Folmar took a bite of the pear he was holding. Juice from the overripe fruit ran down his chin, drizzling onto the collar of the pale green jerkin he wore. There it seeped into cloth, staining one of the hundreds of perfect golden leaves embroidered there. His soft golden trousers with a matching pattern of green stitches didn’t fair much better than the juice tainted top. Smudges of dirt streaked across the expensive garment, to match the dirt on Folmar’s bare feet. A small tear in the sleeve of his tunic-undershirt was the final piece that betrayed an air of indifference about the fate of his apparel. His long minty hair was in similar disarray, tangled with twigs and greenery. 
A soft breeze caused the luscious leaves encasing the elf to caress his pale skin. The pear tree, in which he lounged some four meters above the ground, was old. Judging from its size the tree had stood over this garden for centuries, sustained by the magic of the elves who tended it. The ants, caterpillars, and spiders who called the tree home went about their business as usual. Folmar made no effort to prevent them from crawling over him, further tarnishing his once pristine attire. The dense leaves and thick branches were perfect for relaxing in on a hot day like this one. And what was better was he could sit in this tree as long as he wanted without fear of being spotted by any of the elves in the party below.
The audible thunk of a pear falling to the ground interrupted the sounds voices and music floating up to him. The harp and flute wove an enchanting tune that seemed to surround everything in the garden, while being careful never to grow so loud as to drown out the voice of a single elf gathered there. The smells from the half a dozen tables laden with food and drink of all kinds (including chilled and sliced pears which, unlike the one he had picked from the tree, had been deemed perfect by servants) wafted through the air, mingling with the scent of thousands of flowers and dozens of fruit trees. Through the foliage Folmar could make out the shapes of the dozens of nobles, and diplomats, all dressed as extravagantly—if not more so—as he was.
It was only a matter of time before he would have to abandon his sanctuary in the branches of the pear tree to rejoin them. A simple incantation was all it would take to put his clothing back in order. None would be the wiser as to where he’d been during his brief disappearance. He wasn’t so naive as to hope his absence would go unnoticed. This outdoor reception was being hosted in honor of his father’s most recent success after all. A dutiful son would be by his father’s side for the whole event. It would not be long now until he was asked after.
Yet he lingered, one hand holding the pear he snacked on, the other stroking *Eripere. The slither-stoat was curled up in a ball and had fallen asleep in his lap. Flecks of golden sunlight landed on the gems decorating the animal’s back, sending emerald reflections dancing around them.
Folmar allowed himself a small smile. Inevitably it would be replaced by the polite, delicate smile he plastered on his face whenever he was socializing with high society. For now though, he was free to smirk, smile, or go stone-faced, of his own accord. Of course he knew he should get going. Just…not quite yet.
Folmar took another bite of the pear.

*_{Slither-stoat art by LadyHawke} 

I became inspired to draw her as I was listening to some music, specifically the song Divide by Casey Lee Williams

She is a regal queen with a fierce power. She wants people to know she is powerful so she dresses as such to be the most impressive and intimidating in the room. This design in particular, I imagine she would wear when seated on her throne.

Hyasynthetic - The contrast between Serval’s private life and the rest of his home were really shocking to read! Judging by the care he put into his appearance and his living space, I had definitely expected him to be some rich fella with a sick high rise apartment or something like that, so it surprised me to hear that the rest of his home life was so unfortunate. ;o; It would be really interesting to read more about him in the future!
Ersatz - What a beautiful drawing! :D The colors are fantastic, and I really love the way the character kinda fades off into wispiness. The few sentences you included with the image (along with their expression) really help give a sense of the character’s personality. It definitely made me want to learn more about them!
DelightfulDragon - Haha, the idea of a blood mage wearing blood red to avoid stains is great. :D I really dig your coloring style - it’s so paint-y! I also really enjoy Jack’s hair here. *o* It looks very soft! The battle against cat hair is very much a relatable topic to me. :’| It’s an unwinnable battle, Jack; the sooner you stop caring, the better!
SocialBookWorm - Oooh, Sophia is very mysterious! I like how you hinted to there being more to her life than she readily presents without going into much detail on it, thanks to the limited scope of the narrator. I can definitely relate to how she seems to distance her personal life from work, though I’m certain mine isn’t quite as interesting as hers is!

