#My work
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Mis cómics || My comics Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel (English & Español) Una visita que se sale de control || An out of control visit [Hellaverse (Ongoing/En emisión)] Feliz dia de los inocentes || Happy April fools (Fizzozzie) Recuerdo eterno || Eternal memory (Fizzozzie) I t bite || Chiquito pero picoso (Fizzozzie) Almost fertilized || Casi fertilizado (Fizzozzie) Fanarts Fizzozzie (1) (2) Alastor (1) Sir Pentious (1) Other things Duckalastor || Patastor Ducifer || Patucifer
I love working in IT. You request meeting for 2 people who actually knows what they talk about and not so difficult to solve but others jump in just in case and stay silent all the meeting while we both talk and after say “okay thank you for the meeting guys it was productive”.
HELLO @crowsilver3000 ! I PROMISED SOME PICTURES OF YOUR OC SO HERE THEY ARE! small warning these are KINDA bad quality because im trying to draw THROUGH my art block :/ heres the flat colors! {IGNORE THE HAND IGNORE THE HAND PLEASE I DIDNT REALIZE I MESSED IT UPPPP} then a VERY VERY LAZY RENDER.. {my hand was starting to crampppp…} I KNOWW IT DOESNT LOOK GOOD AND I WILL TRY TO TO DRAW THEM IF I HAVE THE MOTIVATIONNNNN BUT IDK I DIDNT WANNA LEAVE YOU HANGINGGG SO HERE YOU GOOOO {please dont hate my guts..}
![squeebirdstudios post: Flowing fire - [ Patreon ] - [ Redbubble ] - [ Pinterest ] - [ Instagram ] - [ Shutterstock ] -](https://64.media.tumblr.com/80fbbe69021a35d0badcfa0a08c33dac/995bfc46a13f534c-45/s640x960/f84f864024babe2f580629033c71fcebcdfdea75.gif)
Princess Out of Water Chapter 1: The Meeting Series Summary : You are King Rhoam’s niece, and there is nothing you love more than water. Through a chance encounter, you meet Prince Sidon a month before the royal embassy travels to stay in his home for seven days. There, the two of you grow closer as you find yourself falling in love with more than just Zora’s Domain (Pre-Calamity AU with adult Sidon) Chapter Summary : You get attacked while floating downriver, but someone shows up just in time to save you Word Count : 1.6k Ch. 1 Content & Warnings : Fem!reader, Hylian reader, peril, minor injury, mentions of blood, near-drowning, swimming, first meetings, reader is obsessed with water, mention of controlling parents You are born of the water—not in body, but in spirit. You love water. You love drinking it, you love swimming in it, you love feeling it with every one of your senses until you get sick of it. But you will never get sick of it. For as long as the sun rises, the moon changes face, and the stars gleam, you will love water . Growing up, your parents thought you had some serious condition with how much you lurched after it like a suffocating fish. It wasn’t “proper behavior for a lady”, much less for the niece of the king, so your nurses thoroughly disciplined it out of you. Being of important nobility does not allow you your individuality in high society. But just because you behave now doesn’t mean you don’t love water with all your heart. You also love your sister. Growing up, she suffered a similar “ailment” with the sky and flying, and would always watch birds with rapt fascination. She’s presently working on a field guide for the birds of Hyrule, and her drawing skills naturally lend themselves to her endeavor. Since you’re the oldest, your parents gave up on trying to control her and focused all their efforts on you. You are caged like a bird, and she is unrestrained like water’s flow. You wonder if things would be different had you been born a farm girl, or someone else without any formal title. Someone unimportant . If so, you could live by a lake, wake up to the sight of the dawn’s reflection, and spend your days swimming to your heart’s content. You would forage vegetation growing by the shore and roast them with nuts and truffles for your dinner. You could be free. You could be happy. For now, you have to settle for the rare occasion you’re allowed outside the palace grounds, and in those moments, sneak away to Hylia River. You haven’t visited a lake since childhood, but this will do just as well. Your dress suffocates the pores of your skin, so you painstakingly loosen it and discard it in the water for the fish to enjoy the fine embroidery. You have too many dresses. In nothing but your shift, you dip your toes into the river. The wet silt feels amazing beneath your feet. Each splashing step stirs your soul alive as you wade deeper and deeper, soaking your shift and your skin. Soon, you’re afloat on your back, letting yourself be carried downstream and away from the world. The sensations are wonderful . Its starts out all at once, then slows into a gentle trance. Cold water envelops your body. It seeps into your bones, muffles your ears, and allows you to just breathe while everything else passes by and melts into nothing. The only sound you can hear is the river’s trickling song. It sings only for you. Your limbs stretch out, your chest rises, and nothing could be more perfect. You could never want anything more. Eventually, it all dim behind your eyelids. Only the river remains. You smell its nature—the smell of something ancient and everlasting—and you want that scent to sink deep into your lungs and never leave. The water delicately frames your face; kissing your lips and forehead. You could descend into its blue depths and not even notice. In fact, you don’t notice when you’re not alone. As the creature attacks you, you have a fraction of a second where you recognize what kind of monster