okaywolf

Written to the prompt by make-up-a-wizard — wizard who is also better at swordfighting than you'll ever be

You can download the first four instalments of Some Guy Party as 8-page printable zines on my itch.


It is not often that combat is expected on any given job—it is not often there is combat on any given job—enough that there being combat expected on this job to rid a lost citadel of untoward occupation made pause the commissioner. The particularly tight corridor definitely not a wizard and some guy found themselves fighting off particularly adept combatants in made pause not some guy when somewhere else someone else called for assistance.

Arriving with a kick to the back of one combatant’s knee, some guy handily handled someone else’s outnumbering issue.

Handily hog-tying those that were capable of picking up arms again, someone else asks, “From where were you?”

Some guy gestured up to the open columned arches of the tight corridor where definitely not a wizard free of adversary made way to regroup with them.



Since the lost citadel was considerable—all lost citadels were considerable—the party had split up to tackle the split of the occupying untowards, sweeping across the citadel from one side rather than risk ambush by attacking one by one the many strategically situated posts. The sizeable chamber definitely not a wizard and some guy held safe the entryway for while the rest of the party secured favourable ground made pause not some guy when they spotted a sizeable untoward post circling around to flank the party.

Vaulting over and between low walkway walls, some guy swiftly severed the party’s circling issue.

Swiftly sighting and reinforcing some guy’s efforts, someone else asks, “From how were you?”

Some guy gestured across the many stone and timber walkways that not many would consider traversing such, past such definitely not a wizard free of adversary awaited further approaches to the entryway.



Being a nearby lost citadel to the governing body—being the nearest by lost citadel to the governing body—every surface had been well-chiselled, planed, polished smooth to remove every trace of sigils. The spread of the untowards in search of sigil remnants made for a tedious process of well-surveying the lost citadel for untoward remnants. Several such untowards lying in wait made pause not definitely not a wizard.

Rushing the untowards away from the party caught unaware, definitely not a wizard needed not the aid of some guy nor anyone else despite outnumbering and circling.

Reeling as they recover the rest of the party with some guy’s support, someone else asks, “From when was this?”

Some guy smirks. “Th’fuck’s better than me.”

Written to the prompt 'Adventurer who has been clashing with the Dark Lord for so long that they know his minions by their first names.' by Making Up Adventurers.


“And you just let her waltz in here!?”

The minion standing before the Dark Lord’s throne, thickly muscled such they could easily lift overhead the largest of sheep one in each hand, sheepishly rubbed the back of their neck. “Well, yeah.”

Sienna whistled a jaunty tune as she literally waltzed through the cave, box stepping around stalagmites. “Hey Greg.”

Greg, the minion who was thickly muscled such they could easily lift overhead the largest of sheep one in each hand, gave a chin lift of recognition to the adventurer and her occasional dancing partner of a spear. “What is it this time?”

“What do you mean vacation!?”

Greg shrugged thick shoulders, wincing away because it wasn’t their fault Sienna had a week off.

”Ugh, my manager told me to take a ‘mental health week’ after she found me crying on the change room floor. Like, yes, I’d kinda kept my workload after we stopped being shortstaffed, but a whole week? She knows I don’t have hobbies.”

Greg stood from the cave wall they’d been leaning against, as though to physically comfort Sienna with a shoulder pat or hug. The Dark Lord was exemplary at task tracking and management, they could maybe imagine how much it might take to start crying from overwork but they hadn’t actually experienced anything like it. “Oh, buddy.”

“So what, am I her hobby!? The insult!”

With a sigh, Greg proffered their palms in another shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“And what about you?” The Dark Lord turned to next in the long line of minions standing before the throne.

“I just figure if you’re going to beat her every time, why do we have to get scraped up,” Teleost—or “Theo” as Sienna and fellow minions called him—defended. “And then you have to deal while a bunch of us are on medical leave.”

Much of the line nodded and murmured agreement.

