Latest Posts by chaotic-scraps - Page 5

Peter stared warily at the creature towering above him, nursing his many wounds. "My ex sent you, I'm guessing," he sighed.

"Yes, Master," the horrible monster said.

Peter cursed. "Okay, fine," he said. He tried to stand on what he thought was the better of his two legs, and fell back in a cry of pain.

The monster gingerly gathered him and picked him up.

"Yeah, could you take me to the hospital?" Peter grunted.

The monster nodded.

Two wolf men blocked their path.

"The boy stays, ugly," one wolf man growled. "Or do you think you can take us both?"

"I'll make you regret interfering with us," the other said. "Just wait until--"

But the second wolf man didn't finish as the monster's fist hit him squarely in the stomach and sent him flying. The other wolf man puffed up and yelped.

The monster held up his fist again, and both the wolf men turned tail and ran.

Peter sighed, non-plussed. "I could've done that," he muttered.

"Yes, master," the monster said.

"Oh, shut up," he pouted.

They reached the hospital, but the monster couldn't quite fit in the entrance.

It was then Peter saw her approach.

"Great work, my lovely," said Angelica. She plucked a gem from the monster's eye.

The monster smiled, then dissolved into a pile of mud. Peter fell unceremoniously on the ground.

"Peter, darling, it's wonderful to see you, truly it is. I've been worried sick," Angelica said. "No phone calls, no notes, nothing."

Peter groaned. "I've been a little busy," he said. "Also I broke up with you. Many times."

"And now you have..." Angelica held the gem and seemed to scrub the air. "What was that, werewolves after you? Bad form, Peter, fighting dogs."

"Well, wolf men," Peter corrected. "They stay in that form all the time." He again tried to stand and regretted the effort.

"Oh, Peter, please try to rest," Angelica sighed. "I'll fix everything." She slipped into the building. Peter could see her talking and gesticulating at him through the glass.

Peter stared up at the sky, willing himself to be struck down by lightning.

A horrible monster has been following you for a while now. It finally has you cornered. You hear it speak. "Master… I've finally found you…"

God, I just love these little pink munchkins and this tired lil rodent mom

It's hard being a single mom of four to eight kids (she's bad at math)

Also self imposed design challenge to design an infant rodent that doesn't look like eraserhead baby

Grace glowered over the laptop. "What makes you think you earned it?"

Felicity huffed. "We need to be able to work together."

"You're obsessing over this," Grace said.

"Trust is important if we want to crack this code."

"I'm helping you find your brother," Grace said. "That's the extent of this relationship."

Felicity sucked in a breath. "Oh. Fine. Yeah. I guess then, fine." She fiddled with the notepad in front of her. "So. Uh. How's your mom."

Grace slammed the laptop down. Felicity flinched.

"Stop. STOP IT, FELICITY! God, you ALWAYS do this! You always draw me back into your-- your family drama time and time again, and-- what? You think I owe you SMALL TALK?" She picked up the laptop and began stuffing it into her bag when Felicity touched her arm.

"Grace, I'm sorry, you're right," Felicity whispered. "I... You're the only one who... Helps me and I..." Her lip trembled.

Grace looked up at the sky and sighed. She released a long, low growl and placed the laptop back on the table. "Don't. Don't look at me with those eyes," Grace muttered. "I just... Stop. Stop trying to draw me back in."

"I'm not," Felicity protested. "I'm just--"

"Listen, let me do what I do best, and we can go back to never talking again," Grace said, voice hard. She tapped the keys of the laptop so aggressively it seemed they should pop off.

Felicity sat in total silence, watching Grace at work. For hours Grace worked, her anger slowly replaced with total concentration. Felicity tried to focus on her end of the research, but as the hours drew on she grew tired. She left to get two coffees, and returned to find Grace sitting back and looking very satisfied with herself.

"Come here," Grace said. "I found something."

Felicity set down the two coffee cups and stood behind her.

