Through Another’s Eyes

The ever-lovely amimain with another prompt. Didn’t do all my characters this time, but these two (particularly Lori’s) just spoke to me. :3

We get chances to develop our characters’ personalities all the time, but it’s rarer that we get to develop how our characters are perceived by others. Write about your character from someone else’s point of view. That someone else cannot be any character that you play.


She nodded politely to the woman, her fake smile softening some when her eyes drifted over the baby sack. Such a weird little sack, but it fit such a weird woman. Kind of practical, when you really thought about it: hands were free, but the baby was still pressed against you. The baby inside was absolutely adorable. It made sense, though. Such a gorgeous and exotic woman would bring forth such a beautiful babe. Shaking her head as slight jealousy built, Dori Wheeler made her way back from the road.

There was nothing wrong with the woman, except for her being a widow already. Such a shame! When she said who the father was, that shocked Dori. Michael Lawson went up north and married himself one of them Lossoths. That was right weird, but yet fit. He was always about going off and finding stuff. She was a right sorta woman, though. Mourned him properly, a whole year, and seemed keen on respectable work while she settled herself into life here. Still didn’t know why she didn’t take the baby up north again, back to her family; but who knows. Those people way up there were beyond Dori’s understanding: who would ever want to live in permanent snow, eating fatty meat and having to stay huddled around a fire? Ugh! Just the thought was troubling.

That baby was better off here. Nice, normal weather; nice, normal folks. Nice and average. Hopefully that woman would find a man again. No shame in marrying again when you’re widowed. Not after a year and not when you’ve got such a little one. Trick there was finding a man willing to marry a woman already having a babe. Men were proud creatures – she smiled fondly to her own husband’s set of clothes at that thought – and it was hard for them to accept a kid not of their blood as their own. She was darn pretty enough that Dori was sure even that Too…jah? Too… uh? Bah, she couldn’t pronounce that weird name. She was sure she could snag someone, even with broken Westron. Too pretty not to attract someone’s eye, no doubt.

Must be nice to be so pretty. She ran her hands through her brown hair with a sigh. Time to make some bread. She rolled up her sleeves, pondering the latest bit of gossip.


Emmett Beetly looked through his window, across the street. His neighbor slowly – almost comically – pulled plank after plank of wood into the house. No woman should be able to do that; they were sturdy pieces of wood, a man should be helping her bring them inside. Where was that foreigner she was living with? Oh, pardon him: her husband. They got married. Most in town were convinced that their gallivanting about had gotten her with child, so they married quietly…those rumors hadn’t been proven true. Yet. She stayed slim as ever, almost a month later. And hauling wood. No self-respecting pregnant woman would haul wood around, even her.

She was a walking scandal these days. Bah, most days? Try her whole life. He almost felt bad for her. Well, at first. Having no ma, supposedly – supposedly! – she was some foreigner as well, but no one ever knew. Crazy Rojer Snowberry just left one day, and years later just showed up with a kid. Never married again; according to him he did marry her ma, but no one around here believed him. Poor Lori Snowberry, stuck with her da’s reddish hair and being really clumsy. People still thought there was Dale in her da’s family. Red hair wasn’t Bree-hair.

These days, she brought all the scandal on herself. Did ever since she ran off for a whole year and lived with the Hobbits. Most were wary when she moved into Wildore, but they didn’t say anything. She stayed to herself, worked in her little garden, and didn’t bother nobody. Just an old maid. Like she should be, at her age. Minus that woodworking and whatnot. It was bad enough she walked around wearing pants most of the time, going to the Pony and Cask, drinking more than any respectable woman should drink. Then that foreign man started coming around: that was the talk of the town when everyone realized it. That was not something you did: living with a man, not married? Everyone knew what was going on there, too. They weren’t stupid around here. On top of that, not only was he not from Bree, people said he was a sailor on top of it. Rowdy, unreliable types, they were.

