking for negan and magna
// supernatural
- definitely willing to write anyone. looking for sam or dean
// pirates of the caribbean
- comfortable writing jack, will, or henry. looking for jack or james norrington
// the hobbit
- i need to re-familiarize myself with the world and characters, but would still love to try writing anyone. looking for thranduil
// assassin's creed (syndicate)
- comfortable writing henry or evie. looking for jacob
// american horror story
- comfortable writing tate, kai (need some practice), dandy. looking for xavier, richard ramirez, and michael
// the batman (2022) or dark knight series
- comfy with most characters. looking for pattinson's bruce and cillian murphy's jonathan crane
non-fandom
some ideas are inspired by other stories but with a twist
// beauty and the beast (with a twist! something more pg-13 to r-rated rather than disney-esque. medieval, regency, or victorian era)
// robin hood
// phantom of the opera
// wwii
- defective high ranking nazi officer x american/british woman spy
// medieval
- ruthless, mad king/emperor x woman monster slayer or princess or assassin, assassin x princess, assassin x mage, royal x mage, royal x non royal, arranged marriage
// pirates
- pirate hunter x pirate, pirate x pirate, royal navy officer x pirate
// edward scissorhands
- regency, victorian, 40's
// heathers
- 1989 movie - love the 80's!
// midnight in london
- every night at midnight, character A finds themselves in a different time period where they meet character B. every day at noon, character A returns to their own time
// 50's greaser
- small town greaser boy x italian immigrant girl
// 60's to 70's decades
- coming of age?
i have ideas for cursed, marvel, assassin's creed syndicate, walking dead, and witcher, but i might have more later. feel free to reach out if interested!
writing examples
i wanted to include some examples of my writing so you can get an idea of my style! some examples are old, but i tried to touch them up a bit! if you would like to read my most recent writing, feel free to stalk my profile or the links in my signature
my writing style and preferences
i usually write multi-paragraph posts (500 to 1,000+ words) as i naturally reach this length, depending on what i am given to work with. i consider myself detailed to the point of poetic, and i always do a deep dive pov; thoughts, feelings, reactions. the six senses. i try to seamlessly immerse others into the world/headspace i write. i don't go overboard with detail as i know that can be overwhelming - quality over quantity is my every day goal.
if you would like any writing examples, feel free to look at the examples below, stalk my profile or visit my tumblr - i write for the hbo war fandom on there!
i am more comfortable with mxf relationships and sometimes fxf (18+ concerning ages) i often prefer the female role in mxf, but i can have no problem making things fair and doubling up.
i am more than comfortable with violence and gore. as a true crime fanatic, i've seen and read everything. i've written extraordinary gore and violence, but i don't go overboard. what I will not stand for are graphic depictions of r*pe or anything sexually traumatic. i don't want to read that on here! the only sexual content i write is consensual. that being said, i do write smut but i don't want it to be the primary focus.
concerning smut, my kinks are: knife play, blood, choking, bondage (hands), dirty talk, degradation, hair pulling, switch, dom vs sub, dom vs dom, teasing, nicknames, marking (bites, hickeys)
my limits are: abuse, sodomy, extreme bdsm (full on leather suits, whips, 50 shades type shit), adultery, incest, anything to do with human waste, non-human, master x slave, anything violating the rules of the site
from you
i need someone to match my level as well as be grammar orientated (i only write in lowercase ooc). i always write in the third person and in past tense. i would very much appreciate equal effort when fleshing out the story and characters. sometimes i get excited and send paragraphs about scenarios for our characters
i love talking about the future for themgeneral communication. i can be ghost friendly, but sometimes i'd like to know if there's anything i can do to help keep the interest. please let me know if you no longer have the muse or inspiration for a thread. i don't want to spend time typing up a response just to get left hanging without a warning. i feel it's only fair. sometimes i spend one to two days writing as i take my time to make a quality post.
i appreciate as much realism as can be managed; realistic face-claims and no overly powerful and immune characters. everyone has issues. it helps to make characters feel real and relatable. i would also like any type of relationship (especially romantic) to develop slow, but not sluggish. the romance aspect doesn't have to be the ultimate central focus! i feel everything in the story should be balanced. feel free to bring in as many npc's or mains as necessary to the story!
for us
i have a part-time job, a novel to work on, and i am also on another writing site, but i can manage a couple replies a week if not more! i don't want to push myself, and the same goes for any writing partner. we all deal with daily challenges. mental health and other personal issues is first priority always. i will let you know if I have something going on. i love being able to chat out of roleplaying! i always love to connect with others
fandoms and originals
i have the most muse and inspiration for fandoms right now, especially canon x oc. i'm totally up for oc x oc as well! colored fandoms are those i am craving the most at the moment. definitely feel free to ask for any other characters not listed!
fandoms
// netflix's cursed
- comfortable writing pretty much anyone. looking for weeping monk/lancelot
// the witcher (netflix series. i haven't finished the book series!)
