#pen dips

(See this link for the full list.)

3) Prompt: your character is now a vengeful wraith.

It took death to show Ourida Asabana how much life had been a burden.  All that breathing and caring, that adornment and mating and -- done now.  Other Awakened busied themselves with trying to duplicate their mortal lives, but what a waste.  What a waste of potential, of freed time, freed everything.

She scratched words into her leathery skin with the dark talons her fingernails had become.  Words, names.  Places.  Villages that had not worshiped Palawa Joko as they should have done.  Her uncle who ‘liberated’ her from her contentment at the Necropolis.  The ‘good’ people who helped her uncle sweep her away from study and purpose.  The outlanders who swarmed Elona for treasure and knowledge and disruption.

Palawa Joko was not gone.  Gathering his strength, yes.  Plotting, strategizing. All of history since his first rise showed his brilliance.  He would come again when he was least expected, and Ourida would sink gratefully back into service with the ease of sliding into a warm bath.  Hail Palawa Joko.  Hail the Endless King.

The first village that had fed her after her uncle’s kidnapping -- they were weak already after famine and attack and all the other miseries the outlanders had brought to what had been a sovereign land.  Others of her kind moved among the living humans.  None bore the sigils of their masters and princes -- no, they wore the bright colors of their clans, or simple village attire.  An Awakened elder walked beside a woman who held a babe.  They laughed together.  Ourida would have choked back bile, had she still known how.

A whispered word, and minions stretched bony appendages up through the sand and dragged themselves to perch by her bare, blackened feet.  A bilious green miasma shot through with orange and grey seeped from her pores, her mouth, her sunken eyes.  A sentry saw and cried an alert just before one of her minions rolled forward in a lopsided, limbless tangle to drag him down into the sand. 

21) Prompt: There are stairs. An endless, winding well of stairs, going up and up and up. And I can’t get out.

He knows, by some fleeting shred of logic and sanity buried deep, that it is folly.

This does not, however, dissuade him.

It is with him in both the waking and the unconscious—there is no such thing as true sleep here—in the mania and the ever-shortening lucid moments (although he cannot truly distinguish between the two anymore). 

The stairs unfurl in an endless fractal above his head, and no matter how long he tracks their path, each time they are swallowed into the darkness.

He cannot tear his gaze away, though. A gap of light pulsates there, a mere pin’s head in length across, and it is enough. It beckons. There is a tug in his fëa, an insistence that drives him well nigh to madness if he turns away.

He climbs.

the stones beneath his feet raze like fangs and drink of his lifeblood with relish—

The stairs are whirling, heaving, roiling with impatience. They bear down upon his chest and it is so hard to breathe. He hastens onward.

There is not much time, though he cannot recall why.

something fractures, deep inside, and he stumbles, buckles against the steps

blood speckles his hands and hacks its way up his throat to drool on the floor

(he must hurry)

There are two sets of eyes, one of molten fire-gold and one of scalding, gouging ice (like the knives that peel back his skin), and the cruel twist of lips that croon venom and hurt into his ears, but each time he looks up, it is there.

The winding stairs—

If he could just take that next step-- 

(but he is so tired and his limbs are so heavy)

His legs bear the weight of mountains and there is a tidal roar in his ears, and something hot and viscous slicks down his back to the stone and he slips…

he cannot remember the how or why, and so he presses on

The light is there, at the center, waiting. It’s right there. He merely has to reach it, and then all will be well. 

Because he knows, he knows, that beyond it is everything: his father and brothers whole and hale, the Black Foe cast down, and, further still, an elf, dark mane entwined with gold thread, reaching out—

Coldness encapsulates his wrist, bites through rot and ragged flesh. His shoulder wrenches under his weight, but that image is burned behind his eyelids.

There is nothing but the staircase, nothing but the light, nothing but the world past it.

1) Choose a character. What do they smell like? (If you do not fulfill the 300-word count, add another character in!)

It hurts to breathe.

Every inhalation is a reminder of the parts of herself she has lost, and of the demon that breathes in their place.

Always, she smells like death. It manifests, though, in different forms.

