Entwined, our hearts Destiny;
To be one, to be divine,
Regret not thy trust-in-me.
Fear not twin souls wouldst align.
In dreams I search endlessly,
For your warmth, your heart illume;
To die again painlessly-
Under a starless, full-moon.
Mother, wife, true belonging;
Fulfilled in me, love enshrined,
Thy fate thou art prolonging;
Our spirits are yet Entwined.
Waiting I gaze longingly
Beseeching the stars align
My heart sought yours doggedly
But to whom may I opine?
Spoken word pure happiness
Love and light is your domain
The stars may yet acquiesce
know our love will yet remain
Your beauty haunts breathlessly
Your soul is mine for baiting
Spirits live on deathlessly
But for the moment, Waiting.
Gifted we were blamelessly;
With something pure and nascent,
To be and love shamelessly,
A promise to be patient.
To hold you close forgetting,
A fire lit aeons ago,
All others left regretting,
In our hearts remains to glow.
Look upon this glowering,
It doesn’t change our fated,
Upon the moors flowering,
Not given away, gifted.
Henlo, me again, still not dead haha.
Feeling a lot better actually, was in a dark place for a bit but I decided to see it as a wake up call and I was gonna change my whole life. But then a global pandemic hits and every country I want to go to is locked down and I can’t leave my house.
So yeah that’s on hold but I still feel ok, despite possible looming death haha. I feel hopeful that as long as I can survive this bullshit I’ll come out on the other end healthier and happier. I feel fit, I look good and I’m ready to fuck life up, after all the toilet paper comes back haha.
So yeah, some light fantasy reading to hopefully get you through these trying times, best of luck.
–
Tuan was frozen for a moment and then the voice became all too familiar to him and he turned his head slightly to see.
“Birog?” He smirked. “You wouldn’t kill me”.
“I have killed three hundred this night and maybe ten thousand more when the prophecy is fulfilled, what’s one more death?” The seer said coldly.
“You and your prophecies” He laughed “There’s a new one every week.”
The seer smiled “See for yourself.” She said as she pushed Tuan through the door.
Inside the bed chamber there was little light but Tuan’s eyes quickly adjusted, a beam of moonlight cast across tussled bed linens. Only the vaguest of shapes took form
“So you’ve come to rescue me”. A mocking voice said from the darkness, followed by a mocking laughter as feral eyes stared at the shapeshifter from the corner of the room.
Cur rose from a chair at the side of the bed clad in only a loin cloth. Pitilessly he tore the elegant silken linens from the grand bed. Revealing underneath a slight and strangely beautiful girl with only one giant eye where there should be two. The girl looked roughly manhandled but otherwise alive.
The barbarian tore the fine sheets and wrapped them around himself to form a crude tunic.
The barbarians keen eyes saw the hooded girl follow Tuan out of the darkness of the doorway. His wicked grin growing larger and toothier. He laughed again, his laugh punctuating the sounds of the waves down below and the silence like a crack of thunder. His laughter was like an attack all of its own.
The girl almost winced at the sound of it and tried to hide her face from his scrutiny. She looked down at the girl on the bed with pity and shame “The prophecy has begun, she is with child.”
“What is this nonsense?” Tuan gasped.
“She will give birth to the one that will slay Balor and free this land of the Femorians for good.” Birog spoke softly and from rote as if reading in a trance. “It’s why I brought you here.” She steadied herself letting the knife fall down by her side. “The child of three bloods will be the one to save this land and stop the stone of destiny falling into his grasp.”
“Him who? What are you talking about girl?”
“Elatha, the first born son, high king of the Fomorians. If he takes the stone, if Danu’s power over it weakens and the god of chaos has it under her wing, the world will fall into a blackness it will never wake from. I have seen it.”
Cur snorted. “I care not for this world.” He croaked.
Birog opened her cloak and revealed a strangely shaped object rapped in a lambskin. She carefully unraveled it, the moonlight dancing on the silver arm balanced in her hand. She tossed it as gently as she could at the Firbolg who caught it effortlessly in his one good hand. “It is your world too, Firbolg.”
