#tupperwip

I was tagged by @ark-inkweaving (thank you!) You can see his post here!

If you see this and you'd like to take part, consider this an open tag!

I went with the Tupper's Tale lot, though the picrew didn't suit everyone, so I just went with the characters that worked.

Thanks to @gullwrites for tagging me! Here is approximately 7 sentences from a Tupper WIP chapter I was reworking today:

“Are you from the Provinces?” Hob asked as he watched the monk's hands dive into the rich loam. Meregrund chuckled. “No, boy. I was born in Aventir, on the Northern coast between Witherfleet and Marskham, but my parents were Atlan merchants. I was taken under the Night Father’s wing after the flux took the rest of my family.” Hob was silent for a moment. The flux rarely touched small village communities, it was an illness of the waterways and the great coastal cities, but even Hob's pastoral home knew of the way it boiled and bubbled and melted your insides. It was not a death to wish on anyone.

Day 2: First

(friend)Ship: Hob & Eddy

WIP: Tupper's Tale

Warnings: Mention of non-specific, off-screen domestic violence

~*~

The two of them stared at the illumination on the page in silent curiosity. It was a full half a folio in size, surrounded by an intricate frame of curling leaves and vines, adorned with delicately crafted moon flowers and gold leaf that still shone despite its age. It was not the richness of the decoration that had truly captivated them, though, rather, it was the image itself.

Painted in the varied shades of twilight were two figures; one a full-figured woman, large and soft, golden and rosy as the dawn; the other tall and slender, swathed in all the deep colours of dusk. It was the Dawn Mother and Night Father themselves, locked in a close embrace, lips touching, eyes closed in clear and vivid ecstasy.

"What do you suppose they're doing?" Eddy said into the quiet of the scriptorium.

Hob couldn't meet Eddy's eye, and felt his cheeks begin to warm. "They're kissing, Ed. Have you never seen a couple kissing before?"

"Of course!" Eddy spluttered. "But not like that."

"That's how a husband and wife are supposed to kiss." Hob said, slightly wistfully. His own parents had never kissed like that, not that he could ever remember. Whenever his father had touched his mother it was with force and intent, and he had never seen his mother smile as the Dawn Mother did, in blushed hues of halcyon joy.

Eddy broke Hob's reverie with a shaky question. "Have you ever…"

Hob shook his head. "Have you?"

Eddy confessed that he had not either, and both fell back into silence, just staring at the two figures on the parchment.

"What do you think it feels like?" Eddy's voice was hoarse.

"They look like they're enjoying it." Hob replied.

Eddy scoffed. "They're gods, though. I'm sure everything feels wonderful to them. I mean, do you think it feels good for ordinary people?"

Hob looked up at Eddy then, gratified to see that his face was as flushed as his own. "Did you want to try it?"

Eddy's nose wrinkled, but his gaze kept flitting back to the open page. He nodded once.

Hob nodded in return and turned to face his best friend. He had kissed his siblings on the cheek and on the head before, he had even been treated to a kiss on the lips from his smallest sisters on occasion. How different could this be?

They both angled themselves to match the illustration. Touching one another's faces was awkward, but if that was how it was done, then that was how they were going to do it. They both leaned forward, and Hob felt his eyes flutter shut as his lips met Eddy's.

There was a moment after initial contact, when the cold of spit-slicked lips warmed, and the feeling of flesh upon unfamiliar flesh became less odd. It was this moment that Hob let his lips part, when they both could feel the heat of the other's mouth, and the strange touch of a tongue.

The two sprang apart spluttering theatrically. Hob was pulling a face while Eddy hurriedly wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve.

"That was awful! Why would anyone want to do that?"

"You must be right about it being different for the gods." Hob said. "I'd never make the faces they were making while doing that."

I changed it for a variety of reasons, including but not limited to turning down the fantasy aspect of the story so much that parts of the map became irrelevant.

The layout is still something I think I like better than the one I have currently for it, and since I feel like I've improved a lot in the 7 years or so since I made this, I decided it needed a revamp:

Day 6: Forbidden

Ship: Hawley/Meregrund

WIP: Tupper's Tale

Warnings: Minor character death, discussion of funeral arrangements, cremation

~*~

Brother Hawley had arrived at Ryneminster already a young man. He was not new to the Church of the Night Father, of course, he had been cloistered at a smaller enclave east of Rathburch since he was a boy, but Ryneminster's old sactrist had passed away and the Abbot Kentigern had written to the Abbot Indract and requested they send their most meticulous brother. Indract had sent Hawley.

