Another #WIPWednesday for this week, and no it's not the spicy Neve/Rook thing, sorries!
The wonderful @floofpaldi hinted at wanting some Emmrich, so I'm working on a thing. Excerpt below:
https://write.as/theriverwrites/wip-wednesday-2
#AlanaDeRiva #EmmrichVolkarin #Veilguard #Fanfiction #MyWriting
#PennedPossibilities 704. Share a scene or two with us that you’re proud of writing.
Probably my favourite scene is The Dance, a rewrite of the famous dance scene with Wyll from Baldurs Gate 3. I challenged myself to only use dialogue that appears in game, and expand on the emotions behind it.
https://write.as/theriverwrites/the-dance
I also really like the second scene ("Where Are They"?) in this Injury Dialogue Prompt vignette, and want to expand it into a proper story one day.
https://write.as/theriverwrites/injury-dialogue-prompts
Thinking of making #WIPWednesday a thing on here, as a way of kinda holding myself accountable to finish some of the drafts I've got floating around.
Anyway, here's a little Neve x Alana flirtation that may turn into something more 🌶️ if I can ever figure out how to write it.
"A little Rook, out for a flight"...
Here's a little scene of a young Alana, an angry but protective Viago, and how the Crows deal with problems.
New story! 🧸🧸
Alysia Goldenseal, Teddybear Princess Ch.5
https://shaker-e.dreamwidth.org/8132.html
In which a forgotten friend returns!
Possibly forgotten even by the author! 😅
Forlorn - Chapter 8 - Apprenticeship
Finally! Oomph, this one was hell to write and it's also Forlorn's longest chapter so far, sitting at almost 4k words!
In this one, Crow and Arnath at last get to meet Lord Calmbank's ghost - but the job doesn't go as smoothly as they'd like it to.
You can read it here! --> https://archiveofourown.org/works/55294801/chapters/169144012
As always, I will be eternally grateful for any comments. To the people who already told me what they think - thank you, you guys are my fuel to keep doing what I'm doing! <3
I need to write more. I've got ideas but no motivation at the moment.
Until then, all my fanfic stuff (mostly Veilguard currently, though I want to write more Baldurs Gate stuff too) is all here:
For the evening crew: https://blackbirdpublishing.com/interview-scents-drifting-on-a-breeze-by-meyari-mcfarland/
First time I've had a proper interview about one of my stories. Also a lovely anthology full of amazing haunting stories. Mine is very soft, very light and very gentle. Others are... not.
Enjoy!
#writing #publishing #newrelease #interview #mywriting #yay
For @cthulhudeadite , a tender moment between Alana de Riva and Ivy Ingellvar in the Necropolis Gardens.
Some more #Veilguard #Fanfiction for this week's #FanficFriday
Now that everything is settled with my current book, I’m diving right back into writing with a YA fantasy story about a young woman who can hear the song of gemstones and learns she can craft them into rings of power to save a dying world.
#writersofmastodon #Writing #writingcommunity #amWriting #writingWIP
#indieauthors #indiewriters #mywriting
My new book is available for preorder. Releases May 31, 2025.
#writingcommunity #writersofmastodon #mybook #mywriting #indiewriters #apocalypticfiction #werewolf #zombie
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F7GKRK3Q?ref_=pe_93986420_775043100
Got my book, Howls & Hope unloaded to KDP, just waiting for final approval & I’ll post the preorder link. Feels strange to finally be totally done with the writing/editing process for the book. It was a long journey from the first spark of the idea to the final story stage. Worth every step.
#writersofmastodon #mybook #mywriting #writers #sff #zombie #werewolf #apocalyptic
Since I'm writing more these days (yay!) I thought I'd bundle everything up at the end of the week and do a #FanficFriday, so here's a little thread 🧵 :
First up, today's scene featuring a young elf fledgling without a name:
They said Abigail had always loved poetry. But it was more than love - when she delved into the words, it was like a kind of possession. Be it the old classics like Poe or Lord Byron, or the works of her peers they inspired, she fell into their thrall all the same. But it wasn't until she finally picked up the pen to write her own, when she finally understood her obsessions.
It happened in an evening, and in a week, and in many ways, at the very end of her life. Though she had loved poetry, though it felt like it captured her very soul, she had always feared it more than anything. The vulnerability it demanded, the perfect and delicate prose, the secret rhythms and structures lying underneath - she was not good enough for any of it, and she knew it.
And if it hadn't been for the dreams, she would have gone to her grave believing it.
They started in the week leading up to her senior Language Arts project. She'd been stressed about it for the entire year, but it was only then that it'd become apparent just how critical it would be for her final grade. Her teacher, Mr. Ward, had taken the time to sit her down and make it clear: If hers wasn't perfect, she would be failing his class - and by extension, failing to graduate.
If only the project hadn't been poetry.
