The Mood is Write

Mom-de-Plume
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  1. Looking for partners
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per day
  2. Multiple posts per week
Online Availability
It varies wildly.
Writing Levels
  1. Advanced
  2. Prestige
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Nonbinary
  3. Primarily Prefer Female
Genres
I'm open to a wide range of genres. Obscenely wide. It's harder for me to list all I do like than all I don't like.

My favorite settings are fantasy combined with something else, multiverse, post-apoc, historical (mixed with something else), and futuristic. I'm not limited to those, but it's a good start.

My favorite genres include mystery, adventure, action, drama, tragedy (must be mixed with something else and kept balanced), romance (again must be mixed, and more.

I'm happy to include elements of slice-of-life and romance, but doing them on their own doesn't hold my interest indefinitely.
And woke sore. Old joints protested to his rising, but he had animals and fields to tend, and a chicken pecked at his arm insistently for breakfast.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, and his pet chicken ran ahead to the kitchen while And took a few moments to force his eyes open before he could stand properly.

He dressed in undyed wool and tucked his amulet beneath it. Only after he had boots on his feet did he walk to the kitchen area and grabbed two eggs. He cooked them together in a cast iron skillet while he sliced the last of a chunk of days-old bread into two pieces. A bit of butter on the bread, and he dropped it into the skillet as well.

With practiced ease, he slid the eggs onto a wooden plate, and then flipped the fried bread enough to melt the butter on the other side before he moved it to his plate as well.

With mechanical movements, he ate the whites first, then used the runny yolk to wet his bread on the melty side, while the fried side remained crisp. The remainder, those firm under-yolk sections, went to the floor, to be swallowed almost-whole by his chicken.

"Time to return from whence you came," And joked drily as he watched the bird eat. She looked up at him, and he patted her head. "Good girl, Paul. You lay tomorrow's breakfast yet?"

He was sure he'd find an egg or two during his chores, so didn't wait for an answer as he rose, scratching at his side as he headed out the back door of his house.

Already, his 'farm hands' worked the fields. That they were dead was no barrier to their working. He got permission from their ghosts to use the bodies, as long as he gave them 'due dignity'. In this arrangement, it was false skin, clothing, and not working at night. In other arrangements with other dead, it was different, but this particular ancient tribe had their own views on how their bodies should be treated.

He watched a few moments and bowed his head briefly in respect before he made his way to the animals. He fed them, watered them, let them into the field, tended hooves, milked them, and checked them for parasites.

Pigs, goats, chickens, geese...

All were accounted for, healthy, and he had milk and eggs for cooking.

With the morning chores done, he carried his harvests into the house and began to prepare them for storing. The eggs, he left out. The milk, he began to process into cheese—he had enough butter, and felt no need to drink milk plain.

By noon, those chores were done, and the cheese just needed to sit. A loaf of bread fresh from the oven gave its first slice over for lunch, alongside a slice of cheese, some dry-cuts of meat, and a small ale he brewed himself.

With the afternoon ahead of himself, And let his gaze wander his small home until he spotted a fishing pole.

Fish sounded nice for dinner, and if he didn't catch anything, that would be fine, too. He had plenty of food—enough that his animals ate what he couldn't.

With pole in hand and a basket over his shoulder, he made his way to one of the mountain streams that he hadn't redirected to sustain his farm. The one he chose was a peaceful one that had a large rock that hung over a small pond. Trees surrounded it, the mossy stone offered a comfortable seat, and the water was cool if he wanted to soak his feet.

As he arrived, he looked around and sighed contentedly. Behind him, Paul clucked quietly, and as the farmer began to set up to start fishing, he paused.

Was there always a rock that color on the other side?
 
Tristram did everything right. He did what was wanted of him, what was required of him. He stepped in and did his best when noone would and while he wasn't the best, he did his best.

However, it seemed it wasn't enough. He knew that and he loathed himself for it. All of his being is devoted to helping, being of use, to have a purpose - yet the things he's capable of doing were nothing but null in the presence of great people. People much like his brother. Still, Tris stayed and did everything for his brother, even when he didn't need it. For a while it worked for him and he was happy with it.

But nothing remains the same, nothing stays stagnant. Change must always happen. And... it was against him this time. The day started like any day since their parents died, he woke up in the wee hours of the morning and prepared his older brother’s breakfast. His brother loved his cooking and while Aram thought it was made by his beloved Lynette, the apprentice made, Tristram was happy to pretend it was her cooking while he only delivered.

With the telltale signs of Lynette approaching, Tristram smiled at her dishevelled form. She looked worn but happy. He at least believed she was happy. “Good morning Lynette. How was your sleep?”