"The coordinates your brother sent you aren't his true coordinates," Grace explained. "They're the keys to a cipher. Look at this."

She typed the coordinates into Google Maps. "See? Every time he sends you a new coordinate, it's wildly different. This place is in the middle of the ocean. Buuut if we compare it to the letters he sent you," she reached over the stack of letters Felicity brought with her, "The letter that mentions the Atlantic Ocean? That's the key for that letter. So then, if we grab this, this, and this--"

"That's only a few hours away!" Felicity finished. She pulled Grace into an enormous hug. "Grace! Thank you thank you thank--" She froze, realizing her error.

Only, Grace looked frozen too. Felicity pulled up her arms quickly.

"Grace, look, please, I'm sorry--"

Grace closed her eyes. "I... You... Keep... Hurting me, Felicity. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep coming back to... This."

"I know. I understand. I... Thank you." Felicity moved to go.

"...Wait." Grace grabbed Felicity's hand. "You're not going alone, are you?"

Felicity blinked at her. "...Yes?"

Grace closed her eyes. "...Oh, you're going to be the death of me."

She gathered her laptop and grabbed the coffee.

"Come on, I'm driving," Grace muttered.

"Wait, really?" Felicity nearly squeaked.

Grace gave her ex a long suffering look.

"But this doesn't mean we're getting back together," she said firmly.

"Do you trust me?"

"You keep asking me that."

"You keep avoiding the question."

The slow progression of corruption and the misery it spreads, and how one woman takes it upon herself to do something about it, is what makes this such a brilliant use of the prompt.

The "evil" king was dead long before their empire turned to tyrany. However, the lords keep telling the peasants the king is alive just so they could blame him for all the atrocities they commit.

The squall pushed them straight into the rocks, which tore clean through the starboard side. The hull was damaged beyond repair. Gwen screwed her eyes shut. She knew she shouldn't have let Harvey goad her into trying to prove herself. She knew she wasn't ready to be captain. She knew she wasn't enough. She just wanted so badly to be taken seriously. And now they were all going to die for her pride. This was her fault. This was all her fault.

"Snap out of it, Captain!" one of the crewmen cried. "We need to evacuate!"

Gwen shook, heaving, with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. She stared ahead, wide-eyed and shellshocked.

"Leave the wretch! She'll take us down with her!"

"I knew we shouldn't've trusted her!"

Gwen snapped out of her trance. She had a job to do. "You lot! Move the cargo port side! You two! Hold the life boats! I repeat, hold the life boats! The current is too strong and we'll be dashed on the rocks! Wait until my signal!"

Her arms shook, fighting the pull of the wheel. She had trained for this. She had trained so long for this.

The ship was losing the battle against the punishing wind, pulling them toward a rocky alcove. Gwen knew what she had to do, but it would take them wildly off-course.

"Brace yourselves!" Gwen screamed.

She began to turn the ship.

"Captain, what are you doing!" one of the crewman cried.

"We must change course or be drawn further into the rocks!" Gwen yelled over the howling wind. "This will draw us to safer waters!"

"Are you insane! We need to go towards land!" Joshua cried.

"We won't make it to land in these waters!" Gwen screamed.

The ship groaned and pitched. The crew clung helplessly onto the bough and rails. Foaming waves crashed over the deck. In harrowing minutes that felt like hours, they were tossed about in the squall. Finally, mercifully, the ship calmed. The worse had past. The water was rising still, and they were running out of time.

"Drop anchor! Deploy the life boats!" Gwen said. "Begin evacuation!"

"Cap'n, it's customary for women and children to--" Joshua began, reaching for the wheel, and Gwen turned on him with a wild fury.

"I am the CAPTAIN, and I WILL be the last to leave," Gwen snapped.

"Captain--" Joshua protested.

"You are in charge of ushering our passengers onto the life boats," Gwen said, a little softer. "There is a trade route a few clicks off. Someone will see us and come to our aid. You are the only one I can trust with this task."

Joshua set his jaw. Nodded.

