writing challenges I | dnp

[geto]

[“Sing me a lullaby, please?”] 43
Welson and Kelsa Chelvron
^characters from my own book, The Right Way Home

word count: 665
tw: nil

“Alright, kid, night’s falling,” Kelsa tightens her grip on the little boy’s hand, “where do you reckon we go?”

“Anywhere safe.”

Kelsa nods thoughtfully, her expression neutral, “Of course, smart kid.”

It had been days - maybe weeks - since the attack had successfully separated the two from the rest of the group, and Kelsa wasn’t even sure if the others were still alive, and Curtis - her only brother. As much as they fought, she still loved him, and she soon found herself beginning to miss him greatly.

Kelsa shakes the feeling off, she was on her own now, left to fend for her own devices and for the safety of a five-year-old.

Her grip around Welson’s hand tightens, she was ready to fight against anything to ensure his survival. The two mindlessly trots into an abandoned mini-mart, the darkening streets signifying the arrival of dusk as dread begins to foster in Kelsa’s guts.

She’d hope silently that the night would be peaceful, it was getting tiring to keep fending off the undead all whilst trying to get equal sleep, the gurgling sound of zombies nothing short of a disturbing melody.

“We’ll go into the corner, and if you hear anything, do you remember what you must do?” she looks down at the boy.

“Be quiet.”

“Good.”

Night had fallen quick, a blanket of darkness covered over the empty streets by the time Kelsa had finished setting up the sleeping quarters, amxiously listening to mismatched footsteps shuffling their way past the shop as Welson trembles uncontrollably beside her.

She sighs despondently, keeping her arms wrapped protectively around his shoulders in an attempt to calm the child, she tries to keep her breathing even in hopes that it would strengthen her fearless exterior, but deep down she was afraid - too afraid. It was only then that she realises that Cavalier was all she had, and even now she had let it slip from her grasps, she finds that she even misses the terrible bickering between Mark and Curtis, no matter how aggressive they were, they were still her family.

Welson shifts uncomfortably, sidling up against Kelsa as he wraps his little arms around her waist tightly, sleep refusing to come as the gurgling sounds amplifies itself.

“I can’t sleep.” the boy whispers under his breath, “I’m scared.”

Kelsa lets out a forced chuckle, straining to hide the fear in her voice, “Scared? The world is cruel, you’re going to meet scarier things as you grow up.”

“Kelsa...can you tell me about the stories of the world before, again?”

She looks down, meeting Welson’s eyes as a wistful smile etches across her lips - the earth before, the wondrous green earth that humanity once knew, the place of warmth where everything was colourful and not just dulled with greys and debris.

The earth that Welson never got to experience. The world that he was deprived of and should of belonged.

Kelsa can’t help but feel that it was unfair to the child on so many different levels, a young boy who had barely crossed the path of an adolescent, thrown headfirst into a fight for survival, a war-zone of famine and suffering.

She remembered sharing the story with the kid on a sleepless night, when she had found him wandering the borders of the mall whilst patrolling the area, sat him down on a chair opposite hers, a forlorn look clouding his eyes as she went on about the greens of nature, how the streets used to be full of rowdy children, how the world bloomed alive with every new years.

Welson would listen intently, curiosity evident in his voice as he would always shower her with never-ending questions.

“You deserve that, Welson. You should be playing with the other kids, have toys, get an education.” Kelsa sighs, “But we don’t always get what we want.”

He nods slowly, nestling his head against her stomach before finally closing his eyes, “Sing me a lullaby, please?”

[geto]

["When I grow up, I’m going to be just like you, brave warrior!"]
Morga Morgasson and Montag Morgasson [Lucio Count]
^characters from Nix Hydra, The Arcana

word count: 548
tw: nil

[au where Lucio did not attempt to take his father’s heart.]

A brave warrior.

Morga lowers her head in her hands, eyes closed, lips pursed in a thin line and brows furrowed as frustrations and anger palpates through her nerves.

The clan leader had always had high hopes for her son, the blood-born heir to the clan, that he would be the strongest, most hard-willed and hard-working, the fiercest of the warriors that would lead with equal ferocity as the great leaders, and bring pride to his mother. Nonetheless, Montag had proved to be quite the opposite, no matter what he did, Morga had always been light on punishments and discipline, and she would always hope that he would outgrow his child-like tendencies - to no avail.

She chides herself silently on allowing herself to foster a weakness, for nurturing a soft spot in her heart for just her son - and she sees now where it had led to.

