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Bellyache (Bittersweet) :iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 1 0
Literature
Arrow Part 1
     Snowhawk Inn was everything one expected of an inn this far north in Lashain. It was of modest size, sturdy, well kept, and it sat right on the edge of the Belt, a swath of forest bordering the mountains. A well-painted sign depicting the inn's namesake in mid-flight swung in wind smelling of snow. The sight wasn't uncommon, as snowhawks were the only way for the fortresses guarding the Belt to communicate in the winter. Small, fast, and fierce, they were native to this part of the world, able to fly through even the heaviest storms. Inside, the inn was warm, cozy, and simple. A large fire burned at one end of the main floor, and between that and the heat pouring out of the kitchen, the entire room stayed snug. Children napped and played cards, jacks, and other such games in front of the hearth until the barkeep or the cook needed them to run an errand. Another corner held a minstrel with his harp and lute, playing whatever seemed to best fit the mood. A few pe
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Literature
Summer Lessons
     My mamere taught me much the summers I visited. She lived in an old house that still sits right on the edge of where civilization ended and the bayou began. I spent quite a bit of time in both. Ma hated that, actually. She kept trying to scare me away with tales of the creeping bugs and the alligators, and when that didn't work, she turned to tales of shadow men and ghosts. It didn't stop me. Ma's fantastic stories made me want to explore further and Mamere thought it no end of funny.
     "I 'member you as being the same at her age, Delia," Mamere would admonish, one eyebrow raised slightly. "When didjou stop lovin' this land?" Ma would roll her eyes right about then. 
     "When I realized that there is more to this green earth than muddy water and deformed trees."
     Nonetheless, Ma's protests always died down, or at least she stopped voicing them, and I got to spend my days as I saw fit. When I wasn't off havin
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:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 3 0
Literature
Edges of You
Where the trees meet the sky
and the ocean meets the sand,
there's a line drawn by a much larger hand
than mine, which follows the yellow highway divide
and traces from knee to thigh-
but both are beautiful
lines
boundaries, divisions, borders-
something to stroll down barefoot
like a dirt path at midnight midsummer;
something to cross on tiptoe
like the creaky hall between bedrooms.
There's life in these lines, 
these markers both solid and stateless:
the wispy hairs at the edge of your neck
that quiver like the birch bark
does in the wind by the river;
the sheen down the middle of your stomach
that rises and retreats from my fingers
like the waves tease the shore;
the corners of your shoulders
that sigh softly under pressure
similar to freshly plowed earth underfoot.
There's life in these lines-
these edges of you.
All the physical places,
all the mental spaces
where I run to,
that I explore through.
All the physical places,
all the mental spaces
where the world is new,
where I
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:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 1 0
Literature
Bittersweet II
Tell me,
  if I mixed honey with your ashes,
  would your death taste any sweeter?
Would my mouth again
  be filled with the smoke of your skin? 
And if I licked my fingers,
   would my tongue once again
   trace the hollow of your throat 
   and the curve of your hip?
If all of that is true, I will bottle you
   with last summer's wild flowers and
   keep you for bitter nights, nights
   when my lips are salt-stung and broken
   just like the heart you left behind on the sand
   when you smiled a goodbye, looked to the sky,
   and fell off the earth to be forever kept in the arms of the ocean. 
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:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 2 0
Literature
Once I Danced With a Storm
She tips her head back, baring her throat and self to the sky. To anyone else, this day would classified as dreary, but she revels in all of it-the palette of grey occasionally touched with blue and purple that rolls across the sky, the crisp wind that tugs at her chocolate hair, and the slight chill that brings everything into sharper focus. Her head turns to me, and though her eyes are the dark umber of soil never seen by sun, I do believe I can see the lightning that plays behind the clouds in her eyes.
"Can't you taste it?" she asks me.
"Taste what?"
"The storm!" She throws her head back again, breathing in deeply, her mouth parted slightly.
"The storm," she repeated. "It is...so alive. It tastes of water from mountain rivers, of blackberries straight from the vine, of the blood from a bit lip. The very air crackles, can you not feel it?" I confessed to her that I could not. Whatever connected her to air and the land had passed over me as if I did not exist. A crease appears on her
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:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 5 0
Literature
The Old Country
This land is old and the roots run deep.
