Barrows

@barrows.itch.io

646 Followers 375 Following

Dan F. Bispo to the boring folks. Professional word extruder. Author of sci-fi, horror, and fantasy. 🇵🇹 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 Website: danfbispo.carrd.co Books: barrows.itch.io Writing SHADOW PUPPETS, a swords-and-sandals sapphic romance with a whole lot of killing in it

a cat throwing a tomato at the viewer
"Father told me it had been a nightmare. My caretaker, too. They both told me I had fallen ill to heat exhaustion, and while I was unconscious, my friend and his mother had been sold to a new master. I wanted to believe it so badly, so I did. But sometimes, I can still see that last look in his eyes as the thing inside me tore him apart. Surprise, pity—and only too late, fear."
This guy will write weird/cool/sexy/scary fiction for you (if you pay him). Details in link above. In the top right corner: (graphic design is not my passion) (but writing is) (for you) (for money)
Meme template of the wet cat in the bathtub, edited to have the smile from the art in Aowna's post. Text now reads: "SHE'S SMILING FOR AN AMAZING REASON"
Khamsin from Shadow Puppets, made using MakĂłwka's Picrew. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman with scars and freckles and a big ol' smile full of sharp teeth. Not depicted: her being built like a truck
edit of the Bernie Sanders meme where he originally said "I am once again asking for your financial support". A gun has been edited into his hand, and the text now reads, "I am no longer asking"
Cover to my horror anthology, "The Cryptic Parade & A World Unfurling". The cover is in the style of a page from an occult codex, full of strange symbols and occult imagery.
YCH chibi of Yana by @autumnchildart.bsky.social. She has brown skin, brown buzz cut hair and dark eyes, and she's holding a gray ace heart.
Artwork of Six from my book series First Light, as drawn by @nushdeco.bsky.social. A gynoid robot themed after a 1920s flapper, surrounded by art noveau-style architecture, such as an ornate stairwell and a circular window. She wears a yellow dress and high heels, and is carrying a book. Some of her body has been damaged and repaired. Her right leg is wooden, and her right arm looks vicious and weapon-like. She is surrounded by storm clouds, and a mechanical spider hangs next to her.
The Palace barracks are alive with the sounds of battle. Here, hidden by high walls and the towers' shade, is run the grim business of keeping power where power belongs. Almost instinctively, Sahira takes her measure of the place. Weapons line the courtyard's walls—chitin spears and bows, obsidian knives, and of course, ironglass shamshirs, the Larizian nobility's weapon of honor, glowing like crescent moons under the burning sun. Sahira would have expected a crowd of guards exchanging shifts, taking their breaks, training. Instead, she is met with an empty courtyard and echoing cheers.
Discord screenshot of me saying: "I've said it before and I'll say it again, I read through 1660 with a dictionary tab open on the side as an aid and I wouldn't trade that experience for the world" "and I felt like a GOD whenever I could use context to get there without the help"
Event Horizon, First Light, Book 1 25.000 words New Adult Sci-fi Adventure, Space Opera Standalone but Serialized Inspired by Golden Age sci-fi and 90's Star Trek
A non-exhaustive selection of excerpts from the First Light series where I just put Rook through the worst experiences imaginable. "A shape--Rook's--leapt to her defense, but with the swing of a limb like a monolith, they were knocked aside." "The rope went taut, and Rook's body, limp" "Rook tried to extend their arm, but another wave of pain, a spark of emptiness across the eyes, froze them in place. With a grip both steady and cold, Yana took their arm and" "Awareness came to Rook in fevered spasms" "Meanwhile, Rook grieved the loss of a friend" "Rook's dumb thick skull." "It hurts... real bad, Captain" "And Rook, suddenly so thin and fragile" "screams, hoarse and shrill, though no nerve impulses should have remained, as though it was the sickness, purposeful and cognizant, commandeering their lungs. The amputation felt" "Don't Captain please me, Adrian Rook" "Has anyone seen Rook?" "Last I saw them, they were running for their quarters to use the restroom, Diodorus said. "They looked slightly green." "Oh, did something happen?" "I imagine it was the sausage they had at the festival." "It's okay, Captain," Rook said, though their bloodshot eyes said otherwise, and the trembling of their lip betrayed their fear. "What does catastrophic damage mean, here?" "claws hooked into the exosuit's leg as it attempted to pierce the protective layers with what Rook could only describe as a flexible metallic needle. It stabbed again and again and again, each strike a painful reminder of how little protection an exosuit provided against weaponry"
Edit of that scene in Futurama where the aliens are watching Friends. "Why does Sable, the better-armed "friend", not simply shoot the other five?"