it is—but it’s too late. It lunges at you through the water. You manage to deflect it with a kick and rush for shore. The blue lizalfos makes a horrid gurgling sound, then snatches your ankle with impossible strength. The air is there one moment and gone the next. The water betrays your love in panicked splashes while you flail and scream. It pierces your lungs. You’re drowning. As you cough and try to orient yourself, a sharp pain bursts on your left arm. You cry out. Twisting in its hold, you kick the lizalfos in the head and once again swim desperately for shore. It’s stunned for only a moment, however. It’s right behind you. It can swim twice as fast as you. Just as you fear your lungs will permanently fill with water, you hear a scream—not your own. You turn, and the lizalfos lets out another guttural noise as a trident sinks further into its chest. You gasp and nearly inhale more water. The monster poofs out of existence, and for a moment, all you see is pink as you’re lifted out of the river. Everything grows heavy and blurry. You remember how much you hate gravity. “Are you alright?” a voice asks above you. Coughing and squinting against the sun, you regain your senses and recognize your rescuer to be a Zora. His colors are white and a rich pink—accented with elegant silver jewelry—and despite having attributes like a dolphin, he appears more shark-like than the pictures of Zora you’ve studied before. He sets you down, then looks alarmed. “Oh, you’re bleeding!” You hear fabric tear, and suddenly there’s pressure on the pain of your arm, just below your shoulder. You try not to cry out. He’s next to you tying up the wound while you ground yourself with the water dripping down your face. It feels cold in the breeze. The hem of your shift is dripping too, but it hasn’t been torn. Briefly looking left, you find the raw edge of a blue sash draped over the Zora’s body. As he focuses on his handiwork, you study him more. The pink crest of his head juts forward sharply, but it doesn’t make him look dangerous. His eyes look kind. The claws on his giant hands never scratch you. They nimbly tie a knot and lift your arm for him to check his work. “ Thank you .” Your voice is hoarse from coughing. His focused expression transforms into friendliness as he looks at you, and he smiles. His teeth are charmingly sharp. Very shark-like. “Of course,” he says, looking you over for any more injuries. “You’re very lucky I happened to be swimming by. Who knows what could have happened!” He doesn’t sound condescending, or high and mighty, or any sort of way you’d find negative. He’s genuine and concerned, and happy to have saved you. Remembering the manners that have been trained into you, you slip your arm from his hold to rest your hands in your lap. You tip your head, and speak with utmost politeness. “You are very kind. The lizalfos surprised me, and I do not know if I’d have made it had you not been nearby.” “I don’t blame you for not being cautious!” He looks out to the vast sky. “Monsters that stick by rivers tend to do so in less populated areas.” You’ve certainly never seen any near the castle. And now that you’ve been attacked by one— You realize something terrible, and it has you sighing mournfully. “ They will never let me do this again …” “Never let you do what again?” You shake your head, and a few droplets fling. “Do not concern yourself with my troubles.” You twiddle some wet grass beside you, but it cannot distract you from the truth. “I should merely be happy I live to see another day.” But if you never see another day in the water, you will have died in spirit. A piece of you will have drowned in that river. The Zora stands, and you are momentarily stunned at how tall he is, because Zora are supposedly around the same height as Hylians. “Well,” he begins, offering his hand and lifting you up. Even standing, you’re only at half his height. “I don’t know what troubles you after just escaping near-death, but I’m quite happy that Hylia put me in your path!” His smooth, cold hand is strangely comforting. It carries the essence of water. He is born of it, and it reflects in every aquatic feature, every aspect of himself that is different from you. For that, you cannot help but be intrigued and perhaps a tad jealous. He has fins and gills, with a body built for swimming in water—for living in it. You find your voice. “And I as well.” He isn’t at all like you expected him to be. You know the Zora are considered amiable, but you’re pleasantly surprised at his cheerful demeanor. You would even call him charming. He smiles again, and you find it positively delightful. Do all Zora have a smile like that? “ My Lady !” You find your two attendants sprinting across the field for you. Wincing, you take a step away from the Zora and hold yourself with as much dignity you can muster while soaking wet. “Hello,” you greet them when they reach you. They take a moment to pant and catch their breath, then enclose on your personal space. “You’re all wet!” “ Where is your dress?” “You’ll catch a cold!” “Are you injured ?” They both gasp in horror upon seeing your arm. It’s tied up in blue fabric, but the blood staining it betrays your condition. They don’t even seem to notice the Zora with you as they hustle you away from the river. You crane your neck and spot him waving goodbye before he impressively dives into the river with a flip. He quickly resurfaces, and as he dashes through the water with ease, he cheerfully calls out, “May our paths cross again!” You smile to yourself and wave back. Indeed, you hope that as well.