If a woman her age got it into her head she was somehow court-able, the least she could do was find herself a nice, local widower. Not some questionable sailor from another land. At least she started wearing dresses sometimes, and wasn’t drinking so much. Days like today, though…it was like a relapse. Tunic and pants, hauling large pieces of timber around, sitting on the stoop in the freezing cold as she drank deeply from one of her large mugs. It wasn’t right. Even if they were all married proper-like, she should be getting with child and cooking and wearing dresses. Indoors. None of this still working nonsense. Bah. He shook his head. Nothing to be done for it. At least they did the respectable thing and got hitched. Nothing anyone could say now. He went back to scrubbing the dishes.


I have a meeting in three hours, but that derned amimain and her amazing prompts has awoken the muse. It must be fed, with words. There’s some slight language in the fourth one, so apologies and please avoid it if the f-bomb bothers you. Also any apologies if these surprise you in a negative way. I definitely got further into some of my character’s heads than ever before, and it’s a bit disconcerting: particularly Sky. These all are going to be fairly obvious, and I have nooooo apologies for that. This is not one I want to use to keep people guessing.

Another prompt! Confessions that your characters have. Something they’d maybe write down of a piece of paper, and then burn the paper. Maybe something they wouldn’t write down at all.



I have a confession. I’m paralyzingly afraid. Normally I’m not afraid of too much, other than falling off a cliff or something like that that’ll kill me. Hah, you know what? It’s not even the fact that having a kid could kill me that bothers me. It really isn’t. Hazard that comes with the job, so to speak. I’m just terrified of having a child. Someone I’m responsible for. I can take care of myself alright, and my husband…well, he’s amazing. He helps me more than I could ever possibly help him. Argh, it breaks my heart. I can see it in his eyes; I don’t know if he thinks I notice, but I do. He loves me so much, even though I clam up a little whenever it’s mentioned. It hurts to hurt him like that, more than any cut or bruise I’ve ever gotten.

Even Helvia, sweet and smart a woman as she is, and I really mean that, even she managed to get some figurative balls and have a baby. Why does it scare me so much? It just does! I can’t explain it. I must be broken, maybe it’s a side effect of my brain being so off with my feet, who knows. It just scares me. I’m worried that the only way I’ll ever be ready is if I’m thrust into it. That’s why I jump headlong into so many things: I’m afraid. And if I just jump right in, I’ll figure it out. It’ll be too late to turn back, and I just have to deal with it. It’s why I talk before I think things through, it’s why I usually just start carving wood without a plan. If I have my knife to the wood, there’s no turning back. Every night, I go to sleep promising myself that I won’t drink that awful stuff, that I won’t warm it up. That I’ll be ready to carve that next step in my life. Then I chicken out every morning. I drag myself into the kitchen and I pour myself a cup. I put the timber away for another day of avoiding it.

Eru, I hope it just doesn’t work one day. I’ll never be able to give him what he truly wants if it doesn’t. I’m too much of a chicken to do it myself.


I have a confession. I need to go home. I can’t do this. I thought I could, I thought I could be strong, but I can’t. I’m a young thing desperately in love, and I just can’t stay away. We have our entire lifetime together, it’s true…but even an eternity, until the end of time itself, isn’t enough time together. I was such a fool to think we could be apart. We aren’t married yet, not really, but our souls are already intertwined. I can feel it, like a pulsing heart, beating from across the ocean. Faint. Calling me home. It isn’t like the slow, gradual draw I felt from the sea itself. No, this is you, my beloved. You’re beckoning me to your arms, and my heart itself is answering. I’ve already learned so much here, but you’re more important. You’re all that matters to me. I’m coming home as soon as I can.


I have a confession. I want to go home. I want to beg, pride thrown to the side, and ask my father to take me back. I am Lossoth. That is who I am. My heart, my soul, my very blood cries out for a shockingly cold wind; for the sight of the sun, searing in its beauty as it reflects off a glacier. To skate upon thick and hearty ice with luistin. To have a warm meal huddled inside a snow-covered tent lined with furs. It is the very core of my being. Every night I dream of returning, and every day I long for it. Yet the bundle to my right holds me back every time. If I leave, if I return and beg, my daughter will learn nothing from a mother not worthy to have her. As I said, I am Lossoth. We are a proud people, hearty and strong. My little Lempi will not have a mother too weak to stand on her own two feet. She will not learn at the knee of someone who bent to an unfair requirement. She had a father from Bree-land strong enough to master the winters of Forochel and gain the trust of the tribes of snow; she has a mother who was strong enough to forsake her home for a deep and abiding love. She has a proud and fierce blood in her, and I will die before any tell her otherwise.

