Fables ✧ Lore Prompts - Nov 1-15

[caravant]

prompt:  ghost hunting - garden
entry: ft. Venice

Venice could always appreciate the gardening talents of another fable. She nosed lightly at the roses, breathing their sweet scent in deeply as Little Blue twittered and fluttered near her head. It was a nice night to explore a lovely garden, with a bright full moon and so much available to admire. The topiaries were nothing short of incredible, carefully sculpted into shapes Venice couldn’t dream of carving out of the bushes back home. Perhaps she would need to take up some classes in the art. If nothing else, Juliette might appreciate any creations she could pull together - even if they weren’t likely to be even nearly as impressive as these. When Venice spotted the groundskeeper, she was all too pleased and had every intention of both complimenting their work and seeking advice to improve her own. Before she could even open her mouth, though, the gardener stopped her with a warning.

“Don’t step near that lake, now.” They didn’t even bother to look up at her. “Stay on the paths.”

Venice glanced over, turning away for just a moment to sweep her eyes over a dark lake surrounded by beautiful willow trees. She had only a second to take it in before Little Blue chirped in alarm. She turned back quickly to see what had startled him, only to find that the two of them were alone once more. Somewhat unsettled, and a little confused by the brief conversation, she turned back to the lake. Surely, she could stay on the path but still get a closer look at the lake. What was so worrisome about it? The water glistened beautifully in the moonlight, almost inviting. She cautiously stepped forward, moving as far as she could towards the lake while remaining on the path and admiring the beauty of the leaves dangling down from the surrounding willows. They seemed as well cared for as the garden - perhaps tended by the same odd fellow. What a dream it would’ve been to talk plants with another enthusiast. Venice sighed softly. At least Little Blue would keep her company.

———————

prompt:  ghost hunting - woods
entry: ft. Hedera

Hedera felt drawn to the woods. Though these woods were unlike her home, perhaps they would make her feel more comfortable than that strange hotel? As she drew closer, she found that the woods somehow felt even darker and more closed in than they had at a distance. How could the tree canopy be so thick as to block out this much moonlight? It was… odd, to say the least, and certainly must make life difficult for any nocturnal local wildlife. Still, she pressed on, wondering if she might find some such animals to speak with and assuage her concerns. As she approached, the shape of a fable and a hound came into view. She paused as she drew close to them, and the stranger requested that she find his lost dogs.

“How many have you lost?” She asked softly.

The stranger did not reply, only muttering half to themselves that she didn’t have to aid him.

Hedera stared, perplexed. She was certainly a fable particularly capable of seeking a lost animal in the woods, but something about this fable deeply unnerved her. What kind of fable did not care for their animal companions, shrugged at help rather than pleading for their safe return? Not a fable she was interested in getting to know, certainly. Still - if the hounds were lost, they might be frightened and miss this fable, strange as they are. That thought spurred Hedera forward into the trees, picking her way forward carefully and seeking an animal to whom she could turn for help.

[Cammeraugepony]

prompt: ghost hunting - garden
entry: here, 1687 words, featuring Nicaise

[bezel]

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winners rolled in the discord: West, Alantica, eel., noreptiles_, MoonRaeven, SilkenDragon, elderling, brandysilverfire, Hanna, ExVenor

fables will be released when we can and linked here in this post
if you don't want to keep the mystery fable you can get a ticket instead and it will be rerolled
new prompts up now!

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[hookfang]

prompt: world - writing
entry:


word count ;; 552

Arkadia is a realm woven from ancient magic that flows throughout its sprawling lands with the rhythm of the seasons, each transformation a magnificent spectacle, every cycle repainting the land with an array of colour.