His untimely death was a great shock to her at first, but deep down somewhere she knew that it was inevitable; the young boy was rash and reckless. The numbness that followed was only just the beginning of her woes, and Morga lets a deep sigh escape her parted lips.

“Would you teach me?” Montag would say, looking up at the man with an awestruck expression as the young boy watches the seasoned warrior fling the spear in a pattern, captivated by the flowing movements and the grace of his actions, and Morga would watch intently from afar, only allowing a small curve of her lips before letting the tough exterior wash over her visage again when she spots Montag approaching.

Morga almost feels guilty, every warrior of the clan were brought up to nurture a steel-like willpower and were taught that emotional baggage is forbidden least it compromises or hinders a mission, that every warrior would withstand against inhumane pain and not flinch the slightest even if a bone is broken. She groans, grimacing as she realises her wrongdoings.

Montag was too spoilt for his own good, and it brought him to his demise.

Memories flashes through her mind, a deep pain blooms in her chest, and a paralysing sensation overtakes her body like never before. Tears refused to come - she was taught not to cry, but the pain was agonising and blinding. Yet she stills tries to put up the facade that she was fine, just like the rest of the people of her clan - the slightest bit of a show of humanity was punishable.

Never show a weakness. Never.

“When I grow up, I’m going to be just like you, brave warrior!”

Morga grimaces at the memory, listening to his little voice ringing through her mind, almost as if he was there with her right then, and she cups her ears in her palms, tapping away at her tragus in an attempt to distract herself.

He’s gone. He’s gone.

A shuffle of footsteps snaps her out from her daze, Morga lifts her gaze to see who it was, and relief courses through her veins as her gaze rests upon Lutz; the father of Montag, and he walks over to sit beside her, wrapping her in his arms as he pulled her close to his chest.

And silence envelopes the hut in a despondent embrace.

[geto]

[“The past is what keeps me going forward.”]
Nolan and Asriel [previously Feanor]
^characters from my own book, Two King’s Treason

word count: 1108
tw: mentions of abuse

The gentle pattering of water against rocks calmed him, the lively chirping of birds somewhere deep in the forest, welcoming and warm, and the flowing serenity in the cave brought on a wave of security.

Paired with the company, Nolan feels the warmth radiating from Asriel’s hands as he holds them close to his lips, head lowered, focusing his magic and directing them to his own hands as a tingle runs down his spine.

“You’re glowing.”

Nolan opens his eyes slowly, looking towards where Asriel’s hands laid, and notices a dim blue radiating from his own skin, tiny whorls of magic intertwining it’s way around their hands in a bound, weaving through their fingers like thread and needles and leaving behind a light, tingling sensation.

A small smile etches across Asriel’s face as he watches in awe, and as he looks about his surroundings, he notices that the cave had dimmed ever so slightly, the blue light now glowing brighter as Nolan focuses. Asriel turns his hands around so that Nolan’s laid atop his, and the tiny threads breaks off and dissipates into air like dust before a new layer reforms itself again.

He lets his gaze rest upon the other man; Nolan’s eyes were hooded, pupils replaced with a glowing blue as little streaks of light seeps through his skin, and a certain warmth of affection blooms in Asriel’s chest. He took the time to study his features - in a way, Nolan looked almost ethereal, chin tilted upwards, eyes hooded heavy, warm light highlighting the veins in his arms in place of blood.

If the gods were to have a physical form - it was what Asriel would have imagined them to look like.

Nolan releases his hands, and the glow dims before finally disappearing.

“I’ve always rejected myself for having this...gift.” he mutters, turning away from Asriel to face the waterfall as a dark look casts over his expression, a deep hurt evident in his eyes as much as Nolan tries to mask it. The memories of his abandonment, even in centuries, was too wounding to hark back to, the deep scars it had left in his consciousness had carved a permanent spot in his life.

It almost placed Nolan in a dark place that he was sure he could never return from.

Asriel lets his gaze rest upon Nolan’s arms, taking it in his hands as he flips his wrist, carefully unbuckling the silvers of the bracer as Asriel gently unclasps the hard leather from skin, setting the piece of accessory away on a rock.

It was then that Asriel notices the skin - calloused, though pale and smooth, with a single thin line trailing from the inside of Nolan’s elbow to his wrist, and a scar in the form of a cross carved in the palms of his tender hands.

Asriel doesn’t say anything, though sadness courses through his chest as a constricting force forms around his heart. He gently traces the line with a finger, and upon feeling Nolan tense slightly, he stops, lifting his gaze to meet Nolan’s.

“My mother...hated me for who I was,” Nolan speaks silently, low but audible enough for Asriel to hear, “she cursed me, this gift, it never belonged. And so to rid me off this parasite she carves a harsh reminder for me to remain on my side of humanity.”