With a wry smile, she shook her head, “Same as before. I always wonder why you do all of this for him.”

Ladle in hand, he chuckled and continued cooking. “Your uniform is there,” pointing to the tiny closet, “come stay here after so that he can smell the food on you. He might suspect you’re being lazy.”

“You know he won’t notice right? As long as he gets the food you make and I stay with him every night, this ruse you’ve started since he took over will remain like so.”

A few hours later as Tristram was cleaning his brother’s personal library, a commotion occurred. One moment he was dusting his brother’s collection of taboo literature and the next he was battered and bruised, likely unable to walk without receiving careful treatment and ample rest.

Each and every part of his body burned with pain. His sight not working due to his swollen-shut eyes. He only had his hearing to rely on and even then, it was ringing after being bashed in the head many times.

“…throw that into the river, use him, whatever… I….. CARE! Trash sh… Lea…!

With his mind unable to process what just happened, darkness overtook him.
 
Was that a body? And felt out with his magic, but didn't find the dead. No, whoever it was, they were alive, though something about their spirit...

He wondered how and when this stranger ended up here, though already he found himself seeking the shallower part of the river to cross.

The boy woke to insistent and rough tapping at his fingers by something sharp. A hen pecked at him, then bit his finger and moved it before pecking again in a different spot.

"Paul!" An older man's voice scolded, "Stop trying to eat him! He isn't dead!" Work-roughened hands plucked the chicken from the bed, and And looked down at Tristram before he looked at Paul and hissed, "Did you wake him up? He needs rest if he's going to recov—... You're doing this on purpose. Of course you want to eat him, you jealous thing."

He tossed the bird aside, and she fluttered gracelessly to the floor as the farmer watched. He smelled like decay, and wore simple, undyed clothing in an uncommon, older style.

He went into town sometimes, though never stayed long—just long enough to take care of what he needed. Tool repairs, purchases, sales—he didn't ever need much, nor did he ever say much, conversationally. People called him strange and treated him as an outsider, especially since he willingly made a home in the mountain foothills, in the middle of thick forest, where it was more difficult to work the land for crops.

Where there wasn't even a road true enough for a horse to navigate.

But now, the blue-eyed old man looked down at Tristram with concern. "Can you speak? If not, don't try too hard at it. You need your rest. I think someone tried to kill you..."
 
His body ached all over. This was worse when he fell down the stairs or when the time he got nearly stomped to death by Aram's horse. This was worse than anything he imagined himself experiencing. What's worse was that he was unable to remember why this happened to him. All Tristram knew was that someone snuck up on him and pounded him to the ground.

With his mind in a mess, he couldn't quite take notice of the poking and prodding of a stranger. The strong pecks were more like tiny needles puncturing without resistance, no pain. But the insistent way it went drew him out of his not-so-pleasant slumber. His busted eyelids struggled to open themselves as his green, unfocused eyes slowly adjusting to the assault of light and life. As overwhelmed and beaten up as he was, his sense of smell remained in tact and the putrid smell of decomposition was potent. It was as if death lingered, made its mark tangible, a fragrance gifted to the departed. He shifted his body and attempted to rise, his responsibilities running in his confused little head and ended with him falling on his back with an abrupt hiss, a tear slilding down his cheek from his swollen eye.

"Where am I? Is Aram looking for me?" was the first coherent statement he thought of but failed to clearly vocalize as he had what only sounded like a puff of air escaping his lips, courtesy of his shredded throat and aching gums.

Unable to talk in any way, Tristram persisted in something else. Standing up was impossible but he still pushed himself. He must rise up and after a few more attempts and standing up and remaining upright without tragically falling back to repeat it all again, he wisely laid on his back and did nothing. "No, I don't think Aram will like this. Why does it hurt so much?" he said as loud as he could, with only four or five sounds as clear as a mewling kitten.

What should he do now? He knows he's just a normal person, he wasn't those remarkable individuals who healed fast or made things explode. He was only Tristram, Aram's dutiful younger brother. Nothing more.

Tristram's mind fogged up, his torn shirt flicked by a sudden gust of wind, exposing his abused torso. Yet even with unbearable pain, he ever so slowly drifted away, back to his empty dreams.
 
Ah, he couldn't speak. And watched him struggle to rise, but saw how he barely made progress before he finally gave up. Some people, he knew, were stubborn. Being told to lay down only increased their efforts, but being allowed to tire themselves often led to less wear as a whole.

The old farmer reached out and gripped Tristram's shoulder as he moved into view of him, only to watch Tristram drift back into darkness again.