But I want to go home. It’s killing me. My spirit dies further each day I’m torn from the land that birthed me. I may even die young, leaving my poor daughter to her own fate. It’s just too much.


I have a confession. I wish I would die. I truly, deeply, utterly hate myself. I’m broken in all the wrong ways, and I’m not right in any way at all. My nose is too big, my freckles are too many, my hair is too mousey, I’m still too skinny even though I’ve gained a lot of weight since leaving…oh, and I’m an aesthetic. Or whatever the hell they called it. Broken, busted, defective: that’s what they should’ve said, because that’s what it is. I am who I am, and I refuse to be anything else, but it doesn’t mean I don’t hate it deep down. Hate me. All the other girls around me are happy, they’re receiving little gifts and they’re giggling about magic acorns and necklaces and kisses…me? I’m sitting in the corner. Making another candle. I do love candles, I love beeswax, but I need more than that. And I hate myself for it. Why can’t I just go through life not needing anyone, not needing to be loved, not needing to be needed in return? That would make things so simple. I could just shrug and go, “Oh, I just never found anyone!” and no one would look at me twice. Weird candle-lady, they’d call me. Crazy Sky and her apartment full’ve dogs. I’d be fine with that. But no. I need love.

From the wrong person. The wrong people. The wrong choice. For fuck’s sake, I’m sneaking out every night to spend the winter nights outside. At a camp site. Why? For what was most likely a figment of grief and imagination. She couldn’t have been real. She was mysterious and had grey eyes and bright hair and actually talked to me like I was a desirable object. A frightened rabbit she called me. Acted like I wasn’t broken for who I am. Of course it wasn’t real. No woman exists like that; I think she was a fairy. A fairy I made up, in order to make up for how pathetic I am. Maybe one night my fire will go out early and I’ll freeze to death. That’d make things nice and simple, now wouldn’t it? Go to sleep and never wake up. Bah, who am I kidding. I’d wake up and kindle the fire again. I’m too scared to die on purpose. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to anyway, sometimes.


I have a confession. I am a selfish man. I left my home, my family, all who loved me, only to follow the whim of my heart. To travel and see exciting new places. No regard for anyone but myself and what I wanted. Things have not changed so much, not yet. I find myself in an area in which I do not belong. I stick out much like a sore thumb, one that has been smashed with a hammer or whatever would cause a thumb to be round and red, noticeable. My speech is formal in a land of little true education, and my clothing brightly colored yet surrounded by earth tones. But still I stay. I tell myself it is for her, but it is for me. I have never found anyone quite like her, one who stirs me so deeply yet inspires such restraint.

My true wish is that I could sweep her off her feet and walk until I could walk no more. If only that she were willing to travel. The places we could see! We could even travel as far as Ered Luin itself, see Duillond and its impressive library. Marvel at the Elven architecture and the clean, sweet air of fragrant blossoms in the spring. Perhaps there would even be a boat, docked and ready to carry Elven passengers home. Yet that is not something she wants. Not something she needs right now. I wish it were otherwise, and I am guilty for it; to wish she is something other than what she is is one of the greatest insults you could wish someone. She is who she is, and I-…I am fond of her. The frowns that are meant to be smiles, the soft, fluttery kisses akin to the touch of a butterfly’s wings, the steadfast pride that straightens her back and drives her to be as educated and independent as she is able. All of these things make up who she is. And yet I still find myself wanting more! I am a selfish fool of a poet, and a bad man.

She drives me to want to be a better man: a man who will do any and everything for the one for whom he cares, one who is not afraid to stand stationary. One who will think of others first and himself last. That is my confession: I am selfish. But I am trying.