Those are some of the wisest words my grandmother ever spoke to me, although at the time I did not know it. As children do, I understood the abstract seriousness of what she said, but failed to catch the larger implications. I think it is because children are too light and airy. No piece of the Old Country, not even a warning, can catch and hold on to them for even a moment. Children are bubbly and bright and move with all the weight of a firefly on a summer night's breeze. The Old Country, the place beyond the twilight, is almost...heavy. It feels like the smell of warm earth right before the thunder booms overhead, and as such the creeping tendrils only begin to get purchase on us once we lose the spring of our youth. Like attracts like, and the land hears the weight of our souls. It calls to that weight, in the hopes of bringing us home...but to those it calls, remember that the Old Country, like all old things, is neither
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:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 5 0
Mature content
Cartography :iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 1 0
Literature
My parent's daughter
My mother made me 
out of sea-glass and driftwood,
her needle of moonlight 
and her thread the salt breeze.
My father made me
out of sun-sets and storm clouds,
his hammer of lightning
and his anvil the horizon.
Part of the deep, part of the blue
both the shore and the sea
lay a claim on me
regular as the tide,
and like the current, unyielding.
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:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 2 0
Mature content
Bittersweet :iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 0 0
Literature
A Letter
To my greatest love,
Some silences are small. They're little breaks where everything just takes a moment to breathe in, like the hush just before the first rain drops start to fall or the heavy calm of falling snow. 
Some silences are small. Others fall. They hit like a clap of thunder, a well-trained fist in the gut. Nothing stops to breathe, because there's no air. Did you know that I never had enough air any time you looked at me mi sayja? Bedroom or battlefield, your eyes on me made the whole world slow and my chest clench. Come to think of it, I suppose our bedroom was a battlefield. But these silences are not born from love, but from despair.
I felt that arrow through your chest like it was my own, and the whole world slowed to a crawl. A soundless crawl. In the far corners of my mind, I knew I had to be screaming, but the silence of your death took it all. It took everything, but mi sayja, it took the most important thing of all. It too
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:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 1 0
Literature
Split-Seconds
One hand on the door handle,
one foot already on the ground;
no second thoughts,
no backing down,
and suddenly, I'm out.
Torn sneakers pound the pavement,
shouts behind me-
not sure I'm gonna make it-
but 'round the corner sits salvation.
Bright blue eyes, they see me coming.
One leg over the seat,
one hand in his jacket,
no worrisome doubts,
no backing down,
and suddenly, I'm out.
I see a tangle of legs and hair
tumble round the corner-
a cat, a bird, a wild creature-
leaping at its chance for freedom,
and as green eyes catch mine, I realize
that I'm the chance that's materialized.
Then arm snagging my waist, behind me she slides,
like she's done this a hundred thousand times,
and I, I don't do anything but drive.
                    ...
"Tomorrow" he rumbles, conviction he lacks,
"tomorrow I'll have to take you back",
but the fire, the air, the cooling pings from his bike
all say "forever", and I'm okay with that,
because something ab
:iconLadygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard
:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 1 0
Literature
Guilty, and?
I refuse to apologize
that I dance like I have diamonds
at the meeting of my thighs,
for I am everything I am made of,
and if you don’t like it love, well tough.
:iconLadygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard
:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 2 0
Literature
Sunday Drivers
My left arm's two shades darker,
shoulder to wrist moving to burnt,
but this lazy smile is unwavering,
with wind tossed blonde locks in my peripheral,
turquoise toes tapping whatever's on the radio.
She let her hair down 'bout an hour ago
and I have to say I love it,
cause later she'll beg me to comb it,
and I will, and both she and God know it.
But I'm in no hurry to get there,
wherever there happens to be,
'cause there's something eternal
'bout her and me just cruising in the passing lane.
:iconLadygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard
:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 1 0
Literature
Pick and Choose
...I am not, and will not ever be good enough...
That is a truth,
but it does not
have to be the truth,
and that is up to me.
So I bare my doubts,
I lay out my fears,
and I let the smoke wash over me,
and I let the smoke wash behind me,
and I let the smoke wash before me,
and I ask the smoke to wash through me.
My struggles and my triumphs
will be both my test
and my sincerity
to those that walked
all these paths before me.
I go forth knowing only that
while it may not be what I want,
what I receive is what I need,
and that is a hard truth
that I hate,
that I love,
that I believe.
:iconLadygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard
:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 3 0
Literature
I dream of M 'n M's
I do not dream of princes,
but of a fellow traveler on the road.
Of someone open to adventure,
bare dirt-stained feet ready to go.
Of someone who loves my quirks,
is willing to put up with my flaws.
And of someone willing to eat the raisins
out of the trail mix most of all.
:iconLadygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard
:iconladygentlemanbastard:Ladygentlemanbastard 1 3