“My management skills are not in question!” As established, they were exemplary. “And you have worker’s comp for a reason!”

Greg nudged a ridge on the rock floor with the toe of their boot, keeping their eyes on the ground as they asked, “Are you upset that we let her in, or are you upset that she interrupted you during the live finale of Drama Drama Love Story?”

The Dark Lord’s mangled scream of frustration was not a sufficiently clear response.

This story contains sexually explicit content.

Written to the prompt by Make Up A Criminal cohost prompt account — Mob boss who promises to throw you in deep enough next time.

Okay so this is more about the you and not the mob boss, but I’ve been inspired by recent fiction to write some terrible toxic boyfriends.

Reusing the name Neph for funsies, it’s not the same Neph from Neph and /~.n. Fun fact, Neph as a name is short for Nepenthes, the carnivorous pitcher plants.


Neph coughed up the last of the S’iyaq river in the shower, watches the blood and river water swirl and drain with steaming shower water long run clear of the muck he had dragged himself out of, tries not to collapse with the relief that he’s seen worse. The water’s gone cold when he wakes. No mountain of duvets in the world could warm him, so he opts for a boyfriend sweatshirt and reheating what is likely biohazardous, questionable contents of the coffee pot sat unquestionably too long. He’s still shaking when Gauss gets in, at 3am and clumsily but quietly toeing off boots not to assume whether or not Neph is conscious.

“Fucking shit, what happened to you?” Gauss’s hands on Neph’s face—alcohol, syrup, sweat, gas—vibrate with the bounce of Neph’s jaw they fail to quell.

“Hot water ran out.”

“At least dry your hair, shit.” Gauss stalks off across the wreckage he’ll ask about later and returns to the couch with towels and duvets. He drops a towel on Neph’s head, the rest on his lap, and wraps himself in the blankets before wrapping himself around Neph. He swears the whole time, drowning out the chatter of teeth and tap of nails on a long gone cold coffee mug.


Under the mountain of duvets, Neph wakes still cold barely before noon still in Gauss’s arms. He squirms free from limbs that could easily heft three of him and rolls out of the bed he doesn’t remember Gauss hefting him to.

With a fresh tank of hot water and a new lease on life, Neph hums his way through cooking breakfast while chewing on snakebite jewelry with cracked teeth. The kitchen table—a peeling vinyl and rusting metal artifact—is cleared of spam mail, dying spider plant, and metal forged into alarming tools, for plates of full complement breakfast.

He forgoes his breakfast for starting on the wreckage of the apartment. He’s only righted the hall table, kicked aside last night’s swampy clothes, and swept up broken picture frame glass when Gauss stumbles out of bed.

“Fuckin’ chipper thing ain’t ya.” The hand that envelops his head and doubles down on his bedhead still smells of Gauss’s work and drive home.

Neph makes a mental note to wash the bedding soon, ties up what could use a touch up dye, and seats himself opposite Gauss for breakfast.

It’s all routine, but without Gauss’s routine—waking up at noon without fail—Neph’s whole day would fall apart. The wreckage would be left for stubbed toes, rotting sewage smell, and bloody footprints; an attempt at washing the bedding would leave the mattress bare to grey with weeks of passing out in street clothes; and no part of the kitchen would be inhabitable nevermind functional.

The routine only works because there’s someone else for Neph to consider.

After breakfast, Neph is considering how to get back at Gauss—Gauss whose hands press him into the half unfitted fitted sheet by the shoulder blade, then mid back, then the muscle knots over his pelvis that make him prone to cracking his back in a swift twist that disturbs and nauseates Gauss to no end. Holding Neph down, Gauss grinds _his_ pelvis against Neph’s ass—Neph who pauses in planning to bend Gauss over the broken coffee table before he tosses it, for flexing to press his knees into the bed, as though it were possible to be any closer, as though it were possible to have Gauss deeper in him.

Gauss drags one hand lower, slides his thumb down Neph’s spine until its end. When he presses the nerves there, Neph’s legs tremble and shake under him.