Arintol - You don’t give yourself enough credit; this was excellent use of imagery to describe Folmar. I loved all the little details that shared his laid back demeanor. I feel like elves get this reputation of being sparkling and pristine, so it was fun to read how he’s very staunchly opposite of that trope. Great entry!
Azurrys - I loved this! It was a wonderfully creative way to introduce Sen and share about his character through his style and appearance; poor Jonas had me cracking up. I confess, I would probably stare too if I was in his position, but I would like to think I wouldn’t venture a comment!
Vysal - This is a great sketch page! I’m particularly fond of the flame reflecting in Alora’s eyes — I think you captured the intimidating factor you were going for well here. :) Look at that eyebrow game, too! I certainly wouldn’t want to cross Alora. I’m curious to see how her subjects in general feel about her, and if her presentation is effective. Is it fear, respect, a bit of both…? Great submission!

Cien - Maia is such an interesting character! I love how she has very particular views that may differ from others but she holds fast to those! Aedon is also a nice addition to the story and your writing shows their communication and personalities very well! I also adore the way that you describe Maia’s clothing with words that describe the texture and feel of it.
raus - Compton is so cute! The interaction when they started fighting over the stacks of paper was definitely funny! I also really like the little hints throughout regarding his outfit for someone that doesn’t know what Compton would normally wear! He seems lighthearted and sweet and like someone that I’d definitely want to read more about!
Losty - I really loved all of the different outfits you created for Sabirah! I have to say that I really love the one where she rolled out of bed and the last one with the tiara, they both give a really good sense of what kind of character she is! The use of the gold marker was very clever! Looking at these images it really makes me wonder who she is and what she does to be so fashionable!

After damn near two hours without a customer so much as peeping in, Jonas was this close to giving in to the need for a smoke break. Sure, his boss hated it—or as she put it, “I don’t hire you so you can kill my customers with second-hand smoke!”

But the street was empty and Mellie wasn’t around to yell his ear off anyway. One cigarette wouldn’t hurt.

Jonas was literal seconds away from lighting up when the sudden chime made him jump, and he dropped his lighter with a clatter and a bitten-off curse. Damn it, he could have sworn the street had been empty! Why were there suddenly customers? Shoving the cigarettes back into his pocket, Jonas straightened up and pasted on his working smile.

Just as well that he did, since it managed to keep his jaw from dropping.

After two summers working here, Jonas was pretty much used to the same crowd. A small town was a small town was a small town. New residents were big news and tourists never stopped here. So sue him for being surprised when a white-haired dude wearing what looked like whacked out samurai era shit walked in. Because what the fuck?

(Sure, the guy next to said white-haired dude was dressed in a jeans and T-shirt, but that wasn’t the point.)

As if sensing his shock through his stage smile, the man turned to face him, distracting Jonas briefly when he noticed that the man’s hair practically reached his ass. It was that long. “Hello,” the man greeted, voice smooth and with an accent that Jonas couldn’t quite place. It sounded like textbook nothing. “Do you have Doritos?”

Wait, what? Some dude in ancient Japanese clothes walked in and he was asking for Doritos?

Jonas was frozen for a moment until a muffled cough broke the silence, and he was suddenly reminded of the presence of Regular McNormal next to weirdo over there. “Um. Second shelf from the left,” he finally answered, pointing towards the shelf.

The man nodded to him, leaning down to murmur something in his companion’s ear as they drifted over to the snack shelf. Jonas’s eyes were drawn to the man’s shoes when they clacked on the tiled floor—no, not shoes, sandals. Even his footwear was weird. Or should Jonas call it authentic? Sandals with socks. Jonas was sure there was some Japanese name for it, but for the life of god he couldn’t remember this shit.

Jonas tried his best not to stare. He really did. But it wasn’t every day that he got customers dressed in… whatever the hell this guy was wearing. Why was he wearing it, anyway?

Oh, wait! Maybe there was some kind of… event? A convention or something? Yeah, that had to be it. Jonas hadn’t heard of anything going on (which he supposed just meant the event wasn’t local, and local events were pipe dreams anyway) but that had to be the reason.

“Excuse me.”

Blinking, Jonas started slightly when he looked up and inadvertently met the man’s eyes. Oh, shit, when had they walked over? Had he zoned out that badly? “Uh, sorry.” Shaking his head, Jonas started scanning the Doritos, focusing much more on the task than he usually would. “So, uh. Nice costume. Are you cosplaying or something?”

There was a beat of silence, and Jonas wondered for a split second if he had to explain how he knew the word ‘cosplaying’ (ex-girlfriend, cross-dressing, memories he didn’t really want to bring up) before the man broke the silence. “Cosplaying?” The reply sounded horrified. Jonas blinked, wondering what he’d said wrong, just before the man leaned over the counter—so close that Jonas went cross-eyed for a moment before he reoriented himself. “This isn’t just a costume. It’s my job. It’s my life! It’s very important to me. You can’t just call it a costume!”