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Ladygentlemanbastard
Rumi
Artist | Hobbyist | Other
United States
Here's the basics loves:

1. I love reading, it is my drug of choice. In particular I am a sci-fi and fantasy fan, but I will read just about anything. If you ever want to chit-chat about books, hit me up via comments or notes!

2. Writer–sort of. I have always loved writing and it is my life-long dream to be a published writer. However, I always feel hesitant calling myself one as I write sporadically at best. Goal for the coming year is to write more often! Can't get better if I don't write.

3. On the above, I am always happy to have feedback on my work, but please make sure it is constructive feedback! Also note that I am in no way, shape, or form obligated to make any changes you suggest. Even if your suggestion is a good one, I might just be happy with the piece as is, or, the piece is so old that I don't want to key haul it at the given moment. :)

4. I sketch a little. Hopefully you will see more of a little creature I'm working on in the coming year. No idea what he is, but he's cute, so there's that.

5. One of those people who likes running for fun. Its good for me and gives me a nice meditative space.

6. Rumi is not my real name but it is essentially the nickname I go by online now, so, there ya go.
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Tell me,
if I mix honey with your ashes,
will your death taste any sweeter?
I asked the bees, who don’t know,
and now the queen refuses to share
because she worries I’ll ruin their work.

Even strawberries taste bitter;
my mouth doesn’t recognize what I give it,
wanting only for the salt and smoke of your skin.

I lick my fingers and press,
trying to somehow recall
the corner of your jaw and
the edge of your lip,
hoping to somewhere find
the curve of your throat and
the hollow of your hip.

My heart hungers,
my body is hungry.
I’ve tried several new recipes
but nothing rises properly,
or crisps appropriately,
and today, I ran out of sugar. 

My heart h u n g e r s,
my body is h u n g r y.
The queen relents, though reluctant,
but I refuse her gift
because I don’t know if I’ll ruin it.

My heart hungers,
my body is hungry,
but the sun is warm,
the honey is deep,
and for the moment,
I am full.

Bellyache (Bittersweet)
So this poem has been a journey! For two years now I have been trying to build a poem around the first sentence of this poem. The first two iterations are Bittersweet (I still like that title, although didn't want to name this one that for fear of confusion) and Bittersweet II. I think that almost more than anything else I've posted, this progression of work shows how I have grown as a writer, and I'm really proud of that. For those who have read all three iterations, thank you for sticking with it. I promise this to be the last version; I'm happy with it.

Note: This poem is written in first person but it is not my story or anyone else's that I know.
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Hello all!

I hope the holidays have been treating you well. Currently alive, awake, alert, and even enthusiastic about it! Here's to the magic of the holidays and a little R&R.

My apologies for being a little sporadic with any updates or activity-college will do that to a girl. Hopefully, this coming semester will allow me a bit more time to work on my projects and share them with you! What are these projects I image wishfully that you ask?

1. So, Arrow Part 1 is just that, part one of an original short story that I am working on. This bit wrote itself, but the others are being a little trickier to get down on paper. I expect there will be somewhere between 4-5 parts, after which I will combine and revise them into a single document.

2. Some of you may remember the snippet I shared from this journal, which is now extremely dusty. That short story is also still alive, if in a slight coma. I know what I want it to look like and I just haven't wrangled it there yet. Once finished, I hope this to be just the first piece of many concerning these characters.

3. I have an entire list of ideas for shorts that I want to eventually get to as well as numerous prompts and writing exercises. One way or the other, I will write more this year.

4. I'm working on sketches for an original creature. No idea what the species is yet, some sort of robot-flower-thing with horns, but my first little one will be up soon.