“You piece of shit, son of a bitch,” Neph exhales, then chokes into the loose sheet’s folds.

Gauss rolls his hips in more of a press than thrust before leaning over Neph. He’s tall enough his elbows landing on either side of Neph’s head aren’t a stretch and nor is dropping his head to speak against fading fire orange hair fallen out of Neph’s hair tie. “Are you going to tell me what happened before the hot water ran out?”

“Are you going to fuck me properly?”

“If you’re good and spill.”

Neph cuts the venom out of his voice but not the impatience when he relents with a grumble, “Went for a swim.”

This earns him a slow near vacancy then grind again into the bed.

“Who made you go for a swim?” Gauss’s teasing sneer let Neph know that Gauss is at least horny enough to keep fucking him even with how upset the full story will make him.

“The fuckface with the big watch.” Another slow withdraw and bearing down earns a groan from Neph.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Neph’s lips, sticking to the unfitted fitted sheet with bloody spittle, curve into a wicked smile knowing how a pissed off Gauss will pound him. “Can’t avoid them forever.” He curves his back to meet Gauss’s hips this time, then relaxes against the pulverizing force lest he strain a muscle. “Fuck, come on, I told you.”

Gauss’s hands lace fingertips over the crown of Neph’s head, palm heels against temples gentle but capable of crushing, and Neph prepares for what’s to come by going limp like prey faking death. “And what’s going to happen the next time?”

“They’ll toss me in deeper,” Neph jokes before he can’t anymore.

Written to the prompt by Making Up Adventurers — This adventurer is only lucky when it counts.

You can download the first four instalments of Some Guy Party as 8-page printable zines on my itch.

Originally posted on cohost on September 2nd, 2024.


Not far from the county governing body, a former wetland now wetland once more swamps the former county governing body. With no other jobs of particular interest to take up, the party concedes to participating in the years-going effort to retrieve materials from the flooded body. They’re afforded a wide boat that rides high on the water and skims over shallows. While shifting the boat’s load, the sizeable stone dropper manages to dip one side low enough to take on water.

At camp—a proper long-term set up, complete with cook house—one tells the sizeable stone dropper not to beat himself up too much about it. “At least you didn’t sink the thing.”

“Might not I tomorrow?” he bellyached into the belly-satisfying meal provided by the effort’s cook.

One pats the sizeable stone dropper’s shoulder. “Tomorrow might not you in the boat?”


For the floors above water, with a building emptied of its contents and accoutrement, plaster was to be knocked out to pull timbers. The sizeable stone dropper drops the cloth protecting his face from plaster dust to drink water, the resulting coughing fit has him tumble between wall-less timbers into the swamp.

At camp—a proper long-term set up, complete with firepit burning day and night—one stamps out embers that burst from damp wood and land too near the former damp sizeable stone dropper sitting too near the fire. “Could have been worse.”

“Could have?” his tremulous of cold voice turns credulous of ‘this is better, you mean that?’.

One puts an arm across the sizeable stone dropper’s shoulders. “Could have been shallows.”


The distance from above water to boat was aided by a pulley system. A heavy timber would be securely affixed and slowly lowered. Having near sunk the boat and having struggled with plaster dust, the sizeable stone dropper is on pulley duty when the affixed timber tumbles prematurely. His borrowed leather gloves oversized catch in the pulleys before his hands can, halting the timber’s fall onto one on the boat below.

At camp—a proper long-term set up, complete with curative tent—one studies the remarkable lack of injury to the sizeable stone dropper’s hands and applies salve regardless. “Foolish of you.”

“Would been worse of you if I’d not,” he countered, once again recounting which of the two had been in peril.

“I am of mind.” One’s voice, for all its surety, is a little thin from said peril’s scare.

“If you’re of mind, then take care of oneself.”

One laughs. “Of mind of yourself.”

Written to the prompt by Making Up Adventurers — This adventurer has an old country remedy for just about everything.