Cur grinned as if he stared at the back of his enemy while they were taking a piss as he reattached the arm to his burnt misshapen stump. The pain he had quickly forgotten rushing back to him, the arm burned with foul magic. The castle was but a dull glow of the rot but the arm was like a lightning rod for it. And it sent a searing pain through his scars and there was a part of him that even missed it. The pain reminded him that he could feel, it reminded him of his hate.
“Now you die” He cackled.
“The child will surely die without me.”
“I care not for my bastard” He laughed.
“Then what of your own life?”
Suddenly as if through some magic there were noises outside of the door, heavy footfalls and shouting and gibbering in a strange tongue.
Birog smiled and sighed “Our time is short Firbolg, would you waste it on killing me when I am your only means of escape from this place?”
Cur laughed wickedly as he approached. “I will kill you quickly woman.” He croaked raising his sinister silver hand to her throat.
There was a thud and cracking at the door. The Firbolg turned his head and in an instant the seer seemed to dissolve into the crystalline brick of the castle wall.
The Barbarian lunged for her apparition but clutched only air as the witch vanished from sight.
“They’re coming through, prepare yourself!” Tuan shouted.
Cur chuckled at the fear in his voice.
The attackers at the door were little more than beasts in the crudest shape of men. Foul slithery things with misshapen and uneven bodies, some with bulbous blubbering lips and glassy bulging eyes.
They threw their flaccid foul bulk against the door. In an instant it exploded and splintered out and a silver streak reached out and flew like an arrow across a moonless sky.
The barbarian was vicious and brutal beyond measure without a weapon even more so. He was fast and wicked and spared no mercy in savagery. He took the first one so fast it could barely gargle in response it’s doom. The Firbolg took the creature by it’s jaws and tore it almost completely in half as if it were a boneless fish. It’s hot entrails spilled out on onto the crystalline staircase, steaming with its viscious bile. The sound it made was enough to stop any mortal advance.
The other creatures stood frozen not understanding the desolation that leered down at them from the doorway,
Cur could smell their fear, he could hear it in their silence. Taste it in their hesitation, they were but mortal afterall, they feared him and he delighted in it. A wicked grin stretching across his scarred face.
A sword swung by webbed vaguely humanoid hands stuck out of the gloomy darkness and was caught in a silver hand. The barbarian snarled and snapped the crude sword in half. In one fluid motion embedding the uneven shard into a glistening yellow eye that spewed a black vile puss as the creature shrieked in agony.
Cur ripped the sword from the creatures gibbous wretched clawed fingers. With a slow dull pawing he wrenched the crooked snapped blade ripping the creature open from groin to sternum. Without stopping his attack he threw the barely living misshapen thing. Writhing and bloody with a clear blood onto the wide squamous eyes of the onlookers in the darkness.
Without fear or hesitation he threw himself upon them. Spears and teeth and claw pierced his body but naught stopped him. He overcame them like a grave digger gouging through loose earth and muck in his way. Hacking and chopping with a maddening indifference.
The remaining few unbrutalized fled. They ran into the dining hall that was now a mausoleum to the three hundred maidens that watched over the princess. But they didn’t get very far.
Without warning they stopped in their tracks as if they were caught in a net, frozen not from fear but an unseen hand gripping them. Their bodies crumpling and shrinking due to some invisible crushing force. It seemed almost like they were rotting right before the Barbarians eyes. They popped with some exuberant force. Their putrid entrails slapping against the cold walls of the dining hall and it seemed almost turning to dust as they fell.
“You’re not allowed in here” A sickly slight voice said.
The barbarian scanned the room looking for the source of the voice. He smirked broadly as he saw the child standing in the doorway, the child that called himself Balor.
–
Read the rest on inkitt for free. https://www.inkitt.com/stories/action/300249/chapters/9
Yeah so I spent way too long proofreading this and procrastinating to have anything interesting to say above hello and goodbye.
No seriously, really happy with Cur, could be better, I think it needs another going through before an edit. Gonna rope in Chrissy again for that when it’s good and ready. The story is reaching the apex, it’s about to get really good. I was considering putting this next bit earlier on but my good buddy that got me into the witcher which I know hate (the witcher not my polish pal) convinced me to put it later on for more of a reveal.
I didn’t really want an ‘epic reveal’ because I wanted the story to sort of stand on it’s own. I’m still not 100% I’ll need to come back to and decide, I’ll have some other people read it and give me a general feel. I just need to set aside some time to really do a deep dive on it and get some feedback from everyday plebs haha.