So it was that, green as he was, Hawley was installed in Ryneminster as the under-sacrist beneath the Abbot Kentigern himself. He knew the job inside and out, the bells were rung on time, the candles were always resfreshed, and there wasn't a flask of oil misplaced. Hawley was, for all intents and purposes, a perfect sacrist. At least, from the outside.

The day Hawley had met Brother Meregrund was not memorable in the slightest. He had been part of a group introduction in the scriptorium, alongside Brothers Jermin, Tancred, Ruffin, and Guthlac, and had not stood out in particular. He was a larger man the others, not in height but certainly in frame, and his skin was a shade darker, but there was little else to distinguish him. It wasn't until several months after Hawley first arrived at Ryneminster that he came to remember Meregrund's name out of anything other than professionalism.

Brother Guthlac had been of an age where his skin seemed little different to the parchment he had spent so many years painting, brittle and translucent. His limbs were spindly, thin in places and knobbly about the joints, and though his illuminations were by far the best in the scriptorium, it took three times as many candles to cast enough light on the parchment for him to see clearly enough to work. All of that is to say that very few were surprised by his death, he simply slipped into the Night Father's arms quietly and was not noticed until the bells were rung for dawn prayers and for the first time in nearly eighty years, Brother Guthlac did not attend.

It was Hawley's job to see him sent into the night with correct ceremony, and it was in the sacristy, preparing for that ceremony, that Brother Meregrund found him.

"I do not mean to disturb, Brother Hawley, only I had a request to make of you. I shall not be offended if your answer is no, but I would regret not taking the chance to ask."

Hawley regarded him for a moment, his usually bright demeanour was dimmed with grief, the kind not simply for a brother, but for a friend. He bid him continue.

"I work in the gardens as well as the scriptorium, and Brother Guthlac taught me all I know about the plants there. He showed me how to mix madder root, and properly prepare turnsole and crocus. Without his instruction there would likely be not a drop of ink in all of Ryneminster." He sighed and reached into his habit, producing a small pouch. "He was a gentle soul, and never more at peace than when in his garden. I know it is not usual to change the incense, but I think he would appreciate being sent off with something more familiar."

He handed the pouch to Hawley almost sheepishly. Upon opening it, Hawley was met with the distinct bouquet of dried lavender. Sure enough, in the small bag was a selection of round, grey blossoms.

"It is not usual, you are correct. Lavender has a strong presence, the Abbot will notice it amongst the balsam and torchwood."

Meregrund's expression did not change, but Hawley could see a light dim in his eyes. His answering smile was sad.

"I understand."

The disappointment in his voice stung more than Hawley had expected, and watching him walk away, lavender pouch cradled gently between his hands, he couldn't help but feel that he had made the wrong choice.

On the day of Guthlac's funeral, the pyre seemed too large for the frail body lain atop it, but smaller still was the congregation there to bid him farewell. It appeared that Guthlac had kept to himself so much in his later years that many of the younger monks did not deem him relevant enough to attend his funeral. Hawley was surprised to find that despite his earnest pleas the day prior, Brother Meregrund was not in attendance either. This would have been a blow to Guthlac, and Hawley felt sorry for it.

Nonetheless, he swung the thurible, in swirling patterns about the pyre as he spoke the last rites in a clear but sombre voice. He set the candle to the south west corner, then to the south east, then to the north east, but before he could light the last finial wick, he heard a voice from behind him.

Hurrying towards the pyre as best he could was Brother Meregrund, his arms laden with what appeared to be over half a garden's worth of fresh lavender stems, so many they were all but spilling from his embrace. He stepped up to the pyre, caring little for the flames slowly engulfing it, and released the flowers in a blanket atop his friend and mentor. The sight and smell of the lavender swathed the scribe's small body like a shroud, in shades of green and grey and purple.

It was beautiful.

Meregrund watched Hawley carefully for any sign of rebuke. Their eyes did not leave one another's, even as Hawley lit the final corner and stepped back as the flames rushed over Guthlac and his flowers alike.