You can download the first four instalments of Some Guy Party as 8-page printable zines on my itch.

Originally posted on cohost on August 16th, 2024.


After successful negotiations—and successful “negotiations”—the cave exploring party partly-mostly retained membership onto the next job. The next job was helping clear a collapsed farm site. Stone walls and fences to pull apart and rebuild, sorting through rock. When someone drops a particularly sizeable stone on his foot, some guy says,

“Spit on it.”

All eyes on definitely not a wizard get shooed away with a furious, “You can’t possibly expect me to interpret this,” so someone else finally asks, “What?”

“Th’rock.”

From where he lays on the ground with his smarting foot tending to by way of numbing salve, the sizeable stone dropper asks, “Might like for vengeance?”

Some guy makes an appraising face, as though the sizeable stone dropper wasn’t necessarily wrong in his interpretation, before turning back to sorting rocks. Most everyone’s turned back to sorting rocks when the sizeable stone dropper returns to their feet and audibly spits.


Rebuilding the fallen section of fence done, done for the day the party sits around a fire. Their talk of meal and meal itself past, their planning tomorrow’s work as well, the chatter dies down with the died down flames. The sizeable stone dropper keeps his leg outstretched, where a sudden spit of ember catches light to a pant leg. It’s a momentary and insignificant distraction until some guy says,

“Throw it some lint.”

All eyes on some guy wait for an explanation that is behind a long steady pull from a waterskin. And then wait as some guy continues to watch the fire, until someone else finally asks, “What?”

“Th’fire.”

After sharing questioning looks with everyone else in the party, the sizeable stone dropper plucks at raw edges of his shirt and scoots over to the flames. “Would some sort of offering?” He adds the fibres to the fire’s fuel after watching some guy bounce their head with the same sort of appraising expression.


Owing much to the expertise of two of their party and to some locals that came to help with the more expert requiring walls, the party again make their way back to the county governing body for their pay. They wonder aloud if they’ll see past party members, if there’s another job that will interest enough of them for keep as a party. They talk of what jobs they would and definitely would not accept. When the sizeable stone dropper claims that he refuses to stand watch for bears again, some guy says,

“Can a’nails.”

All eyes again turn to some guy, who pulls out a container and gives it a pointed, illustrative single shake. The apparent nails inside shak shak at a volume that might indeed ward off bears. They hide it away again as everyone more or less takes yet another unexpected interjection in stride but for someone else, who lets out a bewildered, “What?”

Written to the prompt by Making Up Monsters — Monster who thinks — and looks like — they might be dead…

Originally posted on cohost on August 12th, 2024.


When he rolls out of the niche in the catacomb, the drop to the floor chokes a groan out of him. He’s breathing but he’s not sure he’s supposed to be, not sure he needs to be. The air is musty but dry, it makes him choke again.

When he realizes where he is, newfound not sure of why supersedes the not sure of breathing.

Up the wall, the distinctively larger niche now empty of him is surrounded by niches not empty of their decidedly human remains. He’s hardly human. He shakes off the dust and shambles away.

Free from the bowels of the earth, the first creatures taken any liking to him are crows, flies, and coyotes—those that eat carrion. The first person he comes across makes holy gestures and begs a quick death for their loved ones. The first calm surface of water that lets him take a good look at himself makes him doubt his laugh at the person’s reaction.

Hardly human, might be remains.

Written to the prompt by Making Up A Villain — villain who has read the stars to ascertain your doom

Originally posted on cohost on July 24th, 2024.


When Yihsuan’s unassuming neighbour tells her that her name is Lily, Yihsuan only doesn’t scowl because she’s already learned not to. She’s learned her unassuming neighbour Lily is formidable. Uncertain just how formidable, Yihsuan’s self-preservation keeps her less polite tendencies in check.

A part of Yihsuan—that would rather die than admit it—thinks it’s cute they share a name.