But I like what’s there, I think it’s solid, it’s got a good foundation. I loved writing it, I loved getting into celtic folklore, it was really like a journey for me. I loved every minute of it, I literally have like 80+ pages of notes I took from all over the place, no not just from wikipedia.
So yeah, Diana aside this one caught me off guard and is probably the most ambition and most exhilarating project I’ve done and I can’t wait to keep it going. I’m predicting like five books but we’ll see, there may be more because there are massive gaps in the actual folk lore. It doesn’t really have an ending so that’s going to be the big thing for me. Finding a place to end is hard because the folklore is written like real history and history has no end.
But that’s about it, didn’t get a lot of Diana editing done because of irl shit and I’m staring down the barrel of a lot of day job drudgery leading up to christmas, so that should be fun. Unironically of course.
So yeah now I want to make sweet french toast that I saw on a facebook ad, bye now!
See you…
–
They fled Slaghtaverty before daybreak, taking a steep path out of the valley. Cur walked silent and solemn in front of the cart with Tuan at his heels in the form of a dog once again. Birog trailed behind on the cart her side lighter without the sword but her heart heavy. She looked back at Slaghtaverty and over the other side she saw smoke coming from Newgrange.
–
The streets of Slaghtaverty were bare and made a hollow ringing sound as the horses hooves struck the cobbles.
“Where is everyone?”
It was midday now and the streets were barren and silent as the grave. The only sound heard was the occasional shutter slamming as presumably a dweller locked their house up tighter than before.
“Some kind of peasant holiday perhaps” Bres joked atop his elegant horse. His men laughing nervously as their eyes darted here and there.
“I smell magic in the air” Dian said led along as their prisoner on the back of Ogma’s horse.
Ogma himself had a bandage over his ear that Dian Cecht saw fit to administer with a sly grin at the corner of his mouth.
Their procession continued through the empty streets slowly. Cautiously looking at every window and door frame until they came upon a stream that flowed adjacent the outer wall.
At that stream was an old washer woman on her knees furiously scrubbing something in the water.
Their processions stopped with a clattering of hooves and chainmail hauberks. Bres motioned to one of his men to approach the hag by the stream.
He did so with an air of caution which seemed puzzling even to him. Everyone felt it, a sense of distinct and terrible foreboding, they could smell it.
The old woman began to hum over the sound of her thrashing the clothes in the water.
Bres and his men approached her but she didn’t seem to notice, continuing to wash her clothes in the stream unburdened by their presence.
The soldier approached close enough almost to touch her rags and then he saw the water, red and thick with blood. “Hag, who’s clothes do you wash?”
Her humming sank low and then stopped. “I wash the clothes of those fallen in battle.” She muttered flatly.
“What battle? Who’s clothes?” The soldier craned his neck to try and see the clothes and stood stunned and frozen at the sight of the crest emblazoned on them. For it was their own.
“I wash your clothes sir knight” She said. “The one you seek, the broken king, he waits for you in the glade- blood and bone and death he wears as his mantle.”
The hag turned, her face hideous, ravaged by age and twisted by evil. She let out an ear piercing shriek which made all clutch their ears in pain.
Ogma acting quickly covered his remaining ear and with his free hand clubbed the hag from his saddle. With a sickly thudding crunching sound felled her in one blow.
The soldier fell back gripped by fear “It’s an evil spirit, a tide of ill omen sire! We must abandon this quest!” He screamed. “We shouldn’t have burned the newgrange! We’re damned!”
“Silence, superstitious nonsense, some mad old woman means nothing of our luck, now away with you!” Bres realigned himself in his saddle and spoke softly “We’ll find somewhere to recoup, a bit of rest will do us all good.” His words felt practised and empty, his eyes fearing to rest on any of his men.
Despite the initial summation, the town was not empty but sealed and covetous. Bres and his men stole away to an inn of which they made up the majority patron.
The inn was dark and cold and squalid and smelled of ash and dried blood. The barkeep a skinny potmarked man with a round gut greeted them sheepishly. His hands shaking and his skin ashen.
“We seek food and drink for me and my men” Bres stated.