Accidental Sainthood in Hell ch3 excerpt Rating: General Audiences Category: Gen Fandom: Original Work Tags: Hell, Demons, Humor, Lighthearted, Internal Monologue, Soul Reading, Telepathy, Hellhounds, Found Family, Adopted by Demons, Accidental Sainthood, Bureaucratic Hell, Redemption, Original Characters 🐕 🐕 🐕 The soul stopped walking. There was a beat of silence. Then, carefully, “I’m sorry?” The demon looked at him over one shoulder. “Home.” “Whose?” The Supervisor’s smile returned, very slow. “At present? Arguably mine.” The soul stared. Vess and Matron Ash kept walking. The puppy snored in complete betrayal of every possible rescue instinct. “I feel,” the soul said, hurrying after them, “that we have skipped several important conversations. You can’t just say ‘home’ like that.” “I have just done so.” The Supervisor said. “Yes, but— why would I be going to your home?” Vess answered this one. “Because you’ve been claimed by a matron hound, adopted by a kennel juvenile, marked positively by the system twice in one day, and approved for continued voluntary work in my yard.” The soul absorbed this in stages. Then turned to the Supervisor. “What does any of that have to do with your house?” The demon looked faintly puzzled, as though the answer were obvious. “Where else did you think you were being put?” “Put?” “Temporarily,” the Supervisor said. “Until your district assignment is reviewed.” The soul came to a full stop again. Put? The Supervisor stopped too and turned back. For once, there was no mockery on his face. Only a measured sort of patience. “You are a minor-sentence soul in early adjustment,” he said. “Ordinarily you would return to your designated punishment cycle and be processed through occasional evaluations. But you have now made yourself unusual.” “That sounds ominous.” “It is merely inconvenient,” said the demon. “The system does not like unusual souls left unsupervised in standard tracks. You might alter others.” The soul blinked. “By… doing what?” The Supervisor’s tail flicked once. “By being hopeful. It spreads.” Vess made a low hum of agreement. “We’ve seen how bad it can get.” The soul stared at them both. Then looked down at the puppy, at Matron Ash walking beside him, at the soot and fur still coating his clothes. And then, horrifyingly, it all began to make sense. Not rational sense. Infernal sense. Oh no. The Supervisor’s eyes gleamed. “I’ve been reassigned.” “Provisionally.” “To your household.” “Attached to it, more specifically.” “That doesn’t make it better!” “It’s more accurate.” The soul looked at Vess for help. She shrugged. “Honestly, this is probably the best outcome available.” “That is a terrifying endorsement.” She nodded. They continued on. The route out of the kennels bent away from the river and climbed through a quieter district of Hell than the soul had yet seen. The screaming faded. The air remained hot, but less aggressively so. Here the cliffs were cut with actual stairways, lanterns, and carved archways set with dark gems that glowed from within. Demons passed them occasionally—some horned, some winged, some almost human-looking until one noticed the eyes or teeth—and more than one slowed to stare at Matron Ash escorting a soul beside the Supervisor as though this was today’s hottest event. Which, the soul suspected, it was. I hate being visible. “Too late,” said the Supervisor. The soul sighed. At last they approached a large residence built directly into the black cliff face above a glowing ravine. “Residence” was perhaps too mild a word. It was not a palace exactly, but it had ambitions. Tall arched windows. Iron balconies. Pillars carved with infernal scenes. A front gate set with gold-tipped spears and flanked by two statues of hounds so lifelike the soul did not at first realize one of them was breathing. He stopped. “That is what you call a house?” “Yes.” “Is that a noble house standard?” “In a loose administrative sense.” “This thing is a mansion!” The Supervisor considered. “A district manor.” “Meaning a mansion in peasant language.” Vess snorted, gave the soul one last appraising look, and turned away. “He’ll live. Send Matron back by second bell.” Matron Ash ignored this and continued through the gates at the Supervisor’s side. Vess sighed. “Or don’t.” Then she was gone. The soul stood at the entrance staring upward while the gates swung open soundlessly. I have been adopted into wealth. This is somehow the most offensive part. The Supervisor looked smug. “I knew you had standards.” “I object morally.” “And yet you are following me.” The soul looked down at the puppy in his arms. The puppy snored. Matron Ash nosed him gently between the shoulder blades. He entered. Inside, the manor was warmer than the yard but far less