And not poetry as Abigail loved it, free to flow and express ideas and bare the soul to the world. The project demanded restrictions be placed on her work - the same restrictions Mr. Ward placed on all his torturous poetry assignments over the past year. The same ones Abigail had chosen to fail her assignments for, rather than deal with. But the thought of failing the class - of being held back a year to go through it all again - filled her with dread. At her core, she knew that to fail here would mean her death.
It was then that the dreams began. Visions of her poem, half-written, her hand moving like fluid across paper as she sat there, her only focus on the words that spilled forth from her pen. Night after night, the sound of pen nubs scratching against paper and the multitude mumblings of half-remembered stanzas filled her mind as she watched the world unravel in a sea of ink and ideas.
The last night of her project was upon her before she knew it. Her heart in her stomach, she sat in front of a blank piece of paper, almost willing it to be filled. In her hand was a pen, but her fingers were frozen around it. She couldn't bring herself to begin. A quiet despair welled up from within, torn between the utter travesty she knew her writing would be and the months and years of hell she would receive if she did nothing. A burning panic threatened to overwhelm her very mind.
But before it could truly conquer her, she felt something. A presence, a hand resting atop her hand, warm and gentle.
Voices, calm and reassuring, whispered to her from the back of her mind. Though her memories of the dreams had faded like smoke upon waking, she recognized them - the voices of her poem. They spoke reassurances to her, spreading up her arm and through her mind. Where it touched, the cool calm relaxed her tension and banished her fear. Half-delerious, listening to the whispers, she let her pen find the page.
And she began to write.
Even as a vessel for what felt like a higher power, her first work was terrible, just as she'd known it would be. But though the prose was purple and the structure was wrong, she felt no pain or shame for having made it. It was her, vulnerable, bleeding her heart and soul onto the page, and it was terrible. And she felt nothing, save for a small spark of pride, as she set it aside.
The next was better, but only somewhat, as was the next after that. Even as her hand cramped and her belly ached, she kept going, egged on by the growing voices in her mind. Writing with ever-increasing desperation and haste, losing herself in a manic spiral downwards, time began to lose all its meaning. Everything began to lose its meaning. There was only the work.
As she worked her way down the pages, her own writing became alien and incomprehensible to her. The lines collapsed into shapes and diagrams on the page, as the room and the world around her dissolved into a slurry of words and meaning. She watched through eyes that burned like fire as structure formed from the chaos, even as the paper and pen and her own hand, too, disintegrated into the lettered mass. And in that structure, for a brief moment, she found true understanding.
She failed her project, in the end. The jumbled, unintelligible work more closely resembled a spiral pattern than a genuine poem. Its content was unsettling, it was covered in scratches and spots of ink, and its structure and pacing were all over the place - to say nothing of the fact that it didn't even rhyme. In short, it broke every single restriction Mr. Ward had laid out.
And yet it found its way onto the wall, regardless.
For Abigail had learned why she had always loved poetry so. All the world was a poem, and she was its humble author.
Inspired by the wonderful writings of fellow mastodonians, I made an account on write.as to do some occasional scribbling.
Here's my first post: https://write.as/anakin78z/hello-world
It was entirely unplanned, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
What does Alana desire most in the world?
(Despite the title, this is totally clean and SFW, not smut - sorry to disappoint)
Keeping on with the writing prompts from the Rook's Roost community on Tumblr, here's today's mini-fic offering:
(spoilers for a certain Dragon Age Veilguard Act One decision)
Well, hell. I thought the "Fuck this, fuck you, fuck everything" book was going to be a standalone.
No~ooo.
Not a standalone.
I'm 1-2 chapters from the logical end of the book and I haven't even gotten to the scene that started it in my head.
At least three books. But, well, since it's FU to everything going on in the US right now, I have plenty of inspiration to keep going. *groan*
*gets back to writing*
#writing #oops #committingseries
#mywriting
You came to the temple holding a crown, and we're sorry, but we cannot let you wear it.
It's a pretty thing, made with roses and lilies and reeds. We can tell that you wove it with care, watching the other children playing here. But this isn't your place, and this isn't your crown.
And deep inside your heart breaks, because you feel like one of us, but we do not know this, and you cannot tell us. And we ask you to leave, ignorant about you.
The riverbank is strewn with blocks of stone, where once a dock or a pier or a palace stood. You like to sit there in the sun, warming on the stones, watching the fish and the faces and the other dangerous things swim by in the waters below. It is tempting.
When the children come out from the temple, they gather you in their play, because they know you. We cannot stop them, then. You have no words to tell them, but you always find it unfair in how they sweep you up in their number. They let you feel a part of everything for just a moment, before leaving you behind.
Your fingers are still pricked and bloodied from the rose's thorns. Feet still scorched from the riverbank's sands, where you gathered the reeds. You apologize for your mistake, and crush the crown on the temple floor. We reprimand you for making a mess, but you're already leaving.
"the tanna herbalist" (work of mine in progress) x "spirits" (by devil makes three)there's a tragic lack of web weavings on this site so i made one