He remained alive, though.

And sighed quietly. "That's right," he whispered, "Get rest."

He tucked blankets more securely around the young man, though left him plenty of room to breathe and shift as he liked, while thick, folded quilts kept the weakened young man from going far in his movements—their mass keeping him from pushing beyond the allowed bounds.

While the boy slept, And used a wet rag and let him suckle it to ensure he didn't perish from dehydration. Sometimes, he changed the water for broth to ensure there was always something in the young man's stomach to give his body the energy it needed to heal, in as simple a delivery as he could manage, though it was time-consuming.

So with warmth, water, broth, and supervision (and more than occasional scoldings to a jealous chicken), he worked at keeping the young man alive enough to recover.

Outside, the dead tended most of the farm duties that And allowed of them, and when he went to finish those chores the undead weren't allowed, he asked a ghost to keep watch over Tristram, urging her to take as physical-seeming a form as she could manage.

The ghost, Neia, sat beside Tristram quietly, watching him. She was pale, with blue eyes that held no shine. Red curls adorned her back and shoulders, as wild and unbound as her simple homespun dress.

A few days passed in this way, and the old man eventually fell asleep during one of his shifts watching over Tristram, head bowed as Paul sat in his lap a moment before she turned her attention suddenly to Tristram. She hopped over to him, then began to peck him with an audible huff.
 
His mind was empty, filled with nothing and everything. All he had was desire - to be useful, to help, to be there for his brother. Yet... he didn't have anything now. In this world within himself, he had nothing. He could've made anything but he didn't, he wasn't able to. Tristram lingered in his dreams, nightmares of a hollow principle.

Every now and then, his mind drifted off into someplace warm and comforting. He'd never had the honor to receive such close contact for more than a decade. The tenderness was welcome. Still, his fogged-up brain and aching body failed to consider that this might not be a person but rather blankets and quilts. The apparently furious pecks on him was even mistakenly interpreted as affectionate kisses. It gave him the will to push through and break out of the emptiness again; he just might be useful to Aram again.

Tristram shifted and turned, the heavy cloth that bundled him stopping him from falling them - although he came pretty close. There was warmth and care, a liquid taste in his throat, and the ever-present stench of rot. It was unusual.

The manor was always well-kept. If it wasn't, Aram would've thrown a fit. So, Tristram being Tristram did his best to help the servants maintain the manor in peak condition - nothing out of place, and most certainly not allowing such a foul stench to remain.

Days later, he gained strength and was able to slowly make sense of his location. He knew by the smell he wasn't anywhere near the manor - not even the lavatories or garbage dump. The smell was nothing new but the insistence of it entering his nose was very new. Slowly, his eyes peeked up above. Right then, a peck hit him right by his left eye - almost hitting his eyeball.

With a wince, he scooted away from his assailant and tried to look at them. He made sure not to open his eyes widely or he might just lose his eyesight from another sharp peck. Voice unused and abused, he spoke.

"Who's-Who's there?"
 
A chicken of all things stared down at Tristram. Somewhere nearby, a man grunted quietly, waking to the sound of someone speaking.

Another peck, and then a man spoke.

"Damn it, Paul, he isn't food," And scolded as he picked the bird up, then threw her over his head in irritation, letting her flap and object noisily to such rough treatment before And huffed through his nose and looked down at his patient to check for injury.

A small spot of blood, but nothing compared to the wounds that the young man was working on recovering from. And wiped it away gently with his thumb and sighed, only to pause as he noticed something.

The boy was squinting.

"Oh." And blinked down at him. "How are you feeling?"

He kept the question short, offering no explanation yet for where the young man was. He didn't want to overwhelm him or cause a panic.

However, nerves at dealing with a living person prompted him to keep going after just a short moment. "You're safe here—aside from a jealous hen."

He tried to keep his voice even and reassuring, but its lack of use left him sounding gruffer than intended.
 
He waited for another tick to his head but it didn't come. He slowly opened his eyes and he close it again, the light still too much for his strained eyes. He chose to focus on the scent around him and it was putrid, not disgustingly so, just... rotten.

Someone with an unfamiliar voice exclaimed something. He sensed movement, Tristram doing his best to focus on everything else other than the insistent ache he felt all over. Then, flapping. Birds? Was he outside? No, he wasn't cold. In fact, he was warm. A farm? Was he in a farm? The manor didn't raise poultry so he couldn't be there, and the hope that lingered diminished once more - another evidence that he wasn't near his brother, not of use to him.

