You actually cannot skip to being good at a creative endeavour that you haven't put much practice into. You cannot trick your way out of the 'knows that your work is not what you want it to be but don't know how to improve it' stage by planning or reading or talking about it really really hard. At some point you just have to craft through it until your brain finds it's own unique way back to the 'everything I make slaps' stage and be prepared to start the cycle all over again. You just have to make that project you're excited about slightly less good than you want it to be. (Says this standing in a pool of blood and covered in blood and also coughing up a little blood)
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Whumpee's kingdom lost a war badly, so theyre married off to the ruler of the enemy kingdom, whumper, in hopes that it satiates whumper's cruelty against the beaten down people of whumpee's kingdom. In this way, whumpee is a glorified war prisoner.
Or... more like a pet or trophy. Dressed up and paraded around as a sign of victory, brought unwillingly to whumper's chambers... its a "marriage" sure but no one is pretending whumper and whumpee are equals.
And say whumpee escapes. Where are they gonna go? Sure whumper's kingdom won the war but theres still plenty of soldiers in their kingdom that never came home. If whumpee got away theyre suddenly behind enemy lines in a land of people with such resentment for whumpee's people. The same might be true behind the castle, but at least then they have the protection of being whumper's property spouse.
Whumpee loves their home and would do anythung to protect it... but it hurts that they were just traded away so easily.
My desire to be insufferably pedantic in the use of medieval knowledge (ie things like braies being medieval underwear, strappado being a real torture technique common in that time and after, egg whites being used in helping close wounds) currently means I am spending ridiculous amounts of time reading scientific and historical papers trying to find out if there’s any for sure real known medieval drug/herb/something that could cause conscious paralysis. So far I’ve learned that there was a popular medieval anesthesia called dwale that used hemlock and henbed and opium poppy but it causes unconsciousness for sleep and surgery. And there’s something called curare (or urari or curari) that’s made from a dozen or more barks and such from South America and has the desired effect but WOULD NOT WORK FOR A MEDIEVAL EUROPE SETTING
excuse me while I lose my mind down this rabbit hole instead of just going “there was a paralytic drug”.
They nearly came to blows. Leander sprang around the side of the bed to seize Rainier’s arm. Rainier shook him off, growling, turning the dagger in his hands. He was taller than Leander, more muscled, better practiced, but Leander had the grim determination to stop him slitting Emauri’s throat. He flung himself over Rainier’s shoulders, clinging on as Rainier stumbled backwards, falling heavily to the floor. Leander reached over him to grab the wrist that held the dagger.
“Let it go,” he panted.
“Have you gone mad?” Rainier bucked, trying to throw him off.
They thrashed on the floor, Leander keeping hold of Rainier’s wrist with gritted teeth. “Let it go!” he shouted again. “Let go, Rainier!”
Rainier tried to shake him one more time, and then- reluctantly- he opened his hand and let the dagger clatter to the floor. Leander released him to snatch it, and by the time he’d scrambled up, Rainier was on his feet too.
They faced each other, chests heaving, standing over the bed where Emauri lay.
Rainier spoke first. “You know who he is.”
Leander didn’t bother denying it. “Yes.”
“You know what he’s done.”
“Yes.”
“Why won’t you let me kill him, then?”
“Look at him.” Leander gestured to Emauri’s still, pale form. “He’s half dead already.”
“Then it would be a mercy.” Rainier spoke with clenched teeth. “A mercy he doesn’t deserve. You know what he and his father did. To you. To me. To Abril!” His voice was getting louder. “How dare you, Leander? How dare you bring him here? How dare you bring him anywhere near my wife when he’s part of the reason she wakes up screaming at night?”
“It was Baron Antonin that hurt her, Rainier.”
“And that little snake stood by and watched! And laughed! Laughed, while his father tortured a woman who had done nothing to them!” Rainier stepped around the bed, grasping Leander by the shoulders. His eyes were filled with real concern, mixed with the anger. “The Tarasques were almost your death. They took me, they took Abril, they hurt us to get you to surrender. They would have given you to the king in chains. You would have been killed, Leander, and not quickly. Not like I’m going to kill him.”