- i can comfortably write geralt and jaskier. looking for jaskier and cahir
// marvel
- comfortable with most characters. looking for bucky, pietro, and frank castle
// walking dead
- comfortable with some characters such as rick, daryl, dwight, glenn. looking for negan and magna
// supernatural
- definitely willing to write anyone. looking for sam or dean
// pirates of the caribbean
- comfortable writing jack, will, or henry. looking for jack or james norrington
// the hobbit
- i need to re-familiarize myself with the world and characters, but would still love to try writing anyone. looking for thranduil
// assassin's creed (syndicate)
- comfortable writing henry or evie. looking for jacob
// american horror story
- comfortable writing tate, kai (need some practice), dandy. looking for xavier, richard ramirez, and michael
// the batman (2022) or dark knight series
- comfy with most characters. looking for pattinson's bruce and cillian murphy's jonathan crane
non-fandom
some ideas are inspired by other stories but with a twist
// beauty and the beast (with a twist! something more pg-13 to r-rated rather than disney-esque. medieval, regency, or victorian era)
// robin hood
// phantom of the opera
// wwii
- defective high ranking nazi officer x american/british woman spy
// medieval
- ruthless, mad king/emperor x woman monster slayer or princess or assassin, assassin x princess, assassin x mage, royal x mage, royal x non royal, arranged marriage
// pirates
- pirate hunter x pirate, pirate x pirate, royal navy officer x pirate
// edward scissorhands
- regency, victorian, 40's
// heathers
- 1989 movie - love the 80's!
// midnight in london
- every night at midnight, character A finds themselves in a different time period where they meet character B. every day at noon, character A returns to their own time
// 50's greaser
- small town greaser boy x italian immigrant girl
// 60's to 70's decades
- coming of age?
i have ideas for cursed, marvel, assassin's creed syndicate, walking dead, and witcher, but i might have more later. feel free to reach out if interested!
writing examples
i wanted to include some examples of my writing so you can get an idea of my style! some examples are old, but i tried to touch them up a bit! if you would like to read my most recent writing, feel free to stalk my profile or the links in my signature
Clouds, light and thin as wedding veils, frosted the sickly gray sky like morning fog. Scotland seemed to grieve Morenna's leaving. The previous days were blushing colors; the blood of tulip fields smearing the sky in pinks, blues, and yellows. Her throat swelled against the teasing threats her nausea gave. She only had bread to quell her unsettled stomach. It was all she could bear to eat. The carriage passing over stones in the road did not help, and neither did the chorus of horse hooves. When her anxiety bit down she needed calm and quiet, and to be left alone.
She was to be wed as a queen of two countries, and to a man she didn't know despite being engaged since they were six. Politics was the true god, and not the man of religion himself. He had little influence. Morenna didn't want to lead two countries, much less one, and marry a man she didn't feel for. She still felt herself just a girl, not a queen. She'd rather busy herself with sketching nature than discussions of armies and raising heirs. She was limited as a queen anyway, and frustrated because she didn't understand why. In chess, a queen could move wherever she liked whereas the king was limited to one space. Why not follow the logic of the game?
In the royal court, she feared she would be ripped open and found unsightly. Her opinions tended to be led by emotion. She'd be viewed as a child; barely over five feet and ruled by feeling than thought. Her stubbornness would salt her appearance and turn her into a brat. I can't do politics, she thought. And it can't do me. Now I fear I won't have control at all over my own country in the court. If I am to survive this, I must follow my mother's words and think and be a good wife. I'm doing this for Scotland. She gripped her own hand, her chest bobbing.
The castle slipped into view, and a gaggle of lords and ladies congested the courtyard. Morenna's body heat abandoned her, and her heart became more prominent in her chest and ears. She had never favored crowds, to be gawked at like some rare jewel. The carriage stopped, but her body still felt in tune with how wobbly and nauseating the journey had been. When the door opened, corrupting her safe, hidden space in the carriage, her hands turned clammy. She wondered if she had any blood left in her, or if her body had just filled up with water and cold. She hadn't felt warm since she left her home. Nevertheless, she presented herself to the boisterous lords and ladies. She was relieved when her ladies in waiting joined her.
"Is that Henry?" Aelin exclaimed, grimacing. "He's not as handsome as I pictured."
"Certainly not him," Sorscha said. "But his brother has grown quite pretty."
"The king's bastard?" Elide questioned. An impish smile curved her painted lips. "I've heard he rarely socializes except between sheets."
Morenna found Lucas among the gathering, and her heart slowed as if under ice. The years had done him well. Her eyes caressed his tempting features, and her hands itched to draw him; secretly immortalize him in her pages. His eyes took her in, and she wondered what they would look like if he fell in love. She remembered what they looked like when he was protecting her, at age seven, from an assassin. The lupine look in his gaze remained with her thoughts like sunspots in her vision. She wouldn't be arriving here today if not for him.
Henry approached her and broke her from her staring spell. He stiffly bowed, taking her petite hand in his and pressing his lips to her knuckles. His mouth left ghostly warmth on her cold skin. They exchanged pleasantries, and as they were being herded into the castle, Aelin whispered, grinning, "He seems to have the charisma level of a goat."
Morenna giggled softly among her friends. She resisted the impulse to glance over her shoulder and seek out Lucas. Do as mother said and think, she sternly reminded herself.
When she was able to be alone, she wanted to revisit memories. As children, she had spent more time with Lucas than Henry; chasing each other down the halls and irking servants by jumping on freshly made beds. They were unaware of challenges to come, pure and clear as water before politics and pain turned them to hard wine. They were unaware of how it looked, a future queen associating more with the king's bastard than her fiancé. She didn't know any different. She saw no titles back then, only a friend. A person.