“Oh” He said shakily. “And how will sire be paying may I ask?”
“You speak to the king of Inish veil, that is payment enough.” Bres bellowed.
“You’re pulling my leg, Bres, the king of inish veil would never set foot in-.” The man took aside the events of the past evening and gazed at their crest and at the visage of Bres the beautiful himself. “R-right away my lord, forgive me my king, I should’ve known by the crest, by your face, your noble voice alone! It’s just we’ve had somewhat of an upset here-“ The barkeep as if forgetting something paused and darted into the back to prepare viddels for the troop.
He returned shortly with a caske of ale, some bread and cheese and dried meats of which the men took of without hesitation.
Bres approached the cleanest looking bench and prepared to sit when a strange man slipped into his path.
“Good day sire” The man said calmly.
“Good day” Bres said with a puzzled indifference.
The stranger was slight and had a flowery way about him with brightly coloured clothes, wearing a goose feather cap.
“It is I Coirpre, I was on my way to Dun Bresse but as you yourself reside here, noble King Bres. I see no point in making the journey, I ask only the price of an ale and a good meal”
–
Read the rest on inkitt Dyed in the wool
Hi there, just drinking some green tea struggling to give a fuck.
Gonna keep this short for an intro because I have a headache and I generally feel like shit and I have lots of day job to contend with. Also there isn’t gonna be a huge chunk of witcher bitching because I’ve been finishing up that Parker novel. I think I’m gonna read the next witcher book and if it’s not significantly better I’ll abandon the whole series. None of the characters really grab me, the story is sort of a generic nothing burger, the action is phenomenal but there just isn’t enough of it.
The Parker novel is definitely the worst, it was just kind of small scale in comparison to the others and for me the fun and anticipation comes from them planning and planning around the job. Like my favourite part of I think it was the second book is where they all plan the robbery and then in the next scene Parker is planning how to stop the play of the other two in the job. Because almost every job involves an outsider who is trying to steal the lot and Parker has to plan the job and around them so it’s this really exciting chase between Parker and the money and the other players.
And while this is happening you’re getting to know all the characters and it’s really fun. This one was a bit of a let down because the actual heist part is sort of boring and goes too well and is just shoved off to the start and then on top of that the people who become the antagonists just seem like random guys and they’re not really that interesting, they were just kind of punks. Although I did like how Parker dispatched them both, that was great, grade A Parker.
I still enjoyed the book, it’s just not the top of the series but I’ve already read the first I think this was the thirteenth and I have ten to go so I’m loving that, thirteenth books in and this is the first one to fall a little flat. That is a damn good track record. I’m three books into the witcher and I wanted to quit it a book ago haha.
It goes without saying if you’re into pulp, Raymond Chandler or Dashell Hammett you’ll love these books. It’s like a classic detective novel from the perspective of the bad guy haha.
That’s about all, wanna start going over my agent pitch stuff for Diana again today and maybe do some more Cur proofreading if I feel up to it. Noticed I stop talking about my love life? That’s because it’s far worse haha.
Anyway.
See you…
–
“She marked you.” A voice said above him, the voice was unlike any human voice and resonated as if a combination of bird tweets and bear growls mimicking human tongue. “I guess you think you’re special” The voice mocked.
The sound of real birds were happily chirping. He could feel moist and verdant foliage underneath him, a slight breeze and the shadow of a large tree. A break of bright beautiful daylight through a crack in the sky that was just his eyes opening anew.
Above him looking down the figure of a man’s head wearing a large ornate headdress with deer antlers protruding out covered in leaves and moss. And although his face could not be seen through the bright sunlight he blocked, he knew the man was smiling.
Cur awoke from his trance flailing wildly with a sharp inhale of breath. He grasped greedily and vociferously at the face leaning over him and he squeezed it.
“Would you stop that now?” An unfamiliar voice barked. “She saved your life and you’d treat her like?” The dog laughed.
“I’m already dead” Cur growled as he continued to squeeze the neck of the pretty young woman standing over him.
“You’re gonna break yer stitches and your head is just gonna roll off!” The old man said still with the needle in his hand.
“Who are you?” Cur asked the woman turning blue in his hand.
“She needs air to talk Firbolg” The dog said.