Tristram then felt someone touching him, it was faint, careful. He stiffened his body out of unreasonable panic and caused himself unbearable pain. Gasping, he tried to relax and catch his breath. His body hurt more, a foolish reaction to a careful touch. Still reeling in pain, he didn't hear the question the stranger asked; however, he managed to hear the uneasy statement from a gruff voice. A hen? A jealous hen?

Doing his best to ignore the pain he caused himself, Tristram turned to where the voice came from. He opened his eyes slowly, careful not to get stunned by the light.

"Wh-Where am I? What happened to me? I, I need to get back to Aram... please let me go home."
 
Oh dear. The boy was still in considerable pain. And frowned, wondering what to do. He'd have to consult the books of what he studied under his old master before his interest turned to the taboo.

The man who stood beside Tristram was tall and weathered. White hair was kept cropped short in a style that ignored the current fashions, and his lined and tanned skin matched his thick hands as a man who worked in the sun. He wore simple, undyed clothing that was somewhat stained and dingy, but sturdy and exceptionally modest.

To And, Tristram's questions were familiar enough. The dead often asked them when their death was unexpected or traumatic. The need to return to where he came from was also familiar, and the old man let out a quiet breath.

"You're in my home. I don't know what happened to you, but I found you by my favorite fishing spot."

The dead were often reassured by simple, direct answers, and could tell if someone was lying. He decided to treat this boy with the same truthful simplicity.

How to tell him he was too weak to go home yet, though? He had to keep it simple.

"You need to rest," he began, "Before I can take you home."

That seemed direct enough. He didn't intend to keep the boy here. Much as he needed a student, this boy wanted to go home.
 
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He tried to shift himself ever so slightly but it only made him moan in pain. What happened to him? He never left the manor unless he needed to do some errands. If he remembered correctly, he had only been doing his daily chores, he didn't even go out to buy food yet.

Tristram stared at the man and eyed him closely. He wasn't anyone he saw in town before. This man seemed like he didn't get out much often - he looked more like he stayed at home and kept himself busy.

"Are you a hermit?"

It was a random question but he never saw a hermit before. He never thought of living by himself, much less leave his brother. Being in isolation was extremely difficult for him and this man, taking care of him, appeared to be one. Well, he seemed well-built despite the signs of his old age and air of being alone. Tristram didn't know why, he just felt that way.

He examined the room he was in and it was more or less similar to the older servant's quarters. This man's home looked more lived on and worn, however.

Still, even with the sense of isolation he got from the man, a shiver tickled his spine. His heart beat slowly increased and he started to think this man wasn't as nice as he presented himself to be.

"I-I can help! I'm useful," blurted the anxious boy. He always said he'd help to anyone he met. It was his nature. Yet, this exclamation was different than the other times he offered help. Somehow, there was something off and it pushed him to panic.

"I, I, uh, I don't need to go home right away! I can help!"

As he exclaimed once more, he tried pushing himself to rise and with a lot of strain on his body and unknowingly disregarding the man's effort to help him recover, forced himself to sit upright. Only... his body screamed, then he screamed and fell onto the bed.
 
"A hermit?" He blinked, about to answer before the young man began to offer to help and be useful, and then to struggle to rise.

"Wait, stop...!" He froze before he could lay his hands on Tristram to try to push him down, hesitating to touch someone he didn't know. His hesitation left the boy screaming and collapsing back to the bed, and the old man grimaced sympathetically.

He let out a heavy sigh, then bundled Tristram agin, his movements nervous.

"Stop that!" he snapped, more harshly than he intended. "You need to rest before you hurt yourself more, trying to get up before your body is ready to!"

He crossed his arms and huffed, then grumbled, "If you want to help me so badly, do it by getting rest, you idiot!"

And didn't know why he was so irritable now, but he could only assume it was from nerves, and... he didn't like it. It wasn't fair to the young man, but he couldn't do much about it other than take a deep breath and try to calm down.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, his tone careful.
 
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As the man placed him back on the bed, Tristram stared at him with weary eyes. The man exclaimed at him but he kept close attention to what he said. It helped him better if he listened to people. Tristram said he'd help and while it may not exactly his own choice, he'd do his best to help - to be useful.

The old man finished scolding at Tristram and he was... livid. The younger man understood he needed to rest but what use could he be if he didn't do anything? Before he could interrupt on how he could help by doing the chores inside the house, he clamped his mouth shut after the man cold him an idiot. If he put it that way, I guess I can't do anything but wait... I don't like this, I feel so useless.

His eyes looking anywhere but the stranger, he nodded sadly. With a soft voice, he said, "Okay."

Resolved to follow what the stranger demanded of him, Tristram nodded at the question and tried to make himself rise up again. He could feed himself, no problem... only he couldn't, not even to rise without his body aching.