"You lot! Keep calm!" he shouted. "In an orderly fashion, make your way onto the life boats! I repeat, in an orderly fashion! This will all be over soon! Help is on the way!"

The first life boat was filled, then deployed.

And then, the second.

The first one, slowly, began sinking. One of the children jumped, taking the risk of swimming for it, and found the water too choppy.

"Captain, the life boat is sinking!"

"Man overboard! Throw the life preserver!" They tossed the life preserver and the child grabbed on. The first boat paddled closer and pulled the child to safety.

"Lower the third life boat!" The passengers from the sinking boat clamored to the other two.

The water was rising. "Lose the cargo!"

The cargo fell into the water, buying them time.

They deployed the fourth life boat. The ship was sinking faster. The crew cut loose the final life boat and abandoned protocol. The life boats barely stayed above water, filled well past their intended capacity. The crew unable to fit clung to floating barrels and planks.

"Captain-!" one of the crew cried. Gwen tried to swim for it, but the current pulled her under. Water surged into her lungs. She kicked and clawed, fighting for survival, and losing. Down, down, the ship sank, and Gwen with it. Her limbs were heavy, and her vision grew dark.

Gwen awoke to a burning sensation in her lungs. She gasped in a breath, but felt a lazy, liquid pull, not air. She questioned whether she was dead. Judging from the pain in her lungs and limbs, she didn't think so. Something smooth brushed her cheek. Her eyes snapped open.

"Oh good, you're not dead," a woman said, leaning over her, holding her cheek. Her voice sounded strange and melodic. The lighting too low to see her properly.

Gwen shook her head. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a high whistle.

The woman tilted her head.

Gwen tapped her throat.

"You're breathing because I made you breathe," the woman explained. "Using a little bit of magic I concocted. It seems you're still adjusting."

Gwen tried to speak again, but choked, little bubbles forming around her. She tried to shift away, but something constrained her.

"Where do you think you're going?" The woman tutted. "You're still recovering, and you are many, many leagues deep below the surface. Most don't survive the journey."

Gwen's eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. The woman's silhouette was strange, as if her torso were a writhing mass of... something.

"I'll take good care of you," the woman said. "I've always wanted a human for a pet."

You are the captain of a sinking ship. As you feel that the sinking is your fault you decide to go down with the ship instead of evacuating. It is only when your ship hits the bottom of the ocean and you are still alive that you notice that something is off.

Back it up back it up BACK IT UP

Google drive, Dropbox, email it to yourself, I don't care how you do it. If it would hurt you to lose it, create a copy. Create SEVERAL copies.

((TL;DR: I lost my data multiple times so please don't trust one app))

For years I was using a writing app called Write. The developer stopped supporting the app. I noticed it wasn't backing up and tried to put in my credentials. That froze and crashed the app, and I lost everything. I worked so hard to try to get it back, but I was only able to recover partial sentences. I still don't understand how the local version could become corrupted just because it was backing up. I regret not copying and pasting that stuff elsewhere so I wouldn't have lost QUITE SO MUCH.

What's more, the reason I moved to Write in the first place was because files on the Notes app disappeared and couldn't be recovered. And no, they weren't some epic sagas lost to time or anything, just little stories I liked to occasionally work on. It brought me joy. It was so hard to get myself to write again knowing how quickly I could just lose 5+ years of content in a flash.

So please.

BACK. IT. UP.

Also while we're here don't forget to hydrate.

pleased to inform everyone that onedrive stopped syncing 6 months ago without telling me and in the luckiest moment of my life so far i discovered this because i had some time to kill in a scaremaze queue and tried to look at the chapter i was drafting on my phone rather than the usual way anyone discovers these things

CW: violence

Felicity approached the apse and paid obeisance to the priestesses and the deities for which they stood. Set upon a dias was a hovering stone of glowing, shifting hues. Felicity paused before it with a detached interest.