Lily had invited Yihsuan along for her “solution”. Her blank stares, vacant blinks, and little puppy dog tilts of her head did nothing to indicate her steely confidence and imposing calm that was earned from indomitable power and tremendous experience. She was nice about it all. She held out a hand and smiled when Yihsuan reluctantly took it. She felt Yihsuan’s jitters in her warm, gentle hold. She thought it was cute.

Yihsuan—having faced things powerful enough to have her shaking on her knees lucky to survive—keeps her composure well for someone who’s pretty sure she’s holding hands with potentially a repeat of that experience that she was very determined not to repeat. It was nerve-wracking. She felt the hand on hers as the jaws of something that would swallow her whole. She kept herself from imploding from the tension by glowering the whole while.

The trip around town was short. A wander through shops of herbs open to the street, a basement business of curiosities, a break for iced tea on a park bench. When Lily tells Yihsuan to meet her on their apartment building’s roof at twilight Lily calls it a date.

Yihsuan’s apartment is painted dark, rich tones. It’s furnished with dark, rich wood furniture lacquered and ornate. Sitting at the vanity, Yihsuan combs her long black hair until it shines pristine. She feels both foolish and fearful making decisions about lip gloss and if she should change into something that wasn’t black on black. The satin that her hair melts into is comforting. It helps to feel imperceivable.

For a moment she lets herself imagine her life proceeding as it had been if she hadn’t approached her unassuming neighbour; eventful but not nearly so terrifying. She wears shoes she can run in.

The roof of their unassuming apartment building is off limits but locked doors mean little to Yihsuan and nothing to Lily.

Yihsuan had of course investigated the roof while apartment hunting. She’s made at least one emergency landing here, cursing herself for running out of options and hoping her home wouldn’t be compromised. It’s nothing but mechanical units and piping, and the remains of some local food organization’s rooftop farming program.

Lily is waiting for her.

When she smiles, Yihsuan wonders if she’s died or is dying.

When she holds out a hand to take, swings her shoulders side to side, Yihsuan has never felt so trapped in such an open space.

In the evening chill, Lily wears a cardigan not unlike the elderly women running shops of herbs that reminds Yihsuan of her grandma. It’s big on Lily but probably too short for Yihsuan, who stands a head taller than Lily despite Lily’s platform sneakers. Cozy.

Lily leads her to a short wall with a blanket already spread out, sits and leans back, the hand that had held Yihsuan’s pats the fabric next to her.

Yihsuan taps her cooling fingers together, agitated in all number of ways, before situating herself next to Lily. This is not a very defensible position. She sucks her teeth and mutters darkly, “Awful romantic, isn’t it?” Her hand taken up by Lily’s again makes her jump, her wide eyes stare in the city night’s never dark at a smiling, unassuming face looking skyward.

“It’s starting.”

Above them the stars are dim in the city night’s never dark. Yihsuan watches them brighten despite the light pollution, watches more become visible. Then she watches them explode and fall from the sky.



I wrote part one at 1am and needed something going on to keep me awake enough to write, thought to myself “wait, I know a song about stars” and put it on a loop.

Written to the prompt by Making Up Adventurers — Knight who is increasingly certain they’re going to need to kill the party’s wizard. While they still can.

Originally posted on cohost on July 20th, 2024.


Clæv spends every spare moment for a fortnight anxiously keeping an anxious eye on Battennt. He’s anxious about Battennt, he’s anxious about what Battennt might do if he’s caught watching the wizard, and he’s anxious what the Battennt might do if the party catches onto him watching the wizard.

The wizard Battennt spends the time thinking about wizard shit.

The party is several months into their next trek—after a break at a hot spring and all the drama that erupted during their stay—when Clæv starts distinguishing the infinitesimal changes in Battennt. At first he tries to keep mental track but, like watching the sunset and trying distinguish how much darker blue the sky is from its blue a moment ago, the changes are so near gradual they’re hard to keep track from day to day.