“But they didn’t.” Leander reached up with his free hand to close it over Rainier’s. “You got Abril out and got to me in time. The king is dead and I am alive and he’s paid for it, Rainier, he’s paid. You didn’t- you didn’t see the gaol.” He turned away, closing his eyes as the memory of the dark cell floated up before him like a ghost.
Rainier threw another glance to the pitiful sight on the bed. “How long?”
“I think almost since the last battle. Seven years. Years, certainly, if not all seven.” Leander clenched his fist. “They had him in the lower cells. There’s hardly any light down there. It’s dark and it’s wet and it’s cold and he was chained and he’s sick and I-I couldn’t leave him.”
Rainier was silent.
“Part of me wanted to. Part of me said it was justice. The road to where we are now was such a hard one to walk. You know it, Rainier, you walked it with me. But nothing I went through is worth a man dying slowly for seven years.”
“Is what Abril went through worth that?” Rainier challenged.
Leander shook his head. “I can’t answer that. I don’t think you can, either. Tell Abril. You’re my captains. If both of you can’t stand it, I’ll send him away.”
“Back to prison?”
“I- I can’t, Rainier. I’m tearing the old gaol down.”
“We have other prisons.”
“He’d die. He might die even now. But another prison would kill him for sure.”
Rainier jerked a shoulder in a way that very clearly meant And?
“I’ll send him somewhere far away.”
“That’s worse.” Rainier shook his head, his ginger ponytail flicking back over his shoulder. “I don’t want to be wondering when he’ll sneak back in the night. Friends close but enemies closer, right? Does that door lock?”
“Yes,” Leander answered. “I picked this room carefully.”
That didn’t stop Rainier. He moved all around the room, checking the windows to be sure they couldn’t open, looking over the furniture for sharp or heavy pieces, examining the lock on the door at a dozen different angles. When he straightened up, his eyes were hard, and Leander knew he was talking with Second Captain Velue, not his friend Rainier.
“I am posting a guard outside this room.” The words were cold and measured. “At all times. You, myself, and Abril may enter. No one else goes in, and no one else comes out.”
“He’ll need a healer,” Leander pointed out.
“I’ll speak with Master Brindle. After I speak with Abril.” Rainier looked over again at the still form on the bed. “And Leander- you don’t come in here alone.”
That had some of his friend in it, not just the captain of his guard. “He’s too weak to hurt me,” Leander said.
“I don’t care.” Rainier folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not going to give him the chance. You come here with me, or with Abril. If she decides she can stand to look at him.” His lip curled.
Leander sighed. “All right, Rainier.”
“One more thing.” Rainier glanced at Emauri again. “If he wakes, will he be able to leave that bed?”
“No. There’s something- his leg. And he’s not strong enough anyway.”
“I want to make sure of it. Even if he’s weak as a kitten, I’m having him chained.”
“Rainier, no. He can’t even stand, he doesn’t need-“
“I don’t care, Leander.” Captain Velue had melted away. He was Rainier again. Somehow that might have been worse. “I don’t care. I will not risk you, and I will not risk Abril. It’s shackles or the dagger, Leander. Choose your iron.”
Leander could have ordered him not to do either. He could have ordered him to stand down. He was the Lord Protector. He could have.
He did not.
Instead he let a sigh slither between his teeth, and gave in. “A chain, then. A light one. And on his good leg.”
Rainier answered that with a single nod. “Come on out. I’m locking him in while I wake Abril.”
Leander followed him out of the room, watching as Rainier locked the door and made doubly sure it had bolted. And then they were friends again, and Rainier clapped him on the shoulder before he went into his and Abril’s quarters, and Leander heard her shout grumpily and the distinct thud of something heavy and Rainier cursing her impeccable aim.