Sometimes it is the blood rusting beneath her claws from battle or prey or unfortunate prisoner. No amount of cleaning can rid her of the scent of all the lives she has ripped away, and she has slowly learned to accept the lingering proof of her sins. The revulsion never dissipates, but she learns to live with it.

Most of the time, it is herself that reeks of ruin and decay.

Everything about this form is farcical, more burial shroud than aught else. She died long ago: that which remains is a paltry imitation of something that was once vibrant and alive. Her skin is more ash than flesh; lava pumps sluggishly through her veins. There is forever a furnace blazing within her, but as much as it reduces all around her to ash, so too does it sear her in a fiery agony from which she can never escape. This body is as much a prison as the dark fortress above her head.

The stench of smoke and charcoaled meat from her demonic form overlays every other scent she encounters, makes it rancid and unbearably repugnant.

She learns to hate the world of scents she has lost. She learns to torch it with bursts of flaming blade and whip of livid fire.

That whip devours the flesh of a back in strips, and with such vile pleasure that it threatens to overwhelm her. Her comrades (that is not the word she would use, but the Hells of Iron is hardly the place for reckless insubordination) revel in the spluttered, hysteric pleas and the scent of terror that lies thickly over a jeering court of devils and beasts.

With each stroke she shears from the elf’s back, she cleaves more of her own soul with it. She inhales, and tastes the sound of his dying screams in her own throat. She chokes on them, doubling over. Her brethren look on, puzzled, as one of their own nearly suffocates on seemingly nothing (but they can’t taste it, they can’t smell it on her like she can).

And the Dark God looks on, his lips curling upwards in black amusement, eyes on her.

He knows, and how she hates him for it.

He carried a scent once, of something wondrous and alluring. Of freedom. Of adventure. Of greater creation than had ever been envisioned before.

(a lie, of course, only a lie)

In the hopes of seeing that promise fulfilled, she, and many of her kin, had abandoned lands that carried a scent of peace and serenity amidst ocean breezes and lush forests—in exchange for volcanoes that belched smog and the flesh of prisoners who were so miserable she could smell that poisonous emotion on their corpses when she fed upon them.

6) You are forced to clasp onto your character’s hands. The reason why is a scenario for you to figure out. What do their hands feel like?

It is purely a reflex, you repeat to yourself. You, who have seen more crimson sunsets spill over corpse-laden fields than there are hours in a year, are most certainly not anxious on the eve of a battle. Even so, you reach out to clasp your lord’s hands with your own in the bustling heart of the war camp, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the curious glances of passers-by or the question flickering in his eyes. Instead, you focus on your grip, a stable, physical tether in a sea of unwelcome thoughts.

His hands are scarcely larger than your own, but there is a weight to them that yours do not possess. It is not only the head that grows heavy with the burden of the crown, you suppose.

They are the hands of a warrior, and, much like your own, are calloused and proudly bearing the marks of unknowable hours wielding a blade. The strength in them is of the kind forged in the savage furnace of combat, of one who knows his worth because he has determined it for himself through action and choice.

War is not yet upon them this night, and thus your lord has foregone wearing the black steel gauntlets he so favors. Their absence leaves you a clear view of the tapestry of small white scars that litter the backs of his hands. They are a testament to past torments in the Inferno, to agonies kept locked away in the silence of the lord’s mind. You trace a few of them gently with your thumb. It is a marvel he has survived this long.

But then, you should not be surprised. For as gentle and non-threatening as these hands may be now, you have seen them at other times. They have wrought ruin and glory, have pulled lava from the depths of the Earth’s core to wield against foes, and crushed the hearts of stars to hammer into blades of celestial iron. These hands, ostensibly battered and weakened and rendered nondescript over the sweep of eons, have rent asunder the empires of the creatures that choke this planet with their existence. And from that lovely chaos, he has been an architect of a new world (just like Him), and thus bears also the hands of a Creator. In all things, he has had a part.

“Xaphan.”

At your name spoken in a tone so familiar your bones ache, you startle, but finally force yourself to meet the gaze of your lord. There is naught but puzzlement and affectionate camaraderie trained on you, but those ageless eyes once beheld the Beginning of all, and though you too were present, still you feel small when stood before this being. Beneath the kindness is steel and unsullied might, severe and unrelenting in their intensity even when not directed at a specific focus.