All the while the flames flickered in Meregrund's gaze, and Hawley felt a heat within his own chest that had nothing to do with the fire. Finally, Meregrund nodded minutely, a thank you, before closing his eyes and breathing in deeply, the smell of the lavender overwhelming the usual funerary incense. Somehow it felt right.

That moment, watching the Meregrund in the glow of the flames, in mourning but at peace with his actions, rooted a profound respect in Hawley that simply could not be shaken. He felt shame at his own inability to make such a meagre exception to routine, one that may not have made any true difference to the sending of Brother Guthlac's soul, but certainly made a difference to Meregrund's.

Hawley made a point of visiting Meregrund in his garden after that. As he walked along the gravel paths between the loamy herb beds he saw the shorn lavender bushes and his shame swelled within him.

"Brother Meregrund." He said softly as he approached, voice less certain than it perhaps had ever been.

Meregrund looked up from his spot, knelt by a patch of tansey. Whatever Hawley had expected to find in his gaze, it was not there. Instead there was unexpected warmth.

"Brother Hawley, it is not often you grace our poor garden with your presence. How may we be of service?"

Hawley felt a blush rush to his cheeks. "It is not the garden I came for, I wished to speak to you. About Brother Guthlac."

Meregrund hummed thoughtfully and stood, brushing the soil from his hands on his habit. "Perhaps we should take a walk, then?"

Nodding, Hawley followed Meregrund further along the path. "I wished to apologise, for denying you the easier path. I feel that any rebuke the Abbot may have given you should more deservedly be given to me."

"Whyever do you think that?" Meregrund replied.

"It was cruel of me to deny such a request when it was asked so humbly. It would have been such a minor change to routine, and one that would have been easy for me to explain. Instead I forced you into a position where more drastic action had to be taken. I regret this."

Sighing, Meregrund led him around to where the lavender bushes had been blooming. "No action that was taken was required of me, Hawley. Guthlac was like family to me, and his death affected me profoundly, but I let that grief get the better of me. You were well within your rights to deny my request, and I did not begrudge you it. In my grief I cut down the lavender bushes that Guthlac had loved so much, thinking that they would ease his passing into the arms of our Father Night. Instead, with greater clarity now than I had before, I realise that he would have preferred the bushes to continue to grow and flourish, not burn with him. That is a shame I must carry with me."

"If I had not denied you your pouch of dried flowers, you never would have thought of doing such a thing." Hawley said, his voice rough.

"Perhaps. But look here, see how even though the flowers were cut, the bush has already started growing anew."

Sure enough, Hawley knelt down to see green shoots beginning to sprout at the junctions where they had been cut.

"Life is forgiving of our mistakes, should we not also be forgiving to one another, and to ourselves?"

Hawley looked into Meregrund's dark eyes then and felt such fondness blossom in his chest it took all his willpower then not to kiss the man. To take his face between his hands and press their lips together. To pour this new affection into it just so that he might share in this revelation.

He had never found anyone as beautiful as he found Meregrund in that moment, all of his passion and impulsivity tempered by gentle care and understanding. He could not sully this man with such thoughts, yet he ached for it.

"Perhaps I may be more inclined to forgive myself if I were allowed to make amends somehow." Hawley said at last.

"There are no amends to make, but if you wish to help this garden in Guthlac's memory, we would be very grateful."

Day 5: Worship

Ship: Hob/Kent

WIP: Tupper's Tale

Warnings: Semi-voyeuristic make-out sesh, blasphemy (of a fantasy religion), mild sexual content

~*~

It had been a week since Hob and Kent had first shared a bed, and in the flush of a new relationship, it had been all that Hob could think about for each of those seven days.

He didn't regret moving back into his rooms with Eddy, he had missed Eadwig and their close companionship more than Hob had been willing to admit. However, it did mean that there was little time that he and Kent could spend with one another in private, and only so many times Hob wanted to risk being caught scaling the trellis outside Kent's bedroom window.

It was torturous, spending prayers on his knees in the chapel, catching glimpses of Kent from across the room, looking up to find him already watching, pale cheeks flushed pink. So much so, that upon completing noonday prayers, Hob found himself hidden in the shadow of one of the pillars nearest the doorway, watching Kent bid farewell to the priests, waiting for him to come within arms reach.