I didn't quite know Henry back then, she thought. I might as well act as a good wife and get to know him now. She searched out his chambers, her innards twisted as rope. I especially can't be nervous to talk to him. We have countries to guide together. After a moment of gathering herself, she knocked.
The door opened, but only enough to show his face. He furrowed his brow, disdain gnarling his fair face. "What do you want?"
"I just," she began, tangling her fingers together. "I thought we could talk...get to know one another after all these years?"
"If I want you here, I will summon you. I have a pager for a reason."
Morenna drew her eyebrows together, wondering why he wouldn't fully open the door. "Are you with someone?"
"If you're going to be a queen then the first thing you need to learn is that kings don't answer to their wives." He abruptly shut the door, sending a cold gust of wind at her face. Her hand went to her abdomen, overwhelmed with bewilderment and shock. She turned and moved away. Have I done something to cause him such ill will against me? Her chest tightened as anxiety girded her like a hot-blooded serpent. She needed fresh air.
She returned to the courtyard near the stables. She walked along the well manicured bushes, brushing her fingers along the flowers that peeked out like colorful stars among a green sky. Her hand fell away as her nostrils began to sting from an onset of tears. I don't want this, she thought. I don't want a cold man as a husband. I don't want him touching me with the intent of making me carry an heir. Tears blurred her sight, burning her eyes like embers. I already see a dead, unfeeling life here.
She was to be wed as a queen of two countries, and to a man she didn't know despite being engaged since they were six. Politics was the true god, and not the man of religion himself. He had little influence. Morenna didn't want to lead two countries, much less one, and marry a man she didn't feel for. She still felt herself just a girl, not a queen. She'd rather busy herself with sketching nature than discussions of armies and raising heirs. She was limited as a queen anyway, and frustrated because she didn't understand why. In chess, a queen could move wherever she liked whereas the king was limited to one space. Why not follow the logic of the game?
In the royal court, she feared she would be ripped open and found unsightly. Her opinions tended to be led by emotion. She'd be viewed as a child; barely over five feet and ruled by feeling than thought. Her stubbornness would salt her appearance and turn her into a brat. I can't do politics, she thought. And it can't do me. Now I fear I won't have control at all over my own country in the court. If I am to survive this, I must follow my mother's words and think and be a good wife. I'm doing this for Scotland. She gripped her own hand, her chest bobbing.
The castle slipped into view, and a gaggle of lords and ladies congested the courtyard. Morenna's body heat abandoned her, and her heart became more prominent in her chest and ears. She had never favored crowds, to be gawked at like some rare jewel. The carriage stopped, but her body still felt in tune with how wobbly and nauseating the journey had been. When the door opened, corrupting her safe, hidden space in the carriage, her hands turned clammy. She wondered if she had any blood left in her, or if her body had just filled up with water and cold. She hadn't felt warm since she left her home. Nevertheless, she presented herself to the boisterous lords and ladies. She was relieved when her ladies in waiting joined her.
"Is that Henry?" Aelin exclaimed, grimacing. "He's not as handsome as I pictured."
"Certainly not him," Sorscha said. "But his brother has grown quite pretty."
"The king's bastard?" Elide questioned. An impish smile curved her painted lips. "I've heard he rarely socializes except between sheets."
Morenna found Lucas among the gathering, and her heart slowed as if under ice. The years had done him well. Her eyes caressed his tempting features, and her hands itched to draw him; secretly immortalize him in her pages. His eyes took her in, and she wondered what they would look like if he fell in love. She remembered what they looked like when he was protecting her, at age seven, from an assassin. The lupine look in his gaze remained with her thoughts like sunspots in her vision. She wouldn't be arriving here today if not for him.
Henry approached her and broke her from her staring spell. He stiffly bowed, taking her petite hand in his and pressing his lips to her knuckles. His mouth left ghostly warmth on her cold skin. They exchanged pleasantries, and as they were being herded into the castle, Aelin whispered, grinning, "He seems to have the charisma level of a goat."
Morenna giggled softly among her friends. She resisted the impulse to glance over her shoulder and seek out Lucas. Do as mother said and think, she sternly reminded herself.
When she was able to be alone, she wanted to revisit memories. As children, she had spent more time with Lucas than Henry; chasing each other down the halls and irking servants by jumping on freshly made beds. They were unaware of challenges to come, pure and clear as water before politics and pain turned them to hard wine. They were unaware of how it looked, a future queen associating more with the king's bastard than her fiancé. She didn't know any different. She saw no titles back then, only a friend. A person.
I didn't quite know Henry back then, she thought. I might as well act as a good wife and get to know him now. She searched out his chambers, her innards twisted as rope. I especially can't be nervous to talk to him. We have countries to guide together. After a moment of gathering herself, she knocked.
The door opened, but only enough to show his face. He furrowed his brow, disdain gnarling his fair face. "What do you want?"
"I just," she began, tangling her fingers together. "I thought we could talk...get to know one another after all these years?"
"If I want you here, I will summon you. I have a pager for a reason."
Morenna drew her eyebrows together, wondering why he wouldn't fully open the door. "Are you with someone?"
"If you're going to be a queen then the first thing you need to learn is that kings don't answer to their wives." He abruptly shut the door, sending a cold gust of wind at her face. Her hand went to her abdomen, overwhelmed with bewilderment and shock. She turned and moved away. Have I done something to cause him such ill will against me? Her chest tightened as anxiety girded her like a hot-blooded serpent. She needed fresh air.