“W-what?” Jonas stammered. The man looked dead serious. What the fuck? The hell was wrong with him? Thankfully, the man drew back a little at that, making a sweeping gesture across his clothes before crossing his arms.

“My clothes are important,” the man repeated. “This outfit is completely authentic. It’s been blessed by five different Shinto priests, all heads of their temples. I flew around Japan just so I could visit all of them in the correct order, and I had to do it in a day. It’s very important that the blessings are granted on the fifteenth day of the month, you know.”

….What?

Jonas’s hand was frozen mid-scan. He couldn’t help it. What exactly was the guy even going on about? “It’s the full moon,” the man continued, nodding sagely. “The balance of the elements is very sensitive to the lunar cycle. Full moons are excellent nights for blessings.” While the man spoke, Jonas couldn’t help but the notice that behind him, his friend’s smile was getting steadily more strained. “Anyway, the point is that you can’t find clothes like mine anywhere else. They’re one of a kind. Wholly unique. An excellent safeguard against nastier spells. You should try to get your clothes blessed sometime.”

O… kay. Jonas stared down at the six packs of Doritos on the counter, then to his ratty T-shirt and cargo pants, and then back up at the man. The dude nattering on about full moons and Shinto blessings was buying six packs of Doritos and telling him to bless his I-didn’t-do-laundry clothes. “Uh… I’m sorry,” he tried. “It’s just, you know. We don’t really see clothes like yours around these parts, and then there’s your hair too, and—”

“And now my hair as well?” the man cut in, sounding offended. “Is there no end to your rudeness? I’m very old. My hair is white. It’s quite easy to understand, isn’t it? And certainly you don’t have to point it out like that.”

Jonas opened his mouth again at that, but no words came out. He snapped it shut, opened it again, then took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry, sir. That’ll be seventeen-twenty, please.”

The man let out an almighty huff that could probably be heard all the way in China, but to Jonas’s relief he forked over the money without complaint. He’d been half-expecting the guy to start ranting about the evils of the money system and offer him a chicken or something. Jonas was starting to suspect that his head wasn’t screwed on quite right. “Your change, sir. Thank you for shopping with Mellie’s, have a nice day.”

“It’s the new moon tonight,” the man began ominously, but before he could say anything else his companion cut him off.

“Thank you, have a nice day too,” he said hastily, snatching up the bags. “Sen, come on, let’s go.”

The man—Sen?—gave Jonas a last, grave nod before turning around to follow his companion. Jonas was just about to let out a sigh of relief when Sen spun around, making him jerk back in shock. “Don’t underestimate the power of the blessings! And if you would like to have your clothes blessed, remember that you must start from Kyoto, even though some recommend going from north to south. But the potency—”

“Sen!” the sane one hissed, hooking Sen’s arm. This time, Sen was forcibly dragged out of the shop and Jonas couldn’t really say that he felt particularly sorry.

The door swung shut behind them with another merry chime, leaving Jonas to stare as they started down the street, six packs of Doritos between them. “God, what a weirdo,” he said aloud. Leaning down, he finally picked up his poor, abandoned lighter, wiping it off on his shirt.

He glanced out at the street, wondering if he could catch a last glimpse of the couple, but they’d totally disappeared. Huh. They walked fast.

Shaking his head, Jonas flicked his lighter open, digging in his pocket for his cigarettes. He’d deal with Mellie when or if she caught him. Because after that encounter, now he really needed a smoke.

“Sen, why do you always have to mess with the shop clerks?”

“The looks on their faces whenever I walk in are too priceless. And he practically invited me to with that line of his about cosplaying! You can’t say he wasn’t asking for it.”

“No, he really wasn’t. Sen, we’ve gone over this. You shouldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Well… I don’t know…”

“There. I knew you wouldn’t have a reason. Amatsuki, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t mess with the shop clerks and I’ll stop. I swear it.”

“How about it’s a waste of your time?”

“It most certainly is not. His face when I told him to bless his clothes? I live for moments like that, dear. Have a chip?”

“…I give up. Give me that bag and open one of your nacho cheese. The taco is mine.”

“I knew you would see it my way.”

The document was carefully inscribed on several thin slices of black marble, each letter lined formally in glowing white, the white made by a complex process that essentially liquefied the crystals they lived alongside. It was a remarkarbly formal document, only possible to read in darkness, which was only found in a very rare few caves, such as one might select to hold ceremony in honor of a loved one. It had been hidden at the bottom of Xix’s crystal store.