The assassin pulls his arm away, cupping his wrist in his other as he winces at the memory, “what little slither of humanity I have left...she hated her own son for who he didn’t choose to become, and so she sends her ten-year-old away. Casted out into the woods with no knowledge of how cruel the world could be.”

Nolan turns away fully, folding his legs under him as he tucks his hand under his thigh, tilting his face away to look at the mountains at the entrance of the cave - and partly to regain his composure.

“Warlocks, they have no place in humanity.” he quotes silently, “Dirty and filthy, a demon’s offspring deserve no place on this forgiving earth.”

Nolan draws in a deep breath, struggling to keep the shakiness from his voice, the memory now leaving a deep ache in his heart. Asriel shifts, moving closer to the other as he feels the familiar comfort of Asriel’s arms wrap around his waist, bringing him close.

“She made me believe that I was dangerous, and I learnt to suppress my arcane abilities, though this brought on a toll in my life. I wanted to feel loved, and I soon learnt that my mother would never so much as glance at me so long as I showed the slightest bit of magic. She hated me, and only loved the idea of a perfectly human son.” Nolan lifts his left hand, casting a side glance to the senator - who was resting his chin comfortably on his shoulder, “do you know why I always kept my left hand gloved?”

Asriel looks over - since the day he had met Nolan, he had never questioned the one gloved hand that differed from his right, no matter what Nolan was doing; at the masquerade, sleeping, reading, he had always kept the leather wrapped carefully around so that no skin would show. Though he had taken notice of Nolan’s mannerisms, on how his left hand always seemed more monotonous in its movements instead of lively.

“I was always so ashamed of it.”

Nolan unwraps the glove, unwrapping it to slowly reveal a rusted silvery glint of metal lying beneath it, and Asriel bites back a gasp.

A metal prosthetic, beautifully carved, though worn with age, takes place instead of flesh. Nolan turns this hand over, flexing the fingers to reveal the stretch where the palm lines separates to reveal machinery and small bits of clockwork gears, churning and reforming in little clicks as Nolan closes the hand into a fist.

“Yet another artifact of the past, a pretty thing. Though, it slows me down quite a lot. You know, I used to be really nimble before this...the clanking against everything drives me insane.” Nolan chuckles lightly as Asriel takes hold of his hand, analysing it in awe, “Takes a lot of getting used to, and yet another lesson I’ve learnt, one of the perks for staying immortal.”

“All your scars tell a story, why hide them?”

Nolan’s lips purse in a thin line, brows furrowed as if deep in thought.

“‘Notorious killer’, ‘the man who never misses’; Arselo isn’t as welcoming as I thought it would be, eh?” he sighs, lowering his head, “The past is what keeps me going forward.”

[geto]

“Follow me.” | Can’t Pretend - Tom Odell
Asra Alnazar and Julian Devorak
^characters from Nix Hydra, The Arcana

word count: 810
tw: nil

The chattering of excited patrons and the gentle melodious flow of waltz music fills the grand ballroom, glass chandeliers hung high from overhead, casting the marble floors with orange shadows in the form of overlapping teardrops, and ornate ornaments dressed the walls in royal colours in a flit of grandness.

For him, Asra knew that the event was nothing short of a show put up just to flaunt the Count’s wealth and was a means to fuel his continuously expanding ego; he could never stay humble, that egotistical brat. And Asra was attending merely to ease his boredom, and partly with the reason to get ample peaceful time away from his own demanding customers.

His gaze sweeps over the ballroom languidly, a transparent chalice held cooly against his palm as he leans lazily against a statue, not giving a single care of his appearance or caring for his mesh attire. He silently admires the different eye-catching costumes of the patrons, ranging from silk covering every inch of modesty to outright scandalous ensembles - the wallflowers and wildcards. Their chattering never ceases as passing guests throws him an appreciative look; with the bolder ones being more daring with their gaze, and the magician would smile back, donning on a face full of innocence.

A little voice sounds in his mind, and Asra feels the familiar feeling of cold scales sliding up his arm, coiling around his neck gently - Faust.

Someone’s watching.

He pretends to take a sip of the red wine, nimbly bringing the cup to his lips in a swift gesture of elegance, “Where?”

Left.

Asra turns subtly, quickly locking gaze with a familiar looking man who was standing not far off, leaning against the beige pillar with his arms folded neatly across his chest, who casts his gaze away quickly when he notices the attention.