When spring unfurled, the Laurel Wood awoke in a symphony of emerald and gold. Ancient oaks and whispering willows bloomed with soft, new leaves, filtering the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor. Patches of lingering snow on Mount Kion surrendered to torrents of meltwater, feeding roaring rivers that cascaded down its slopes, coaxing alpine flowers from their long slumber. Even Mount Bolcán, usually stoic and stark, saw unique, heat-loving flora sprout around its steaming vents, vibrant against the dark rock. Spring was full of celebrations of regrowth and festivities to usher in a new cycle, the equinox bringing an annual festival to Mount Kion that fables travel from all over Arkadia to visit.

Summer brought a thick, humid embrace to the Laurel Wood, its canopy dense and dark, offering respite from the sun's fiery gaze. Mount Kion, now largely free of snow, basked in clear skies, its high pastures a verdant carpet where warm summer breezes gently swept through. The fables who reside there now spent their days lounging around vibrant meadows, soaking up the sun and summer air. Mount Bolcan, however, became a furnace, its exposed, rocky terrain baking under the relentless sun, the air thick with mineral scents and the rumble of its restless heart. Mid Summer was marked by more local, intimate gatherings as opposed to the major events of the other seasons, being seen as more of a time to spend with your herd.

As Autumn painted Arkadia, the Laurel Wood became a canvas of fiery reds, deep oranges, and golden yellows before its leaves began their gentle descent. A crisp, melancholic chill descended over Mount Kion, signaling the impending winter. Meanwhile, Mount Bolcán offered a unique contrast, while the air grew cooler, its geothermal vents remained a persistent source of warmth. Coats grew thicker as the days became shorter. Local , smaller festivals were held along with the major harvest festival, the second big gathering of the year. Special attire was broken out and dusted off for this week long event, stories of the summer and plans for the winter were shared, the season’s products and produce were shared amongst the herds, fables danced into the night with small bonfires and garlands of various kinds scattered across the meadows of the heartlands where everyone met.

Finally, Winter hushed Arkadia into a profound stillness. The Laurel Wood stood skeletal, its branches etched against a steel grey sky, often draped in a silent blanket of snow. Mount Kion transformed into a realm of breathtaking perilous ice and snow, its peaks sharp and unforgiving. However, due to the valleys the mountain boasted, there was always somewhere for the residents and travellers to hide away from the harsh winter weather. Mount Bolcán offered a stark defiance to the pervasive cold, its steaming cracks and warm rock formations creating pockets of life. The winter solstice was the major event of the season. For the third and final time the fable herds gathered, this time in the Laurel Woods to welcome back longer days and to reflect on the year as it came to a close.



prompt ideas; it could be fun to have a character prompt based around the fables as kids? What mischief did they get themselves into? A silly one, like a beach episode prompt, could be fun too hehe

[Loadingconstella]

prompt: world - art / writing
entry:

The world of Ulawna is, in and of itself, seasons changing.

Marked by the tree of the same name, the world starts off young and lively in the time of Tuilē; a world undiscovered and barely inhabited, the creatures that start to fill it bright eyed and bushy tailed ready to migrate, to settle, to breathe and ultimately; to create.
The tree is nothing but a sapling waiting to grow.

Thus, begins the cycle of Lúmë
As life is created, and as people begin to settle, we enter the stage of Sachwen.

Sachwen usually see the developments of the cities, the evolutions of the creatures and the discovery of a number of things, including magic; we also see that this is typically a time for the building of relationships between settlements
Ulawna spends the most of its time here as history is made and recorded, as relationships start and make or break across time itself, Sachwen is never too peaceful, something is always happening.
The tree is full and lush with life, with leaves coloured green no matter the season.

All of this leads towards the inevitable end, marked by Iavas; the world slowly begins to die, resources begin to dwindle and the world itself becomes destructive and inhospitable to its inhabitants; a true test of loyalties and alliances, and the survival of the creatures itself. The world created struggles here, as one might when their time is near begging for more time and wishing that this didn’t have to end.
The Tree finally changes colour and slowly falls; marked with colours of yellow, orange and brown, this is the sign of the end times.