(Stolen from amimain, yet again. <33333 I wrote ENTIRELY too much, but I won’t apologize because this was a really great exercise. I hope you enjoy! ^_^)

Sky quietly slipped out of the room when she thought Luned had finally fallen asleep. Her roommate slept like a log most nights, making it much easier to slide away. She bundled herself up even further before silently exiting the warm house, trading comfort for freezing cold. Feet walked: left, right, left, right, making small crunches in the remaining snow. Every night, she went to this spot and every night she waited. All night. She had no idea if she’d ever see her again, but she’d always try. Was it a dream?

Ruff! A small puppy bounded up to the campsite shortly after Sky lit a fire. Bending down in a mess of limbs, she sat on the ground and held her arms out. The puppy, already freezing in the mid-winter night, quickly ran up to both young woman and fire: both warm. Sky hugged the puppy tight, glad for companionship as she held her vigil.

The little pup reminded her of Olly. Her eyes shifted from the small bundle of fur, over to the fire. As the flames crackled in the night, licked and climbed upward only to dissipate against the harsh coolness of the air, Sky sadly thought of her dear friend. Sometimes at night, she’d hug a pillow just to pretend it was her beloved dog once more. Not many things in this world are more crushing than losing your home, your family: but losing your pet cut deeply. They never found Olly after they escaped their home in the north. It was assumed that Olly died by an Orc’s hand. Her brows furrowed and she broke her gaze on the fire, dragging it to the shaggy creature curled in her lap. He wasn’t Olly, but he’d do. At least dogs liked her. She continued to play the waiting game.


The book slowly closed, shutting the door on all further adventures to the land of Lorien for the evening. Foreign symbols, Sindarin, faded from his mind slowly. It was his favorite book, a book of epic poetry dedicated to the Golden Wood. His hands softly caressed the cover, a faint smile playing on his lips. He’d never forget the first time this book had been placed into his hands.

A mischievous and melodic voice rang in his ear. “nendir, come along. I’ll read you your favorite book tonight. Just don’t tell Adar or Naneth!” His eyes widened and he ran to get ready to sleep. The book with all the Elves with the gold trees! No young boy ever cleaned up and got into his sleeping gown as quickly as he did that evening. Plopping into his large and soft mattress, he sat quietly. Eventually his sister slipped into the room, inciting silent but rousing applause from him.

“It’s your birthday today, nendir. I’m going to give you a treat, okay?” His eyes sparkled, just like she wanted. The older girl plopped an old, leather-bound book into his lap; it was well-loved, with an etching of a beautiful tree on the cover. It was their favorite poetry book, the one she promised to read to him tonight. Wide blue-gray eyes looked up to her in childish hope, small hands already crawling around to hold it to his chest. “Well, read it! I’m giving it to you, if you can read me the first stanza. Come on.”

Clearing his small, boyish throat, little nendir began to recite the long, twisting words written in the book. His Sindarin, even at the tender age of seven, was already properly accentuated. She smiled widely, impulsively leaning over to kiss her younger brother’s forehead.

Ah, Merileth. If there was one person from his family that he truly missed, with every fiber of his being, it was her. His feisty, loud, ever-caring sister. He even missed her nagging at times; he missed her advice most of all. She’s the one who convinced him that he needed to follow his heart and to leave. He would be sure to write her a separate letter next week. Quietly holding the old book to his chest, much like he did twelve years ago, Tegil transformed once more into young nendir, if only for a few heartbeats.


Lempi hiccuped so abruptly, the baby surprised herself. She blinked widely and looked to her mother for reassurance. Tuija gladly gave the infant exactly that, bringing her close to her chest. She softly murmured in her language as she handed the girl a crusty and chewy piece of bread to teeth upon. Lempi had learned fast, already weaned off breast milk at the age of eight months. Once that tooth began to come in, Tuija couldn’t handle feeding her any more. Too painful. Lempi loved crusty bread (which helped with her teething pains), so once the bottles were successfully accepted by the girl, everyone was happier.