It had been easy to find when Iriala went looking, for most of the crystals had dimmed or lost entirely their glow in the Darkness that claimed her kin. Oddly the letters had retained their glow, something that Iriala determined must have been true of all “liquefied” crystals, for when she searched meekly in the Darkness, through the still caverns that were home only to ghosts now, she had found many such tablets. At first she had tried to read each and every one, but she could not bear it. Too many dimmed crystals and useless pearls and abandoned gardens, left for beings who had in turn left their own dim and useless and abandoned treasures. She had read until each word was like a weight upon her, and she bowed under it, for she could not do anything but mourn. She could not even do them the service of remembrance, for Iriala had never been sociable, and for most she knew at best of them. It was rare she even recognized a name though, and even she had not so iced a heart that she could plow on.

So to her own she had returned, and forced herself to search thoroughly, and finally turned up Anth’s, which she had written—likely just to be contrary—by carving the letters into a sheet of crystal, which must have been incredibly difficult, for crystal was more brittle than marble by far. But Anth had always been a master of crystalwork, ironic considering how little crystal adorned her fine being. Naturally, it was also incredibly difficult to read, for Anth had not lined the letters in anything, and Iriala finally gave in and coated the tablet in dirt, wiping away the excess until she could read what her mother had written.

It had certainly been…something, after reading Xix’s properly worded and thus wordy and frankly rather uncharacteristically mushy document. It had been a disappointment at first, that Anth had left not even a single word of love, but as she rinsed to tablet off, leaning through a hole in the ice, trying to ignore Xix’s brilliant glow far below, Iriala had considered it. And—well.

Eventuality it made her laugh. Anth had likely put a great deal of effort into the tablet, for though it was crystal, it was as smooth as the most polished marble, and every bit of it a flawless, even thickness. And she had eventually discovered that along the sides were carved: on the left was a long carving of Xix, sprawled out and elegantly lithe; on the right was Iriala in a stalking pose, her wings mantled and antlers precisely measured; on the bottom was a bounding Crexa, with big eyes and somewhat stubby features, likely carved before Crexa had begun to lose some of her baby features; and on the top was their familial crest simplified and elongated into a series of ancient symbols framing a pair of wings curving around a pearl.

The two lay beneath Iriala’s bed, in a hidey-hole in the crystal and stone slab she had made herself. Getting to it would require lifting the heavy “bed,” which was no small feat, and then opening the hole, which she could do with a swipe of her tail but required either knowing how to open it or substantial trial and error. And all that any plunderers would get out of it were her mothers’ respective wills, a few treasure of varied value, and a single mushroom from home. Not exactly a treasure. At least,not to anyone other than Iriala. They would find far more valuable things simple strewn about her room, including rare gems, gold, and some of the crystals, stones, and corals that her people had “gardened.”

In the hidey-hole, alongside the wills, was a claw. A baby claw; the very last one Crexa shed. It was a tradition, for parents to keep the first tooth and last claw shed by their children. She had nearly all of Crexa’s first set of teeth and most of her claws (young often lost their claws and teeth without noticing, save those crucial first and last) stored throughout her room. She even had the firsts and lasts of her mothers, for they had taken custody of them in adulthood.

Crexa hadn’t left a will though. Naturally. If she had, Iriala suspected she would have written it on black marble, but lined the letters in melted metal, silver or gold perhaps. Crexa had been fond of metal. But not as fond as Iriala, for indeed she had only been fond of it because Iriala loved it so. She used to follow along as Iriala would delve into caves, deeper and deeper, chipping out tunnels on her own, and carefully mining ore.

With that in mind, Iriala went in search of a smithy, and borrowed their forge (with them none the wiser, Iriala coming and leaving in the night). She made a sheet of metal, and took it home to knock her letters into it. Once done, she lined the letters in coal, and hid it in her hidey-hole.

But no one need ever read that, for Iriala would uncover whatever had happened to her people. And if someone had caused it, she would have her vengeance, such that, whatever else may pass, her wrath would be recalled for centuries to come as a great and terrible thing. And Iriala would leave no other will, for her needs would be fulfilled, and in death, what care had she for her treasures and the living? Let those left squabble as they would, as Iriala finally rested with her kin.

When you are a being of immense power and measure your lifespan in cosmic decades, rather than solar decades, you have the time to do a great many mortal things.

Faye has done a lot.

She was a microbe, once. It was incredibly boring, but at least it was over with quickly. A blip in the life of an ineki, not even a measurable quantity in the life of a fae. Being what would later be called dinosaurs was much more fun. She got to stomp around, and when she grinned little things fled from her fanged maw.

She played dinosaur many, many times.

And then that world exploded. (But not Faye. Made of magic and steeped in void, she watched the sky burn and dissipated to elsewhere, thinking that was that.)

