Bronwen's Journal

Saw this on @scribeofskyrim's page and wanted to join in! I've never shared writings before, so no-one would have known to tag me. Afaik, the other game is still live, but I figure this is "two cakes" territory =^.^=

How it works:

⭐️ Pick a 5–8ish letter word and give us an excerpt from your manuscript that begins with each letter!

⭐️ When you're done, tag your friends and give them the same word, or a new one of your choosing!

I choose: SHADOWS, and I'm lifting from "Honour Amongst the Damned" — a short ghost-story that is thinking of being longer?? This bit happens to be from Ancano's point-of-view. Nat is, uh, unavailable.

-----------------------------

S

"Sanyon, go with him."

The pair left without a word, retreating footfalls soon lost in the turbulent weather without.

The house had been strongly haunted when the three Altmer and Morvas had procured it as their base of operations in the plains, and Ancano was certain that the dead had not been laid to rest—

H

He didn't know her name or story. Didn't want to, but often-and-often he'd spied the bitter wraith loitering in the mill, or listening-in during meetings if they didn't drive her off, or yet on dark nights running just above the fields, hair streaming in an otherworldly gale.

Well, the gale was real tonight, and the moons were dark.

A

Always goes to the lungs in your lot, doesn't it, interrupted the voice, sing-song. Drowned in his own blood yet, has he?

"Let me concentrate, hag!" (One more interruption, he told himself, just one mor—)

Oh well, no-one will mourn h—

An electric shock-wave, boosted by cold fury, shredded the taunting spirit to ash, as Ancano saw when he deigned to look.

Grey fragments sparkled, edged with violet, as though in moonlight.

Something fluttered amongst the remains, parchment-like.

...It was parchment...

D

Daedric writing glowed faintly green in the gloom. The wind howled.

Sneering at the smoking heap, the mer stumbled back onto the bed, pulling a candle on the sideboard closer with a hand that shook slightly.

"The ghost was carrying a spell on it," he explained, although he was fairly certain the other couldn't hear him. "Could be a curse, I shan't read it aloud."

To his surprise, the officer's eyes fluttered open for a second.

New leaves on an overcast day, Ancano thought, fondly. Not the most stunning colour ever given to elven-kind — but they're his, and I want to be able to look into them every night, dammit.

O

Ondolemar addressed his bodyguard. "Zenolia, stay by the door. Elanté? Keep an eye on the Bosmer, but don't be a de'nt about it — offer to help."

The soldier disappeared smartly into the cellar, armoured steps muffled.

W

"Which direction?"

"North, sir." (This was Sanyon). "They fluttered down on us—"

Faendal interrupted. "Horses don't flutter, small birds flutter, butterflies—"

The agent glowered at him. "We can speak only MY language, if you prefer, Overseer, and see how well—" he began.

Ancano's luminous stare caught them both a second time.

Sanyon continued the tale:

S

Said Ondolemar, loudly, seemingly to no-one in particular: "You know, suspicion is a fine trait in a Justiciar, but it's colder than an Argonian's arsehole out here and I can't be BELLOWING the passphrase through solid oak, now, can I?!"

Ancano sighed, and glanced back up the stairs, to see the others' faces, pale and tense, in the gloom, watching.

Stay sharp, he mouthed at them.

He shot open the hatch in the door.

After a moment, a haughty green gaze deigned to fill it from the other side.

-----------------------------

No-pressure tagging @anilliscarts @theoneandonlysemla @cresu @chiqita @dark-brotherhoe @rebornflameofthenoldor and anyone else who wants to share!

Tagged by: @fallen-chances

Tagging: @oblivions-dawn, @nuwanders, @yewphoric, @scribeofskyrim, @sylvienerevarine, @hircines-hunter and anyone else who'd like to!

