Mira / Lorei (whichever rings nicer). Amateur artist & writer... And also a pun enthusiast, a perpetually tired undergrad maths student, a spoonie, and I'm not sure what else. Probably something else also.
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He who herds the dandelion seeds, the noble steed of fae. His voice shattering the early hours of the day, he -- the shadow at your beck and call... provided that a price is paid.*
*- cheese slices are an acceptable form of currency. Just remember not to get yourself lured into a mushroom circle, hm?
Designs inspired by my lovely friend @my-day6 and her wonderful corgo, @pippin-rally-corg >:3 I'm overjoyed to hear that you liked the trinkets from me đđ
â¨Which court will you choose? [Corgi merch link]
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You know, there is a bit of whimsy in making merch of your own characters. It feels like, hm... A cherry on top? A cherry on top. I know I will get those printed for myself when I have all the designs ready for a bulk order.
The weather is so beautiful. The spring has come again and as simple as that is, I am so grateful for it. I am grateful for the days getting longer and for the sun shining bright, for the snow melting and soaking into the ground. I am grateful for the half-frozen warmth and...
... It is just lovely, you know? To look outside and to instantly feel that wave of gratitude roll through you.
The lady working at the local crafts/office supply store was nice to me. I fixed the pocket in my coat. My friend sent me some tea and other goodies, as my birthday is close. I have another card to add to my collection.
You know, I used to think that I was decent at writing sad stories. It used to be cathartic in a way and all my sadness would evaporate once put into words... Well, no longer. Things changed after I got sick.
How do I even say it? My feelings are lead-heavy when I try to lift them to my lips, but feather-light when I sit with them or push them aside. Sadness doesn't seem as sad, pain doesn't hurt all that much, and all in all, it isn't a bad state to be in.
... But I don't think I can write a decent sad story like this.
The weather is so beautiful. The spring has come again and as simple as that is, I am so grateful for it. I am grateful for the days getting longer and for the sun shining bright, for the snow melting and soaking into the ground. I am grateful for the half-frozen warmth and...
... It is just lovely, you know? To look outside and to instantly feel that wave of gratitude roll through you.
Sometimes, late at night, I think back to the time I spent at my previous uni... And I realise that, involuntarily, I am often a humble walking rage bait.
For the word of introduction, my previous university is a prestigious institution with a long, long history to boot. Perhaps some of the professors teaching there are just as ancient. Apparently, some people dream about studying there, but I did not. What is more, I believe it was generally not that different from the unis my former classmates went to? Not on any particularly meaningful level.
With all that in mind, please imagine me, a bumpkin from the east, who applied to it just because it was the option with the least inconvenient commute route. People had big stories and even larger dreams, and all I had was a direct tram. I suppose it would be bearable if I was dumb or otherwise incompetent, but I did pass all of the exams I've taken there.
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You know, at times I envy the writing skill of other people. The imagery they build, the eloquence with which they describe even the smallest of gestures, the complex trails of references they scatter between the lines... It is so beautiful in my eyes that I wish I also could achieve it.
I try my hardest to learn and to hone my craft. However, in this particular case, I never seem to reach exactly that. Surely, I improve, but the effect I arrive at is different. What is even more interesting is that, well, I don't exactly mind it much?
The words that exit my mind are not the most subtle, not the most erudite -- or at the very least, I don't think they are. They still are the product of my internal environment. They are mine and I have every intention to truly own them, to make them mine, to temper them like steel. And if I ever tire of them completely... I will smelt them all over again and hammer them into a new shape. With my own two hands.
It never ceases to surprise me that what my culture considers to be polite often earns me a headache online. Hmm... Curious, curious.
Over here we consider directness to be a sign of respect. We expect people to be able to hear things and process them. After all, if you ask a question, you have to be ready to hear the answer. Who would be to blame if you didn't like it? To us, it is generally a non-issue. Other people aren't there for you to enjoy.