But that's the beauty about Rhîw, the final part of the cycle; is that all things end, and once you accept it with open arms - once you let go of the thing holding you back, you create the space for something new.
The world becomes empty in Rhîw as the tree itself lays bare in slumber, until it is finally ready to fall as the seed is planted; ready to grow into the new tree of life, the new Ulawna.

And thus begins the new cycle, starting all the way back in Tuilē.


This is called the Rule of Time, or Rule of Lúmë; it is the fact that no matter what happens or what changes time will stay the same, time will always march on to its inevitable end just to begin anew; because no matter what anyone says or does, it all has to end, it all has to begin anew.
It can be scary, you can fight against it as much as you want
But know that at the end of the day, even if it all ends and you are sad that it does so; it’s okay, it creates space for something new, maybe even better, than it was before. No one knows, you just have to wait and see how it goes; to deal with the regrets as they manifest

[500]

[ylesia]

suggestions!

- world: write a poem/show trough art a tale in your world
- world: ‘highs and lows’ — describe the highest place (like a mountain) and the lowest (bottom of the ocean?) in your world trough art or writing
- character: ‘Relationships’ — describe the relationship between two characters
- world: ‘what if...’ — what if [particular event didn't happen or happened] ?
- character: ‘regrets’ — if your fable had the chance to cancel something (or someone) from their past, what would it be?
- character: ‘wishing well’

prompt: character - writing
fable: Horo, mentioning Alastor (NPC so far), Thaumantiades, Fenix and Oisin (Devon).
entry: [270 words]

I once was a star. Now, I'm nothing more than an illusion.

I think it's time to tell you my story. We have been sitting here quite a long time, don't we? Name is Horo and I was born a Desert fable. You know, ambition, courage and bravery are what make us what we really are. We grow to believe that we are stronger, fiercer and just better than anyone else. We fail in humility and this... someone manages it, don't get me wrong. Alastor did. Fenix somehow did it as well, just... in an unconventional way. I failed. And my failure is the reason why we are all here I guess. At least I'm not the only one who failed but... yeah, I failed pretty bad.

All that power was so appealing, I thought I deserved it. I didn't want to save the world, I didn't want to protect anyone. Nothing like you Oisin. I just wanted that power, it was a burning need. Alastor, you trusted me with your most precious possession and I miserably failed you. I thought I was strong enough to contain it all... guess what, I wasn't. I burned, I shined. And it was so... liberating. Was it the same for you Thaumantides, wise Elder? I was finally free from greed, free from earthly desires. I felt so good. But now you called me back. I know what the price will be and... I'm not ready. What if I get back to the old habits? What if I can't be better? I will be earthly again. I will be mortal again and... I'm scared.

prompt: character - writing
fable: Thaumantiades, mentioning Oisin, Horo, Kryos, Alastor (NPC) and Verdena (NPC)
entry: [274 words]

I was energy, I was power. Now it's time to give back what doesn't belong to me.

My name is Thaumantiades, Elder of the Swamp and The Amber Stone. We are here to restore what was lost, to make up for our mistakes. No Oisin, it was not your fault. It was my fault and now I will pay for my blindness. You were just a young fable whom no one listened to. Your voice was important, but we didn't want to come down from our pedestal. I didn't want to. Being here again after all that time is... weird. I can feel the ground under my hooves. I can feel the breeze. I can see colors and beauty again.

You shouldn't be scared, young Horo. The power, the energy flowing in our bones is not ours. It doesn't belong to us, we are just wardens. It's time we give it back. It's time that we return to our physical life. Kryos, Verdena, you have your stones. I and Horo, we are the stone. I don't know what will happen to us. I don't know If we'll be able to talk to all of you again, my dear friends. Alastor, dear, don't cry. You didn't fail us, trust is not a weakness, is a strength. And you trusted the right one, Horo is here now, and this is all that matters. No one failed but me. With you, Oisin. I'm glad you have you have a chance at redemption and you are doing your best. I see it. Keep on with it, do it form me.

Are we ready? Horo, Kryos, Verdena, join me.