A "Reasons to Live starter pack" for Morrowind. "Nude dad" - picture of Caius Cosades "Floating pals" - two Netches "Good shout" - a silt strider "I'm creeping" - creeper "Come Nerevar" - Dagoth Ur "Bomp bomp bomp" - a scrib "Fargoth" - Fargoth
Yana wandered the commercial districts of Orbital Station Sousa Mendes under the pretense of a goal, as if watching the festivities counted as work—and as if that mattered at all. She must have seemed so strange, so gray and put together, wading through a sea of smiles and colored tassels, as if closed hardware shops had more to offer her soul than the fires of celebration. All the same, the smells of exotic cooking filled her nostrils, and the music her ears, and though her features carried no smile, she basked in this vivid life. An overripe quan sizzlefruit flew overhead. Someone screamed, and swore, and laughed, and it spread through the streets. Another locked door? Another shake of the head from a distracted peddler? Expected. Barely disappointing. Her heart syncopated with the music, and she could ask for no more. And when the last loose seam turned to nothing and she returned to the Trilo, the burden of failure felt light upon her shoulders. There would be other shops, other worlds. The music had told her so.
Lunessa_eri liking the post where I call it a bot
Lunessa_eri liking the post where I call it a bot
A sudden apprehension rouses Sahira from a restless sleep. Someone approaches. Though the last few days have been peaceful, filled with trips to the market, menial jobs for the Scarlet Veils, and scavenging runs across the Lower Underworks' safer corners, she has yet to drop her guard. Yes, these streets are close to a home—more than the Palace, even more than the trails—but complacency kills, regardless of environment. She rises to her feet and puts her ear to the wall. The scavenged curtains that substitute for a long-rotted door are motionless; no matter how much the sandstorms rage above, all that is below is dead still.
“I’m looking for a full chassis for a specific model. Uh, anthropomorphic,” she added as she saw Chip roll towards a spidertank on display. “Clarification: anthropomorphic models are not hot right now, but I have a few in storage.” “Any, uh—” She looked down at the notes in her compad as the automaton loomed closer, clamps snapping helpfully. Six’s requirements were extensive, and so specifically written she struggled to parse them. “Well, this?” “Query: may I?” “Go ahead.” Chip took her compad in an exactly measured grip. With a click and a slither, its three eyes detached from its sensor suite, extending towards the screen like greasy tentacles, dripping with lubricant. Three shutters whirred, snapping shut, then widening again. The thin membrane of a speaker vibrated. “Clarification: these are the exact specifications for an Andromeda Solutions Model S.” “Is that an issue?” “Noncommittal statement: I am not authorized to deal in copyrighted designs. Redirection: if you are looking for companion models, I have a modded Artemisia chassis in stock, compatible with the ALRI™ system, and only gently used.”
The moment Khamsin leaves her sight, Sahira already regrets letting her go. The plan was a robust one, or so she thought at the time. Split the money, split the shopping list, meet each other back in their new safehouse. A simple affair, insulated from the Sazade's—or former Sazade, as Sahira keeps having to remind herself— adventurous impatience. But now that that veiled head no longer towers over the shifting crowd, she feels like a pet has just escaped its leash. What if she gets into a fight? What if she blows their cover? There are a thousand unique ways she can cause trouble, and a thousand more Sahira has not even imagined yet. This very moment, she could be punching someone for an off comment, for all Sahira knows. The last few days have been a trial. True to her name, Khamsin is a storm that rages but never sets; she may be redirected, but rarely stopped. And earlier, as they walked together and Sahira saw that familiar glint in her eye, she knew it meant nothing but trouble.