She didn’t return until the age of sentients, on a whim, a slither of nostalgia sliding through a rare crack in the nothingness of otherwhere. And these ones, they asked questions, and suddenly living life after life wasn’t so simple anymore. There were names, and family trees keeping careful track of bloodlines, and paperwork.

Ugh. Paperwork.

Too many oddities and you attracted the wrong kind of attention, from cops to criminals, as Faye discovered (as Maurelle, as Oren, as Shayla). So for every birth and death, she went through the motions.

(What’s another child lost to the system? And after the age of stone, another carved free of stasis without record? The cave is kind, but here, too, there is a darkness lurking – another aside from Faye, of course.)

And here she is again. Faye Verity is beginning to age. Soon she’ll be unable to perform up to the fitness standards required to keep her qualification as a detective. Her joints are beginning to stiffen and she’s lost much of the flexibility that made her a force to be reckoned with in hand-to-hand. Her mind is as sharp as ever, but she has to squint to keep the letters on her requisition forms from going out of focus. (Glasses are for other people.)

It sucks.

This has been her favorite life to date. There was so much to it! She was a detective by day, the law in fur and fangs. She was a hero by night, the Dark Fae who ate away at the shadows until dawn poked through. And, oh, how she loved it, no breaks, always on, all the time. In all its vastness, the void could never compare.

And now Faye will have to die, because she can’t imagine going out in any way but with a fight. She’s not going to wait for old age (as Tania did – and that had been boring, once was enough). It’s fighting the good fight or nothing. Oh, she’s not going down easy. Faye wants to live as much as anyone, to eke out every scrap of existence that she can from this life, but she refuses to quit. Faye Verity will leave her mark as she lives: an anonymous police officer, meting out justice.

But she has something new, this time. The Dark Fae will not die.

She has created something, this life. She created things in past lives, too. Books of magic with an otherwhere flair. Little trinkets, with nothing more than a trickle of power, for luck. A myth of twin violet eyes in the dark, scaring monsters out from under children’s beds. But the Dark Fae, that is something that can last. The Dark Fae has no worldly bonds like Faye. She does not need to age, she does not need to pause and resume her existence every half a century.

She will not die until heat death, until the universe is ripping itself apart at the seams and there’s too much space between her sparks to hold herself separate from the imperturbable ocean of energy at the end of time.

The Dark Fae can last where the myths faded into obscurity; the twin violet eyes reborn, a warning that the dark is full of dangerous things, but not necessarily bad ones. She will continue to protect, where Faye cannot. She can be more than mortal, where Faye cannot. And the life after Faye Verity (Nyx, perhaps) will slip into the role as though she has never been anyone else.

So Faye Verity, in her house lit by candlelight, scribbles the last details into her will (…my collection of books to Sheen, my property to Riverstone Park…). She dips her paw into a trough of ink and gathers every last scrap of magic she can touch in her mortal form. With an exhale, she slams her paw onto the paper.

Something cold whispers under her paw, so she lifts it away with care, staring at the ink with a critical eye. Aha. Faye warms her paw over a candle and snickers to herself: she hopes no one examines her print too closely, she thinks she can see the emptiness of the void between the ridges of her pawprint, and the void is none-too-kind to the sanity of mortals.

Well, no one has ever accused her of being subtle.

When he finally reached the outpost it was burned to the ground. Crumpled bodies littered the dirt, covered in ashes and debris. Dark feathers, fel-green runes still glowing softly, scattered around as a marker, evidence of the perpetrators.  The market was in shambles. Gingerly he stepped through crushed vegetables and charred meats, his claws taking him unconsciously to the spot where they always sat. A bent bracelet was all he found, blackened at the edges, the green gems that matched her favorite dress fallen out, lost forever.  Krisek looked around at the destruction and fully understood the price he had paid.

He slumped to the ground, partially in shock at what he witnesses, hardly able to take it in. She was gone, his anchor in the madness, a beacon of light when he was plunged into darkness. Yes, he had his glorious place in the sun back, but at what cost?  Krisek shook himself, his re-born wings ruffling and then smoothing; feathers laying themselves back into place. He couldn’t stay here… he couldn’t stay with the other followers. He just couldn’t follow Iskar, knowing that the result meant this. The arakkoa could feel the pull of the Fel, the bitter taste rose up in the back of his crop, bringing him back to the present. His eyes narrowed as a gust of wind drifted embers, still smoldering, in his direction. Where would he go? What would he do now?  Krisek had heard whispers about the cursed brethren joining forces with Highborn Arakkoa who had woken up to reality and started building a connection. While his cursed self had dismissed the Order of Awakened as spiteful rumors which dragged him down lower than his darkest days, after finding out about the Followers of Iskar he started giving the group some legitimacy. Even though the Order was something he had dreamed of creating himself before his fall from grace, he knew that was a fools dream. They would kill him on sight now. The Fel magics now coursing through his veins had marked him as a traitor forever; not just against the Highborn, but all Arakkoa who stood against the Fel-tainted, the Demonic ones, and their leader, Gul’dan.