Tuija kissed the crown of her daughter’s head, then pulled back to inspect the little face as it sloppily gnawed on the large baked good. It always took her breath away to see how Michael’s features were so easily transposed onto Lempi’s face. Her nose, the shape of her eyes…her lips. Especially her lips. Tuija’s were much fuller, more of a pout than a smile. Her daughter had a mouth begging to laugh, just like her father did. Tuija reached down to kiss Lempi’s cheek softly. The baby giggled and moved away; her mother was getting in the way of bread decimation, and that was not acceptable.

Michael loved bread, too. Tuija’s face twisted sorrowfully as she thought on how he loved her homemade flat breads. She remembered an old saying, one her mother would tell her every time she pouted for her duties as a girl. “Ei elämä irvistellen somene.”

“Life will not get more beautiful by making grimaces.”

Her mother was right. Tuija forced a smile.


The sun was shining, the snow was sparkling, and Loriwen Snowberry couldn’t have been in a better mood if she tried. She thought about skipping as she walked into the gate of Bree-town proper, but she wasn’t in that good a mood. It wouldn’t end well and she knew it. Plus, great mood or not, she was thirty. Just a little too old to be doing that in public. She’d skip at home. Alone. Lori turned away from the main road on her way to the lodge. She needed some new nails and her favorite store was around there. They had the best nail smithy, in her opinion. Sturdy but not ugly on the heads.

Just as she was about to bound up the stairs – carefully as always – her ears caught a sound all too familiar to her. Children. Children taunting someone or something. Lori slid her feet to the right, peering down the alleyway next to the shop. Four children stood around a fifth, who was curled into a ball. They were all girls. Her fantastic mood suddenly diminished, leaving a very unhappy woman to stalk down the alley toward them.

“Y’ know what they’re sayin’ ’round town ’bout yer ma, right?”

“Yeah! I heard my pop saying she’s a who–

A clear and stern voice rang out over the four girls, all of whom couldn’t have been more than eight. It cut them off most readily. “And what is going on here?” The voice’s owner put her hands on her hips, golden hair shining in the remaining shaft of light and teal eyes flashing with barely hidden anger.

The oldest of them, or at least the tallest of them, pointed to Lori and squeaked, “Ah! It’s her! Din’t she stab that guy in th’ Pony?! I heard my da’ talkin’ ’bout her! Quick! B’fore she stabs us, too!”

All four fled in a whirl of ratty ponytails and threadbare skirts, leaving the fifth girl still cowering against the wall. Lori smiled and squatted down, holding out her hand. “C’mon, it’s alright. They’re gone.” The little girl – definitely younger and seemingly prettier than the others – peeked up to stare at the older woman.

“Wh-.. what’re y’ doin’? They gonna get me good later, now..” She did take Lori’s hand, though, and let her help her shakily stand up.

“They do that often? Tease you, I mean.” Holding her hand, Lori led the little girl toward the way she stalked in; away from the the girls’ direction.

A soft nod and a sniffle answered her question. “S’no fair, I ain’t done nothin’ t’ them. Jus’ wanna be their friend.” Vibrant green eyes shone with tears as the small girl – she couldn’t have been more than six!! – looked up to Lori. Now she understood. Those girls were jealous; those were some beautiful eyes, and if there was anyone in the whole of Bree who knew what it was like to be berated for being different in a pretty way, it was Lori.

“Yer a bastard kid with straw hair ‘n eyes like a rotten robin’s egg!”

“Somethin’s wrong with Loony Lori, you ain’t got no momma an’ yer hair’s all weird! Where’d ya come from, Loony Lori?!”

Her brow creased at the memories; she wiped it from her face and squatted back down to face the brilliantly green-eyed girl. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Lizabeth…” Another sniffle, then a wiping of eyes. They blinked, focusing on the older woman for the first time. “…Yer real purty. Diff’rent lookin’.”

A soft but wide smile spread across Lori’s face. “Thank you, Lizabeth. You’re real pretty, yourself. You have some of the prettiest green eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like a Yule tree.”