She was just a cog in a machine. Another magic-user meant to defend the world from evil, as long as the evil wasn't the institution that raised her. She had served The Order since she was old enough to walk. She knew their secrets for years, but it was only recently she had discovered the depth of their evil. She also knew what happened to those who opposed the High Priestess, so she could not show she was disillusioned. Not until she had her familiar.

"Set your hand upon the stone, child," the High Priestess said.

Felicity set her hand upon the stone, heart hammering in her chest.

"Speak the words that will give your familiar form, and bind them to you," the High Priestess said.

Felicity paused, her heart full of bitterness and betrayal. She thought of the many years she acted as a puppet for the Order.

"The High Priestess," Felicity whispered.

"What did she say?" A priestess whispered. There was confused chattering among the priestesses.

But the High Priestess had heard. And she was white as a sheet.

"Y-you can't summon-- t-hat's not allowed!" The High Priestess shrieked. "Have you lost your mind?!"

However, that was the last thing she said before her head snapped back, eyes glowing and flashing different hues, a horrid wail wretched from her lips. The priestesses screamed and tried to pull her away, to stop what they knew was about to happen.

A horrible crack of bone and sinew. The High Priestess contorted in agony.

"Your f-fuTURE... will be FILLED... w-wiTH MISERY," the High Priestess growled. She clawed uselessly at Felicity.

Felicity stared, unable to look away. Repulsed yet vindictive.

"What have you DONE?" one of the priestesses cried. "You ruined us!"

The stone shook violently. Cracks formed on the surface.

"No! The STONE!" The High Priestess screamed one final time. The stone burst, sending a force strong enough to knock everyone back.

The High Priestess went limp, supported only by an invisible force. She lifted her head-- or, something did. Her eyes were empty and white.

The priestesses, hardly recovered from the blast, turned to Felicity. And then they lunged.

"Take care of them," Felicity said.

The High Priestess withdrew a ceremonial dagger. "Yes, my Queen."

When you turn 18, you go to the Chapel to summon a Familiar, then your future is decided based on its shape. All you can do is name the creature and then the summoning does the rest. After you name it, the priestesses all stare at you with horror in their eyes, then scream when it appears.

"I found the cure." You hold up a vial.

"Y-you did?" They smile. "That's wonderful!"

They reach for the vial, but you pull it away. Their smile falters.

"You never loved me, did you?" You whisper, voice raw.

The woman was barefoot and caked in mud and ash. Her eyes glared up at his. Glowing, hungry.

"Impossible," The prince huffed. "But an excellent bluff."

"They all are," she said, voice hollow, gesturing across the landscape.

She picked her way through the destruction, hardly breaking eye contact even as she stumbled.

The prince laughed, but the sound wasn't convincing, even to his own ears. "Save your breath," he said. "They... They must have moved farther east."

"...Without their helmets?" The woman said, picking up a partially melted helmet from the rubble.

The prince faltered. "That... That's my father's helmet," he gasped. He seemed to look at her with a new wariness.

"You know who I am," the woman said.

"Y-you're nothing more than a legend," the prince said. "You... You must have stolen the helmet. To trick me!"

The woman grew closer.

The prince's mount chuffed and backed away.

"S-Stay back!" The prince said.

The woman tilted her head, but she stopped. "Go."

"Go?..." The prince whimpered.

"Go back to where you came from, and tell your kingdom what you saw here."

The prince gulped. Nodded. Ran.

He did not pause until the woman completely faded from view.

"I knew he was afraid of my conquering army, but I didn't think he would be stupid enough to leave you behind." "Oh, no, you quite misunderstand. Your army's already dead."

Malcom had lived a good five centuries on Earth, and not once had he seen such stupid, brazen audacity. He rubbed his eyes and blinked tiredly at the man in front of him. "First-- Goodness... What... What makes you think I want to help you?"

"I'll give you blood, sir," Emmett said, yanking his sleeve much too readily. "Or... Money? Please say blood."

Malcom crinkled his nose and gave him a once-over. "Listen, I don't know where you came from, or what you're in, but what makes you think you can just walk up to someone on the subway a-and just ask for something like that?"