Cur took a moment and sneered into the face of the Tuatha woman and tossed her aside like a used rag.
Birog coughed and spluttered hungrily trying to force air into her lungs.
Cur felt at his neck and tugged at a loose piece of twine hanging from the stitching and ripped it off. His neck slowly healed over. He stood and went over to the young woman as she doubled over gasping for air.
He picked her up like a cruel toddler with a ragdoll, by the hair so he could get a good look at her face. Barely conscious the look in her eye was far away and glassy.
“Answer me” He growled.
“Birog, I’m just a druid.”
“Just a druid” Cur laughed low and menacing. “Then you can die”
“Now what cause do you have to do that?” The dog asked. “She dug you out herself.”
“She did your job for you mutt” Cur bellowed.
In an instant the dog took the form of a man of average height with light red hair and a dull pale complexion.
“Sure she has other assets you could get more than just the pleasure of killing her from” The man smirked.
Cur laughed. “I think she liked you more as a stinking dog, Tuan.”
Cur looked her up and down and found no fault. “So be it, she will be mine tonight and tomorrow, she may live.” He laughed and let her head loll back down on the ground.
“Wait” The girl strained to talk the dirt shifting under her. “I’ll give myself willingly if you’ll listen to my plea”
Cur took her by the nape of the neck, his hand large enough to wrap all the way around it. He picked her off the ground and looked into her eyes. “Talk if it amuses you.”
Her own feet under her now she shrugged off Cur’s hand defiantly and dusted herself off. “I helped you bec-“
“-You didn’t help me”
“Then you planned on being decapitated and buried upside down?” She sneered.
“No one looks for a dead man.” He croaked, a wicked smile crossing his cracked lips.
Tuan smiled as he span the chieftain’s gold torque on his finger. “You throw in a flashy execution and no one notices a little mouse or a cat scurrying into their houses and robbing them blind.” He laughed.
“You only saved this lazy dog a time digging and carrying.” Cur jabbed, a large wicked grin on his face.
She looked over at former dog Tuan who smiled shyly tipping his head. “I see, so you’re a shape shifter and a thief” She said scornfully.
“Something like that.” Tuan shrugged. “Tuan mac Cairill.” He said as he nodded “You’ve already met ‘Fintan the wise’” He said with a smirk bobbing his head towards the old man who sat silently. The old man was back to silently prodding the fire with the blackened branch and paying no mind to goings on.
“And you?” She said looking at Cur.
“I have no name” He growled as if that was somehow directly her fault.
Hello there dudes and dudettes,
Ok sliding in another Cur chapter because I realised I wanted to release a chapter a week and I kind of fucked that up so I’m gonna release two chapters this week to get back on track haha.
Pretty decent week of writing, I’m cutting out filler left and right which is great, really getting into the meat of the story and riding that wave, some things I need to change but I’m really liking where it was taking me. I kind of felt for a little bit that I was going with the motions and not feeling too inspired or if I was tired or fucked, my new sleep routine puts a lot of strain on my eyes because I’m just literally using them more.
My general philosophy when I feel kind of uninspired is just to keep going and go over it later, which I find works for me because I always write detailed synopsises of my work so I never get stuck looking at a blank page, I always have the next thing to go to. I always have something I can refer to if I get stuck.
I know there are lots of writers who don’t use plans and just go at with a blank page and their balls in their hands haha. I have no idea how they do it, to me that’s like fighting a fucking dragon with a toothbrush haha.
I always like to have a plan and a detailed structure at my back so I’m not stuck looking at a blank page with just my dick in my hand. I can always keep my flow going and if I hit a bump I can just take a break and sip some tea and come back to it.
But I was looking back at it and I was pleasantly surprised, it needs work but there’s something there, I won’t be polishing a turd just clearing away the crap on an unfettered gem.
Now for some witcher hate haha. I just don’t care about any of the characters honestly, not one of them, I just can’t care about them, I dunno, I just don’t think I’d get on with any of them and I don’t know what this author’s life is like but he must have some really complicated relationships with women. Every female character he writes is more obnoxious than the last.
Not saying women can’t be obnoxious but it’s every one of them, there’s maybe one woman in any of his stories that isn’t Ciri that has any redeeming qualities at all and even then it’s kind of only in comparison to the others who are awful.