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This raffle has been a long time coming as a late celebration of 500 followers and general gift to the whump community.
What's being raffled?
A waist-up greyscale sketch commission of a single character.
Any character, any pose, any whump.
Rules:
To enter, please reblog this post. That's all!
You don't have to be following me to enter (but I mean you could be that would be very cool of you.)
The raffle will end on March 20th, and one winner will be drawn via a random name picker. The draw will happen around 4pm GMT (10am CST).
I will DM / send an ask to the winner to let them know they've won. They then have 24 hours to confirm, or I'll pick a new name.
[Optional] Add in your reblog tags which character you would want drawn in a precarious situation :V
Thank you to everyone out there for sticking with me (and my un-knowable, unstable schedule of posting things) I read every comment and every tag, and I'm very grateful to everyone who enjoys my blog in the open or in the shadows.
Good luck to everyone who enters! 🦎
Whumper who was captured and has been locked up for a long time. They are a smug bastard, enjoying the suffering of others and seem to have no remorse about what they did.
For years, nothing happens. The Team can move on.
Until a problem arises. And soon it becomes clear that the only one who can solve it, is Whumper. Maybe they have a specific set of powers, knowledge, skills, etc. It's just something nobody else but Whumper can do.
So someone has to go get them, and make a deal with them.
Whumper looks different in their cell. Not as strong anymore, not as polished and clean. But that smirk and knowing eyes are still there, and Caretaker hates seeing it. Hates knowing what needs to be done.
"Hello, Caretaker. You seem desperate. Need some help from little old me?"
"What makes you think I'm here for help?"
Whumper chuckles. "Why else would you be here? To have a friendly chat? To kill me? No, you need something. And now you're crawling back to me and break your vow to let me rot here. So," a polite but dangerous smile, "what do you need?"
writing advice for characters with a missing eye: dear God does losing an eyes function fuck up your neck. Ever since mine crapped out I've been slowly and unconsciously shifting towards holding my head at an angle to put the good eye closer to the center. and human necks. are not meant to accommodate that sorta thing.
other things I'm bitching about but which could still be useful as writing advice for 1 eyed characters:
2. they're going to favor their sighted side, obviously, but it doesn't always manifest in the way you think. when I walk down a hall I walk much closer to the wall on my sighted side than on my blind side. which is the opposite of how it might seem logical to do that bc it means the world at large is on your bad side, but the reason is I can't fucking See the wall if it's right next to me in the blind side and I end up knocking into it.
3. door frames and poles are my enemy. If your character is smart this will not be a problem but for me it is. I am King of walking into shit I could absolutely see but couldn't tell how far away from me it was. on this note, their blind side hand is getting bashed into every jutting out thing in a 5 mile radius.
4. having 0 depth perception is less of a big deal than you'd think it is. Especially with driving. I've become a Much safer and more wary driver because I can't tell how far the other cars are from me. however I fucking suck at parking now. because I can't tell how far the lines are from me either.
5. you know how people who lose limbs get phantom pains? that happens with eyes too but like. phantom sights. for me it's like. a lot of bugs. like every so often my brain will just put something suddenly skittering beside me there. hate that.
6. it is completely possible to "get stuck" somewhere because your ability to tell how wide a space is is just Gone. shopping isles especially where bumping something or Someone is matter of embarrassment or potentially breaking something. it can be legitimately paralyzing and also irritate everyone around you because they can tell there is Plenty of space for you to get your cart through even if you can't.
7. if the eye is still in their skull it can still be the normal kind of painful. Glares off of shiny surfaces causing weird sharp pains you can't figure out the cause of are genuinely one of gods greatest tests of my patience.
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Hey all. I don't do this. I really don't. But my partner and I are kind of struggling right now. With me calling out of work so much recently and taking hits of no pay, we might be in the negative once our first week of the month bills hit. And can't afford late fees.