"Why's it so weird? I want my mind stronger." Emmett clapped Malcom on the back, and Malcom glared daggers. "Maybe we can even help you fix your... Uh... Mind control difficulties? Make a game out of it."

"Listen, hush, will you? Also, what difficulties?! My mind control is fine!" Malcom took a deep breath and worried his lip. "Also, quit saying vampire this, mind-control that. You're freaking people out." He shook out a newspaper and hid behind it.

"Oh wow. I didn't even know they still made those." Emmett said, flicking the paper. "Do they? Is that from this century?"

"They sell them in supermarkets," Malcom sniffed.

"Oh wow, so they do. Sorry to question you, grandpa." Emmett grinned cheekily. "Hey, maybe I can teach you what we use in modern times. Do you know what the internet is?"

Malcom gave him a deadpan look and held up his smartphone. "Sometimes I just like print better," he said. "Now go find some other poor sucker to pester."

Emmett stared at him with an almost hungry look, and gripped the newspaper. "Make me," he said.

Malcom grimaced. "This is some sort of weird fetish, isn't it? Let me sit you down and tell you about a little thing called consent. No means no."

"Listen," Emmett said, suddenly very serious. He seemed like he was having difficulties getting the words out. "I... Killed... Under a demon's orders. It was... I swore I'd never do it again. And I've seen you around. We take the same route almost every day. And you seem... Safe."

Malcom was at a loss for words. Emmett's pleading tone moved him, to be sure. But more than that, he knew how it felt to be a puppet.

"I have a feeling I'm going to regret this," Malcom muttered. "Listen, Emmett... Fine. I take Venmo. I won't say no to a little blood too. Nothing from the vein. All the hair and arm sweat-- just-- no. Get some sterile needles, wipe it down, get it in a bag or bottle for me. You're not diseased, are you?"

"Not that I know of, sir," Emmett said.

"And quit calling me sir. It makes me feel old."

"Good day, good sir. I would like to be put under mind control" "I… I'm sorry… It's just… People usually don't offer volunter to do that." "Oh, it's just that I need to practice how to get free once in a while to not get rusty."

They found you in the outskirts of town, mucking out stalls in indentured servitude. The Imperial Mage was collecting his mare from the stalls and pointedly berating you for the smell and to do your job properly, when he saw the birthmark on your forearm, and recognized it for what it was. The mark of the Emerald Phoenix, fated to bring an end to the Obsidian King. In an instant, he paid off your debts, you were whisked away to the castle.

The King himself ordained you as the Emerald Phoenix, the Chosen One, and you were given the robes and insignia to denote your unique station. Attendants set to work removing the years of muck and mire on your skin, burning your tattered tunic in lieu of sumptuously embroidered court uniforms. You were paraded through the streets, celebrated and revered by the people who once spat on you. For weeks, they trained you, pampered you, like their vast resources were but a pittance. For weeks, they gave you feasts, as if they could make you forget your hunger.

When the time came for the Great Battle, they fitted you with chainmail and plated armor with the crest of the King. They brought you forth and rallied behind you, a beacon of hope. And when you called upon your true power, like releasing a chained beast, the crowd cheered. A fierce cry tore from the back of your throat, and you were encompassed with flames. The plated armor on your back sloughed off, now hot molten metal. The fire erupted at all sides. The cheers faltered, and scattered into screams. Too late they ran, too late they all ran, but the fire scorched and melted and cremated like a crucible, and it consumed everyone, even you.

The prophecy fortold you would end the Obsidian King. No one seemed to question how.

You awaken in the ashes of your kingdom. The silence of ruin is engulfed by a moaning wind. The embers have died. Pools of molten metal, now cooled, surround you. Your skin appears foreign, new. You are reborn.

You are so hungry.