[Mnemosyne]

prompt: world - art / writing
entry: This world was created on the whim of a bored god, though its inhabitants do not know this.

It began with simple animals and creatures that the god shaped with her hand, delighting in their unique shapes, sizes, and mannerisms. It took some time for her to grow further bored and create beings with thought and language. These beings walked their new home and marveled at its beauty and vastness, but the god grew yet unsatisfied with her work. The inhabitants must do more than enjoy their bounty, she decided. They must learn work and struggle.

And thus she created more beings with powers of their own, beings that she would also call gods, that could conjure forth water, create blazing fire, and speak with the dead. She thought that the unchanging landscape of lush green was far too monotonous, and created the idea of seasons - times when life grows and dies, when her beings must learn to forage, grow, and hunt their own sustenance.

The beings slowly grew accustomed to the passing of the seasons. Bruma, when the wind was cold and sharp, many of their lands blanketed in snow. Ver, the time when green life came up from the ground and sprouted from the trees, and everything was fresh and new. Aestas, when the sun blazed hot and they sought the shade to rest and recover. Lastly, Autumnas, when the air cooled and the plants began to fade, signaling a season of harvest and preparation for the cold. This was their cycle, and they accepted their new reality.

However, one year, the hot winds of Aestas began to stay longer than usual. The grasses grew brittle and dry, the soil blowing away in the wind. The cooling shadows of Autumnas seemed far away, even as the days passed further and further into the season that should have been. The beings grew desperate. They cried out to the sky, left little offerings of bone and meal. They pounded the earth, threw themselves into the sea. How had they been forsaken? Would this season of scorching heat never end?

Then one day, as suddenly as a stormcloud, a cold wind blew in from the north, bringing sweet relief and rain. The beings wept and blessed the heavens above; it was a miracle. Their prayers had been answered.

Autumnas blew in cool and fast that year. Whispered rumors began to circulate that there was a being, a God, that controlled the season, and it had been in a deep slumber long past its usual time of waking. The offerings, the songs, the chants, had worked to wake it from its sleep at last, and thus Autumnas descended upon the land. Was this the truth? Nobody was certain, but what could it hurt to do the same rituals the next year, to ensure that the season changed?

[475]

[Reiemye]

prompt: world - seasons
entry: (620 words)

The Reflection Cycle

The Alkali doesn't transform so much as it reveals. At first glance, the salt flats appear unchanging: vast, white, crystalline plains stretching to every horizon. But the Reflection Cycle pulls different truths from the same ground: the Flooding, the Drying, and the Fracture.

The Flooding arrives without warning, though the Others claim they can smell it coming. Rain pools across the flats, shallow and temporary, turning the entire isola into a mirror. The sky doubles itself. Clouds walk beneath hooves. Travelers navigate by reflection, unable to distinguish up from down, earth from air. The mineral deposits bloom beneath the water, reds, oranges and pinks rising through white like frozen sunsets. The salt crusts crack under temperature shifts, forming geometric patterns, hexagonal and perfect. During cold nights, ice forms over brine, creating layers: solid, liquid, solid again, each refracting light differently. The Others retreat to the edges during these six months, building temporary shelters on higher ground, waiting. Some Fables study the reflection phenomenon, mapping how light behaves when reality doubles. Others simply avoid the isola entirely until the water recedes.

The Drying begins slowly, unevenly. Islands of dry salt emerge while water remains elsewhere, creating a patchwork landscape that shifts daily. The mineral colors intensify as concentration increases: the reds deepen to rust, the pinks turn coral, yellows emerge where they weren't visible before. Wind sweeps across the flats, carrying salt crystals that abrade exposed skin, coating everything in fine white powder. Migratory birds arrive in the early months, feeding on brine shrimp that appear in the remaining pools. The Others harvest these shrimp, drying them for food, their settlements briefly animated by preservation work before the water vanishes entirely.

