Saffron

@dragonsaffron.bsky.social

606 Followers 178 Following

Amateur writer and professional dragon. She/they. I reserve the right to post NSFW at any time

A writer ask game meme that says "one like, one answer" and then lists off 75 writing-related questions. It's an image so I can't copy-paste and I'm not writing them all out by hand sorry.

The top selling books category on itch.io, showing my book, Making Butches, in the top slot

"Caeneus is blinded by the scintillating brilliance awaiting within. The chamber is, indeed, as large as the map suggested, a dome four hundred meters across, its ceiling high enough to fit a row of brick apartment blocks. And the whole thing is full of gold. Coins, chains, cups, torcs and tiaras, rings and pendants and bracelets with charms, a pile of golden relics so immense that if Caeneus doesn’t look at the parts closest to him he can only parse it as a great heap of glittering yellow sand. Millions of tonnes of precious metal forming a hill that the young or elderly would struggle to climb, its peak so distant that Caeneus’s legs hurt just from the idea of summiting it.
There’s a tree sticking out of it all, a tree with electrum leaves and a rose gold trunk, its roots sinking deep into the luster. Pinned like a torture victim to the trunk of that tree with an iron spike in each limb, facing the door so as to tantalize all who enter, is a fleece, larger than any possible breed of ram, itself shining and gilded."

"When she was a younger woman—relatively speaking, youth being a strange concept for a clone dispensed fully-grown from a tank—her sisters would often chide Melita to take more joy in things, be they work or be they relaxation. "

$Caeneus starts to quake, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish in dry air. Melita would scowl if she were not a professional; they always seem to react this way. That thought serves as enough of a distraction that she very nearly misses the telltale sign. Not texture, but heat: the metal can replicate many things, but not the warmth of a body. The location of the interface is essentially where she expected it would be: what’s unexpected is Caeneus’s reaction. Melita almost misses the foreshocks, her focus being on extracting her fingers smoothly. The flexion, an unsteady rolling of the muscles in Caeneus’s stomach are visible only in the corner of her vision, well outside of the domain of her focus. Then his leg shifts, metal heel scraping loudly against the slab, and Melita finally keys in to what’s happening. She yanks her fingers out a fraction of a second before Caeneus tips over onto his side and vomits over the edge of the exam table. Homogenous, dark green liquid pours forth in volumes that strain possibility, splattering across the floor.$