Those eyes shifted to the ground, a pout making itself obvious. “They all call ’em puke-green. Or rott’n eggs.”

“Well, don’t let them get to you. You have pretty eyes, and when you grow up, you’re going to find yourself the best guy around and he’s going to love them. Those girls will be so busy picking at each other, all the boys will ignore them and they’ll have to settle for living with crazy Ellie in her cat house on the Stairs.”

She was rewarded with a quiet giggle. “Ya think so?”

Lori stood up and mussed the girl’s brown hair. “I know so. I was teased, too, and now I’ve got the best guy ever. He loves my eyes.” She wrinkled her nose to accompany a sweet smile.

Lizabeth bit her lower lip and grinned up to the woman. “Really? You were teased an’ now yer all growed up and married?” Another big giggle erupted and the little girl ran off happily.

Her gaze shifted back to the alley, remembering some of her own little torture sessions as a small girl. One kid stood out in her mind, a boy. Mathias. He was a mean little boy, pulling her hair and sticking honey in her boots at lessons. He said a lot of horrible things to her; some of them still cut deep when she thought about them. Her fists began to clench as she remembered a particularly crude remark about her absent mother. Half-way to a scowl, she blinked and looked down to her hand. Something was digging into her fist. Oh. Oh, of course.

Lori held her hand up in the sun, the old and battered silver ring shining despite its age. Her wedding ring. She smiled to herself. Bah, sod Mathias. She was happier than he was, that was for sure. After all, he had to marry one of the bratty girls who tortured her as well. Now she tortured him instead. Serves him right. She planted an impulsive kiss on the ring, then nodded to herself and went about her business. Time to buy nails.

At Rest: Hair

Yet again! Up late as hell, and totally worth it. Another short one, given pretty much every single one of my characters ended up having a very interesting night. Another installation of the incredibly addictive “At Rest” meme. I added my own little twist, every single one starts with their hair! Ooh and this also includes a newbie character. 😀


Strawberry blonde hair, silvered far more blonde than red in the moonlight, spread across a pillow. Bright eyes, still awake in the late hours of the night, continued to rest upon her husband. Husband! She grinned widely when she realized – for the third time this evening – that she could say it out loud now. In fact, she was going to do it right then. Curling up to the very unconscious man sprawled on the bed, her mouth eventually found its way to his ear. She whispered, “I love you, husband,” before moving to kiss his cheek. He responded with by taking a deep half-snore breath and grunting at the noise. She smiled softly and continued watching him sleep into the night.


Tousled brown hair shone crookedly in the shaft of moonlight through their window, the near-permanent waves from her ponytail catching it. She pretended to reread the letter for what felt like the thousandth time. As if having to track down an old literate friend wasn’t embarrassing enough, when the letter was read, she about died. Thankfully he was fairly daft despite his literacy and just smiled at her when the letter was read. What did it mean? She knew the campsite all too well, it’s where she entrusted Ian with her life’s secret. Ah, would he be there? That would make her feel much safer. Perhaps…ah! She would show up early, and hide. If she didn’t recognize anyone she trusted, she wouldn’t reveal herself. Yes, that would be the best course of action. This…meeting…worried her. But on the off chance it was true, a real meeting of like minds, she had to attend. She just had to. She clutched the parchment to her quietly and resolved – for the thousandth time – to go and see.


Black hair splayed across a pillow case, free from its bonds at last. Its owner stared at the ceiling, grinning stupidly to himself. A secret romance, eh? If that’s what it came down to, so be it. There was something intriguing about that sort of thing…like a estranged but loyal couple, fighting against great odds! There were no truly great odds; not that she would ever admit it to him. Well, for now he was merely glad – nay, ecstatic – to have the resolution they currently held with one another. Grabbing his second pillow, he pulled it to his torso and held it tight as he drifted to sleep. Fanciful if sweet dreams shortly followed.