oppressive than the open wastes. The entrance hall was lit by floating infernal lamps that cast amber light over polished black floors. Rich carpets softened the stone. The walls were lined with shelves, armor, old weapons, framed maps of infernal districts, and one enormous painting of what looked suspiciously like Matron Ash seated with impossible dignity while two smaller hounds glowered at the artist. The soul looked from the painting to Matron Ash beside him. “Is that—” “Yes,” said the Supervisor. “She was difficult during the sitting.” Matron Ash huffed. From somewhere deeper in the house came footsteps. Then voices. Followed by the arrival of three demons. The soul instinctively straightened. The first was a demoness with elegant curved horns, deep brown skin, silver jewelry, and the sort of severe beauty that made one want to apologize to her preemptively. Ink stains darkened two of her fingers. The second was a lanky younger demon with bronze skin, thin spectacles, and a stack of ledgers held to his chest. The third was very small, very winged, and very obviously not built for seriousness; she took one look at the soul, the puppy, and Matron Ash and gasped so loudly it was practically a battle cry. “YOU BROUGHT ONE HOME.” The Supervisor closed his eyes briefly. The small demon shot forward before anyone could stop her, wings buzzing with excitement. She had little hooked horns, bright orange eyes, and a grin of such immediate delight that it was almost impossible to defend against. “A soul,” she breathed. “A house soul .” The soul stepped back instinctively. Matron Ash placed one giant paw protectively in front of his boots. The little demon paused. Then clasped both hands at her chest. “Oh, she likes you.” The severe demoness arched one brow. “Clearly.” The younger demon with ledgers stared over his spectacles. “This seems administratively dubious.” “Everything worth doing is administratively dubious,” said the Supervisor. “That,” said the severe demoness, “is why you have the paperwork drawer.” The soul looked between them, alarm rising again. There are more of them. Of course there are more of them. He lives with a whole demon household. Why would I assume Hell’s aristocrats suffer alone? The Supervisor opened his eyes and gestured with resignation. “Since fate has chosen absurdity: my household. Lady Serit, my sister. Ilyan, my steward. Tavi, my niece.” Tavi waved enthusiastically. “I knew someone was coming! The hounds told me.” The soul blinked. “The hounds can tell you things?” Tavi beamed. “Not in words. In vibes.” Ilyan sighed in the long, professional manner of someone accustomed to working around both affection and nonsense. “That is not how reports function.” Lady Serit stepped closer. The soul immediately braced for judgment. Instead, she studied him with cool intelligence, took in the puppy in his arms, the soot, the drool, Matron Ash’s clear attachment, and finally the expression on her brother’s face. Something very subtle shifted in her own. “How interesting,” she said. The soul swallowed. “I’m sorry.” She looked faintly surprised. “For what?” “For—” He gestured vaguely to the entire situation. “This.” Tavi gasped softly. “Oh, he has manners.” The soul stared at her. Ilyan pinched the bridge of his nose. The Supervisor looked deeply amused again, which was not reassuring. Lady Serit said, “There is no need to apologize. One does not often receive a guest covered in hellhound approval. It is statistically novel.” “That sounds like the sort of thing that ends up in a family archive.” “It might,” she said. I am going to die again from social pressure. “Unlikely,” said the Supervisor. Tavi brightened. “Do you have a room yet?” The soul looked at her helplessly. “I think not.” “Then we must fix that immediately.” Ilyan finally spoke with the gravity of a man approaching a bureaucratic cliff. “Before rooms, I require classification. Is he guest, ward, temporary dependent, spiritual volunteer, district anomaly, or companion asset?” The soul went pale. “None of those sound encouraging.” “They are not,” said Ilyan. “But precision matters.” The Supervisor removed his gloves finger by finger, considering. “Temporary ward attached to household supervision, with voluntary kennel service and active sentence review.” Ilyan nodded reluctantly. “I dislike how sensible that is.” Tavi leaned toward the soul and whispered loudly, “That means you get nicer towels.” The soul stared. Lady Serit held out one hand. “Come. You are overheated, bewildered, and carrying a sleeping juvenile. This conversation will improve with tea.” The soul, who had not expected tea to enter his infernal experience, followed instinctively. Tea, as it turned out, did indeed improve the conversation. Or at