She returned to the courtyard near the stables. She walked along the well manicured bushes, brushing her fingers along the flowers that peeked out like colorful stars among a green sky. Her hand fell away as her nostrils began to sting from an onset of tears. I don't want this, she thought. I don't want a cold man as a husband. I don't want him touching me with the intent of making me carry an heir. Tears blurred her sight, burning her eyes like embers. I already see a dead, unfeeling life here.
Clouds hung still in the air like dead bodies, gray as bloodless flesh. Something seemed demonic and destructive about their presence, and Nema wouldn't flinch if black electricity suddenly fleshed the sky. It would be fitting for what the sky oversaw.
"Warwickians," Leigh murmured. She watched flames feast on the Nilgaardian war settlement and swords rip away, spitting up strings of blood. "They're here." She was calm, soft like a mourner.
Her words haunted the very air as Cahir and Nema hastened away on horseback, separated from Leigh and Valencia. Nema fingered Cahir's wedding gift clasped round her throat, a choker of rubies made redder with his own blood. Two inches wide, the necklace looked like an extraordinarily precious slit throat.
She breathed in the comforting scent of his blood; black sugar and roses. Whatever they had, the love was cannibalistic; a graceless, heaving thing. Last night he bit her inner thigh and entered her blood forever. They cut themselves on each other, and tasted what gave them life. She loved blood since she had tasted his. What other woman would dare to draw blood with a kiss? The white satin of her innocence was ripped and stained red, but she'd have it no other way; not after feeling the blissful fantasy of it all.
She remembered the first rip.
"Do you see now?" Cahir's hot words on her throat dizzied her. "My tongue, the dagger at your jugular. My love, the sword at your bosom. Which do you want?"
"Both."
"It may kill you."
"I want it to."
Please, Nema closed her eyes. She pressed herself to Cahir's back. If I shall die today, let it be by no other blade than his. Let us have mercy on each other. The wind dried her eyes and the lingering smell of smoked human flesh in her lungs nauseated her. She girded her arms around Cahir's torso and focused on his frenzied heartbeat. Then she heard more heartbeats, but they were horse hooves behind them. Warwickian soldiers. "Cahir?!"
He glanced back and prompted the mare to hasten, veering it onto sharp turns in the woodland.
An arrow slammed through its neck and its footing became an old memory, sending itself along with Cahir and Nema tumbling down a steep incline.
They struck intricate layouts of rocks and trees, brutal guides to the paths of their fall. At the end, Cahir yelled out painfully from the crushing weight of the mare on him.
A heartbeat in silence reminded the body it was still alive, but Nema only felt abnormal beats, aches of damage freckling her as cuts and bruises. She struggled as if underwater to regain air in her tight chest, but something else, an outspoken instinct, occurred in her as a tingling in her shoulder blades. Her pain called out to something more alive in her than what she was now.
Cahir called her name.
She turned to her side and faced him. She sought the strength to speak. The words rose up in her like sap from a tree's wound, but lodged at her throat. She felt like a newborn whose life depended on its first words. In a soft, brittle voice she said, "Don't look away." Don't look away from who I really am.
He looked at her knowingly, anxiously.
She sluggishly rose to her feet. Her whole body was sensitive and throbbing as though she had been flayed. Blurry-eyed she stumbled about, tearing her dress away. Her heart knocked in her ears and fingertips. Nude, she collapsed on all fours like a puppet cut from its string, head bowed and hair curtaining her face. A spasm in her back, her spine collapsed in her, and she couldn't move. Nature could not compare to her raw, agonized scream. Broken vertebrae compressed her spinal cord nerves and shifted. The flesh on her back split open from the pressure in pulpy, red gashes with wet fur peeking out. The wolf was emerging from within her like a hatching chick.
Tendons popped in her arms and legs as they twisted in inverse ways. Her breaths came in short heaves as she gripped the edges of her bodily gashes and tore decisively, revealing a blood-matted vest of white fur. Teeth gritted, she tasted metallic blood as it seeped through her teeth, and the smell stung her nasal cavity. Acute pain surfaced in her hands, and wolf talons grew out from her knuckles. She tightened her clenched jaw, cracking her teeth as they fell out to make room for the wolf snout pushing itself from her lips. She looked to the sky through a bloody vision. Her old face, an obsolete mask, bunched around the snarling wolf's mouth.
She dropped to her side, and the wolf struggled to stand against the tightness of its fleshy suit as it continued to balloon in size. It feverishly shook itself, spraying a fine mist of blood and divesting itself of the human coat. The pain was gone like a severed part. Freed, the massive and imposing wolf ate the mess of hot flesh and swallowed the necklace.
Nema raised her head.
Cahir looked at her with glassy eyes, tear marks cutting rivers in the dirt on his face. He looked at her no differently than he did in their shared nights; burning with love and a little afraid of love itself. A thousand candles in his heart, a thousand stars in his mind, a thousand confessions on his tongue.
She had given him her rawest form, the most beastly birth and death of the two beings that lived in her. They were each other's witness to their truest selves, and they had the right to hope for more.
An arrow deeply kissed her thigh and she collapsed, breaking the arrow in two beneath herself. Her strained whines inspired strength in Cahir, but he could not move the dead mare off of himself.