So Clæv, the fighter in armour who refused “knight”, “man-at-arms”, and “soldier”, starts keeping a coded logbook.

Half of how troubling it all was, was that Battennt still performed all his wizard duties perfectly fine. Impeccable. Truly one of the most powerful wizards, if only he slept.

And now that he knew how long Battennt hadn’t been sleeping and now that he had been keeping track, Clæv had become all too aware of how far Battennt was in his ‘freefall towards a very bad place’.

“Uh, hey.”

Battennt doesn’t look up because Clæv’s telltale armour shift and clink let him know exactly who was standing over him. Battennt is doing the thing he does when he’s not thinking about wizard shit, which is resting while pretending to be thinking about wizard shit. It’s one of the things he’s been doing more and more. He’s glad that he’s broken Clæv’s usual “hey bud” approach. “Please tell me this is a confession, because I’m not having the sleep discussion with you again.”

While half of the party is in town, seeing if there’s lodging with enough space for all of them, the other half is taking the time to run inventory and maintenance. They’ve travelled so far since Clæv initially approached Battennt that the tree the wizard is sitting back against pretending to do wizard shit looks entirely alien to the one he’d been sitting back against back then.

It’s also hotter here. Clæv has been struggling in his armour. He’s struggling a lot.

“It’s a sort of continuation.”

Battennt tips his head up to the tree’s alien foliage, rests against the alien bark, and grimaces openly.

“I’ll be quick.”

“I prefer you not be at all, but have at me.”

Clæv sits down. He watches the grimace become a sneer, still directed skyward, and steadies himself with a deep breath in. “I’ve been noticing—“

“You’ve been watching me like a hawk.” Battennt is a sort of fatigue-driven annoyed that lacks any fire because fire is energy and Battennt doesn’t sleep, not real sleep, not sleep that replenishes him. He’d make some joke about the party’s falconer in comparison to Clæv but any joke evades him, fatigue-driven and all.

“I’ve been noticing,” Clæv restarts, insistence winning over the fear bubbling in his chest that Battennt had indeed caught him watching the wizard, “how you’ve been progressing—“

“Regressing morelike.”

“—and I think you’re far worse off than you might believe yourself.” Clæv is steadfast, even as Battennt tilts his head enough to land his eyes on him. The fighter has had a healthy respect for Battennt’s and the other party magic users’ ability to smite him before he could even draw a weapon. That healthy respect now comes with a fear response that grows daily when it comes to the wizard in front of him. “If you want to make sure you’re wandering off before you self-destruct.”

Battennt has been dealing with his lack of real sleep for some decades. He is acutely aware of its affects on him. He was pretty sure he spelled out as much to Clæv the last time they talked about this. He blinks slowly and intentionally at the fighter. “You think you’d know better than me?”

The certainty in Clæv’s eyes makes the ever-tired, exhausted, wrung out Battennt twitch. “I think you’re too far gone to notice how far gone you are.”

“Hmm.” Battennt nods appreciatively with a look of appraisal. “I _am_ pretty far gone.” He holds up a hand, ignoring the Clæv’s barely subdued panic response at the movement, and slides his eyes away from the fighter to inspect the back, then palm, then back of his hand.

Clæv has no idea what Battennt could be looking at, but is now at least hopeful Battennt has some distinct and measurable metric for when he needs to wander off to self-destruct.

“But ideally, I’d like to see Grig’s,“ the battlemage, “spirit utterly crushed to dust when they discover all the secrets of their whole situation are one big sham.”

Very aware—everyone was very aware—that the wizard and the battlemage didn’t get along, Clæv frowns, caught between asking if that were true and pushing past Battennt’s diversion from the topic at hand. Clæv knows the timeline for their current quest though. “That might take half a year. I think you have a month.”

“I can hold out.” Battennt sounds so simply sure of himself that it’s almost believable. The ever-tired, exhaustion, wrung out that bleeds and drains everything from his face, his posture, his speech, makes him entirely unbelievable. Nonetheless he’s not spectacularly, painfully lying.