5. Finally, I am friends with a few people in the DGM fandom and got sucked into the whirlwind that is making fan characters. I've been working on one for two years now off and on and would like to at least get all of the written information for her up. She may never get drawn and that's that, but I have so much background, stats, and history that it seems a shame for it to sit in stash. 

Anyways, that's the plan for the upcoming semester! I hope to see and hear more from all of you and wish you well as we start the new year.

~Love and light, Rumi
     Snowhawk Inn was everything one expected of an inn this far north in Lashain. It was of modest size, sturdy, well kept, and it sat right on the edge of the Belt, a swath of forest bordering the mountains. A well-painted sign depicting the inn's namesake in mid-flight swung in wind smelling of snow. The sight wasn't uncommon, as snowhawks were the only way for the fortresses guarding the Belt to communicate in the winter. Small, fast, and fierce, they were native to this part of the world, able to fly through even the heaviest storms. Inside, the inn was warm, cozy, and simple. A large fire burned at one end of the main floor, and between that and the heat pouring out of the kitchen, the entire room stayed snug. Children napped and played cards, jacks, and other such games in front of the hearth until the barkeep or the cook needed them to run an errand. Another corner held a minstrel with his harp and lute, playing whatever seemed to best fit the mood. A few people sat at the bar, but most of the folk knew each other and clustered themselves around scrubbed wooden tables. The general chatter created a steady buzz, broken suddenly by a startled noise issuing from the barkeep as he looked incredulously at the lean traveler perched on the barstool in front of him.
    "Yeh want to go where?!" exclaimed the barkeep, causing every eye in the room to glance his direction. 
     "The Wandering Wood," the woman in front of him replied, her voice a bit too rough to be husky. "I have business there, but haven't been able to find a reliable map for this part of the Belt." 
     "And why would yeh want to go there?"
     "Like I said, business."
     "Well, grandmother," sighed the barkeep, his hands dutifully returning to the ever-present duty of cleaning glasses, which had paused in his shock, "I sure don't feel comfortable sending yeh out that far, but I s'pose yeh'd know yer business best." The old woman nodded and a lock of silvery-white hair escaped from her braid, stark against suntanned and slightly leathery skin. She brushed it back absentmindedly, as befits well-worn habits, with fingers long and calloused, fingers of someone who put them to work. But they moved with ease, too much ease to be considered gnarled.
     "Hrmph, well," rumbled the barkeep, "yeh'll as want to take the main road towards Kunlin an' then the right fork at Brela all the way past Haresdeep. Jus' keep walking till yeh start leaving footprints in the soil an' not the dust."
     "Thank you. Seeing as I won't be making it to Brela tonight, might I trouble you for a room and some food?"
     The barkeep nodded to one of the boys playing round the fire who jumped up and ran towards the kitchen. "He'll make sure one o' the girls makes yeh up a room." He paused. "Yeh sure yeh want to head t'ward the Wood?" Piercing eyes glanced up at him, eyes the color of a clear and bright autumn sky. "Not that yeh look like yeh can't handle yerself," he continued, "but well, not many folks go t'wards those parts, and certainly not as many...seasoned ladies." A bark of laughter escaped from the woman.
     "You can call me old-the gods know it's a term I've earned-but ask yourself my good man, where would we go if not to the woods?" The barkeep opened his mouth, but a chill gust of air signaled the entrance of a new party, saving him from answering. A group of men sauntered in, the insignia on their jackets marking them as soldiers from the nearby fortress, Baneswatch. 
     "Barkeep!" one roared, presumably the leader, "A round of ale! We here-"he gestured towards his companions theatrically, "-we  we start patrol duty tomorrow and want to make the most of our last night in civilization!" A round of cheers swept the inn, although a few of those that clapped their back grimaced at their fortune when the soldiers weren't looking. Patrol duty this close to the snows was unforgiving work, but it was necessary. Every year a few unpleasantries snuck through the snows and mountains to the Belt, looking for food, food that wasn't always limited to livestock. Turning her head, the old woman took in the men. She knew their type. They played at being hard men, ready for work and battle, but she knew better. They swaggered and sang and drank with all the marks of green backwoods soldiers, not quite prepared for the winter they were about to face. Come the spring, the lucky ones would be haggard and lined, but the winter wouldn't have taken their ability to sing or laugh. The wind and cold would steal the merriment from the rest, leaving them withered husks of nothing but grouch and bluster. Service on the Belt could be as hard as any formal campaign; not all the casualties ended up in an early grave.
     The clattering of a plate and an accompanying mug of spiced wine broke her reverie, bringing her attention to the food and the boy, bright green eyes as large as the plate, who had delivered it.