A woman wielding a chitin spear eyes her carefully—Sahira is struck with the impression that she is more interested in her bag than her business in the Underworks. Finally she spits and steps aside, allowing her into the passage. It's a humid, dark place, a pit of silence that swallows all signs of life from above, and in turn offers distant echoes of sounds warped beyond recognition. The stone steps under have been eroded to a polish—they bend in the middle, as if sagging under some invisible weight, and threaten to send send her sandaled feet slipping into a plunge. Sahira takes a shallow breath, her skin tingles, and the shadows rise to meet her feet, easing her descent. Money, magic—everything is a stipend. To survive is to sacrifice convenience at the altar of safety. She feels the weight of her dagger in her sleeve. It asks the wordless question: how far does the Sand-ghost creed go? How much discomfort is a safe life worth? How many knots must be cut? If it goes too far, it seems to whisper, we can always go back. It's always been as easy as a motion.
Sahira retires to her quarters and throws herself onto her bed. The mattress is soft, the room dark, and this she welcomes, and sighs. Her eyelids are heavy, and they have been for quite some time, but when she closes her eyes and invites sleep, only darkness comes; her mind is in tumult, thoughts bubbling under the surface, so dense and restless, she can almost feel them against the back of her eyes. She tries to calm herself, shield herself with her covers. Lies on her side, on her back, to herself. Fabric brushes against fabric. In the absence of light, her imagination dares to race, uncontrollable. Visions, so vivid, so real, haunt her—of strong arms cradling her, scarred skin pressing against hers, lips, glancing, warm breath, lambent flames…
Coming July 14th Her world is dying. His world cast him out. Together, they can change a galaxy. The Stars Will Be Our Ocean by Lizzie Blackwood Cover: Book cover for The Stars Will Be Our Ocean: The title texts floats among a starry background mingling with nebulous blue gasses with the author name “Lizzie Blackwood” at the bottom. Two figures float together at the center, holding hands as though dancing and smiling at each other. The figure on the left is a sharklike humanoid with a finlike crest off the back of his head wearing complex but form-fitting armor. The figure on the right is a human woman with pale skin and short black hair wearing a back jacket, shirt, pants, and boots.
The answer presents itself as they step into the training grounds. A crowd has formed around the arena—a scattered assortment of out of duty guards, palace staff, and drifting dilettantes far from their usual haunting grounds. Chitin clashes against chitin; the whole crowd shudders and howls. These men and women are too numerous, and too tall, for her to be able to see beyond them. Ibrek isn't, and the look in his eye is one of dismay as he looks on. As he struggles to make a path through a sea of elbows and backs, Sahira studies the crowd. Even in this varied bunch, there are knowers and naives. Their knowing looks and jingling pouches tell her as much, as do the looks of horror on others' faces. There are winnings to be made, here, it seems—and though this isn't a life she recognizes herself in anymore, one never forgets what a confidence game looks like.
screenshot of Event Horizon's page on Goodreads, which has a rating average of 4.67 across 3 reviews. But for how long?
A fantasy guy in a hot and sunny videogame world (I don't know which one), with the caption: getting into a fistfight with a mage when its 38C in hopes he blasts me with his ice magic"
a screenshot from Heroes Olden Era, of Silvertongue hiding behind the Queen, with the caption "Excuse me! He asked for no pickles!"
Screenshot of a bot account named Socrates, with links to some AI personality test bullshit, as well as a horrible icon that was probably meant to be Socrates but mostly looks like a piece of molding sausage to me.
The word unlocks something. The cold weight of manacles around her hands and feet, ghosts of scarlet robes, the glimmer of a gem, and echoing words in a language long forgotten, and screams, her screams, but shriller, those of a child. The scar burns with the memory of pain. The smell of blood fills her nostrils anew as the wound gapes, or gaped, and something burns its way past parted skin and sliced flesh, and spreads across her chest cavity. The prayers grow louder, louder, until they overwhelm her senses, louder than even the pain, harsher than the rough stone against her bare back… and then, it's over. Slowly, the pain coalesces into something less than real—a voice at the back of her soul. Something that takes a due of every breath. A child dies. A legend is born.