To make matters interesting, however, there is a category of people that you are socially permitted to be indirect with... Yet I'd wager the guess that you wouldn't want to be included among them. It is the childish, unpredictable people, the ones who have an extremely short fuse, blow up over any small thing, cause scenes in public, act unreasonably, and generally, are a real pain in the ass to deal with.
So, if a Pole beats around the bush with you? They are either going an extra mile to accommodate you or think of you poorly enough to feed you bullshit.
There is something really curious about the various ways in which people create and manage their characters. Some prefer to plan ahead, to hammer out every detail before fully immersing themselves into their work... And in all honesty, that is rather hard to imagine for me?
I often find that the best way to "get to know" my character is to write them. I generally have some plan, I know what the end point is... But how do they get there? How do they react? That is to be found out in the moment, as it happens through the words. In that vein, writing those short stories I've been posting has been a really neat exercise :D
Although... Perhaps what I am describing is just pantsing with a few extra steps added.
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~1300 words // character backstory series // original story // fantasy
Emilia loved the smell of rain and the way it wafted through the air. She loved it when it settled over her skin, wrapped the collar locked around her neck in a thin mist, cooled the scuffs underneath the metal⌠She loved it most when it muffled the stench of rust. For once, she could taste something fresh in her mouth. The chains still rattled, but her eyes had regained some light. Grey rather than blue, they awaited the first coming of dawn.
The fae retention grounds, more commonly known as Barakan, were an enclosed complex located at the very edge of Syvina. It consisted of three residential buildings, one correction facility, a hospital, a kindergarten, and a humble park. It hardly differed from Mrazna or Dykal, or any other somnolent town for that matter â its people lived to die, albeit at their own pace and time, tucked away from prying eyes in red-brick tenements growing among oaks and poplar trees. Steam still rose from above enamel pots left on stoves, children played with pebbles, adults left out seeds for birds and drank tea from chipped mugs; Barakan only changed at night, when crystals scattered across the narrow streets glimmered to life.
They⌠never had to hunger, never went thirsty for long.
Emilia turned on her cot, the springs underneath her choking on dust. The light pierced her eyelids, luring her consciousness back into the grey cell and urging her thoughts to wander from corner to corner, to deepen the paths they had already etched into the cold cement floor. Something rattled on the other side of the wall.
âTo hell with this crap!â a prisoner yelled, as he did the night prior and any before that. âLet me out! Let me out!â
âShut it, Yaro,â a woman groaned, perched right at the edge of her bed. âPeople are trying to sleep.â
âBullshit! You canât get any shut-eye here, âElena! They want to wring us dry, you know that!â The floor shuddered, metal grating against metal as hinges strained to remain unmoved. âIâm getting out, ya hear me?!â
âYouâre making it worse. Thereâs literally no point.â
âWhy bother? Youâre wasting your breath,â another prisoner joined in. His tone measured and voice low, he spoke unhurriedly, as if waiting for the brief moments when the commotion subsided. âHe wonât listen either way and heâs not exactly wrong either.â
âPetro, you too?â Yelena shook her head.
âHave you ever seen somebody get back?â
âThere was Lilja.â
âShe got pregnant,â Petro chuckled. âBut I bet youâve never seen the kid.â
âLet me out! Guards! Guards! Let me out!â Yaro gripped the cold iron once more, the collar strangling his neck beginning to emit light. âWhat have I even done to deserve this?!â
Silence.
âWhat have YOU done to deserve this?!â The bars shrieked against the floor, crunched like glass underneath heavy boots. Yaro bared his teeth and snarled, red rage flooding his face and dripping from his thick beard alongside saliva. âYou canât tell me itâs sane!â
âShut up,â Petro muttered. Overgrown hair fell into his eyes and his back hunched over, a leathery hand pressed against his ear. The hem of his sleeve seemed to have rotten away, black mould weaving its hyphea over the sparse warp threads to then eat through the weft. Petro shivered, shrunk further into himself.
âYour bitch of a wife was cheating on you!â
âI swear to the Architect, shut the fuck up!â Petro yelled. He sprung up, chipped nails clawing at the wall between their cells.