As the Drying progresses, the flats harden into a solid crust, cracked and crusty underfoot. Heat radiates upward until the air shimmers, creating mirages that show water where none exists, mountains where the land is flat, entire forests hovering at the horizon. The crystalline surface reflects sunlight with painful intensity; most Fables travel at dawn or dusk to avoid the glare. The mineral deposits remain but fade beneath the dominant white, visible only at certain angles when light catches them correctly. The Others stay in underground chambers during the hottest periods, emerging only for necessary work. Salt harvesting reaches its peak, the crusts thick enough to cut into blocks, pure enough to trade. These eight months are when the Alkali is most traversable, most predictable, and most profitable. The isola offers itself up, bleached and bare.

Then the Fracture begins. Temperature shifts cause the salt to contract and expand, fracturing the Drying's solid sheet into plates that tilt and overlap. Walking becomes treacherous as the plates shift underfoot, their edges sharp enough to cut. Wind through the cracks creates low moaning sounds, the isola singing its slow transformation back toward the Flooding. The mineral colors resurface as fractures expose deeper layers: green copper, black manganese, purple halite. Some of the Others claim the isola "remembers" during these four months, that the patterns in the cracks form shapes that repeat cycle after cycle, as if the ground is writing something in a language no one can read. Fable scientists dismiss this as pattern-seeking in randomness, though a few keep charts anyway, mapping the fracture lines year after year. They never find anything conclusive but are unable to stop looking.

The Alkali's transformation is subtle, cyclical, chemical. It shifts between mirror and desert, between color and white, between solid ground and treacherous surface. The Reflection Cycle doesn't bring new growth here: it brings revelation, pulling hidden beauty from barren ground, then burying it again beneath blinding purity. The isola doesn't change. It simply shows you different versions of what was always there.

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prompt: character - change
fable: Rarile
entry: (1239 words)

Four Years

Rarile reads the published paper three times before she allows herself to move.

The author is Desci, a Rootbound chemist she'd dismissed years ago as plodding and uninspired. Her methodology section spans four pages: exhaustive documentation of every trial, every adjustment, every failed iteration. Proper protocols observed throughout. Ethics review obtained before testing began. Acknowledgments thanking twelve different colleagues for their contributions and oversight.

The conclusion is identical to Rarile's.

She sets the paper down with careful precision, as if it might shatter. Her laboratory is quiet. Dawn hasn't broken yet. She came here to work, as she always does when sleep feels like wasted time, and found the journal someone had left on the shared table. Desci's name in bold across the top. The formula Rarile's been developing for eight months, refined and proven, published for everyone to see.

Her formula. Except it isn't, not anymore, because Desci got there first and her route was so tediously, maddeningly clean that no one will ever question it.

She stands. Sits. Stands again. Her hooves want to pace but she forces them still. Strategic thinking requires calm assessment. She needs to evaluate her options, identify the optimal response, determine how to minimize damage and redirect momentum toward her remaining projects.

The paper sits there, patient and damning.

Eight months. She'd cut corners Desci never would have considered. Skipped the ethics review because it would delay her by weeks. Tested on specimens without proper consent protocols because efficiency mattered more than paperwork. Pushed concentrations past recommended limits because safe ranges are for chemists afraid of results. She'd been so certain that speed would give her the advantage, that taking risks would let her claim the discovery first.

Desci took four years. Four years of methodical testing, collaborative review, careful documentation. Four years of doing everything the way you're supposed to when you care more about being right than being first.

She got there anyway.

She picks up the paper again. Reads the methodology section more slowly this time, looking for flaws, for places where her logic fails or her data proves insufficient. There are none. Her work is solid. Boring in its thoroughness, but solid. The kind of research that withstands scrutiny because it was designed to withstand scrutiny, built on foundations that won't collapse under examination.

Her own notes are hidden in her private tent, brilliant and damning in equal measure. She could publish them as supporting evidence, claim independent verification, position herself as parallel discovery. But her methodology section would be three paragraphs of vague descriptions, and anyone who looked closely would see the gaps where ethics reviews should be, the absence of collaborative oversight, the specimen results that appeared too quickly to have followed proper protocols.