Don’t get me wrong I’m not some rabid feminist by any means haha, I get that women can be assholes but when it’s literally every one of them it just gets tedious and loses all it’s power.
I mean the queen of brokilon was just an endless stream of unfettered cuntiness that I could barely stand. You could replace her dialogue with just farting noises and it would have been less obnoxious and tedious haha. It just reaches a point of parody and I can’t take it seriously and I never thought I’d actually be clambering for a likeable/identifiable female character.
Even in my work I don’t want to put women on a pedestal but represent them as they are warts and all but I also want them to be likeable enough to care about even a little bit and honestly when you find yourself rooting for the people that might rape and murder a character in a book you’ve done something wrong haha.
The Parker novel is pretty good, definitely one of Stark’s weaker ones, but the whole series is the perfect example of unsubverted expectations still being excellent. The witcher is so preoccupied with subverting expectations it forgets to be entertaining. Whereas in the Parker novels you know exactly whats going to happen and you can’t wait to read it haha.
Someone fucks over Parker and you know he’s going to track them down and curb stomp them and you’re tearing through chapters to get to it haha. The mystery comes into play when the why and who and the how are revealed. You what’s going to happen because you know Parker and what happens to people that cross him but you don’t know how he’s going to do it and who he’s going to do it to and that’s why you keep reading for that glorious catharsis that is nowhere to be found in the witcher books, the stories generally go nowhere or full circle, just generally unsatisfying.
Anyway enough of that I need to get proofreading the next chapter of Cur or I won’t have anything to post on thursday haha.
See you…
Ooh almost forgot, The One That Came Back for whatever reason has become super popular on inkitt so I thought fuck it, I uploaded the full edited version to inkitt so if you don’t want to download it you can just read it there.
–
That night a dense bluish fog came low over the village. The calls of hounds barking filled the silence as the moon rode high on the crest and half full overhead as the village slept all, all but one.
Some form of morbid curiosity and fascination drew her to the empty mucky bog that would be the stranger’s grave. As proclaimed, no markings but a heavy stone pressed down on the grave. The grave that lay far from the town.
What she was going to do not even she knew herself but the druiddess felt some unearthly pull to the spot. Maybe a morbid trophy would belay her curiosity maybe not.
She approached the grave with trepidation, as if it were the steps to a grand and foreboding house. With no torch whatsoever and the necessity arising. The young girl tutting pulled her sleeve back revealing a gold half torgue around her wrist, with which she gave three quick taps.
On the third tap the torque began to give off an errie glow almost like a will-o-the-whisp. A slightly greenish hue that gave her all the light she needed to see the grave clearly.
“I have to know” She told herself “I just need to see the body for a moment, I can’t let this opportunity pass me by.”
Her curiosity had betrayed her as she was not alone. Too late she noticed the noise, a slight drawn out scratching noise and veiled breathing sniffing sounds and a low growl or whine or whistle.
“Who is that?” She called out but no one answered.
The scratching sounds got louder and the breathing deeper and faster as she approached the grave. Her footfalls sinking into the loose wet earth of the bog.
“I warn you, I have a weapon!” The druiddess swallowed her fear as she approached fumbling her small hands over the clasps. Moving her robes awkwardly to reach the handle of the strange sword she had found herself the owner of.
The druiddess drew closer to the noise. Her and on the hilt of the sword and her other on the oddly designed scabbard but she did not draw the blade as she feared to do so. The blade it seemed to her analysis had some magical properties but to the nature of which she had hitherto not discerned. Drawing it in anger could have unforseen consequences.
“I have use of magic” She croaked, her voice breaking as she said it, casting the light from her torque over the grave. A dark small dark figure hunched over the grave was digging in the loose earth around the stone.
The druiddess forgot to breath, she tensed her cheeks as she tried to swallow the lump of fear in her throat. Having no choice but to pass the light of her torque over the squat stygian figure scrabbling in the muck.
To her relief, the light revealed little more than a shaggy mutt. A dog of an indetterminent breed was digging and scratching at the freshly laid grave of the stranger from a by gone age.
“Shoo!” she cried. Feelings of anger and relief washing over her. Anger more at herself for being scared of something so pathetic looking.