To her left, between the wall and the sand, Khamsin sleeps—Sahira wonders, momentarily, if it's their accomodations' fault, or if she snored this much back in the palace. But even through the noise, she can hear steps outside. Slow, deliberate. Meaningful. Nobody comes around these parts without panic or a plan. She slides across the dark room, blade in hand. As she passes, she grabs some still-warm ash from the fire pit. The steps approach… Her fingers clench around her dagger's handle. …and they move on. Beyond the curtains, on the pressed dirt pathway, rests a stone spindle whorl. "Wake up, Naeko." Khamsin grumbles and sits up, wiping the sand from her lap. "Do you have to keep calling me that? There's no one else here." She eyes the ash-covered carcass of a roasted vigilant—leftovers from last night's dinner—and seems genuinely tempted. Then, to Sahira's relief, seems to think better of it. "All those breakfasts in bed spoiled you," Sahira says. "No, I was a hungry bitch long before those."
An "Understand my Ship in 5 Minutes" template, originally created by Gibslythe, featuring the two characters from Shadow Puppets, Sahira and Khamsin. Notable is the considerable height difference between the two (5'1 vs 6'4), the fact Sahira is listed as "Khamsinsexual", and how Khamsin is a little spoon with a 100% horny and jealousy level, and a 0% awkwardness level. Also Khamsin both "can't cook for shit" and "makes dinner"
“I AM THE RUINOUS WIND THAT SWALLOWS EMPIRES. KINGS AND GODS ALIKE SHATTER BEFORE ME, AND YOU, PRETENDER, ARE NEITHER.”
"Introspection is for peacetime. We go to war soon—I have been handed a weapon, and I'll learn to bring it to bear. When our work is done, I'll worry about what this all means, but not before. Besides—" She reaches into the basket and grabs a round, flat piece of dough, baked until the color of sandstone at dusk. "—don't we have unfinished business?" Sahira looks at the set table, the lit torch, and the Sazade draped in rags that leans forward on her comically undersized footstool in parody of their last candle-lit encounter. "You're joking." Khamsin blinks. The disappointment that washes over her eyes is so sudden, and so striking, that Sahira can hardly believe it. "I got these for us to share," Khamsin says. "Not something you can find in the trails, I imagine, or the Larizian caravansaries. Common in Zagnat, but from what I understand, you've never been there." "No," Sahira admits. “There were fields of flowers all across the oases, when I was a child,” she says, “and bees aplenty. They call us a Bandit Kingdom, but I’ve seen no such beauty here.” She smiles, catching herself. “With a few exceptions.” Sahira only flushes in response. An uncharacteristic uncertainty lingers about her, one that Khamsin’s hawkish gaze only seems to add to.
It is not difficult to find what's she's looking for: new weaves for new disguises and the tools to assemble them—glass shears, three bone needles, and some yarn. With what remains she purchases a bag of salt, a hollowed-out carapace basin, and a bag large enough to fit all of them. After each purchase, each halfhearted haggling session, she counts her remaining money. It's been so long since it's been necessary—the reaping of lives pays well these days, even with the Family's ever-increasing due—and yet, these habits are baked into her. She still remembers the pangs of hunger, the harshness of the trails. It is not a memory; it is a baseline. No amount of luxury could ever chase it away.
The Dowager leans forward, teeth bared in a tar-stained smile. "Clearly, you don't. But tell me—do you ever feel like there's someone else living under your skin? Something that burns, maybe, when you let it? That asks for more?" "Of course," Khamsin replies. "Everyone does." "No, sweetie, that's just you, I'm afraid. Do you remember White Cliffs?" "I fought off an ambush by the Larizian vanguard there. I was knocked out halfway through the battle, and became a hostage." "Eyewitnesses say otherwise." "What do you mean?" The Dowager glares. Khamsin remembers to lower her head.
Picture of a charity shop's window display during Christmas. There are two teddy bears in a basket together.