She could claim she was faster. That would be true. But speed doesn't matter if someone else crosses the finish line first with cleaner hooves.

The humming starts without her permission, low and monotone. She cuts it off immediately, irritated by the betrayal of her own concentration. The silence that follows is worse.

Triacan died for this. Not intentionally; she hadn't meant for the vessel to shatter when it did, hadn't planned for the younger chemist to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong moment. But Triacan had died during an unauthorized test of a compound that fed into this same research, and Rarile had filed it as accident and moved forward because the data was valuable and grief was inefficient.

Desci's paper includes a memorial dedication. A colleague who died of natural causes during the research period, apparently. She thanks her for her early contributions and expresses sorrow at her absence from the final discovery.

Rarile closes the journal.

She sits in the dim laboratory as dawn begins to brighten the tent fabric, turning everything gray and then gold. Around her, the equipment waits: clean glassware, organized reagents, instruments calibrated and ready. She's always told herself that the methods don't matter, only the results, that history remembers discoveries and forgets the details of how they were achieved.

But Desci's name will be remembered now. Her methods will be taught. Her four years of careful, collaborative, ethical work will become the foundation for future research.

Her shortcuts led nowhere.

She thinks about her remaining projects. Three compounds in various stages of development, all pursued with her usual efficiency. All built on the same philosophy: that speed and audacity matter more than caution, that rules are obstacles for lesser minds, that results justify methods.

One of those projects might beat a competitor to publication. Might. If she pushes hard enough, cuts enough corners, takes enough risks. If no one else is working on it. If nothing goes wrong.

If she's lucky.

The paper sits on the table where someone left it, probably thinking she'd find it interesting. Professional courtesy, sharing relevant research. They have no idea it's a mirror held up to eight months of wasted effort and one dead apprentice.

Rarile picks up the journal and carries it to her tent. She doesn't know why. It feels important to keep it, to have the evidence nearby. Of what, she isn't certain yet.

She places it on her workspace beside her own hidden notes. Desci's clean methodology next to her efficient shortcuts. Four years of collaboration beside eight months of isolated ambition. The same destination reached by opposite paths.

Her hooves rest on both documents.

Outside, the Skybound camp begins to wake. Voices rise in morning greetings, equipment clatters to life, someone laughs at something she can't hear. The ordinary sounds of Fables who work together, who follow protocols because protocols exist for reasons, who believe that how you arrive at truth matters as much as the truth itself.

She's always thought they were slow. Sentimental. Too constrained by rules to achieve anything remarkable.

Desci proved her wrong.

Rarile doesn't cry. She doesn't rage. She sits with the evidence of her failure spread before her and feels something she's spent years avoiding: uncertainty. The humming starts again. She lets it continue this time, filling the silence with tuneless sound while she stares at two different approaches to the same problem. One celebrated, the other worthless.

She doesn't know what to do with this feeling, how to metabolize the realization that she was wrong. That Triacan died for research that another Fable completed better, slower, without breaking a single rule.

The journal stays on her desk for three days before she opens it again. When she does, she reads every page. Every citation, every acknowledgment, every careful note in Desci's methodology. She reads it like a text she's trying to decode, searching for the moment where her approach became superior to hers.

She doesn't find a moment. It was always superior; she just refused to see it.

On the fourth day, she begins writing a letter to Desci. Congratulations on the discovery, questions about her collaborative process. Genuine questions, asked without charm or manipulation, because she actually wants to know how she worked with twelve colleagues and maintained consistency.

She throws away the first four drafts. The tone isn't right; too performative, too calculated. On the fifth attempt, she writes plainly: I've been doing this wrong.

She doesn't send it, not yet. But she keeps it, folded beside the journal, evidence of something she hasn't decided to become but can't quite dismiss anymore.

The change is small. Uncomfortable. Uncertain.

But it's there.