At your continued silence, your lord tilts his head ever so slightly and his brow furrows in concern. “Tell me, my friend, what thoughts plague thee?”

You attempt a smile, but the strain of deception wears on you. “Ah, well, naught of import, my lord. Merely the wandering thoughts of an old soldier.” He sees through you, you both know, but he will be kind enough to spare you your pride in admitting it.

Your lord lays a hand upon your shoulder, a solid, reassuring pressure that automatically draws forth memories of past moments just like this in another lifetime, in another age. He squeezes, not unkindly, but in it you can feel an echo of the strength that once laid Heaven’s armies low. Instinctively, a part of you relaxes while another trembles. Somehow, though, everything will be well.

          “Trust me,” he says, once more drawing you back to the present. “If thou art in doubt, look to me. I’ll not lead thee astray in this battle. I swear it.”

This time, your smile unfurls more easily and genuinely upon your face. You believe him. Your lord’s indomitable pride remains, but rather than crafted from baseless, mad arrogance, his is now a confidence born of a vast experience with agonizing triumph and failure.

2) Choose a location, be it fictional or real, from your own imagination or from another’s. Wait until you are hungry. Then, describe the most stereotypical yet high-quality meal that place could possibly provide.

Solvej didn’t know why she’d come back to this place. Or what the hell she was doing.

The five empty beer bottles on the table and the sixth one clutched in her hand had been no more forthcoming with answers than the knives tucked carefully in her boots. Absently she remembered she’d yet to wipe her brother’s blood from the blades. She could almost hear the lectures berating her for carelessness with her weapons.

(whatever. It would happen again tonight, anyway. Again and again and again…)

There was nothing here for her but a familiar smell of well-loved books and fresh food, the soft chatter of the other patrons that filtered unnoticed through her ears…and memories—memories stamped in this place as thoroughly as ink on page or flesh or bone that made Solvej ache to the point of pain. These days, though, everything did.

(feeling especially masochistic today, aren’t we?)  

She was vaguely aware that she hadn’t eaten all day, a fact to which her stomach had taken great offense and was currently loudly reminding her of its disapproval, and she’d already made a few half-hearted forays into the meal in front of her, but…well.

Grilled beef filet. Artfully displayed amidst roasted potatoes and varied and colorful stir-fried vegetables. It’d been Søren’s favorite, the only thing he ever ordered when he managed to drag her into this café whose walls were chocked with shelves of stories. Hunched over a small table pressed between a bookcase and the storefront windows, Solvej wished she could melt into one of them now.

Instead, she drizzled the red wine sauce over the plate, did not think about how much it looked like blood, and shoved a bite almost petulantly into her mouth, trying to ignore her thoughts. Why did I come here?

It certainly wasn’t because of how happy Søren had always looked when he was seated across from her, inhaling this damn dish while Solvej grumbled about why do you always have to buy the most expensive thing on the menu? I’m the one paying here. 

(Everything had made her brother happy. Every stupid little thing. And of course his cuisine choices were partially her fault. She could never tell him no…)

And it definitely wasn’t because it had been their routine whenever they came into the city and now Solvej was forcing herself to eat something she didn’t even like because if her brother couldn’t be here to enjoy it himself then she would do it for him—

‘One twin can’t do it so the other one takes their place in their memory,’ or something, right? Damn it to hell. I am not that stereotypical.

She devoured the rest of the plate unceremoniously, ignoring the taste and how cold it had gotten from sitting in front of her so long, drained her last beer, and cut a hasty trek to the exit without any trace of reservation.

1) Choose a character. What do they smell like? (If you do not fulfill the 300-word count, add another character in!)

(I’ll be using my oc’s and wip to fill these prompts)

Sara smells like fresh laundry and Axe Phoenix, though she'd never admit to wearing it, of course. On some days, she smells like sweat, not in the 'you need a shower' way, but in the 'just spent two hours jogging' way. On other days, you can smell whiskey on her breath, and the Altoids she's been eating to try to hide it.