Many hours pass before Khamsin next catches a glimpse of the surface. It's just before the break of dawn, when the streets are at their emptiest. Many times in the tunnels she thought herself alone, so silent was her company—and in the utter blackness, she might as well have been. Now, she's ushered into a night that blinds in comparison, and as she emerges, is told to slouch, lest her stature betrays her stature. They stand in an alleyway; she knows not where, but the stench of tanning hides and perpetual stew has her guess one of the less developed corners of the Artisan Quarter. Before she has time to take in the night, Sahira pushes her into an open door that she can swear was not there before. It is there that, in the dust of an abandoned room, she is allowed to take her first full breath in recent memory. A pile of tattered rags, coarse as burlap, are pushed into her chest. In the absence of an instant reaction to grab them, they fall at her feet. "Wear those," Sahira says. She's searching for something on the opposite wall, but Khamsin can hear the exasperation. Khamsin picks up the bundle, pries away the tangled layers. A headscarf, a mouth-veil, a shawl, and a set of assorted rags to toss about a body and disappear underneath.
Artwork of Six from my book series First Light, as drawn by @nushdeco.bsky.social. A gynoid robot themed after a 1920s flapper, surrounded by art noveau-style architecture, such as an ornate stairwell and a circular window. She wears a yellow dress and high heels, and is carrying a book. Some of her body has been damaged and repaired. Her right leg is wooden, and her right arm looks vicious and weapon-like. She is surrounded by storm clouds, and a mechanical spider hangs next to her.
In the makeshift arena, the guard captain finds an opening, and makes a move. His round shield meets the two-handed gara and sends it flying out of the princess's hands. It lands at Sahira's feet, but she pays it no mind. If she had but blinked, she would have missed Khamsin stepping forward, deflecting the next blow with a swing of her armored forearm—and diving behind the shield. He meets her impetus but cannot withstand the force, and falls on his back, her on top. Within moments, a swordplay duel has become one of wrestling, two figures rolling in the ground. The crowd howls. As she attempts to pin her opponent, the princess catches a glimpse of the familiar figure in the crowd, and releases her hold. "Enough for today, old man," she says, standing to her full weight. She makes a token attempt to wipe the sand from herself, but it sticks to her, and she laughs. "I had you this time." "Keep dreaming, child!" he replies, readily accepting her helping hand. "Beatin' me is easy if you keep pullin' me into tussles in the ground." "That's why I keep doing it." "Ah, you Bandit Kingdom folks. Scrappier than a desert rat, serf and royalty alike!"
Sahira's master leads her through the gates for the first time. It's a fine morning, warm but not smothering, and the Palace's gardens are alive with birdsong. She measures her steps well, following him like a shadow. He is more than her guide here, he is her lifeline—not just a lord, but a Sazah, eldest son of the uncontested ruler of all horizons. "Here is the courtyard," he tells her, drawing her attention to its centerpiece, a golden statue of a curled sand-wyrm, from whose gaping mouth flows a single, shimmering, rope of fresh water. Sahira never expected him to send a single glance her way, or to bother speaking his orders, as opposed to the curt and dismissive gestures her fellow servants often received from men of such stature. This, she would have been happy with. She is, after all, no more than a maid. She trained to be beneath notice, to tidy the messes of people who won't look at her twice, to do what needs doing, to follow orders in silence, and in doing so, live another day. But this man in silks, with the jeweled sword on his belt and the eagle feather atop his hat, has been talking to her since their retinue split from the caravan. His smile is that of a child coming home after a long absence, as he describes not only what Sahira can plainly see, but some that the passage of time has long buried. That the fountain, in his childhood, used to be less ornate, until a mighty sand-wyrm was slain and the new piece was commissioned to celebrate. Sahira bites her tongue; she knows that sand-wyrms are often clumsy metaphors for Bandit Kingdom leaders.