Long, straight blonde hair tangled around a calm if tired face. She dreamt of home and hearth, listening to her father’s stories and smelling her mother’s cooking. The bow by her bed was ready as always, standing quietly next to her headrest – only a moment’s reach away. The only implement closer than that was her knife, under the pillow as expected. These beds were not so comfortable, but nothing was to be done for it. Eventually they would reach Bree and she could find real lodging. This Forsaken Inn – what a horrible name – was woefully inadequate, even to one trained to sleep on the ground. Unfortunately, she wasn’t allowed to sleep outside. She tried.


Jet black hair tumbled over the edge of the bed, wrinkled and wavy. It was attached to a woman waking from a deep if fitful dream. She still hadn’t banished the nightmares from her rest. They were disturbing and frightening. The hardest obstacle to her sleep this night wasn’t her own consciousness, but rather the baby girl laying next to her. She was in the worst of her first teething, and letting her mother know about it with quiet moans and cries throughout the wee hours of the morning. Stumbling to the window, she reached out and broke off another piece of ice and gave it to her daughter to chew upon. Eventually it did its job and she fell asleep, gums temporarily numbed by the ice; but she would be awake in an hour at best, crying once again. Shutting her eyes and begging the spirits to take the horrid dreams away, her mother prayed she could get some real sleep.


A truly short and simple RP idea I had. I’m really enjoying the shorter “snippets of each character” writing exercises. This one, I call “Questions.” We all think before we drift off to sleep, and often we’ll tally lists or think about our day. Every question here is unlabeled, and not prefaced. Enjoy this tiny snippet into everyone’s innermost consciousness! Oh. And in some cases (I hope), good luck figuring out who is who! 😀


…Did I make the right choice? Should I leave to find you?


…What’s wrong with me?…


One day, I hope to know the answer to this simple question: did it feel like thunder and shake your whole world, as well?


Will you embrace who you are, or cast it aside, my love?


If I didn’t wake up tomorrow, it would be worth it. How is this possible?

At Rest: More Rest

This is entirely Woodsong’s fault. We were roleplaying, entirely too late, and I was inspired to write this. All of my characters at the moment have had a very interesting few days, and tonight seemed to be the culmination of their current story arcs. Please enjoy a second part to the wonderful little meme that Laenlis started: At Rest. :3


North east of Bree, a young woman laid in her small bed, continuing to cry tears that no longer came. Her brown eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Sniffling and rubbing her face into the rough pillow cover just made her all the more miserable. She sat up, punching the pillow with all the strength she could muster, over and over again. Thud, thud, thud, thud. THUD. The final thud was her head slamming into the pillow. Miserably snuffling now, she sobbed silently and turned her face to the wall. Hopefully tomorrow she’d wake up from a normal dream and be normal.


Further south, still in Bree-land, a much older woman drooled in her sleep. It was the languorous sleep of someone who had exhausted themselves fully. Shifting instinctively, she clung to the man lying next to her. His arm curled around her, causing a brief lapse from unconsciousness. She blindly tilted her chin up, whispering secret words and names no one else would know yet before drifting off to sleep again. She drooled on him.


To the east, a few ridges over, a young man finally settled into bed; he barely beat the sun to its rising. He groaned happily at the feel of the soft bed and almost immediately drifted off to dream of blue eyes. On the floor rested a perfectly copied piece of literature, his bold and whimsical handwriting begging to jump off the page and into its intended recipient’s imagination.


Not too far away, long hair wrapped itself around its owner’s face, causing her to wake with a jolt. Sweat dotted her forehead, another bad dream quickly playing through her memory. Laying back down and listening for the soft breathing of the small person next to her, she let that rhythmic breath lull her back to sleep. She missed home.


Down the street, a very young Elf maiden laid in bed but did not rest. She walked in waking dreams with her beloved. They laughed and danced beneath mallorn trees before resting in a patch of flowers. They spoke of their meeting by the river, and of her namesake from that evening. The name he gave her, the one she now carried until they were to be wed. Slowly, they began to fall asleep together. In her small bunk, the Elf smiled.