Kate smells like Irish Spring shower gel, and whatever homemade perfume she's decided to wear on a given day. She makes her own scents from essential oils she buys at the local flea market. Her favorite scents are dominated by jasmine, rose, clove, or patchouli. Sometimes you can catch the faint scent of cigarettes or weed in her hair, but never during school hours.

Kelly smells of the earth, like she just walked around in mud. On good days, she smells like medical cannabis. On bad days, she smells like cheap beer and cigarettes. On any given day, you can smell a hint of something kind of clean, just barely there, the smell of generic hand soap from a public restroom.

Erin smells of strawberry champagne. Not the real thing, of course, at least not during school hours. It’s just body spray from Victoria’s Secret. Sometimes she smells of cigarettes, but only when she’s been hanging around with Kelly.

Lila smells of clean sheets and honeysuckle. She smells of strawberry champagne after spending time with Erin.

Trixie smells of coffee, fruity candy, and baked goods.

Crystal smells of coffee, peppermint, and clove cigarettes.

There was a candy on the arm of her chair. It was a stick of sugar, mostly white save for a slightly purple pink stripe winding around it and wrapped entirely in plastic. There was no note or anything else to explain why it was there or who had left it. There was just the candy stick and its horrible plastic wrapper.

The Lady grimaced as she picked the candy stick up. Plastic was so… tasteless, especially here in Fairy. Everything in Her demesne was natural. Clothes were made of silk and cotton and wool, none of that dreadful nylon or polyester, and items and food were stored in wood or metal or fabric bags. Plastics had no place here.

The plastic didn’t even have anything useful on it. It had a white rectangle with black stripes on it, and something that said “American Fork”, though She had no idea what “UT” meant. A person’s initials, perhaps? Then the plastic wrapper declared that the candy stick was supposed to be pomegranate flavoured, though nothing in the ingredients list mentioned the fruit. The main thing in the stick appeared to be sugar, and the fourth thing mentioned was “natural flavours”. That seemed like an awfully useless description to Her. Lots of things had natural flavours. The stick could taste like strawberries or apples or like nothing but sugar.

The Lady called for one of the humans. A young woman with dark hair answered the summons, and the Lady held up the candy stick.

“Who was in here last night?”

The human looked blankly at the stick candy for a moment. “Nobody should have been here, My Lady,” she said. “We were in the kitchens most of the night, preparing for this evening.”

The Lady put the candy stick in the human’s hand. “Dispose of this outside Fairy, then return to your duties.” She wasn’t accepting it. The plastic needed to go and She didn’t accept treats that appeared from nowhere. She certainly didn’t accept treats where the giver just left it there before leaving without saying a word about what was expected in return. Accepting it could open her up to all sorts of trouble.

“Fucking hell...” Kent stared out the window, not sure what to think. Something had happened overnight. All the deciduous trees he could see had suddenly lost all their leaves, and not a one of them looked like they were still alive. Buildings didn’t look quite as straight or real as they were supposed to. Grass had turned brown, the neighbour’s giant spider decoration was now a real giant spider, and despite the clear skies and the rising sun, everything felt slightly grey. The air smelled like a terrible mix of sugar and decay.

It almost made him want to visit a Bath & Bodyworks store to over up the smell. The sweetness reminded him of Fairy.

“What?” Lucy asked as she made her way into the kitchen. “Why’re you swearing?” She yawned.

“Have you looked outside yet?” Kent asked. He turned away from the window. Lucy looked like she’d only just gotten up, and she was headed straight for the kettle.

“No. What happened?”

“It looks like the neighbourhood’s trying to be Halloween Town,” Kent said, motioning to the window.

“Hmm?” Lucy stopped at the stove and turned her head. “Well. That’s… unexpected.” She frowned. “I guess I know what we’re doing today then.”

“I really hope this is just a Halloween thing.” Kent looked back out the window. One of the neighbour teens, dressed up in a pair of jeans and an orange T-shirt with something black on it, had left their house and started menacing the giant spider with a broom. The spider crawled up into a tree and looked down at the teen. The teen put a hand on their hip and glared up at the spider.

“Is that today?” Lucy asked. “That might be it. If somebody wanted Halloween to look a certain way, it might just end at midnight.”