Respite from the sounds and smells of the peasantry come, instead, through way of taking paths less traveled—paths Sahira seems to know well, or at the very least walks with certainty. Still, as they walk, the way grows erratic. She takes turns seemingly at random, never stopping, never slowing. The darkness around them grows deeper with each step. At some point, Khamsin swears her former servant has taken three left turns in a row. As they begin to turn the final corner, she finally breaks her silence. "We could ask for directions." "Why? We're here." Khamsin looks up, not to be greeted by the road they just trod, but a completely new street, narrow and winding. Sahira moves through the place with purpose. "Where are we?" "I think Stoneheart called it Burnhollow Row." "You think?" Sahira nods. "You've been here before?" "Never." "Then how do you know…?" "I don't," Sahira says, then points to a door among many. "That's our destination. All the other doors are wearing down—that one has been reinforced recently." "How did you—" "How could I not? A Sand-ghost always finds her quarry."
Artwork of Six from my book series First Light, as drawn by @nushdeco.bsky.social. A gynoid robot themed after a 1920s flapper, surrounded by art noveau-style architecture, such as an ornate stairwell and a circular window. She wears a yellow dress and high heels, and is carrying a book. Some of her body has been damaged and repaired. Her right leg is wooden, and her right arm looks vicious and weapon-like. She is surrounded by storm clouds, and a mechanical spider hangs next to her.
Sahira maintains unbroken eye contact as she brings the wine to her lips and drinks. Then she gasps, and her eyes begin to water; she slams the goblet down on the table and lurches forward, retching. “Idiot!” Khamsin jumps to her feet. “Why’d you drink it if you knew it was poisoned?” Sahira doesn’t answer immediately; she shudders once, twice, then slams a fist onto the wood, again and again, as if wrangling the pain within until, at last, it recedes. “How—” she retches again. “How—can you people drink—this stuff?!” “You melodramatic little fucker,” Khamsin laughs. “Scare me to death, will you?” She swipes the goblet from Sahira’s hand and downs it in one gulp. She barely winces.
The results of the tier list from the original post. Row 1 (Marry): Katie, Kyle, AJ, Gloria, da boy Maelorn, Digs, Micah, Sasha, Key-Mej, Askaly Row 2 (Destroyed): The Lord Hierophant, The Kingeater, Redsleeves, Nicademus, Henry, Evandre, Miran Row 3 (Make Out): Rachel, Alvath, Emeric, Brisket, Motayu, Dusk, Valir Row 4 (Making Me Act Up): George, Teo, Emeric's Slutty Midriff, Icozoue, Myrk, Hope, Phoenix, Kragh, Terran, Ashrah Row 5 (Looking Respectfully): Raelvaatr, THE INSEPARABLE MAMO, Aubergine, Pyntal, Azzerad, Motayu's Gatito, Fionn, Morgan, Casimir, Calypso, Nitara, Raven Row 6 (Would Hug): Aurora, Mireia, Canleir, Elysei, Luzz, Galen, Felix, Milo, Amelia, Trig Row 7 (Actually Cool as Hell): Kai, Iishbi, Grilled, Lania, Kuhnteir, Kena, Havoc, Cam, Tiferet, Kagenashi, Sareena, Mallik Row 8 (The Jasana Containment Unit): Jasana
"They say she commanded her own blood to strike at her enemies, and decimated their forces before losing consciousness, which allowed for her capture." She pours out the ash from her pipe, then begins refilling it. "What was your first meal when you woke up in the dungeons?" Though her mind struggles to find a concrete memory to cling to in the haze of half-emotions and vague images that are the days after her imprisonment, the answer comes quickly, spurred by the smell of fresh blood and heavy spices. "A battle-feast in my homeland's tradition," Khamsin says. "The flesh and blood of a felled foe." "How unlike Larizian captors to provide their trophy with their hated enemy's victory feast, especially after such a costly battle." "I thought they meant to make me feel at home." Having said this, she hesitates. "But they never made such concessions again." "Remind this old woman, dearie: where does this tradition originate from?" Khamsin's chest puffs with pride. "My clan's history dates back hundreds of years. The battle-feast is an ancient custom of the—" Realization dawns. Her face goes pale. "Of the Cult of the Scorched," the Dowager says. "I have read into your people's history since our last meeting, dearie. Horrible stuff, barbaric, really, but what more could one expect of a land founded by cutthroats, sellswords, and occultists?" She smiles, her beady eyes looking about the room, relishing in her own hypocrisy. "And among them, the Cult, and their singular champions, whose blood burned with the hatred of the demons Fettered upon them through their lost art. Blood they could call upon—blood whose loss had to be replenished after. Your clan and even your captors knew this, even if you did not."