     "Is that a bow?" He practically bounced with excitement as he pointed to the taller of the two wrapped oilcloth items beside her. "Is it for killing?"
     "When did the young get so bloodthirsty?" the woman chided, smiling. Green Eyes made a quick study of the floor, but looked up in wonder as she went on, "It was, once. Well, still is on occasion."
     "You used to fight with a bow? In battle? Were you a ranger? A scout? A-" Green Eyes bit his lip, realizing the questions poured from his mouth too fast for the woman to answer. She chuckled at him, inwardly sighing at the awe in his voice. Battle always seemed more dashing before one was old enough take part. If the Great Goddess had mercy, this youngling would never find out that guts and glory is a lot more about the guts than it is the glory.
     "I did fight with it. I fought in too many battles and let me tell you-"but what she wanted to say was drowned out by a surprised yell as one of the serving girls stumbled, spilling soup on the leader of the soldiers. The girl quickly stammered out an apology and went to dab at it with her apron, only to find the man gripping her arm. 
     "Now what did you have to go and do that for?" he drawled. "Me and my mates see, we have to report for duty in the morning, off to go protecting your pretty self from the monsters. And now, now you have spilt soup all over me." He looked her up and down, smirking, and cut her off as she began to babble another apology. "No, I know you didn't mean to, but cloth will only do so much. I think we could strike up a bargain, you and me." She yelped as he pulled her down into his lap, one hand on her arm and the other on her hip. "How about you warm my bed tonight and I'll forget all about the soup?" 
     "How about you let her go and I don't loose this arrow?"
     Collectively, the inn turned to see the old woman standing, oil cloth piled on the floor, an arrow notched and ready in her longbow. No one had heard or seen her move, not even young Green Eyes. Standing in her traveling leathers with her bow strung and drawn, the old woman didn't seem quite so old. Her arms didn't twitch at the strain of holding the string drawn. She looked tough and wiry, taut and prepared. Not to the man however, who laughed loudly. 
     "Why don't you put that down before you hurt yourself. This pretty thing doesn't mind my proposition, now do you?" He shook the girl slightly, eliciting nothing but a whimper. The point of the arrow didn't waver. 
     "Boy, don't make me shoot you. I will, but all I really want right now is a meal and a bath." 
     "Boy? You dare call me boy?" the soldier's voice rode the line between furious and amused, one hand still gripping the serving girl. "I am Jorl da Stinen, son of Lord da Stinen who commands Baneswatch! I could gut you like a fish and no one would think twice about it. Who do you think you are, you delusional crone?" 
     "My name is..." The old woman sighed.  "My name is Sylar di Silvosin." There was a pause, and then chuckles filled the room, even from the townsfolk. 
     "You really expect me to believe that you're Sylar di Silvosin?" Jorl wiped away tears from his eyes. "The Windblade? The Silver Rose of Lashain? You really are a delusional old crone! The Windblade is a hero! A legend! And as the stories say, quite the beauty. You are none of those things. Do you take us for jokes old woman?"
     Jorl kept the smirk on his face, but no mirth reached his eyes. "You must since you're making like you're going to shoot me. I'm surprised you can even draw that longbow-looks too much for a frail old woman like yourself. I mean, maybe when you were young, which was a long while ago, but not anymore. Bet I could though, and you know, hunting could be hard on me and my squad once the snows come. I think you should give it to us as an apology for making a scene out of nothing. A present, so to speak, for our sacrifice in keeping all of these good folk safe."
     Silence made the space between them stretch, the arrow still squarely pointed at Jorl, not having shifted once. The rest of the patrons took notice and inched away as surreptitiously as they could from Jorl and his men. 
     "You have no idea of the meaning of the word sacrifice, boy." A hard edge entered the woman's voice. "Let the girl go. It's a sad tale when someone as unscarred and young as you needs to frighten girls into bed."
     Jorl's smirk twisted into a snarl. "Why you doddering bitch!" He threw the girl down, but before his hand so much as touched the handle of his belt knife, a soft whisper cut the room. With a solid thunk, the arrow lodged itself in the far wall. Jorl screamed.  His hands desperately tried to stem the blood flowing from his face. Sylar shook her head at his now crumpled form on the floor while she unstrung and re-wrapped her bow.
     "You're lucky I only clipped your cheeks and nose. And what will you tell them, eh? What will you tell them when people ask why the bridge of your nose is missing a sizable piece? That Sylar di Silvosin shot you for being a pig or that some old woman with a bow got uppity?" Although, chances were, not many people would get the opportunity to ask. The boy's father would order a healer to replace the chunk in his nose to avoid any embarrassment. Still, perhaps this boy would learn something. Sylar turned to address the rest of his companions, all still motionless, worried they might be next.