When you were selected as the Chosen One, you were showered with gifts, training, and a new cushy room in the castle. The Kingdom thought you would automatically be on their side, but the memories of your impoverished childhood will never fade.

a sluge 😔

Pacing Writing tip

Here’s the thing about pacing: it’s the heartbeat of your story. Too slow, and the reader flatlines. Too fast, and they can’t catch their breath. You need to know when to hold back and when to push forward. Slow down for the emotional beats, the quiet moments of character development. But when the tension builds, you hit the gas and don’t let up until the reader’s hanging on every word. Pacing isn’t about keeping a steady speed, it’s about the rhythm of highs and lows that keeps your reader glued to the page.

You guys get ONE animated wip for the Laikas Comet AMV I’m working on ‼️‼️ It’s with the song Neighborhood #2 (Laika)

It will be posted on my YouTube channel! (But I’ll let you all know when it’s finished dw)

“I don’t know how to reconcile that my favorite piece of media was made by someone awful.” Because they’re a shitty person who made something good. It’s not that rare of a phenomenon. Shitty people make good things everyday. A piece of art being made by a terrible person does not make its effect null and void and making good art does not redeem a terrible person. People who are irredeemably nasty can say something true and honest on occasion. To reevaluate a work after finding out more about the artist’s horrendous biases and actions and still find things that are honest and true even when consuming it through a critical lens, that is a beautiful thing. If the artist’s actions and words completely destroy it for you and distort the meaning you once found, it’s okay to feel a sense of mourning and loss at that.

This is not to say that you should continue to lavish social and financial capital on the artist because you enjoy their art but to say that enjoying art made by horrible people does not mean you are in some way unclean.

Respectfully, I've seen this advice hit the opposite extreme, and I agree with the intent, but not the message. Power fantasies, Mary Sues, and Self Inserts wouldn't be popular if a "perfect" character was always uninteresting to read. (That said, "perfect" characters tend to show a writer's ideologies and imperfections) Conversely, when a character is always beat down on, always losing, always choosing the worst possible option, that can reach a certain banality too. Characters need contrast in some way. If a character keeps suffering extreme loss, give them something to help cope. Let them have a tiny moment of levity. If a character is flawless, give them a problem with no clear or "correct" solution. Contrast them against flawed characters. Again, I feel like you said this in a way, but I felt it needs clarification. Variety is the spice of life and all that.

Listen, you can’t write perfect characters. No one cares about reading about someone who never screws up. Your characters need to make bad decisions, they need to hurt people, and they need to be hurt. They should doubt themselves and do things they regret. That’s where the magic happens, when they’re flawed, messy, and human. People don’t fall in love with characters because they’re flawless; they fall in love because those characters remind them of the chaos inside themselves. So don’t be afraid to put your characters through hell. Only then will their journey mean something.

That run cycle and spin kick!!! She is fast, but weighted!

Hey I'm back with another animation, that took forever 😅 accidentally deleted my progress from it last year around the same time as now. I worked on it on and off since then. I learned a lot again and now I can finally move on to other projects. This is the same character from my last one, Cassidy's the name, Kicks're her game! Terrible reference aside, I want this big lady of mine to kick ass and I believe I succeeded!

Now that his attacker was incompacitated, Alan set about making coffee. The aftermath of the fight left the kitchen a mess, so he opted to drink straight from the pot.

"I guess I should've taken you for a pessimist," the Shapeshifter huffed.

"That really is on you," Alan agreed. "You've been around what, 5 weeks at this point? You really should've known better."

"You knew for 5 weeks I was impersonating your partner?"

"Well, Bart never signed my birthday card. He also never washed the dishes."

"You made it seem like he washed them all the time! You made such a big deal about it!"

"Well, yeah. I hate washing dishes, and you were gullible."

The Shapeshifter shifted his weight to lean against the wall, positioning his bound arms and legs as comfortably as possible. "You really knew this whole time? And you didn't do anything?"

"He's dead, right? You killed him and took over his life?"

"Well... Yes. Shouldn't you be more bothered he's dead?"

Alan nodded. "Ah, well, yeah. These things happen." He poured a little something in with the coffee, swirled it, and took a swig.