Warwickian soldiers poured down the hillside. They weren't there for Cahir. They didn't attack the Nilfgaardian camp for any reason but his empress. They unwound balled, weighted silver chains.
The moment Nema tensed and leapt the chains whistled through the air and, coiling like great serpents, twined themselves around her. The pain from the despised metal, like cold icepicks, burned her flesh. Steam bled from where the silver touched her and she fell again, a weak fish caught in a tight net. Tears blurred the world, and her whines were soft and pitiful.
The soldiers began to drag her away up the slope, and the silver strained against her, hugging her like barbed wire.
Cahir pulled his sword from his hip and drove it into the ground, using it to pull himself out from under the dead mare. His splintered ribs threatened his heart, but nothing threatened him more than her being taken from him. He rose to meet a Warwickian. Their swords danced like spidery handwriting, but ultimately his blade became the letter opener to the soldier's abdominal envelope; freeing the bloody coils of his intestines.
His very breaths serrated him, but nevertheless Cahir clawed up the slope. His sweaty locks sliced his vision, and he barely glimpsed Nema atop the hill before a boot slammed his nose, the cartilage crackling. He fell, retracing the jutting rocks he hit before as he returned to the bottom of the slope. Blood on his teeth, he found comfort in the darkness behind his eyelids.
"Warwickians," Leigh murmured. She watched flames feast on the Nilgaardian war settlement and swords rip away, spitting up strings of blood. "They're here." She was calm, soft like a mourner.
Her words haunted the very air as Cahir and Nema hastened away on horseback, separated from Leigh and Valencia. Nema fingered Cahir's wedding gift clasped round her throat, a choker of rubies made redder with his own blood. Two inches wide, the necklace looked like an extraordinarily precious slit throat.
She breathed in the comforting scent of his blood; black sugar and roses. Whatever they had, the love was cannibalistic; a graceless, heaving thing. Last night he bit her inner thigh and entered her blood forever. They cut themselves on each other, and tasted what gave them life. She loved blood since she had tasted his. What other woman would dare to draw blood with a kiss? The white satin of her innocence was ripped and stained red, but she'd have it no other way; not after feeling the blissful fantasy of it all.
She remembered the first rip.
"Do you see now?" Cahir's hot words on her throat dizzied her. "My tongue, the dagger at your jugular. My love, the sword at your bosom. Which do you want?"
"Both."
"It may kill you."
"I want it to."
Please, Nema closed her eyes. She pressed herself to Cahir's back. If I shall die today, let it be by no other blade than his. Let us have mercy on each other. The wind dried her eyes and the lingering smell of smoked human flesh in her lungs nauseated her. She girded her arms around Cahir's torso and focused on his frenzied heartbeat. Then she heard more heartbeats, but they were horse hooves behind them. Warwickian soldiers. "Cahir?!"
He glanced back and prompted the mare to hasten, veering it onto sharp turns in the woodland.
An arrow slammed through its neck and its footing became an old memory, sending itself along with Cahir and Nema tumbling down a steep incline.
They struck intricate layouts of rocks and trees, brutal guides to the paths of their fall. At the end, Cahir yelled out painfully from the crushing weight of the mare on him.
A heartbeat in silence reminded the body it was still alive, but Nema only felt abnormal beats, aches of damage freckling her as cuts and bruises. She struggled as if underwater to regain air in her tight chest, but something else, an outspoken instinct, occurred in her as a tingling in her shoulder blades. Her pain called out to something more alive in her than what she was now.
Cahir called her name.
She turned to her side and faced him. She sought the strength to speak. The words rose up in her like sap from a tree's wound, but lodged at her throat. She felt like a newborn whose life depended on its first words. In a soft, brittle voice she said, "Don't look away." Don't look away from who I really am.
He looked at her knowingly, anxiously.
She sluggishly rose to her feet. Her whole body was sensitive and throbbing as though she had been flayed. Blurry-eyed she stumbled about, tearing her dress away. Her heart knocked in her ears and fingertips. Nude, she collapsed on all fours like a puppet cut from its string, head bowed and hair curtaining her face. A spasm in her back, her spine collapsed in her, and she couldn't move. Nature could not compare to her raw, agonized scream. Broken vertebrae compressed her spinal cord nerves and shifted. The flesh on her back split open from the pressure in pulpy, red gashes with wet fur peeking out. The wolf was emerging from within her like a hatching chick.
Tendons popped in her arms and legs as they twisted in inverse ways. Her breaths came in short heaves as she gripped the edges of her bodily gashes and tore decisively, revealing a blood-matted vest of white fur. Teeth gritted, she tasted metallic blood as it seeped through her teeth, and the smell stung her nasal cavity. Acute pain surfaced in her hands, and wolf talons grew out from her knuckles. She tightened her clenched jaw, cracking her teeth as they fell out to make room for the wolf snout pushing itself from her lips. She looked to the sky through a bloody vision. Her old face, an obsolete mask, bunched around the snarling wolf's mouth.
She dropped to her side, and the wolf struggled to stand against the tightness of its fleshy suit as it continued to balloon in size. It feverishly shook itself, spraying a fine mist of blood and divesting itself of the human coat. The pain was gone like a severed part. Freed, the massive and imposing wolf ate the mess of hot flesh and swallowed the necklace.
Nema raised her head.