The way Battennt eyes Clæv’s seated position tells Clæv he should leave sooner than later.

“This,“ the conversation, “wasn’t quick at all.”



The brawler, making attempts to grow as a person since their development during the last quest; attempts to approach Clæv on friendly terms by asking him what he’s writing.

Clæv is aware of Battennt’s eyes on him—in a way that’s not just _eyes_ on him but _wizard eyes_ that are brimming with potential smiting. “Almanac of sorts,” he says conversationally to the brawler but not conversationally about the topic. He smiles at them and talks about the weather instead. He puts down the logbook but later logs the feel of the look Battennt gave him.

Battennt’s slipping hold on the forces linked to his emotions in every look and outward expression is one of many infinitesimal changes. Clæv gave it an abstract eye glyph in the logbook. Another glyph represents the increasing amount of time in a day Battennt spends resting. A gradient range indicates mood with listless the darkest shade. Clæv has been doing a lot of scribbling to shade in the logbook.

He approaches Battennt during first watch, before Battennt casts sleep on himself, despite the bubbling fear that it’s the worst possible time to talk to the wizard about the worst possible subject. “So what’s the tipping point?”

Here in this warmer climate, Battennt has been grateful for his blanket being on the thinner side. He pulls it tighter over his shoulder, keeping his back to Clæv, with a lack of care to whether or not it can obscure himself. “You don’t want to know.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll keep wondering if every little regression I notice is the tipping point.” Clæv sounds used to this now, settled, calm, come to terms, prepared. It’s almost comforting to Battennt.

Battennt knows what the tipping point is. He knows it is well before what Clæv is probably imagining—losing control and hurting people. Since Clæv is so annoying upright and upstanding, Battennt also knows—and is annoyed that he knows Clæv this well now—that Clæv would find his actual tipping point not nearly regressed enough, to soon to end himself.

He stays silent, not pretending to sleep because he can’t.

“I think you have less time than you figure.”



There are days where Clæv thinks Battennt is out of control enough that he couldn’t kill the wizard if he tried. He moves from wondering if he’ll have to, to being sure of it.

The worst part about watching the wizard all the time is that Clæv starts feeling more genuine concern about Battennt along with the concern he might have to kill him. And then Clæv starts feeling more things about Battennt, not all of them falling under the category of concern.

“This is the worst possible time for a confession.”

Clæv couldn’t agree more. He’s caught the wizard slipping away from camp after the party is asleep but for the houndmaster’s watch that didn’t catch the wizard. He’s wondering if the goosebumps and the tightness in the chest from however Battennt is feeling about being stopped means he should kill him now, while he still might be able to.

Battennt sighs. “It happened.” He stays where he’s standing while Clæv thinks through the day, and probably the past couple days after that, incapable of figuring out the tipping point.

Then Clæv really looks at Battennt. The wizard is carrying his pack, leaving nothing behind. He looks resigned on top of listless; all at once, he looks ready to crumple to the ground absolutely finished and also more sure than Clæv has ever seen him. A small sure, just enough to hold him up, but deep and unshakeable. Clæv looks at Battennt and sees someone who can’t be swayed and who will absolutely follow through on wandering well and far enough away before self-destructing.

“What do I tell the others?”

Battennt smiles. It can’t help but be a weary smile.

The part of Clæv that has been feeling more things about Battennt aches.

What Clæv doesn’t know and can’t figure out, watching Battennt walk away, is the tipping point. No part of today’s journey—a couple rough battles included—clue him into what it could be. He runs over the day and the past couple days before again, again with meticulous detail, again, until it’s his turn for watch and he returns to the camp, and runs the days over again until the end of his watch and he relents to sleep.

Battennt had performed all his wizard duties perfectly fine. He hadn’t struggled or slipped up. During battles he hadn’t miscast or misfired. He hadn’t hurt anyone accidentally or on purpose. Outside of all the mundane signs of losing control Clæv had been tracking, there wasn’t any incident that Clæv could figure.