She assumed the beast was just after the freshly planted dead flesh as a not so easy meal beneath the heavy stone.
“Away with you!” She swiped her hand in the air but the dog took no notice, continuing to paw and scratch at the soft earth.
Birog looked around her feet and found a small piece of sandstone and hucked it at the beast landing a few feet away from it. The creature lifted it’s head to growl and bear it’s teeth briefly before skulking away into the mist again.
Oh my god, I wasted so much time writing a really savage review of this story on inkitt. Another salty exchange, one of many on inkitt haha.
I just logged in to find a three star review on inkitt from someone who had a weird name and no avatar and the review basically consisted of “Hur durr, the characters are mean, too much violence”. Then I was like ‘seriously a three star review because you thought the characters weren’t nice’
Then he’s like “Hurr durr, I like to give constructive criticism and harsh reviews” And me not knowing I was dealing with the Rodger Ebert of inkitt deigned to read his abortion of a story which literally reads like it was written by the Isla vista shooter. This is literally what Elliot Rodger would write if he wanted to write a sci-fi fantasy mash up story instead of being a weird incel spree killer.
The story is basically all about sci-fi rape and it’s- I can’t find any other word to describe it but as Todd Howard would say; ‘Degenerate’ haha.
But the difference is I actually gave constructive criticism in my review instead of just saying ‘the characters are too mean’.
I mean honestly I don’t care about the reviews on inkitt, really I just put it up there for ease of reading and general feedback but you’re not gonna get a good critique from that page. But when someone just pops up out of nowhere to shit on you it pisses me off. And it pisses me off even more so that the critique isn’t even good. There’s nothing he said that was constructive criticism, I literally can’t make my characters nicer because they’re supposed to evil and cruel because of what happened to them. And then on top of that his story is a steaming pile of literal garbage that is literally like Tommy Wiseau wrote a sci-fi novel haha,
Anyway, I’ll post that next week or you can go on my inkitt page and read it and his review if you give a shit, which I suspect most people don’t haha.
No bitching about the witcher today because I haven’t read any this week because I don’t fucking want to haha. I’ll probably read more tomorrow. But I’m really into the Parker novel I’m reading and it’s getting to the good bit.
So that’s about it, woke up with butthurt in my heart and needed to vent and fuck a schedule for chapter releases I’m planning to release a Cur chapter a week for my one fan haha.
Other than that I’ve wasted too much time already and I need to do some spamming or proofreading or quit drinking coffee haha.
See you…
–
Cur awoke with a bucket of water in his face, locked in a pig pen for a day and a half, stinking as he was. They only let him out once to torture him but too little avail. The pigs snorted and snuffled him as he sat shirtless and dirty as one of them. His head down, suspended by his one arm tightly wrapped with a piece of fibrous twine to the thicket fence.
The dwarves cut him loose and he grinned at them as they shuddered, shrinking behind their pikes at the sight of him.
They lifted him to his feet but he could stand on his own well and they walked him at pike point to the large round house on the hill.
The chieftain of Killaloe sat cross legged on a beautifully decorated hide rug. An ash wood tray with clay pots on it and a large ornately decorated axe at his feet. The hut itself was not anymore grand than the one used as a tavern but it smelled less of piss and old mead.
“Leave us” He said waving his hand.
“Sir he-“
“I know, I said leave us”
The chieftain was a wide portly clean shaven dwarf, only a few tufts of hair on his face he’d missed. He was wearing a gold trimmed tunic that still smelt of smoke and pig shit like everything in this village did. A gold torque around his neck and a conical cap made of birch bark on his head symbolized his status. “Please sit” He said pointing at the rug on the floor.
Cur sat crossed legged with one knee raised.
“Do you know me?” The dwarf’s face was sallow and looked slick to the touch, bouncing up and down as he spoke and dropping when he stopped.
Cur looked through him with a set of icy blue eyes. “I know your name” He hissed.
“Good” He had a pot of some liquid in front of him that he poured out into round clay mugs. “Are you really of the Firbolg?” He said without looking up.
“The Firbolg are dead”.
“I see.” He handed one of the cups to Cur. His down turned face unchanged and grim.
Cur batted it out of his hand letting it roll around on the deer hide rug. The chieftain’s face didn’t move, it stayed perfectly still as if numbed by snake venom.