Cahir looked at her with glassy eyes, tear marks cutting rivers in the dirt on his face. He looked at her no differently than he did in their shared nights; burning with love and a little afraid of love itself. A thousand candles in his heart, a thousand stars in his mind, a thousand confessions on his tongue.
She had given him her rawest form, the most beastly birth and death of the two beings that lived in her. They were each other's witness to their truest selves, and they had the right to hope for more.
An arrow deeply kissed her thigh and she collapsed, breaking the arrow in two beneath herself. Her strained whines inspired strength in Cahir, but he could not move the dead mare off of himself.
Warwickian soldiers poured down the hillside. They weren't there for Cahir. They didn't attack the Nilfgaardian camp for any reason but his empress. They unwound balled, weighted silver chains.
The moment Nema tensed and leapt the chains whistled through the air and, coiling like great serpents, twined themselves around her. The pain from the despised metal, like cold icepicks, burned her flesh. Steam bled from where the silver touched her and she fell again, a weak fish caught in a tight net. Tears blurred the world, and her whines were soft and pitiful.
The soldiers began to drag her away up the slope, and the silver strained against her, hugging her like barbed wire.
Cahir pulled his sword from his hip and drove it into the ground, using it to pull himself out from under the dead mare. His splintered ribs threatened his heart, but nothing threatened him more than her being taken from him. He rose to meet a Warwickian. Their swords danced like spidery handwriting, but ultimately his blade became the letter opener to the soldier's abdominal envelope; freeing the bloody coils of his intestines.
His very breaths serrated him, but nevertheless Cahir clawed up the slope. His sweaty locks sliced his vision, and he barely glimpsed Nema atop the hill before a boot slammed his nose, the cartilage crackling. He fell, retracing the jutting rocks he hit before as he returned to the bottom of the slope. Blood on his teeth, he found comfort in the darkness behind his eyelids.
Watching him fight enthralled her. His movements were natural. He killed fluidly like poetry. His swords wrote brutal lines in the flesh of the Fey, coating the steel in bloody ink and marking his face with red, cursive streaks. He was graceful while she was messy. She knew he was used to her barbaric displays, but she wondered what he thought of her each time. Maybe of some sort of repugnance. She couldn't tell most of the time. He kept his expression as unreadable as a scratched out face, or his cowl shielded him from her curious gaze. But he looked at her, and with a cold chest she thought she saw the smallest of smiles.
The branches, coiled around bodies softened by broken bones, creaked as they slithered through holes in the Feys' flesh. Morwenna was grateful to herself that she couldn't see them. She didn't hold grief for their deaths, but in what she could do; always in what she was capable of. Lance glanced at her, and she wondered if he would tell Father Carden about her interference with her power. Despite being used to Carden's punishments, she didn't want to be humiliated before a crowd. They weren't at the abbey for private discipline.
A wolf's distant howl instilled discomfort in her. She held her own hand, her eyes picking through the shadowed woods for four-legged forms. At least they're not bears, she thought. She faced Lance's direction and nodded. Like maggots on a corpse, hunger had been sluggishly feeding away on her energy. The use of her power leeched what she had left to offer, and her stomach poked at her in pangs.
Lance led her into the congested woods, guiding her from the surprise of pitfalls and tree roots. She defied her usual rules and stayed near enough to him that her hand, in brief moments, tasted the warmth of his. He always made her feel safe, but in the Iron Wood, festering with memories, she needed some sense of closeness.
He turned to angle their path, and her foot caught a root. She sharply inhaled, her hands finding the material of his arms. Pressed to him, their shocked hearts mingled and their heavy breaths intertwined. She should have loosened her grip, but she found herself in a place she only imagined in fleeting, risky thoughts. Lips parted, she gazed into his moss green eyes longer than she had the chance to in years. Her eyes wandered to his tear marks. Being so close, they appeared like dried blood. His hand traced the curve of her spine and settled at the small of her back. The beating of her heart fled down between her legs.
Lance and Morwenna swiftly separated before the lantern-bearing paladin could see. Her body quivered, and it wasn't from low blood sugar. She held no thrill of almost being discovered. If they were she didn't want to try to imagine what new sessions she'd have with Father Carden, or what he'd do to Lance. Gods, we shouldn't do that again, she thought. Let me fall next time. I can't bear what they might do to us. Like a horse with blinders on, she only looked ahead of her as they were brought into the camp.
Goliath was returned to Lance, and as they approached Carden Morwenna tangled her fingers together against her abdomen to appear respectful. Her stomach chilled in anticipation of Lance speaking about her use of power. She lowered her chin, briefly meeting his eyes beneath her lashes. She'd understand, but she also knew he had a choice in telling. Either way, he'd profess some sort of truth to what she was curious about; whether he'd keep a good image of himself for Carden, even if it meant she'd be punished in that gain. If he had an inkling of empathy for a creature like her.
He said nothing of it. She released the breath she had been restraining. She parted from Carden with him, and the aroma of boiling stew stirred her weary senses. She bent at her knees, the fire welcoming her like a summer's sun. As Lance bid her farewell until the morning, she angled her head to him but he kept his eyes averted. She wanted to thank him for keeping his silence to Carden, but he left to a makeshift stable before she could scrounge up the courage to.