From Ebonsong Verse II: Mercy Mirror Chapter 13:

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

The Knight in Chitin Armor alternately titled Paint This On My Van

thinking about classic knight imagery but morrowind flavored

Your hobbies are here to help you decompress and have fun. They do not have to be disciplines you toil over for expertise, unless that is something you genuinely enjoy doing.

but it's an entirely new level of tragic when somebody you've actually spoken to gets turned into a bot account. it's like peeking at a zombie apocalypse through the window and realizing one of the shambling corpses was your friend.

and then the zombie catches sight of you, lurches up to your window, and shouts through the glass that they accidentally reported your account to tumblr and you'll be deactivated unless you click this link.

if you get something like this ↑ they're gonna follow up by instructing you to contact tumblr support on discord and give you contact info; or they're gonna link a website that looks sort of like tumblr support and say you have to email them; or any variety of "you must now contact tumblr, here is how you contact tumblr."

whatever they send you, it Does Not lead to tumblr. it leads to the master zombie that bit them and inducted them into the ranks of the undead, and will bite you the second they have your email and password. i might be confusing zombies and vampires. anyway,

it's easier to fall for these messages because the blog doesn't LOOK like a bot blog, because it ISN'T a bot blog. it's a normal person's blog that got accessed by a bot, meaning the blog's content CLEARLY looks like a real active user when you click on it. and yes—it might even be a blog you already know. sometimes bots like this go down a blog's DMs or reblogs and message people they've previously interacted with.

[id: x/twitter qrt from user styloshka that says "I read a forum post about art once, that it's a product of the dialectic between the effort of the artist and the friction of the medium. You push on the thing and the thing pushes back on you, it has its own voice. The weight of a piano key, the tension of a guitar string." original post from user colleen_daves says "Don't you want to skip over the mindless drudgery that is making art?" I do six stand embroidery and break like 10 needles a day, would I prefer that activity didn't hurt my hands and make me angry? Sure. But that's what makes having the finished piece after so worth it to me."]

I loved the slow methodical mediation of the stretches before class. I loved the quiet discipline of the barre exercises, the endless repetition, the feel of me shaping my body into the same forms, closer ever closer to correct.

Most of the others didn't rush onto the floor the moment it cleared to stretch alone.

Most of the others complained endlessly about barre. For me it was part of it. All of it was dancing and I loved dancing in every fiber of my being, pushing ever pushing at the boundaries of what my body can do.

It was never boring to me, not even the most mundane, repetitious parts. I gave no fucks for those few performances in front of the audience; I was dancing for me and that included doing feet positions over and over at the barre. It was doing the thing that mattered and I loved every second of it.

I was the same way with the assorted marital arts styles I studied over the years until my body gave out. The spars are the glamourous bits, but I loved the drills too, repeating, repeating, repeating.

I was the same way with candle wicking and needlepoint, my fingers reading canvas. My fingers mindlessly going in and out or doing the knots over and over.

A well-known writer got collared by a university student who asked, ”Do you think I could be a writer?”

”Well,” the writer said, ”I don’t know. . . . Do you like sentences?”

writing poetry helps one discover if you love micro-writing: if you love choosing the perfect word and shaping the perfect line (usually a word or phrase), you'll love writing longer works. if you find laboring over each word fun - is this the perfect noun? the perfect verb? the best way to arrange these words to reinforce your goals and have your desired effect on the audience? - you'll do great as a writer

if you find that process tedious, you'll probably be happier doing something other than writing, or at least doing a different kind of writing (less dependent upon the words)

I found out a few years ago that I'm apparently a type of dyslexic who often writes sentences longer, more complex, and - in early drafts - with phrases and clauses out of order. also makes me read really slowly, as I frequently need to go back to the start of a sentence or paragraph and re-read to understand the rest

so writing is one of the most difficult things for my to do

but I love it, and I get great pleasure out of expressing thoughts and feelings and sharing the human experience, so I breathe through the writing and editing process, I let myself really sink into it, hyperfocus until I've gotten out all the words that will come that day. and there's little in the world more satisfying than that

Fundamentals are the foundation of fun.

I have to admit that this really is the secret to physical accomplishment. You have to do it until you are able to be terrible.

You start being unconscious regarding your competence, to practice and practice and practice. You then start to learn and develop consciousness regarding your incompetence at the skill. Then you practice, and practice ad nauseam. Eventually become competent enough to be conscious of your competence. Still need to practice and practice and practice and practice as you progress towards becoming unconscious of your competence. The practice is not something you can montage through.

Ilaba’andul-Sul Etana am'Urshilaku