Essentially I'm a ball of wibbly wobbly witchy writingy hermit witch seer with cats and the internet.
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I just got a message from a stranger just now (it’s just after midnight my time). I felt the need to share:
"You should message me because it’s late and honestly all I know I’m a guy and most guys want sex but honestly I miss being able to hold someone close and for the right girl I would love to wake up with you holding you in my arms did you fall asleep that means more than fat okay now with that said yes I do think about sex and I want sex but it’s not everything this is holding someone more use a whole lot more is a day game just having random sex… I don’t want to have sex tonight I want to do this fall sleep and cuddle with someone tonight yeah maybe kiss them well okay yes kiss them nothing more forever just talk to the phone is awesome give me a ring my names jason and I hope you really rough I have read this message because I really mean it … my number is XXXXXXXXX"
I mean what the fuck. Really? Do I look like a sex doll to you? I am a woman, a person, not a fucking object. You’re lonely? Aw, too fucking bad. Want something to cuddle? Get a pet. No, actually don’t. I would never subject an animal to that. Use a pillow like everyone else. You want sex? Use your hand and leave me alone. What the fuck kind of balls do you have where this is an acceptable communication to a stranger?
The city was dark when he entered and he was slumping in exhaustion by the time he managed to get to the palace and give his report. His reward was a fine necklace from the queen’s own neck, one she said was imbues with the power to move the stars.
He didn’t know what that was suppose to mean but he did his best to nod, thank profusely and was rather impressed with himself for not falling down the steps while leaving.
He wanted to go home and sleep but his bed and his modest cottage was on the other end of the city, by the gate and the fletcher’s so he steered his worn body towards the guild hall.
He was greeted by the maid first then the page who, as always, attempted to collect his armor. He waved away the boy as he cared for his armor himself and refused the glass of wine the maid poured before climbing the battered stairs to sleeping chambers. He passed the bunks were the members and recruits slept, allowing himself to slip past silently, as was his skill.
Bypassing the separate rooms where the upper rank members slept was easier. For a moment he almost turned towards The Storm’s room, almost gave into his desires and laid his heart bare. Almost but instead he pushed opened the door to his private chambers with a heavy sigh.
One hand wearily summoned a small flame so the rooms before him were cast in shadows, darkness, and murky light. These weren’t his chambers. They were his predecessor’s still. Everything was the same as his predecessor had left it. His clothes still laid out, his quills and paper still sprawled over the desk, the bedclothes still the same despite not having a person sleeping upon them in months. He started at the bed, where he should be changing and sleeping and realized he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sleep in the same place as the man he failed to save. He couldn’t rest here when his predecessor should be sleeping here right now at this very moment. He couldn’t.
He backed out of the room quickly, nearly tripping over the rug on the way out. The door shut loudly behind him and he jumped from the sound before sending guilty, apologetic looks back down the hall. He didn’t want the others to wake just because he was guilty.
He didn’t flee so much as limp his way out of the hall and across town. Maybe being bone-tired would help keep those nightmares away.
The cave before them was a great gaping maw in the rock of the mountain and the rotting corpses speared on roughly hewed wood sat like trimming to a grand entrance.
Fendal smirked and glanced over his shoulder, drawing his sword in one hand and fire in the other. “I take you to all the nicest places, don’t I?”
Only a huff of breath that may have been a ghost of a laugh was his response, his warrior companion sliding into a fighting stance and stretching his fingers over the large hilt of his two-handed sword.
"Ah, well, in we go."
The way lit by the fire dancing in his hands, he pressed forward into the darkness beyond.
When he was six, he set fire to his lute with his mind.
He cried horribly because he had been so scared and hadn’t understood how the lute gone from being glared at for not helping him play such a difficult piece of music to being on fire.
Then he had sobbed because he loved his lute and it was destroyed.
His mama had collected him into her arms, stroked his head, and told him it all would be well. Another lute could be purchased, the damaged drapes could be replaced, and the carpet was rather more fetching now that it was a bit singed.
The maid had put a thick layer of salve on before gingerly wrapped his brunt fingers and had slipped an extra large cookie out of the kitchen for him to munch on as his sobs quieted down.
He hadn’t known he was a mage. He didn’t know that it was rare. That is was special. That he was different. That he was dangerous. All he had wanted was to play his lute beautifully for his momma and papa.
Six was far too young to learn that your life would have restrictions on it. Six was too young to learn that you would always be second-class. Six was too young to be a slave.
All he had wanted to do was play the lute.