The Shapeshifter grimaced at his apathy. "But, wait. You were lying about the drop point long before the birthday card."

"You think I trusted Bart? No one should be asking that many questions."

The Shapeshifter groaned. "No wonder none of the drop points had the Energy Forms. You were giving me the runaround this entire time."

Alan nodded. "Granted, you never had clearance to know they were Energy Forms. That is to say, Bart shouldn't have known to ask about them. Though, well, I only know because I don't trust my superiors."

"Oh, so you really have trust issues," the Shapeshifter snorted.

"Hey, I don't want to hear it from the guy who went buck wild and destroyed my kitchen because, what, I tipped you off that I knew you weren't my partner?"

More silence. "You're not even going to ask why I want them?"

Alan took a deep breath. "Maybe in the morning. It's 3am and I don't have it in me to listen to your monologue right now."

The Shapeshifter huffed. A wall clock ticked audibly. Who kept a wall clock anymore?!

"So, you going to turn me in?" The Shapeshifter asked.

Alan blinked slowly at him. "Well, yeah, I guess I have to now. You had to go and attack me, so yeah."

"You don't want revenge for your partner?" The Shapeshifter asked uncomfortably.

Alan groaned. "What, you want me to kill you too or something? I'm already facing enough paperwork as it is."

"Did you even like your partner?" The Shapeshifter pressed.

"Not as much as you, apparently," Alan griped. He stared down at the empty pot of coffee sadly, and set it down on the table. The table slowly tipped, the legs loose and uneven, and the glass slid off to the floor and shattered. Alan nudged at the broken shards of glass with his toe absently, and then sighed resolutely. "He was always snooping around in my desk and ratting me out for things that weren't anyone's business. Guess I kept to myself too much for his liking. Or maybe he just didn't like what he found."

"Now I have to listen to your monologue?" The Shapeshifter snarked.

"You can't ask a bunch of questions and complain about answers," Alan chided. "Anyways, I guess what I'm saying is I'll miss you as a partner. Besides the whole killing and betrayal thing, you weren't half bad."

The Shapeshifter really didn't know what to say to that. Frankly, what was there to say? "I hope you work on your trust issues, buddy," the Shapeshifter tried.

Alan nodded. "Yeah. No one's allowed at my house anymore."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"You better hope my insurance covers these damages."

The Shapeshifter pinched the bridge of his nose. "Seek therapy."

"You… Expected me to betray you from the start?" "Look. At this point I just asume that everyone is going to betray us and I am just pleasently surprised when I am wrong."

Look, writer’s block is not some giant, mysterious monster. It’s you, in your head, holding yourself back because you’re afraid what you’re writing sucks. And here’s the truth, yeah, maybe it does suck. But you know what? That’s okay. Writing something bad is still better than writing nothing at all. You don’t wait for inspiration to strike, you show up, write the garbage draft, and then fix it later. Writing isn’t about perfection, it’s about getting it done. Even if it’s one crappy page at a time.

The pact was signed between the King and the Fairy Queen, 1,000 years of prosperity for his kingdom, in exchange for his yet-to-be-conceived first born. The Fairy Queen however did not expect the king to slit his own throat and die on the spot seconds later.

"Consider it done, my king," said the Right Hand, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"S-Surely you can't be serious, y-your highness," the Advisor balked. "P-please, you must--"

The King grabbed the Advisor by his collar. "When I begged for an audience with my father, when I pleaded with him to spare my mother, what is it you said?"

"T-the king's word is law," the Advisor murmured, a haunted look in his eyes.

The king's hand tightened. "And when my sister and I were banished to the Northern Wastes, what is it you said?"

"The... The's king's word--"

"And when my sister was ill, and I pleaded for my father's mercy, what is it you said?"

"P-please, sire--" The Advisor gagged and kicked as the King lifted him from the ground.

"Be thankful I pity you," he spat. "As spineless and self-serving as you are, be thankful I find you pitiful enough to spare your life." He dropped the Advisor bodily, and he scrambled away on hands and knees.