[crexmii]

prompt: world - writing
entry: when most think of seasons, they'd likely think of summer or winter, fall or spring.
the world of reverie...doesn't quite have that.

instead, it undergoes what residents on it would call, "void cycles," where the world slowly gets devoured by a great, vast void every few years. pieces of the world get erased from reality, and any unfortunate enough to get caught in its grasp vanishes too.
nobody truly knows why this strange phenomenon occurs, but this is the way it has always been since fables came into this world.

the nature of void cycles is unpredictable, but they tend to arrive every century or so. in the past, researchers have tried to chart and predict the duration and arrival of them, but the erasure of historical records and entire eras makes it extremely difficult to do so.

when the void arrives, the sky begins to open up, revealing the void. it has no color to it, for it is simply emptiness. and it encroaches. accompanied by heavy, howling winds strong enough to carry a fully grown fable away, many souls are helpless and unable to fight back against the void. akin to a great black hole, it sucks everything and anything that comes close enough to it. as it sweeps over the entire lands, trees are uprooted, chunks of land have vanished. only the emptiness remains.

if an unfortunate fable gets ensnared in the void, there is no returning to reality. in fact, it is unknown what happens once they enter it. whether they die, survive or become nothingness in the end - they will never be seen by the world again. their body will be erased from reality, and many who have lost loved ones to it describe it as a fate worse than death.

however, there are ways to survive this frightening period. almost as if the world heard their cries, there are hidden pocket dimensions scattered around the lands, completely untouchable by the void. they tend to look like ordinary burrows or caves. known as "nooks", lucky fables hide inside these to escape its reach.

once the entire world has been consumed, slowly but surely, it begins to grow back. almost as if everything is being reversed, land and sea reforms, shaped by the void like a ceramist moulding their clay. it is still unsafe to leave the nooks during this reforming period, as the ground is unstable and it is possible for layers of land to grow over someone, trapping them underground for eternity. once the land has settled, almost like a hushed breath - seeds of many different plants, from trees to bushes are blown in by the same winds that wrecked the land.

eventually, greenery sprouts, and flora slowly returns. the world is now a blank canvas, ready for the next generation of fables to paint. the looming threat of the next void cycle is far on the horizon. for now, they can finally rebuild. kingdoms will rise and fall, new inventions will be created, and wars will be fought. all in the span of a single century.

the void may be a harbinger of doom, a symbol of the apocalypse, the end of an era - but many forget that change persists. its cyclical nature shows that it isn't just a conclusion, but also a new beginning. an opening to another world, a symbol of renewal and rebirth.


[ # 563 words ]

[hellevi]

prompt: character - writing
Your fable is undergoing change. What do they gain? What do they leave behind?
fable: alouette
entry:

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prompt: character - writing
Your fable is undergoing change. What do they gain? What do they leave behind?
fable: ondine
entry:
ondine's change is one she has always longed for, wished for, but knew that would never come to fruition: her fins, in exchange for another pair of legs. in a whirlwind of a day, this far-fetched dream seemed to become a reality as she was thrust into the world of faerendell. she seemed to be release, as the prison she called home released her to the world of the four-legged, where she could traverse the dry land as well as any other.

she knew, deep down, that this was not forever. the world was far too cruel to her, and she knew that, eventually, this entire ordeal would be a sick joke played just to remind her of her enslavement to the deep. and yet, when it happened, there was nothing she could have done to prepare herself for the swell of feelings it brought about. for all that she gained in that short period of time was soon ripped away, only to be replaced by overwhelming hatred that seemed to blind her every sense.

this change granted her the chance to walk on four legs, but perhaps she loathed the entire ordeal more than any other in her life. it was right there at her hoof-tips, the phantom feeling of two more legs that she knew no longer existed. she gained the experience of being where she always wished to be, the knowledge of what it was like to move freely, in all directions, at her own volition. but with that, she lost her senses: any hope she had of convincing herself that aethermere is where she belonged flew right out the window, drowned in a sea of loathing, both for herself and everything around her. [287 words]