He did more for her than she did him, protecting her from threats and sparing her from punitive measures. She wanted to express her courtesy, but her shyness weighed on her. To strip away the protective barrier she had made for herself intimidated her. She'd be exposing her soft underbelly to him and she didn't know if he wanted anything to do with it. She could have been getting the wrong idea. He was only ever beside her to protect her by Carden's order, even from tripping over tree roots. Conflicted, she warmed her stomach with an ample amount of food and then retired to her tent.
The earthy smell of rain perfumed the air, and Spring's thick breath visibly clung to the woods, concealing anything in the distance in mystery. Nothing fully existed until one walked close enough to it. The cold air made Morwenna's markings tender and sensitive beneath her clothing. She contorted her back uncomfortably. Minutes after she appeared from her tent, a paladin was frantically summoning others to a discovery not far off. Her heart spoke in quick beats. She hoped they hadn't found the Fey she strung up in the canopy of the trees.
Carden and his Red Paladins were shown in the opposite direction. Shaky, she sighed in relief. Paladins tailed Carden and the discoverer like a string of ducklings into the wood. Even their scarlet robes could not penetrate the heavy fog. It simply swallowed them. Out of curiosity Morwenna followed.
They came to a clearing centered with a mammoth-sized boulder. Littering the ground were mutilated bodies of wolves. Clean slits riddled their pelts, and their innards laid across the reddened grass in pinkish brown coils. The smell of their rotting corpses snuck into Morwenna's throat and she tasted it, rotten eggs with sickening sweetness. It triggered her gag reflex and she grimaced. The howling from last night, she thought. They might've found stray Fey, but they didn't win. It takes more than one to slay a whole pack, or it should.
Father Carden poked the dry nose of a wolf's severed head with his boot. "It appears some Fey swords eluded our net." He noted petite bloody footprints. "One child did all of this? Then this was no ordinary sword."
"Father! Father!" A paladin cried from across the clearing.
Morwenna, grateful to move away and taste the earthy mist, was taken aback by what the paladins were praying in front of on their hands and knees. Their brother was suspended up in a tree, cocooned within a mass of roots. While the paladins chanted prayer, the roots responded in possessive creaks as they stretched themselves around the paladin's body. Whoever made this display could do what she could.
Carden approached the praying paladins. "Get up." He kicked at them, earning pained groans. "Get up!" He struck a paladin across the face. "This is how you face the enemy? Shame on you. Look at it. Look at it!" He bellowed, gesturing to the trapped paladin. "This is the enemy."
Morwenna somehow felt she shared the claim of whoever did this. They were similar in their ability, but she was only safe because she helped cleanse the lands. She lowered her head. Shame wormed its way through her, barbed and cold. She would never be seen as equal or holy, or cared for. Not as long as she was a part of what her father was.
Strained, gasping noises sounded from the trapped paladin. Carden approached, his face roughly mapped with wrinkles softening with surprise. "He's alive." He turned to Lance. "I need you to kill every Fey in this wood." He ordered a paladin to cut down the unfortunate brother, and then addressed them in full. "We're looking for one Fey maid with a large sword. Take this description to Hawksbridge, Sheep Herd, and Burned Pass. Tell them that anyone harboring this wolf-blood witch will burn with her."
Morwenna slipped away to join Lance, assuming Carden wouldn't pay mind to her as the new hunt loomed over everyone's thoughts. She was usually comfortable remaining by Carden, but perhaps only because she learned to tolerate how he saw her. She couldn't now. She needed a calm presence.
She waited until they were far enough to convince herself to pick away at her shyness, the cage that protected her soft underbelly. She wanted to know. "Why didn't you tell Carden about my use of power?" It was a lesson she could have been taught by the back of Carden's hand. In response, the bruises from their recent session ached on her torso. By now they would look as if sunflower petals were rubbed on her, staining her skin in patches.
She let silence have its say after a few minutes, then inquired, "I didn't see you come back from the stable last night. You didn't sleep?"
The branches, coiled around bodies softened by broken bones, creaked as they slithered through holes in the Feys' flesh. Morwenna was grateful to herself that she couldn't see them. She didn't hold grief for their deaths, but in what she could do; always in what she was capable of. Lance glanced at her, and she wondered if he would tell Father Carden about her interference with her power. Despite being used to Carden's punishments, she didn't want to be humiliated before a crowd. They weren't at the abbey for private discipline.
A wolf's distant howl instilled discomfort in her. She held her own hand, her eyes picking through the shadowed woods for four-legged forms. At least they're not bears, she thought. She faced Lance's direction and nodded. Like maggots on a corpse, hunger had been sluggishly feeding away on her energy. The use of her power leeched what she had left to offer, and her stomach poked at her in pangs.
Lance led her into the congested woods, guiding her from the surprise of pitfalls and tree roots. She defied her usual rules and stayed near enough to him that her hand, in brief moments, tasted the warmth of his. He always made her feel safe, but in the Iron Wood, festering with memories, she needed some sense of closeness.
He turned to angle their path, and her foot caught a root. She sharply inhaled, her hands finding the material of his arms. Pressed to him, their shocked hearts mingled and their heavy breaths intertwined. She should have loosened her grip, but she found herself in a place she only imagined in fleeting, risky thoughts. Lips parted, she gazed into his moss green eyes longer than she had the chance to in years. Her eyes wandered to his tear marks. Being so close, they appeared like dried blood. His hand traced the curve of her spine and settled at the small of her back. The beating of her heart fled down between her legs.