     "What are you lot waiting for? Take him back to the barracks and get him patched up." They sprang into action, nearly knocking each other over in the process to obey. Together with Jorl, bleeding and groaning, they exited the inn. Sylar walked over and picked up a purse which had fallen in the scuffle, tossing it to the barkeep who had rushed to help the girl off the floor. 
     "For the trouble. Sorry about the noise, the blood, and uh" she gestured at the far wall, "the arrow." The barkeep flapped a hand hand at her.
    "No need to apologize." He frowned at the door, hands planted on his hips. "Soldiers come in all the time to blow off steam. I 'member being a young lad who wanted out of the barracks every so often. That de Stinen boy is the only one whose ever troubled the girls though, but tonight wouldn't be the first time I've had to crack a few heads. I 'member that from when I was young too," he chuckled with a wink at Sylar, and rubbed his slight gut fondly. "They see this and think I'll roll over, but I still have some iron and spark tucked away in my bones. But yeh saved me the trouble of having to do it, and I would be a poor host to not thank you." Sylar waved a hand as if to brush the offer off, but stopped as he narrowed his eyes at her.
    "Yeh wouldn't want to insult my honor or pride, now would yeh?" he accused, beetle black eyes twinkling. "Everyone round these parts knows Dal of Snowhawk Inn to be a man of both, and that's all a man has after a certain age yeh know. And a gorgeous wife whose given me many lovely children," he hollered towards the kitchen from whence issued laughter. "So," he stared hard at Sylar, "what's it gonna be?" 
     "A hot bath and some food in the morning will be more than plenty," she relented. Dal nodded, a broad smile of satisfaction on his face, and sent Green Eyes rushing away to draw a bath. Sylar shook her head with a smile as she sat back down at her meal. If she wasn't careful, Dal would send her off with more food than would fit in her saddlebags. Gradually, conversation started  back up, and as Green Eyes led Sylar to the baths, she heard tales floating around the pints of ale and spiced wine that she hadn't heard in years, as well as titles long ago shelved. Thankfully, the room with her bath was out of earshot from the main room; Sylar found listening to stories about herself to be a strange experience. She gratefully stripped out of her leathers and lowered into the silence and warmth of the bath. It was a luxury this far north, and one she wouldn't get once she passed Haresdeep. Her younger self had enjoyed invigorating baths in streams, but Sylar's bones creaked now. They never felt quite warm unless steamed through.
     Sylar smiled. Her younger self seemed like an entirely different person these days. Baths in mountain streams, months spent perfectly comfortable curled up on the forest floor, and energy to spare. She'd loved every bit of being a ranger for the army. Every day spent tracking some lawless scum or wayward monster through the trees. Every long night spent scouting and tracking platoons of enemy soldiers. Even every patrol on the Belt she'd worked during the snows. It had all been fun and exciting: one big, long adventure. But it had also been hard, tough work where she didn't always come out on top. Her body was one big map of every mistake she ever made. Each pale line marking her dark skin had a story, not that she remembered them all. 'Course, it wasn't like she needed to remember them all. Between official reports, soldier's gossip, and bards, her entire life was recorded somewhere, in some form or fashion, even though most of the renditions were now embellished far beyond the truth. Just last month she'd listened to a bard sing a version of "The Valley of Frost and Fire", regaling the town square with her single-handed defeat of five fully-trained mages and their respective battalions. It was well written to be fair, but complete nonsense. She'd only killed three by herself, and the rest was the work of her scouts and the army. And far too often these days, she heard tales about her younger years that she didn't recognize, adventures she couldn't recall anymore. If only there hadn't been so damned many. Too many some days, too many...  
     Her chin met water and Sylar realized how long she'd been in the bath. She didn't relish the thought of getting out, but the water had cooled down. Besides, after her display, she couldn't very well accidentally drown. A snort escaped at the thought of the servants finding her like that in the morning. The Great Windblade indeed, snuffed out by a sinisterly warm bath. 
     Slowly, Sylar rose out of the water and made to her room where a roaring fire helped preserve some of the warmth from the water. Sleep quickly claimed her, and when she dreamed, she dreamed the same dream as always: of a laugh belonging to golden hair,  of the gleam and music of clashing blades, of a wrenching feel of loss, and of an arrow fletched with feathers darker than a moonless night.
Arrow Part 1
Hey all! Sorry for the crappy working title. This is only the beginning though of a larger short story I'm working on. I know awhile back I posted part of a different story-don't worry, it's still in the works-but this took precedence. It's practically writing itself. Hope you enjoy it and that you want to read the next part!
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Hello all!