least the involved furniture did. He found himself in a sitting room with dark velvet chairs, low tables carved from volcanic glass, and shelves of books whose titles ranged from Comparative Mortal Ethics to Infernal Breeding Records, Vol. VII. Tavi curled immediately onto a chaise like an overexcited cat. Ilyan settled at a side desk with forms. Lady Serit poured tea from a black metal pot. The Supervisor stood by the mantel with one elbow braced against it, watching the whole gathering as if uncertain how it had happened in his own house. Matron Ash lay directly beside the soul’s chair, making clear that departure without approval was impossible. The puppy continued sleeping. The soul looked into his cup. “Is this poisoned?” Tavi looked scandalized. “Only ceremonially.” Lady Serit gave her a look. Tavi sighed. “No, not really.” He took a cautious sip. It was excellent. This is outrageous. The Supervisor’s mouth twitched. “The tea?” “The situation.” “Ah.” For a little while, questions were asked and answered. Not all of them. That would have been optimistic. But enough to make the shape of things clearer. No, he was not being permanently assigned to the household. Yes, his formal punishment still technically remained in effect. No, this did not mean he had somehow escaped Hell by accident. Yes, his sentence could now be reviewed sooner if positive developments continued. No, no one could tell him exactly how much sooner because infernal systems despised certainty. Yes, working at the kennels and under the Supervisor’s oversight would count. No, that did not make the Supervisor a charity. “I am wounded,” said the demon. “You compare people to sheep,” said Lady Serit without looking at him. “That was once.” “Twice,” said Ilyan from his papers. The soul looked up. “You kept records of that?” Ilyan gave him a long-suffering look. “I keep records of everything.” Tavi leaned forward. “Do you remember your name yet?” The room quieted. The soul looked down at his tea. “No.” Tavi’s expression softened immediately. She looked as if she might bounce over and hug him, but one glance at Lady Serit restrained this impulse into stillness. Barely. “It will return,” Lady Serit said. He nodded, though he had no idea whether that comforted him. The Supervisor spoke then, more gently than before. “Sometimes names return when the self has somewhere safe to settle.” The soul looked up. The demon held his gaze for a moment, then looked away first, as if annoyed by his own sincerity. The soul tried not to react to that too visibly. Oh. That was almost kind. “Yes,” said the Supervisor. “Do not become spoiled.” Night—or Hell’s equivalent of it—deepened beyond the windows. The lamps in the room glowed lower and warmer. At some point Tavi had migrated closer under the pretense of checking on the puppy and was now asking him, with dangerous earnestness, whether mortals truly had entire festivals devoted to apples. At some point Ilyan had assigned him two forms, three temporary regulations, and a room. At another point Lady Serit had instructed a servant to prepare clothes not covered in soot. This way, without quite noticing, the soul stopped feeling like he had to be ready to flee. That realization startled him badly enough that he went very still in his chair. The Supervisor noticed. Of course he noticed. I am relaxing. In Hell. In a demon manor. This feels like the first step toward either healing or a terrible cautionary tale. The Supervisor considered this. “Potentially both.” The soul gave him a tired look. “You are impossible.” “And yet,” said the demon, “here you remain.” It was difficult to argue. Eventually Tavi was shooed away to her own wing of the house. Ilyan departed with his ledgers. Lady Serit rose and informed him that breakfast was at second bell, family arguments at third, and that if Matron Ash chose to sleep outside his room no one would interfere. The soul blinked. “Outside my room?” Lady Serit looked puzzled. “Did you think she would not?” Matron Ash, hearing her name, thumped her tail against the carpet. The soul looked at the enormous hound. Then at the puppy in his lap. Then at the Supervisor. This is definitely a family unit. The demon’s expression turned unreadable for a moment. Then he said, “Certainly.” It was so straightforward that the soul forgot to be embarrassed. Lady Serit took her leave. And then, somehow, it was just him, the Supervisor, two sleeping hounds, and the deep quiet of an infernal house late at night. The soul looked down into his empty tea cup. Then said, because he was too tired to be strategic anymore, “Why are you doing this?” The Supervisor did not answer immediately. He stood by the dark window with one hand resting on the frame, his profile outlined by