Dreams: Different Homes

The weather was growing more and more pleasant by the hour – that is, colder and colder. She had begun to see snow along the ground, and secretly rejoiced. That joy was quickly overtaken by a small whine again. Shifting her dark blue eyes to the small bundle wrapped in furs, Tuija gave her daughter a wane smile. The girl hadn’t stopped complaining since they left Snowflood: she missed her friends, the wagon was hard, she was getting colder. That was to be expected, though. Children were never good travelers, especially at Lempi’s age. Once she saw the white huts and felt the cool breeze upon her cheek, she knew her daughter would understand why it was so important to return. The message that was brought to her from a trader, a note saying that Leikko of Sûri-kylä was willing to formally accept her daughter as his grandchild, it brought Tuija a joy she had almost forgotten.

Time warped, and much to her delight, she and Lempi arrived immediately. Her daughter, pink nosed and ill-equipped (Bree-blood was thin, she learned) to survive in this frigid weather, pulled the fur tighter around her. “Maaa, I’ve seen it, can we go n-”

Lempi’s current complaint was cut off by a raising of her mother’s palm, a gentle laying of fingers upon her lips. Tuija’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of her home once again, reverting back to the tongue of her people. “Shhh, love. Listen to the wind, it welcomes you home.” Lempi looked around, and Tuija watched with apprehensive joy. Just to see her daughter surrounded by fluffy white snow, dark blue eyes watering at a cold gust, filled her heart. When that little girl looked back up to her, still speaking in the Westron that she grew up hearing, and said that one awful sentence, her heart fell through the pit of her stomach.

“Ma, I want to go home to Snowflood and see my friends.

Tears filled her eyes and Tuija turned away to hide them. As she did such, the ground fell from beneath her and she tumbled through the sky. She eventually landed on her feet, Lempi nowhere to be found. Slow, cold, horrible panic began to set in. Where did her baby go? Where’s her daughter? Running through what seemed to be thawing antarctic tundra, small dead pieces of grass littering the icy mud, Tuija screamed her daughter’s name until her throat was hoarse and her voice left her. Finally kneeling on the ground, her knees instantly being dampened with the thaw, she cried. Warm tears slid down from her face, dotting her pants with small dark splotches of liquid.


Tuija’s head snapped up so quickly, she was sure it would keep flying backward. Working her throat and finally finding the courage to scream her daughter’s name one more time, she pushed upon the ground and ran in the direction of her beloved child’s voice. She finally saw a small dot in the distance, pressed onward. Her baby came into view, but now she was an adult. Tuija’s eyes grew wide and she stared at the fully grown young woman, a mix of her mother’s eyes and hair, framing a face almost wholly her father’s. “Lempi?”

The young woman whipped off the traditional Lossoth garments she wore, and threw the fine hunting bow to the side. It lit on fire. Lempi, a righteous fire in her own eyes, stared back to her mother with a mixture of contempt and sadness. Her voice startled Tuija further, as her daughter spoke both in Westron and with the voice of Tuija’s father, deep and stern. “My father also named me Aimee. That is my name. I am leaving to go home. Do not try to stop me. I do not belong here.” The woman turned to leave and walked into the cave that had seemingly appeared while Tuija was focused on her daughter.

Screaming once more, barely a shrill sound that was more pain than words, Tuija tried to plead with her in Westron. She went to follow Lempi into the dark cave, sure she could convince her daughter to not leave her. She would go with her, anything; please don’t abandon me. The darkness of the cave was absolute – she no longer saw, and the cave swallowed her whole. The entrance was suddenly gone, and she was alone again. No daughter, no light, and no hope. Tuija wept bitterly.

Her eyes shot open, sitting up with a gasp. Tears were pouring down her face; tears that she immediately wiped away with the fine blanket on her bed. The dream was too real, too poignant to be anything short of the spirits trying to tell her something. Tuija shifted to rest on her elbow and lounged, still rather shaken by the dream. She softly murmured once again to her infant daughter in the language of her people. The baby was awake, her mother’s crying clearly had woken her. Tuija kissed her on the forehead, then sat again and held Lempi to her breast. Her voice cracked as she whispered in her native tongue, “I’m sorry.”