Fan-fiction Snapshot: Sanguine, Folk, Golem, Kobold, Naga


#1

Here is a snapshot of sorts across all my characters. I wrote this in a car ride (mobile data is costly), while I was feeling guilty I couldn’t be as active and available as I wanted to be anymore, and yet posted multi-paras whenever I’m online and inspired by/to rp.

I don’t know where to place this exactly, and I hope here is alright.

If you know the characters, then you know them; if you don’t, I hope you might still enjoy reading.
It’s posted IG where it suits, and where it doesn’t, then it isn’t.


A shard of shale. Her eyes draw to it , grasped by her grey-powdered fingers. The same powder coats her all over, ashening her usually nougat tone, and dulling all her clothes. It's been quite a few days she's been at this, and as with the rare modern-day miner, the dust doesn't really go away. The cold weather thankfully keeps away moisture, but keeps in the tone, the brittle monotone.

Ingrained in her hair and in her expression, its only her eyes that are left with their crystal clear celeste blue. Its been a few moments of staring, and she draws the stone to her nose for a thoughtful inhale. A shriek, and it doesn't seem to come from her. She doesn't seem to realize it even, not til sees the same shard rebounding off the careful stack, causing piteously few fractals to sprinkle off.

The blonde stalks away into the cherry grove.


A circle of white. Her circle of comfort, surrounding her like a wall of wool against the world. Wool and flesh and love and bleats. She sits in the middle, on a pad of wool she'd gathered, but not yet spun nor cleaned. Before her is a hole in the ground, before her is where her attention is centered in, before her is a home of a rabbit.

As sweet and as wild as they all are at first. A small knowing smile turns up a corner of her lips. And it quickly hides. A nose peeked out! Or was it? She straightens up and reaches forward to straighten the open skin of milk between them, letting the full scent plume into the air. Patience. A virtue, most say, or is it really just simplicity? Either way, rushing is neither.

The brunette waits the quiet time away.


A horizon of water. Her quiet lapping demise, bounding the sandy cliffs which builds her town. Their town. She doesn't turn to face behind, but she seems to be sure its there. Gems dim, and her inner light brightens. The sea-salted wind occasionally flicks back a vine from and into her face, but it doesn't seem to break her focus. As the sky colors into evening, her hue deepens into deep jeweled meditation. Cradled in gently in one hand is a passionfruit, cradled gently in the other is a rough-hewn boulder. Both precious.

Slowly separating the stones of her hand, the light that flows inside of her spills out indiscriminately. It eventually shifts brightness, dimming all else but what is trained on the passionfruit. The sharp rocks of her fingers are mossless, the keenest points touching the fruit, only piercing them a milimeter or so. Not perfect, nor seems to be intentional either. Yet she focuses still, studying the texture, structure, and solidness of the softstone. The stone sheets move swiftly, slicing up the fruit, spilling out the black-speckled yellow slush into her light and past it. Her gems remain dim, and she examines what's left, before dropping the rest into the sea. Then.

The vine-head studies the boulder her way.


A crescent of obsidian. Dark eyes stare back, reflection mirrors clear and crisp, but ever so dim. Shadows around reach and lengthen, but none seem to faze her. If any, she seems more comforted by it. She's paused in her lonely limping saunter, footsteps behind her seemed to have quietened and turned away. Lowering her battleaxe, her eyes stare straight ahead past the blade into the familiar bogs beyond.

She kneels down on one knee in the mud, struggling to do so comfortably. No matter the pain, she seems to hold silence as the shelter from the strange. Stoic expression being the telltale. The stiff upper lip is slowly pushed away by a looming, apprehensive longing, which both sharpens and dulls her liquid hard gaze. Interrupted by the characteristic tic of her head. Suddenly startled by a more distinct shadow to her right, she jumps up and swings her battleaxe at it, drunken and unprepared movements. Ashamed of being caught. Afraid. Gritting her jaw at the emptiness and the thumps in her head…

The raven-head leaps the way towards her reckoning.


A coil of green. Her back rests against the familiar warmth, her own coil curled around them both like a nest. Though the spikes dig into her ebony skin, his presence across her lap lets a contented sigh. She holds a section of blue elk fur, and elbow guard specifically. The rest of the pieces are laid and draped over him, some finished.

She rolls and chews at a developing string of sinew, working the thread as best as she could even though she really learned from almost nothing. Her calloused and roughened hands skish together like sandpaper; on them languidly rests her silver-slitted gaze. After its been softened into a flax-like softness, she dextrously threads it through the large eye of a crude, curved needle. And just as it slips through, the bright interest of her eyes suddenly fades. A dull blink. It's set down. Hands caress over the knotted fur, and pushes. Smooth, white coils unwind from spiky green coils, an unscrewing.

The salt-and-pepper-haired slips away and out.