Was this the end? Was he doomed to skulking around, hidden from sight? Krisek spread out his wings and took to the air. At first he made it seem like he was just doing a routine survey; making sure that there was no survivors. He wasn’t sure who’s eyes were upon this area now that destruction had rolled through. The Arakkoa felt his heart drop down to his stomach. Even the elation of flight regained could not prevent the darkness from creeping into the edges of his sight. The whispers of slipping into the shadows were even stronger than before, goading him and cajoling him to surrender to the Fel magics that glowed from within.

Marion

Marion is the leader of her coven. She has chosen her coven members carefully. Hazel has one of the strongest magical cores seen in decades. Vanessa is an elemental witch, water her specialty. Logan has ties with the Nightshadow Coven, a powerful dark witch clan with positions of power in the government. Crystal is the direct descendent of the first High Priestess and is in training to take over her aunt’s duties as the current High Priestess.

Marion knows her coven will go down in history. She knows their legacy will live on as the coven who defied the Hycathic Coven, the leaders of their world. She knows with those she has surrounded herself with will bring them down. All Maron ever wanted was immortality. Not for her body, but for her. She will rise up against the Hycathic’s with her coven and her allies. She will bring rebellion and re-write the rules. Her coven will attain the highest power possible. She will forever be remembered, seared into the minds of every person on this Earth. She will not be forgotten. She will be taught to those after she is gone. She will be made an example. She will remain immortal on this earth, just like every other villian before her.

A thing Viola always had clear in her mind was with she wanted from life. She wanted to travel all the world, met every little village and distant places. It didn’t really matter if anyone would know her name years later, as long as she could see every bit of the world, all the amazing landscapes and interesting people. But it sounded nice in Viola’s ears the idea of her being known by her adventures, for being the only one to go to the places no one dared to be.

The Winter put a stop in her plans. The beautiful places stopped existing, substituted for an endless cave. The interesting people were dead or confused, not sure how to keep going with their lives in such a different place. And she had a worse problem: she got separated from her family, not knowing even if they were alive.

She didn’t think twice before exploring every bit of the caves, in hope to find her brother and her little niece. But every new cave she entered she felt like she was back outside of the cave, when she traveled to every place and couldn’t help but be amazed by all the new landscapes and the new people she met. And soon she was amazed as well by all the treasure just waiting to be found.

Viola was good at it. She had a good sense of direction, and it always seemed to pull her to the most wonderful treasures. Soon at every cave she looked by her family, she would stop for a little longer and try to find something else. And Viola again could see what she wanted for her life. She would find her family, bring them to live close to her and then would travel in every part of the caves to find the most incredible things. She could see herself coming back from an adventure, stopping by her brother’s house for a family dinner. Mellie, her little niece, would ask her about every bit of her adventures and Viola would tell her “I found today outer space in a small pocket cave,” and “there was a big castle full of people, all living under the water,” “A whole city under the water? Is that possible?” “Yes, it is. You can find anything in the caves, from a fairytale to everything we could find outside of here”.

And Viola was sure Mellie would love every bit of story and Viola would be known as a great adventurer, the most successful one, told in story books until the end of the caves. It sounded ambitious, but she was sure she could reach this high if she tried hard enough. And there was her objective, everything she wanted from life. She just needed to find her family and maybe marry the cute girl who supported her while Viola talked about all her dreams.

But life decided to put a stop in her plans once more. While exploring she found a beautiful flower, coming right out of the Sacred Tree. And she had no choice but to go back to her girlfriend and let her know the good news of a new child. Ava, now her wife, told Viola that there was no stop, she could take care of the kid while Viola looked for her family. What could be better for a child than to have all her family reunited once again?

Viola had to agree, kinda, sort of. Every second she spent looking for her family she felt guilty for not watching her daughter, little Leslie, grow up. But for every second she spent with her daughter she felt guilty for not go out looking for the rest of her family, after all Mellie was just a child and she could be alone, afraid, just waiting for Viola. The treasures almost forgotten, but the want, the longing to be known for that was still clear and strong.

And then the day that Viola waited for so long finally came. In a small settlement she found Mellie, alone and scared. And Viola had to discover the hard truth about her brother: one of the lost, nothing she could do about. Except take care of Mellie like she was her own daughter. And Viola was finally free to pursue her dreams.