the red glow outside. In stillness, he seemed older somehow. Not weaker. Simply… older. More worn in hidden places. “At first?” the demon said at last. “Because you were amusing.” The soul snorted softly. “Honest.” “I try not to make a habit of it.” “And now?” That took longer. The soul waited. The demon’s tail moved once behind him, slow and thoughtful. “Now,” he said, “because you keep choosing kindness where it is inconvenient, and I find myself curious what such a soul becomes if given room rather than pressure.” The soul looked at him. The Supervisor continued, eyes still on the dark beyond the glass. “Also because Matron Ash would be unbearable if denied.” The soul laughed before he could stop himself. The demon smiled, faintly victorious. “There,” he said. “That is better.” The soul sobered a little. “I still don’t know if I can really do this. Become better, I mean.” The Supervisor turned then and looked at him fully. “You misunderstand,” he said quietly. “You are already doing it.” The room went very still. Something in the soul hurt then—not sharply, but in the aching way of old defenses loosening before one had consented to the pain of it. He looked down at the puppy because it was easier than looking at the demon. That was definitely kind. The Supervisor sighed. “Yes. It was. Must we dwell.” The soul smiled helplessly into the puppy’s fur. That night he was shown to a room far nicer than any he had ever expected to occupy in the afterlife. Dark wood, heavy curtains, a bed too large for one person, a washroom with hot water, a window overlooking the ravine, and shelves that already held three books Tavi had likely deposited there in an act of chaotic hospitality. One was about hound breeds. One was a novel about an ill-fated duke. One appeared to be a cookbook and was possibly a threat. Matron Ash settled immediately outside the door. The puppy was provided a basket and ignored it in favor of climbing directly onto the bed. The soul, too tired to object, let it. He stood for a while in the middle of the room, looking around. Then sat carefully on the edge of the bed. Then lay back. The puppy climbed onto his chest and turned in a small circle before collapsing with a sigh. The room was quiet. No chains. No shouting. No raw heat from the river. Just distant household sounds, muffled and safe in the strange way only inhabited places could be. He stared at the ceiling. Well. I am dead. In Hell. Reassigned to a demon manor. Adopted by a kennel matriarch. Employed, apparently, in accidental sanctity. The puppy twitched in sleep. The soul let one hand rest lightly over it. This is ridiculous. But the thought that followed came softer. I think… I would like to stay. He shut his eyes at once, as if that would delete that last thought. Too late, of course. From somewhere in the corridor came the low, amused voice of the Supervisor, very clearly lingering where he had no business lingering. “Yes,” the demon said. “I thought you might.” The soul made a wounded noise into his pillow. And from outside the door, Matron Ash huffed with the solemn satisfaction of a creature who had known it all along.
https://www.tumblr.com/mayhem-neverending/819586014835245056/i-am-now-engaged-i-am-now-over-60k-words-on-my omgg congrats on your engagement!!!! i wish you all the best!!!!! ofc we remember youuuu, i wanted to reach out few months ago bc i was scroling through my following list and remembered your series about obito lmaooo i loved reading it, but your asks were turned off you mentioned you are writing something, what is it about? whatever it is i know its gonna be good
Thank you! And I’m surprised but feel honored you remember me! I’m writing an original work in a world my fiance and I are actively creating together! I’ve thought several times about sharing it, but I am concerned about either someone tossing it into AI or someone using it/claiming it before I have it published and fully copyrighted. I can’t tell you how hard it is to write and not have anyone but your partner to share it with! It’s a high fantasy series set in a north American-ish setting (the environment, mostly). The main character is a princess and some shit goes down where she loses everything. It is in multiple perspectives as I build the story and the world outside of it. The first book is really only the very beginning of her story, but I dont want to give anything away. (Crying and screaming because I want to talk about it in depth). I will say that my favorite character is a half-orc bard who has a romantic rival thing going on and a deep desire for fame. He keeps the story lighthearted where you need it. Thanks for sending in an ask! I was so excited to see it!
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