He cleared his throat.
“We hear many rumors here as you may imagine, a small village like this, all we have are rumors” He tried to smile shyly but his face seemed almost too heavy. “Two in particular interest me, one of a strange series of attacks by blood suckers or ‘Dearg due’ as they call it. Whole villages are slaughtered for not adhering to some elder god or some such triviality. And another about a wandering mercenary that kills for coin and cheaply at that who lacks the good grace to die.” The dwarf managed a pinching at the side of his mouth that might have been a smile.
“Perhaps those rumors are much the same” Cur grinned speaking from his throat.
“We face hard times, some love Bres for his beauty, the fools, women mostly, others.” He paused and breathed out letting his face sag even further “Loathe him for the unfair taxes he levies. A third of our corn and of our milk, its extortion, I and a few others outright refuse to pay it.”
“This doesn’t concern me”
“You’re right of course, but I’m a farmer, it concerns me and that’s why I didn’t deliver you directly to the gallows.”
“Your point?”
“Very well, you’re very skilled and are attached to no clan as no clan alive would have you because of- well look at you.” He scratched his sagging jowl and tipped his head as if to speak to his own round gut. “Kill Abartach of Slaverghty. Do this and you walk free.”
“I walk free now”
“Hard times make desperate men Firbolg.” He sighed deeply and lifted his eyes a little looking for mercy in the man before him and found none. “I see a deadly pattern emerging, the Offaly villages of Annally and Lusmagh were hit first. Formally parts of Connacht as I remember.” His sharp eyes darted to the Firbolg for confirmation and found none. “All their people scattered or dead never heard from again.”
“Then how do you know it?”
“Travellers pass through, say the villages are deserted, all their livestock taken or dead. Not a man woman or child alive, almost no signs of struggle at all, no weapons, no survivors, no witnesses.” He narrowed his eyes to scrutinize the stranger yet again and found only a scornful calm.
“This Abartach?”
“He is the one profiting from their deaths.”
“How?”
“Abartach moves illicit goods from ports in Munster up and down the Shannon river from Slaverghty. Forbidden items smuggled out of the cities of knowledge and other such places. all the villages along the river know of this as it’s safer to transport them by water. Bandits can’t swim. As those villages are aware of this practice they expect tribute for silence. I suspect Annally and Lusmagh got too greedy.”
“How does he do it?”
“That’s what I hope you will find out for me, your freedom and a weight silver.”
“Petty squabbles between dwarves don’t interest me.”
“Well surely your freedom and your life interest you.” He tone shifted became faster and more breathy. This is more than just petty squabbles this is conspiracy, this fratricide.” His face was red and his eyes began to bulge out of their socket, spitting as he spoke. He may well be working for Bres himself!” His face was hot, a bead of sweat trickled down his cheek and then he paused for a moment “How did you know he was a dwarf?” He said as his blood rain cold.
Cur smirked wickedly.
The chieftain’s face became drawn and white and he coughed. “You’re an assassin then?”
“Sometimes”
The chieftain’s face drained of color as he looked at the ghostly white visage of the man before him. “Then the scene in the tavern, just so you could be before me – How much is he paying you? I’ll double it, triple it!”
“He offers me more than mere silver.” He croaked ominously in his gravelly voice.
“What then? Land? His ugly daughter? Spit it out!”
Cur breathed in deeply, his eyes wide and manic as he smiled like a ghoul. “A future!” He said stonily.
“Ahhhhhhh!” The chieftain wailed his flabby face rippled as his ornate axe leapt into his hand. He swung at Cur’s neck getting one good but shallow whack in it at the base of his neck.
No blood just a gaping wound like a notch in a tree. Cur’s head tilted to one side with that manic insane smile on his face still, laughing low and menacing like a demon.
The chieftain crying out pulled his hand back for another strike to free the monster’s head from its shoulders.
Cur caught the little man’s stubby hand in his gargantuan fist with a hard sapping sound. He squeezed the dwarf’s hand letting the heavy axe drop on the hide rug.
“What now dead ma- ahhhhh!” The chieftain cried as Cur pulled him by the arm like a tavern strumpet and lunged forward to rip out his throat with his front teeth.
–
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Darkly Dreaming Demographic. 
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