But looking at her beautiful family, Viola could only be sure that treasures and travels never meant that much for her. At least not in comparison of her family, of her daughters, of her wife. There was nothing Viola wanted more than raise her children, make their life the best possible and be able to hear them tell their children about the wonderful mom they had. And hear their child talk about their amazing grandmother. To know that the family was what it was because she did her best. And that was legacy enough for her.

Eripere dashed up a nearby tree and darted inside the small hole hidden away in its trunk. Everything was there.
The bracelet, the three golden coins, the signet ring, and most importantly the emerald. Satisfied with of his trove’s safety, he scurried back down to the ground and darted across the estate grounds. A few minutes later he slipped behind a couple towering rocks leaning against each other. Here he had a necklace, a jeweled dagger, five hair pins, and an entire set of silverware. Again confident in the safety of his possessions he continued on his way. It took the slither-stoat a full thirty-eight minutes to check all of his assorted hoards of treasure spaced throughout the estate of his elf’s relative.
The first thing he always did when returning to this place was to check if his treasure was safe. Elves would take his loot if he wasn’t careful. And he couldn’t allow that to happen after all the trouble he’d gone through of claiming it.
Of course there was one elf he could trust to not touch his things. He could trust his elf, Folmar. Eripere’s elf knew where all of his stashes were. He had been very careful to show his elf where everything was just in case something ever happened to him. After all, Folmar would need shinnies of his own if Eripere ever died without finding a mate. And considering Eripere was often so busy watching his elf to make sure he was safe, he despaired of ever being able to find a mate. Still, it was his duty to look after his elf. Folmar was his after all. And all slither-stoats took care of what was theirs.
Folmar was a helpful possession if the animal was being honest though—which of course he was, because animals are always honest. His elf was good at procuring food, which left Eripere available to continue collecting shinnies with which to woo a mate. Or, as was becoming more and more likely, for him to pass onto Folmar that his elf might at least find a mate. He was an odd elf. He didn’t have many shinnies like the rest of the elves. Perhaps that was why Eripere had taken pity on him and taken him to be his very own elf. Whatever the case, at this rate, he was the only one who would look after Eripere’s treasure trove when he was gone.

Chicken - I really loved reading the three different wills in this piece and seeing how different they were, both in writing and in form. It gave me some really great insight into the characters they belonged to! You seem to have this family very thoroughly developed, which is awesome to see. I look forward to your next piece about Iriala, even if it does happen to be another sad one. 8)
FlyingSquirrely - Ooh, this was really interesting! It must be a lot of fun to explore life through a character that is completely free of the chains of mortality, and I love the general feel of Faye’s personality. It’s super cool that she seems to be basically playing vigilante - and that she plans on continuing to do so mortal life after life. She’s a super interesting character, and I hope that you write more about her in a future prompt! :D
Malis - While I’m not familiar with the lore of Krisek’s world, this was a nice read. I like that it was largely strung together from his thoughts, and the fact that even so, it shfited focus to the destruction around him several times. This seemed more like a middle to his story than the end - it would be cool to see you write about him in again in a future prompt, if one should suit him. :D
raus - Caius and Leonora have such a cute relationship, omg. ;o; I really loved the whole vision you laid out about the town they live in, too! About how it’s grown over time and Caius picturing the future of it. This was a really lovely piece to read, especially since the prompt really lent itself to a lot of sad responses.

Vysal - Ahh I’m glad to read more about your witchy characters! I can empathize with the desire to exist after death — not in the physical world, but by making history. It sounds like Marion has assembled the best team she possibly can — whether remembered as a hero or villain, I’m certain her name will echo throughout her world!
Tsuzemi - Jasper is so cute! I can imagine the struggle to explain a complicated concept like legacy to a child, but I think she did an excellent job since he connected the concept to that of a role model and passing down influence. Great entry, and enjoyable characters!
SocialBookWorm - You have an awesome set of characters here! I thoroughly enjoyed reading through this exchange, heavy as it was, and understanding your crew a little better… like snapshots of their history and desired futures! I also really want to read more about the mysteries Morganite Kemen kept longing for the company of! Fantastic entry. :) 
Arintol - This was such an adorable approach to this entry, ah ;o; I love that Eripere considers Folmar his possession, and thus entrusts him with all of his secret stashes. I hope he succeeds at hoarding up a ton more shiny things and finds both himself, and Folmar, an equally shiny mate!