So if you want to help, I have my ko-fi goal set up for that. Just $200, though anything you can spare would help. Bonus you get access to some of my future books if you do. So that's something.
This is the link to my ko-fi. If you'd rather via paypal (though that's what I have ko-fi set up with since I don't have Stripe), then dm me. But just like, I don't know what to do.
But the poor child- she had to stop thinking of him as a child, he was fully seventeen- really did look ill. And if she could see it, so could the rest of the room. He sat very straight on the golden throne, as was proper, and he did not seem in danger of toppling over. But his skin was flushed, his temples beaded with sweat, his eyes red-rimmed, and the way he furrowed his brows told her that he was being tormented by yet another of his headaches. She thought she saw his fingers trembling on the armrests. Even his hair looked limp and lifeless under his crown.
"Your duty, yes, I know. But your duty can wait for a few days. The people already lost your dear parents last year, what will they do if they lose their prince too? I won't have you exhausting yourself."
"Close your eyes, Your Highness," she told him, keeping her voice low. "I'll send for some of that tea you like so much, the way I make it. And I'll tell the servants to leave you be for now." She brushed the sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. "Does it hurt very much? I can send for the doctor-"
"I know, sweet prince." She let herself fall back on the childhood nickname, as improper as it was to use for the prince regnant. "Once you drink your tea, you can sleep, all right? As long as you like. I'll handle everything."
She left the room quietly, so as not to disturb him. The tea things had been laid out in the parlor just beyond. A single gold filigree teacup, carefully set just so on the silver tray.
Whumpees who are chronically disconnected from their body. Whumpees who get asked if their pain is sharp or dull and literally don’t know the answer. Whumpee who doesn’t notice they’re cold until someone points out they’re shaking. Whumpee who doesn’t notice they’re hungry until they black out from standing up too fast. Whumpee who genuinely can’t tell when they’re over exerting themself because it all feels the same. It’s not that they don’t feel pain, it’s that they’ve learned to see pain as something constant and unavoidable, not something to be fixed, and they can’t distinguish between different kinds of pain anymore. They’ve learned to ignore the signals from their body while they were powerless, and now that they can prevent or fix pain they still aren’t attuned enough to their body to know how.
Just… whumpees who learned dissociation as a coping skill and now have to unlearn it. Whumpees who deeply benefited from being disconnected until they were safe, making it that much harder to unlearn
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a friendly reminder that surgery scars, even ones that are healed and years old, are felt anytime you stretch that part of your body.
have scars on your chest or back? you feel them when you reach up to turn the light off before bed. scars on your knees? you feel them anytime you bend your leg too far.
it doesn't hurt, at least not in my case, (it feels somewhat like if you put a finger inside your mouth and pull the skin of your cheek out - a gentle pull, but no pain) but i've never seen this detail written into whump or recovery fics and when i do, it always adds so much more realism into the story.
in some cases (and here, i'm speaking solely in relation to scars on your chest, since that's what i know from experience) the healed scars will be so sensitive to external stimuli that even wearing clothes is tortorous. alternatively, the whumpee could loose all sensation in the area. i was given about a 10% possibility that one of those might happen to me, and thankfully I avoided it but they'd both be interesting to see written into whump fics, especially recovery ones.
When Caretaker just kind of incorporates Whumpee into their life, and doesn’t treat them any different than they do with any of their other friends even though they know what they’ve gone through.
They don’t baby them. They don’t tiptoe around them. They just treat them like a person. Like any random person. Like any of their friends.
(Unless, of course, its something specific to accommodate an unavoidable trauma, but Caretaker has never made a big deal about “such little changes to make you feel more comfortable. If you don’t want me to touch you or crowd you, thats no big deal! I make sure I have vegetarian snacks when Other-Friend comes over. It’s basically the same thing!”)
Whumpee appreciates this more than they could ever express to Caretaker. And their nonchalance about it all just makes it so much easier. After years of not feeling like a real person, being treated like one just feels so…. normal. Nice. … Better than nice. Incredible.
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