Lance and Morwenna swiftly separated before the lantern-bearing paladin could see. Her body quivered, and it wasn't from low blood sugar. She held no thrill of almost being discovered. If they were she didn't want to try to imagine what new sessions she'd have with Father Carden, or what he'd do to Lance. Gods, we shouldn't do that again, she thought. Let me fall next time. I can't bear what they might do to us. Like a horse with blinders on, she only looked ahead of her as they were brought into the camp.
Goliath was returned to Lance, and as they approached Carden Morwenna tangled her fingers together against her abdomen to appear respectful. Her stomach chilled in anticipation of Lance speaking about her use of power. She lowered her chin, briefly meeting his eyes beneath her lashes. She'd understand, but she also knew he had a choice in telling. Either way, he'd profess some sort of truth to what she was curious about; whether he'd keep a good image of himself for Carden, even if it meant she'd be punished in that gain. If he had an inkling of empathy for a creature like her.
He said nothing of it. She released the breath she had been restraining. She parted from Carden with him, and the aroma of boiling stew stirred her weary senses. She bent at her knees, the fire welcoming her like a summer's sun. As Lance bid her farewell until the morning, she angled her head to him but he kept his eyes averted. She wanted to thank him for keeping his silence to Carden, but he left to a makeshift stable before she could scrounge up the courage to.
He did more for her than she did him, protecting her from threats and sparing her from punitive measures. She wanted to express her courtesy, but her shyness weighed on her. To strip away the protective barrier she had made for herself intimidated her. She'd be exposing her soft underbelly to him and she didn't know if he wanted anything to do with it. She could have been getting the wrong idea. He was only ever beside her to protect her by Carden's order, even from tripping over tree roots. Conflicted, she warmed her stomach with an ample amount of food and then retired to her tent.
The earthy smell of rain perfumed the air, and Spring's thick breath visibly clung to the woods, concealing anything in the distance in mystery. Nothing fully existed until one walked close enough to it. The cold air made Morwenna's markings tender and sensitive beneath her clothing. She contorted her back uncomfortably. Minutes after she appeared from her tent, a paladin was frantically summoning others to a discovery not far off. Her heart spoke in quick beats. She hoped they hadn't found the Fey she strung up in the canopy of the trees.
Carden and his Red Paladins were shown in the opposite direction. Shaky, she sighed in relief. Paladins tailed Carden and the discoverer like a string of ducklings into the wood. Even their scarlet robes could not penetrate the heavy fog. It simply swallowed them. Out of curiosity Morwenna followed.
They came to a clearing centered with a mammoth-sized boulder. Littering the ground were mutilated bodies of wolves. Clean slits riddled their pelts, and their innards laid across the reddened grass in pinkish brown coils. The smell of their rotting corpses snuck into Morwenna's throat and she tasted it, rotten eggs with sickening sweetness. It triggered her gag reflex and she grimaced. The howling from last night, she thought. They might've found stray Fey, but they didn't win. It takes more than one to slay a whole pack, or it should.
Father Carden poked the dry nose of a wolf's severed head with his boot. "It appears some Fey swords eluded our net." He noted petite bloody footprints. "One child did all of this? Then this was no ordinary sword."
"Father! Father!" A paladin cried from across the clearing.
Morwenna, grateful to move away and taste the earthy mist, was taken aback by what the paladins were praying in front of on their hands and knees. Their brother was suspended up in a tree, cocooned within a mass of roots. While the paladins chanted prayer, the roots responded in possessive creaks as they stretched themselves around the paladin's body. Whoever made this display could do what she could.
Carden approached the praying paladins. "Get up." He kicked at them, earning pained groans. "Get up!" He struck a paladin across the face. "This is how you face the enemy? Shame on you. Look at it. Look at it!" He bellowed, gesturing to the trapped paladin. "This is the enemy."
Morwenna somehow felt she shared the claim of whoever did this. They were similar in their ability, but she was only safe because she helped cleanse the lands. She lowered her head. Shame wormed its way through her, barbed and cold. She would never be seen as equal or holy, or cared for. Not as long as she was a part of what her father was.
Strained, gasping noises sounded from the trapped paladin. Carden approached, his face roughly mapped with wrinkles softening with surprise. "He's alive." He turned to Lance. "I need you to kill every Fey in this wood." He ordered a paladin to cut down the unfortunate brother, and then addressed them in full. "We're looking for one Fey maid with a large sword. Take this description to Hawksbridge, Sheep Herd, and Burned Pass. Tell them that anyone harboring this wolf-blood witch will burn with her."
Morwenna slipped away to join Lance, assuming Carden wouldn't pay mind to her as the new hunt loomed over everyone's thoughts. She was usually comfortable remaining by Carden, but perhaps only because she learned to tolerate how he saw her. She couldn't now. She needed a calm presence.
She waited until they were far enough to convince herself to pick away at her shyness, the cage that protected her soft underbelly. She wanted to know. "Why didn't you tell Carden about my use of power?" It was a lesson she could have been taught by the back of Carden's hand. In response, the bruises from their recent session ached on her torso. By now they would look as if sunflower petals were rubbed on her, staining her skin in patches.
She let silence have its say after a few minutes, then inquired, "I didn't see you come back from the stable last night. You didn't sleep?"
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