dessieh - I really liked reading about Viola’s growth! Personally I liked the ending a lot - not everyone leaves behind a heroic legacy of tales that would be sung by bards in ages to come. To be remembered fondly and with pride by one’s family is as wonderful a legacy as any :D
Hyasynthetic - Oh no, poor Lullaby D: I feel a lot of sympathy for him, clinging to his desire to protect his charge despite himself. I might be reading into this too much as well, but I don’t feel this is an easy situation for Sandman either, watching his friend/student slowly fade. The “Then I wait” at the end is great, it rings with finality and wraps it up in an ending the story had been marching towards. Good job! ; 3 ;
Lala - It was really intriguing to learn the background behind Briar’s Grimoire! I actually didn’t see the background spoiler at first and read it after the ‘actual’ post - when I did see it, a bunch of things clicked into place, both from what you’ve told me and what the post itself says. I like the style of the writing, it’s quite poetic! Knowing that Briar and her husband become the stuff of legends is exactly the kind of legacy I love to see in characters :D

When you are a being of immense power and measure your lifespan in cosmic decades, rather than solar decades, you have the time to do a great many mortal things.

Faye has done a lot.

She was a microbe, once. It was incredibly boring, but at least it was over with quickly. A blip in the life of an ineki, not even a measurable quantity in the life of a fae. Being what would later be called dinosaurs was much more fun. She got to stomp around, and when she grinned little things fled from her fanged maw.

She played dinosaur many, many times.

And then that world exploded. (But not Faye. Made of magic and steeped in void, she watched the sky burn and dissipated to elsewhere, thinking that was that.)

She didn’t return until the age of sentients, on a whim, a slither of nostalgia sliding through a rare crack in the nothingness of otherwhere. And these ones, they asked questions, and suddenly living life after life wasn’t so simple anymore. There were names, and family trees keeping careful track of bloodlines, and paperwork.

Ugh. Paperwork.

Too many oddities and you attracted the wrong kind of attention, from cops to criminals, as Faye discovered (as Maurelle, as Oren, as Shayla). So for every birth and death, she went through the motions.

(What’s another child lost to the system? And after the age of stone, another carved free of stasis without record? The cave is kind, but here, too, there is a darkness lurking – another aside from Faye, of course.)

And here she is again. Faye Verity is beginning to age. Soon she’ll be unable to perform up to the fitness standards required to keep her qualification as a detective. Her joints are beginning to stiffen and she’s lost much of the flexibility that made her a force to be reckoned with in hand-to-hand. Her mind is as sharp as ever, but she has to squint to keep the letters on her requisition forms from going out of focus. (Glasses are for other people.)

It sucks.

This has been her favorite life to date. There was so much to it! She was a detective by day, the law in fur and fangs. She was a hero by night, the Dark Fae who ate away at the shadows until dawn poked through. And, oh, how she loved it, no breaks, always on, all the time. In all its vastness, the void could never compare.

And now Faye will have to die, because she can’t imagine going out in any way but with a fight. She’s not going to wait for old age (as Tania did – and that had been boring, once was enough). It’s fighting the good fight or nothing. Oh, she’s not going down easy. Faye wants to live as much as anyone, to eke out every scrap of existence that she can from this life, but she refuses to quit. Faye Verity will leave her mark as she lives: an anonymous police officer, meting out justice.

But she has something new, this time. The Dark Fae will not die.

She has created something, this life. She created things in past lives, too. Books of magic with an otherwhere flair. Little trinkets, with nothing more than a trickle of power, for luck. A myth of twin violet eyes in the dark, scaring monsters out from under children’s beds. But the Dark Fae, that is something that can last. The Dark Fae has no worldly bonds like Faye. She does not need to age, she does not need to pause and resume her existence every half a century.

She will not die until heat death, until the universe is ripping itself apart at the seams and there’s too much space between her sparks to hold herself separate from the imperturbable ocean of energy at the end of time.

The Dark Fae can last where the myths faded into obscurity; the twin violet eyes reborn, a warning that the dark is full of dangerous things, but not necessarily bad ones. She will continue to protect, where Faye cannot. She can be more than mortal, where Faye cannot. And the life after Faye Verity (Nyx, perhaps) will slip into the role as though she has never been anyone else.

So Faye Verity, in her house lit by candlelight, scribbles the last details into her will (…my collection of books to Sheen, my property to Riverstone Park…). She dips her paw into a trough of ink and gathers every last scrap of magic she can touch in her mortal form. With an exhale, she slams her paw onto the paper.

Something cold whispers under her paw, so she lifts it away with care, staring at the ink with a critical eye. Aha. Faye warms her paw over a candle and snickers to herself: she hopes no one examines her print too closely, she thinks she can see the emptiness of the void between the ridges of her pawprint, and the void is none-too-kind to the sanity of mortals.

Well, no one has ever accused her of being subtle.