Kent almost cried out when he felt a hand close around his wrist, tugging him from his path out of the chapel, but upon seeing Hob, his jaw snapped shut, eyes widening as he crowded him against the nearest wall.

"What in the Father's name do you think you're doing?" Kent hissed.

Hob placed a finger against his lips and gestured to the washroom before pulling him behind the curtain.

The washroom was empty, of course, for all supplicants washed before prayers, not after them. The midday sun was spilling through the windows like pale gold, reflecting off the small tiles in dancing fragments that flickered as Hob and Kent's shadows followed them to the far corner of the room.

Hob pulled Kent forward, and Kent fell helplessly against him, giving in to the desire thrumming beneath his skin, pressing their lips together in a wet, open-mouthed kiss.

"There are still priests in the chapel." Kent murmured, but his voice had all but dropped an octave, thick with want.

"Then we had best say our prayers." Hob replied between kisses.

Kent groaned, mouth falling to the crook of Hob's neck. "Oh my Mother of the Dawn, we have been purified-"

Hob gasped, part shock and part pleasure. "That's blasphemy!"

"In the name of the Life and of the Day," Kent continued, trailing kisses up Hob's neck, breath hot in his ear. "I worship the Life and the Day, of your making, oh Mother of the Dawn."

Hob canted his hips upwards, meeting Kent's own with a hiss of pleasure. As Kent rolled his hips in return, Hob heard himself join his prayers breathlessly. Fervent words of worship dripping from their lips, falling between them, molten and sweet as syrup on their tongues.

As the crest of their pleasure built, and built and finally broke over them, the room seemed to fill with light so bright and warm it left visions of stars behind their closed eyelids.

Hey Azzy! Happy WuBWub, and thanks for the question!

I love worldbuilding generally, I think it's maybe the most fun part of writing, but I guess if I had to choose a favourite part it would be crafting the histories, and the minutiae that make a world feel "established".

By this I mean creating identities not only for the main characters, but for the cultures they are from, working out how they fit within the boundaries of the countries I've named, then working out how those countries and cultures fit into the world around them too.

Nothing takes me out of a fantasy story more than hard lines. Nowhere in real life has ever had hard boundaries delineating language and culture and race and identity. People have tried to implement them, of course, but humanity is too fluid to be contained that way.

So when you have countries with borders next to one another, you have to expect that there would be a blend of cultures nearer the border. Those who live near the border might speak both languages, they will likely share a climate so will naturally be sharing the same kinds of foods and wearing the same kinds of clothes. I love working out where those lines blur in my fictional societies.

I mentioned how that works for Postmaster WIP a little in this post from a while back, but I'll maybe expand on what I mentioned in this post as to what that means for other WIPs like Tupper WIP here:

This is a rough map of the Tupper WIP world, not as detailed as the one for Postmaster WIP, but here you have Aventir sandwiched between The Western Reaches, The Eastern Provinces, and the Atlan States.

Unlike Postmaster WIP where the era I base my worldbuilding off is around the late 16th century in Northern Europe, Tupper WIP is based more in the 11th century and earlier and more in the Mediterranean. We're talking Early to High Middle Ages, so we're looking at the Byzantine Empire, the Umayyad and Abbasid Caliphates, the Visigoths, the Carolingian Empire, you get where I'm coming from?

So, knowing about the Middle Ages during that period, in the places a lot of my worldbuilding takes inspiration from, it becomes a fun puzzle to piece together how my fictional societies work under that framework.

The Western Reaches have a very different cultural background from Aventir, the Provinces, and Atla, but bordering Aventir, there is more cultural similarity between them than the others. The Provinces and Atla are culturally close as they had one been under the same ancient empire, and the coastal regions of Aventir share important waterways with the Atlan states, so there is more cultural crossover and multiculturalism in the north than in the south.

Hob! I've not thought about Hob in a while, what a great opportunity to be feral about them for a hot second!

Hmm... it's really hot today, so let's see what Hob would do on a hot day...

If they were at the monastery, Hob would almost definitely be trying to get Eddy out of his duties to sneak off to the orchard. Even if there are no apples to steal, there'll be shade and a breeze.