"Is it okay if you feed me? I don't think I can do it myself."
 
Thank goodness, the boy wasn't going to fight him about it. He nodded. "I'll feed you," he agreed. "As you regain strength, I'll have you do more, but until then, do not hesitate to ask for help."

He kept his tone even, doing his best to avoid scaring the boy.

"I don't know what brought you here," he said after a moment, "But it gets lonely on this old farm. I... welcome the companionship, even if I don't enjoy the painful circumstances."
 
He didn't like feeling useless. So, he'd do his best to push himself and help this man - in whatever way he can. Tristram stopped his struggling and eased himself as the man fed him. He needed to get better, he could be of use. Maybe he could be useful for this man, maybe he'll stay for a while before he had to go back to his brother. Maybe....

"I think I'll be fine. I'm used to hurting myself when working, I am clumsy," said Tristram, grimacing.

"I'll heal up fast, I think."

Never been able to separate himself from his brother for too long, Tristram never had any experience of eating anything not made by the servants of the house. Even the food he cooked, he never touched it. It was all for his brother and it must remain that way. He zoned out and mindlessly ate what was fed to him.

True to what he claimed, some dripped from his chin down to his clothes, which he then realized was not his. Startled and embarrassed, he jerked up and sat straight, "I'm so sorry, I'm making a mess."
 
"You're fine," And grunted. "They need washed anyway, and I'm not worried about stains." True to that, none of his clothes were pristine, though they were fairly clean, and didn't smell aside from the scent of rot that was everywhere.

Still, And fed the younger man until he slowed, and And took the bowl back to the kitchen, then returned with a steaming bucket of water and a rag.

"This may hurt, but I'm going to wash you now."
 
The man did as he said. Tristram laid there and waited until the man was done washing him. He had never received care from someone else, at least not that he could remember. He was the only one taking care of his brother. Considering his circumstances, he was in no way able to take care of someone else, much less himself. And so, his body cleaned up and his nerves going down, the badly-beaten young man fell asleep.

A day and a half later...

He woke up in cold sweat. His body didn't hurt as much but it was still sore, and this time stiff from not moving frequently. He had slept for so long that a day and some hours had already passed. Tristram pushed himself up and examined the home before him. It was quaint, something he wasn't used to. It was a normal home, perhaps, but it lacked the things he had back at the manor.

Slowly, he stood on his feet and with a wince, aimlessly walked outside. The night was cool, it was silent, peaceful. He walked and walked, not paying any mind to his surroundings - purely enjoying the freedom and serenity he never had.

After more than an hour of his aimless foray into his savior's land, Tristram sat down and took notice of what was around him.

The farm was big and the fields filled with various plants he couldn't name at the moment. Silhouettes among them, Tristram tilted his head and wondered, Are they still working?

Tristram approached the silhouettes, most likely nightly mirage, but he continued on anyway. Why are they still working? Was his savior a slaver? Tristram wouldn't mind, he gave the man his word to help. And he shall.
 
And woke in the middle of the night. He could have sworn he heard movement in his house, and he opened his eyes quickly, though the rest of him was slower to wake. Had someone found his home?

He pushed himself to sit, and heard the sound of someone leaving his house. A moment later, a spectre of a woman entered his bedroom and stared at him.

The young man was up and moving, it seemed.

And rose and began toward the door.

"He needs to stretch his legs," a ghostly voice spoke into his mind, and the man looked toward the dead woman, then nodded.

"I'll just make sure he doesn't fall in a rut somewhere," he promised, which earned silence in answer. He was... thankful he met this ghost. She knew more than he did about what the injured needed.

So, quietly, he followed after Tristram. Paul remained, for once, on the bed and asleep, only muttering a quiet cluck at the disturbed mattress as it shifted beneath her.

And followed a distance behind Tristram, until he noticed the young man suddenly became more alert and cautious, and And looked around to try to spot any threat.

He saw none.

And then Tristram became the threat as And noticed that his bodies were still in the field.

Breath caught in his throat. They were too close now to be a nighttime illusion. Tristram was going to discover him for what he was. And murmured under his breath in near-silent words as his hand moved in a slow pattern. He prepared to have to send his bodies against Tristram, though a tightness around his eyes gave away that he didn't truly want to.

Nothing would happen now until he uttered the command word, his preparations complete. He could feel bodies beneath the ground, just below the surface, as they waited for his order.

He didn't want to kill Tristram, not after so long tending to him, but... he had to stay alive—had to live, in order to pass on his knowledge, though his time was limited.