âThe Architect is dead, just like âMilaâs brat!â Yaro slammed his fist, plaster giving in under his knuckles. Thunder barely contained, the corridor shook, mortar crumbling where it lay between the bricks.âHow the hell is any of this fair?!â
Emilia turned onto her back. Face hidden behind her arm to shield her from dust and debris, she lay in deadly stillness. She didnât want to listen or to hear, to be and have to think. Sleeplessness had robbed her of reason, filling her mind with distorted images in its stead; she saw her Stas, his open arms, the playful sparkles igniting in his eyes as wind ruffled his chestnut hair, and her beloved Andriej, strong and lively and so, so, so quick to laugh. That boy, like skin taken off his fatherâs back. Once upon a time she despaired over carrying him for nine months just to learn he wouldnât resemble her in the slightest. Now she wished she could see his face again.
Another tremor ran through the building. Emilia curled into a ball. What little plaster had still clung to the ceiling finally dared to let go. It came down crumbling. Right over Andriejâs head.
âPetro, thatâs enough!â Yelena rushed to the bars of her cell.
âSomebody gotta rip his tongue out!â
âWhen have I said anything that wasnât true, ha?!â Yaro stomped his foot and the first bar clattered to the ground. âSend me the guards! I wanna talk!â
Andriej wouldnât get up. Blood began to pool around his head, caved in yet still mostly intact. Emilia watched as his shoulders raised to draw in a shallow breath. Her lip quivered.
He wasnât real.
Her boy was long dead.
He couldnât be killed again.
âLet me out!â
Her legs moved of their own accord. Crumpled like a leaf in fall, Emilia crawled her way to the fading mirage, trembling fingers weaving through his hair. Just to feel it, to this time say her goodbyes properly, to ease his pain, to apologise⌠First and foremost, to apologise for every day he wouldnât see for himself.
The chains rattled.
Humming of tree crowns filled Emiliaâs head. Her back burned. Condensation from the wall cooled her nape.
Steps.
âThat is precisely why youâre isolated.â
Emilia couldnât see. Her collar stung and began to heat.
âSoulless.â
Steps. Closer. Closer every second.
âAnd unable to even pretend that youâre human.â
Yaro screamed with the power stolen from a gale, so loud his lungs must have expanded as far as the iron bars allowed. The wind tore through his entrails and ripped out his voice as it escaped, fuelling the storm until it faded to a gentle spring mizzle. His hands remained strong, however, and he had a clear use for what little breath still remained trapped in his chest. Quiet now, Yaro urged another melody into the air, composed entirely of groaning and rapid, fragmented breaths.
Gurgling stopped at last.
Emilia fell to the floor. The door to her cell opened.
âWill you come? Or will you let them drive you crazy?â Yaro coughed. âYour choice.â
The key to her collar landed beside her head. Her gaze slid across it, down the dirty floor, and towards Andriej, her little boy lying quietly where she left him under the plaster. Just as dead as a moment prior. If she stayed, she could still keep him, still hear the distant echoes of his laughter, she would forever remember every detail of his face. Perhaps Stas would eventually join them too, and even if only within the constrains of that cold, moist cell, they would be a family again. Her heart beat faster at the thought, sweat coming over her hands. Emilia knew her answer. She would do anything, sacrifice anything, to turn back time⌠Exhausted out of her mind, Emilia propped herself on her elbows and resumed her crawl, back to where her life was torn apart. Her legs refused to lift her body. She wasnât meant to stand up anyway. She â
Pat. Pat. Pat.
Emilia loved the smell of rain and the way it wafted through the air. She loved it when it settled over her skin, washed away the nightmares and the sweat. She loved it most when it slid beneath the collar and the key clicked inside of the lock. Emilia shed her arms and legs, let go of her teeth, fingers, golden hair and the blue eyes her Stas so once loved. Her body shrunk, morphed, joints twisting and turning while tar-black feathers sprouted over her form. Now a crow, Emilia flew out of her cell and soared high. Precisely like she was meant to.