"Be thankful I'm sparing all your miserable lives," the King said, addressing the throne room of what was once the most powerful subjects in the kingdom.

"My king," said the silver-tongued Duke. "It pains me to hear of the trials you have endured, but not all of us are culpable in your treatment. Perhaps we could--"

The King rounded on him. "You? YOU of all people?"

The Duke huffed. "You intend to make enemies of us? To destroy our lives for petty scores?"

The throne room ignited in cacophony, with constituents screaming in indignation. The Rebels, donned in the armor of a royal guard, sprung to life to quell the screaming masses. The Right Hand went for his sword, but the King shook his head. Subjugated, the throne room silenced once more.

"How readily you have all forgotten," the King said, "whose blood is on my hands. Be forewarned that I do not shy away from spilling more, but I will not be like my father."

He gave the Right Hand a long and weary look. "I... choose to not be like my father."

"You are to be banished to the Northern Wastes," the King continued, voice hard. "You will be given a forenight to collect your valuables, and then will be escorted to the border by my men. Your families will be given the option to join you or to remain here, stripped of their titles."

"How do you expect us to survive?" The General snapped. "Winter is almost upon us!"

"Perhaps it is unkind of me to leave you without options," said the King. "So, you may choose. Execution, or exile? I can promise you a swift and painless death."

"If you think you've heard the last of us, mark my words--" The General began, but the Right Hand removed his blade, and the General silenced with a whimper.

From the scabbard of the blade came a thick, impenetrable mist that permeated the room. The Advisor scrambled to the King's boots on hands and knees, shaking and pleading, "Oh God, spare me, spare me! I'll go to the Wastes! Just no! Please, I have a family! I'll do anything, please!"

The King pulled his boot back and looked away, a mixture of discomfort and disgust. "Right Hand, stop. This wasn't our agreement," he said firmly. Too long, the Right Hand glared back. Though the Right Hand was shorter and of a smaller build, in that moment he was much more imposing than the King.

"It isn't?" He said, a hint of a threat in his voice. "After everything?"

"No. They have families." The King said, voice distant. "I won't be like my father."

The Right Hand laughed mirthlessly, but nevertheless he drew back the mists and put away the scabbard.

"You will all be escorted to your homes to prepare for the long journey," said the King. "If you attempt to flee, you will forfeit your lives."

Most who had seen the mists in battle left quickly, and any who attempted to linger were forced out by the Rebels. Alone with the Right Hand, the King slumped in his throne.

"It's time for me to collect on our bargain," said the Right Hand, breaking the silence.

The King froze, then turned. "After everything?" He breathed. "And-- now? I thought that--"

"I made you king," said the Right Hand, gripping his chin. "I upheld my end of the bargain rather marvelously. Your enemies are in gone, and you bathed in the blood of your father. You have everything you ever asked for."

The King shuddered. Though he hated the man, and did not regret ending his life, the memory of the slick, metallic blood coating his mouth made him sick. His father's blood. The former King.

The Right Hand narrowed his eyes, which began to faintly glow. "I upheld my end of the bargain. Do you intend to keep yours?"

The King grimaced and closed his eyes. "One year."

"One year?" The Right Hand glowered.

"One year. I..." The King struggled for words. "Consider this a revised contract. One year. And I will pay interest."

"I'm not interested in gold," said the Right Hand. "You know that. What else could you possibly offer me?"

The King could not meet his eyes.

"Why are you stalling?" The Right Hand pressed.

The King handed him a slip of paper, then hung his head.

The Right Hand sucked in a breath. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"One year then," he said. He clapped the King on the back. "With interest. It's a deal."

The King covered his eyes with his hands.

"What is your first decree as king?" "My generals and advisors are all banished to the Northern Wastes." "Wh-What?" "My father's empire was a ruthless, evil rule that destroyed the lives of his subjects. All those in leadership are banished. If you return, you will be killed."