I hope the holidays have been treating you well. Currently alive, awake, alert, and even enthusiastic about it! Here's to the magic of the holidays and a little R&R.

My apologies for being a little sporadic with any updates or activity-college will do that to a girl. Hopefully, this coming semester will allow me a bit more time to work on my projects and share them with you! What are these projects I image wishfully that you ask?

1. So, Arrow Part 1 is just that, part one of an original short story that I am working on. This bit wrote itself, but the others are being a little trickier to get down on paper. I expect there will be somewhere between 4-5 parts, after which I will combine and revise them into a single document.

2. Some of you may remember the snippet I shared from this journal, which is now extremely dusty. That short story is also still alive, if in a slight coma. I know what I want it to look like and I just haven't wrangled it there yet. Once finished, I hope this to be just the first piece of many concerning these characters.

3. I have an entire list of ideas for shorts that I want to eventually get to as well as numerous prompts and writing exercises. One way or the other, I will write more this year.

4. I'm working on sketches for an original creature. No idea what the species is yet, some sort of robot-flower-thing with horns, but my first little one will be up soon.

5. Finally, I am friends with a few people in the DGM fandom and got sucked into the whirlwind that is making fan characters. I've been working on one for two years now off and on and would like to at least get all of the written information for her up. She may never get drawn and that's that, but I have so much background, stats, and history that it seems a shame for it to sit in stash. 

Anyways, that's the plan for the upcoming semester! I hope to see and hear more from all of you and wish you well as we start the new year.

~Love and light, Rumi

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:iconnagisa-imouto:
Nagisa-Imouto Featured By Owner May 22, 2018  Hobbyist General Artist
*THROWS CAKE AND HUGS HERE FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY*
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Ladygentlemanbastard Featured By Owner May 24, 2018  Hobbyist Artist
THANK YOU Heart 
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Vixerlen Featured By Owner Oct 21, 2017  Student Writer
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Hi there! :wave: Thank you so much for joining :iconxx-book-worms-xx: :la:

Please look at this guide journal for information on folders.

I hope you enjoy your stay with us! If you have any questions or concerns feel free to tell me so! :tighthug:

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Ladygentlemanbastard Featured By Owner Oct 24, 2017  Hobbyist Artist
Thanks very much!!
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FrancescaBaerald Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2017  Professional Traditional Artist
Thank you very much for the Watch :+devwatch: !
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:iconladygentlemanbastard:
Ladygentlemanbastard Featured By Owner Sep 9, 2017  Hobbyist Artist
You are quite welcome! Your work is immaculately put together and incredibly detailed. I love everything from your character designs to the way your color to the intricate maps!!
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FrancescaBaerald Featured By Owner Sep 11, 2017  Professional Traditional Artist
You're too kind, thank you! :blackrose:
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graphic-novel-sans Featured By Owner May 22, 2017  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Happy birthday! <3
Hope you have a wonderful day! :happy birthday:  
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:iconladygentlemanbastard:
Ladygentlemanbastard Featured By Owner May 23, 2017  Hobbyist Artist
Aww thank you so much!
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dreamsinstatic Featured By Owner Jan 21, 2017
Thanks for the :+fav:
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