a screenshot of Alex's three books that I bought because they look fantastic
the "sexually destroyed" tier but I pasted pictures of the Lord Hierophant all over it
A "tier list" format meme named "Rating y'all's OC's" The "tiers" go as follows: 1. A character, presumably standing in the OC's shadow, showing them an engagement ring. 2. A character, knocked out with their groin area having been detonated, presumably by desire 3. Two characters making out 4. A character sweating and twitching, surrounded by steamy hearts 5. A character looking up with an "uwu" face 6. Two characters hugging solemnly 7. The blue-eyed meme character, arms crossed and smiling, with the word "Nice!!" next to it
A screenshot of the artist's draft, showing the black-and-white linework that would become the reference image for my OC, Xyd. The image editing program's toolbar is clearly visible. They added a thought bubble to the piece, which now reads, "I sure hope nobody casually accuses my artist of being scammer based purely on vibes."
The cellar is just that—four walls of coarse sandstone bricks lined with gently burning oil lamps, a ceiling that forces Khamsin into an uncomfortable slouch. But it is not the room's width that draws her attention, or the colorful assortment of oil urns and bottles scattered all alongside the walls. No, for there is a lone figure in this cellar, sitting cross-legged on a barrel of ratakk musk, half-covered in once-pure linens, now stained and fraying at the edges. Her skin, scarred by sunburn, dances with shadows cast across wrinkled skin, and a patchwork smile emerges, a bone pipe hanging from one such gap in her teeth.
A drawing of my OC Xyd, drawn by nyxstrix. Xyd is a reptilian alien with a slouched posture, four arms, gecko-like features, and a big fat tail. He is waving, and in one of his hands holds a tablet.
From her first visit to Lariz, long ago, she has always seen the city as something that sheds from the Administrative District, whose towering compounds seem to split, and fork, and fall outwards into streets and hovels and marketplaces. It wasn’t until she first climbed the tallest minaret and looked homeward that she realized it was quite the opposite: Lariz is a gradient, not of civilization, but of sand, where dunes shape themselves into sandstone bricks, then pavement, glass, and at last the gems that stud the palatial spires—all desert-birthed and plundered from the sands, same as her.
Sahira’s skin tingles with a caress both familiar and otherworldly. The shadows that coil around her feet stir, and she calls, with her soul, to the Mother of Trickery, that guiding hand that takes her, envelops her, and slides her between what is and could be—blinds reality for a fraction of a second and allows her to split. Her one dagger seeks five openings at once, Khamsin’s blade blocks three, a narrow dodge evades one, but they’re all lies, all feathers fluttering across the air, and she takes the fifth, the swift kick to the stomach, which sends the giant reeling until her back slams against the wall. The gara swings one final time, straight down. Desperate, sloppy. Sahira steps aside—it’s that simple—and dives forward as the curved blade lodges itself into the floor. Exactitude in motion. Like breathing. The dagger finds its previous scar, and pushes, and Khamsin gasps, blood flows anew. This time, Sahira does not hesitate. Pain.
A DM sent to me by the spambot "Beverly Johnson", reading: "Hi Erika! I've really enjoyed your Ryo snippets this week. Your post made me laugh because some characters seem determined to hijack both the story and the author's attention. I was curious if Ryo has always been one of your primary POV characters, or did he gradually become more prominent as you wrote?"
Sahira hesitates. In the back of her mind, something tells her she's being steered into a trap. She's known people of authority to do things like these, from time to time—to give inappropriate orders to a hapless servant, only to punish them when they inevitably obey. The brandishing of authority and setting of these most obvious, yet unavoidable, of traps is the fare of the rich and powerful, this Sahira knows well. But how could she dare refuse her, so early into her bondage?