“Well, I’m in the mood for a new friend tonight.” Asra whispers, carefully picking himself up as he weaves amongst the wave of dancing couples, making his way over to the stranger in a whim, emphasising the sway in his hips as he saunters, a small smile playing across his lips.

When the unfamiliar man casts his gaze back to the spot where Asra once stood, he was shocked to find an empty spot, with drinks in hand, he looks about the ballroom in an attempt to find the magician, and startles slightly when he feels a light tap on his shoulder.

“If you wanted to stalk me, you are doing a horrible job at it, doctor.”

Asra peers up at the taller latter with a mocking gaze, now even more daring with his movements when he recognises the mysterious man - up close, he could clearly make out the unmistakable grey eyes hidden behind the raven mask, the pale complexion of his in contrast of his dark costume stood out amongst others, matched with the familiarity of his aura - painfully obvious. Asra chuckles as he notices the tips of his ear turning red.

No doubt that it was the plague doctor himself, the one that Count Lucio had hired to pursue a cure, the same one that the magician had briefly worked with in a partnership, lending his mystical abilities to assist in the process. The same doctor who had bothered not to mask his infatuation for the winter-haired man.

“Ilya, what are you doing here?”

“It doesn’t hurt to leave the dungeons for a bit, does it? And as you said - live a little.”

Asra laughs, a voice with a silky and deep musicality to it, and then notices the way Julian seemed to be staring at him, the way his gaze wandered on his translucent costume, the v that revealed part of his perfectly carved chest, then up to the gold foiled leaves that circled up to his neck in a hypnotising pattern. Asra was sure that he could see the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Yes, well, the ball is beginning to bore me,” he mutters, casually looking away to the crowd as if to reinstate his point, “Lucio’s outdone himself, bravo. But it’s all beginning to wear on me, if you want to know what true fun is,”

Asra slinks away, disappearing into the crowd as he leaves a tempted Julian looking after him.

“Follow me.”

♛
[If you get this referance, I love you]

“When you said magic in bed, I didn’t think you’d mean this.”

Julian watches with interest, dim light enveloping the grand room as warmth spreads throughout his body, he leans close, and soon enough Asra was just inches away from his face, a deck of his tarot cards laying cooly in his palms as he whips out a Two Of Cups.

“Is this your card?” the magician coos, lids hooded heavy as a sly smirk forms across his lips.

“DAMN IT.”

[geto]

[“I feel sick...really sick...”]
Meladine, Curtis, Mark and Kelsa
^characters from my own book, The Right Way Home

word count: 449
tw: nil

His laboured breathing and shuffled steps took a huge toll on the group, and as he attempts at another step forward, the frail man falters and stumbles, falling into Curtis’s side as a heavy breath escapes his cracked lips.

Curtis hisses at the movement, though concern shone in his gaze, betraying his annoyed facade.

“You alright there bud?”

Shivering was all that Mark could muster.

Kelsa almost felt sorry for the man; once arrogant and haughty as he was, displayed as the most strong-willed and fittest survivor Cavalier ever had, now succumbing to the virus before their eyes. It showed Kelsa how cruelly death disregarded life, she wanted to lash out and scream at the unfairness - too many lost to count, she didn’t want to have to lose another friend, not even if it was Mark.

“Come on now, stay up, get on your feet, we’re no more farther.” Curtis lowers his voice, and Kelsa knew that he was trying to help soothe the torment Mark was going through.

But even Meladine - who was no more familiar with the route to their base, knew that what Curtis said was an obvious lie. The land was unfamiliar and barren with no traces of a sign, there was no telling if the group was anywhere close to Alphonso. It was seemingly cruel to give such hope to a dying man.

Kelsa tried her best to stay her hands away from the dagger on her belt, she didn’t want to have to kill anything more just to protect herself, and Mark was visibly unstable - losing all senses of his balance had begun to gradually seep into his bones, and she knew that the symptoms of aggression was not far off. Though she could see her brother straining against his weight and hauling him along, not wishing to let go and abandon him.

“Speak to me, young man. How are you feeling?”

It was all Mark could muster before whispering a barely audible, “I feel sick...really sick...”.

Kelsa’s gaze briefly meets Curtis’s worried ones, and it was almost as though they could read each other’s thoughts in that split second.

He’s going under.

“Yea? You fought me, you’re strong, now all I need you to do is to stay awake.”

Mark grunts softly, and that was when Meladine notices that his eyes - his skin - had taken on a red hue, his veins, a bundle of blue and green, was beginning to show more prominently as his pale skin pulls taut across his features, sweat beading down his forehead as he wills himself to keep moving.

Even his limbs no longer took commands to his bidding, his nervous system was shutting down.