krys plummer is trying to come back

@krysplummer.bsky.social

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YA Fantasy Writer Currently Querying: #TheAreynianStorm, a #YA #NA #BIPOC #Fantasy

The Areynian Storm, a YA Fantasy w/crossover potential, 98k words Power Grants Choices 17-year-old Art was given a power that only the Big Bad has, so when she is captured she has two options before her inevitable return: risk a deadly escape in defiance of beings who have already mastered what she does not, or join one of the two seeking an alliance to cement a new leadership, though any such pact is sure to be temporary. Time is only running out. Snippet: Art took two steps to follow her. “I have not dismissed you.” Art paused and rocked on her heels. She felt the prickle of his gaze and tried to hide the clenching of her fists by stroking the palm of her hands with her fingers. “Dinner’s over,” she said without looking back at him. “Stay. It is a night of celebration.” Art stood there debating if she would. Her mind buzzed. Was Myra okay? What if she really needed her— “Your markings have grown.” She turned then and didn’t bother to hide the irritation on her face. Only, Galon wasn’t looking at her face. His gaze was lower, aimed at the curve of her hip. “I prefer my woman in skirts.” His gaze lifted to her eyes. “They suit your form better.”
But as she turned onto the hall, she caught another familiar face, though one she had no desire to see. Imogen. A rush of anger hit Art like a spark catching dry wood. The smirk that crept up Imogen's face only served as gasoline. Art's strides lengthened. There was no Galon or Maura here to stop her now. She flexed her fingers, ready to conjure a zale, when O'seer came to mind. Emotional. Undisciplined. Her pace slowed, just a bit. On sight, Art had promised. It was her first instinct, and exactly how they all expected her to react. So she shouldn't. Instead she found wisdom in more of O'seer's words: You must learn to be more observant, child, if you insist on playing at strategy. Okay, Art thought, letting her shoulders drop and schooling her face. Let's play.
EPIC FANTASY WHERE EVERYONE FAFO NEW MAGIC SYSTEM AND LORE ACTION, ROMANCE, MANIPULATION AND TWISTS WITH A BLACK FMC AS THE RELUCTANT CHOSEN ONE AND COMPLEX ENSEMBLE CAST WHO DRIVE THE PLOT FORWARD THE AREYNIAN STORM A YA FANTASY BY KRYS PLUMMER WHEN CAUGHT BETWEEN TWO GOD-LIKE BEINGS VYING TO BECOME THE NEW HBIC, AN EMOTIONAL SIDE CHICK, AND DEATH'S IMMINENT ARRIVAL, SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD ART REALIZES A SAVAGE TRUTH: POWER GRANTS CHOICES. EVERYONE EXPECTS HER TO SAVE HER WORLD, BUT SAVIORS ARE MAIDS AND WE HAVE NO MAIDS HERE. NOW QUERYING
Maura released Art as the small smile that was on her face grew larger and more devious, like a cat that had spotted a mouse. But this was a brave mouse, one that rushed down the hall to meet it. “Shall I offer some advice?” Maura said quietly, speaking to Art without breaking her gaze from Imogen. “Do try to avoid becoming like this one.” As Imogen paused in front of them, she said, louder, “Pathetic,” with a little laugh. “Love is for children and fools.” She offered Art a smile, but it was not returned. “You will go no further.” Imogen’s voice was cold and clipped, her eyes dark with a quiet intensity. “Leave.” Art could only be surprised to see that there was someone else Imogen seemed to hate more. But Maura relished her ire, tossing her hair over one shoulder with a fluid turn of her head. “I’m escorting the Sytera. I have business in the manor.” Imogen didn’t blink. Her gaze flicked to Art. “Your room is not this way. And there is nothing here for you. Either of you,” she said, meeting Maura’s gaze again. “Leave.” Her voice was like Death. “Now.” Maura tsked softly. “But I’ve only just come inside. It’s been so long. Maybe I have become a little lost, Sytera, forgive me.” Maura brushed a hand over Art’s shoulder and squeezed. She noticed Imogen rubbing her fingers together, saw her waning patience. “Careful, now.” Maura conjured a look of pity. “One may think you’re feeling… threatened. But that would mean you’re inadequate, wouldn’t it?” Art’s eyes darted between them, noting Maura’s playful indifference and Imogen’s barely contained fury. It felt like watching someone trying to light a cigarette while attached to an oxygen tank. She wisely took a step back.
Art: How do I kick everyone’s ass to show I’m a strong FMC if the opps have been doing this way longer than me? Me: That’s the neat part, you don’t.
She turned, kicking hard, desperate to put distance between them. But after several beats, she collided with something massive. A thick, sinuous form coiled around her, tightening like a vice before she could react. Her chest burned as the serpent-like creature constricted further, pinning her arms to her sides, forcing her legs together. She gasped as pressure crushed the air from her lungs. She bent her elbows, just barely, and conjured a zetwal. The glow illuminated the creature’s grotesque face—bulging, lidless eyes locked onto her, its massive mouth stretching wide, lined with jagged, needle-like fangs. Two long tendrils protruded from its face. One lashed out, slicing across her cheek like a razor. Pain seared through her. Art’s breath hitched, terror slamming into her so hard she lost focus. Her zetwal vanished. She was going to die. The beast jerked her sideways, her body twisting in its crushing grip. Then she felt it. The shift of its massive jaw overhead.
“Anything,” Art had said. “Everything. Why did she start everything? How did she start everything?” “It’s heavy stuff,” he replied. He refused to look at her for a while. Instead, he flipped the candy over and over in his hands. “Wren…” He did now. His eyes were as flat as the rest of his short, dismissive answer. “She’s just crazy, alright? She was alone and in pain, so she made sure everyone else felt it.” That couldn’t be all, Art had thought later. What would stop anyone from becoming like her then? What would stop Art from becoming like her? When Art had whispered, almost reverently, “What does she look like?” Cris had stilled, the question hanging between them. “She looks like power,” he’d said at last. “She looks like Death. You’ll know her when you see her. Just… pray you’re able to take our true form before that. It’ll be our only saving grace when we face her.” “We?” she’d echoed, lifting her eyes in search of his. But his gaze had stayed down, fixed on the pink candy in his hands. “I can’t beat her. The most I can do is stop her from killing me. And if I’m not quick enough… if her rage takes over… her eyes… they just go black and she… I can’t beat her.” Art had glanced at his markings then, intricate and far more numerous than her own, and she had thought bitterly: If Cris couldn’t beat Wren, what chance did she have? “So, we’ll face her together?” she’d repeated softly. And he’d said, “Well, yeah,” with a faint, weary smile, tearing through the wrapper and popping the chewy candy into his mouth. “We’re hiding from her together. Might as well face her together too.”