What Clæv can’t figure out is the moment Battennt’s self-preservation kicked in. That during one of today’s battles Battennt protected himself and only himself first and foremost, in a moment where he and the hunter would have taken a heavy hit—the old guard managed to pull the hunter back some but it was still rough.

The tipping point is not that Battennt was so far gone that he would hurt someone, but that someone would get hurt when he ought to have saved them.

When morning comes around and Battennt’s absence is noticed with even Grig the battlemage showing some concern, Clæv says, “I think he’s out.” They all accept it with little to no further inquiry. Some nod and talk about how hard the road was, that their stays in places with beds too short and too far between. The brawler puts a hand on Clæv’s shoulder as if he knows, hums, pats, and returns to packing up camp.

Written to the prompt by make-up-a-wizard — wizard who can hardly even remember how the world ended anymore

Content warning: memory loss

After writing part 1 and 2 in quick succession, this prompt came around and so here’s what happened to the villain who ended the world. I wrote these as a person with pretty significant memory issues, the first part and this one are pretty much just me.

Originally posted on cohost on June 17th, 2024.


Not because the end of the world wasn’t important. Important things were just as easy to forget. Everything was just as easy to forget, because forgetting happened and there was nothing he could do about it.

It all shifted about and faded, even if he tried to remember exactly as it was. He could wake up every day and tell himself the same story he told himself yesterday but thinking back to the moment, the senses changed; the time of day, the temperature, how many eyes were on him, what those people sounded like, how laboured his breath, the tone of his voice, the weight in his hands. It all changed.

And so did the words. He could tell himself the same story every day, but he couldn’t actually know or rely that those were the same words. First the meanings shifted, the connotations. They slipped about like the senses. And then they were misplaced.

With time, just like how he couldn’t remember when it happened—if there were people there, what he was doing, what he felt—he couldn’t remember the story right. He could repeat it every day and the words would still slip away from him. Everything did, all the time. And he was okay with that.

He had to be. He didn’t have any other choice. He had to be an amorphous, abstract, haphazard semblance of a person. He had to live day to day not remembering who he was, hoping there was some immutable part of him so that he didn’t have to apologize to yesterday’s him, and the day before, and all the days stretching back before then—that today’s him was betraying all those past versions of himself.

But he could hold onto the bare minimum. He knew he ended the world. He wasn’t so sure the world was better for it. It was impossible for him to remember every or even most days spent wandering this ended world to make any sort of judgement on “better”.

So he wanders, unsure of why, until he’s not sure if he wants to. And then he stops someplace, for no particular reason, until the immutable part of him that tells him he should be wandering pulls him away.

And all the while, his memories shift and fade. And every day he feels a different type of guilt about something he remembers different from yesterday.

Written to the prompt by Making Up Monsters — Monster who is starting to like the hold music

Originally posted on cohost on June 7th, 2024.


Bossa nova occupies an unfortunate place in too large of the popular consciousness. Most often experienced stripped of its energy and relegated to crummy speakers by hold services that exacerbate further abysmal distortion.

The tide has thrice flooded and left this dripping cavern beneath the idyllic shepherding green of an isle in miserably cold waters while tinny speakers by old copper wiring pipe the cheapest copyright of what would be too short a loop of music even if it hadn’t been echoing nearing two days into the stony expanse.

Between stalagmites, the hulking expanse of something unspeakable squirms on its back, kicking six sets of claws into the humid chill before turning on its side. The shuffling snare brush matches the encroaching rising tide trickling into crevices and soaking its toes as it listlessly listens to the jarring cut and loop in the track. It breathes once in, once out, and pauses for—

“Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line. Your call will be answered in the order it was received.”

—and breathes in again as truly atrocious sounding keyboard pretending to be a marimba resumes the unsatisfying final note of a lost riff.

It rolls over, toppling a stalagmite as easily as a sand castle with the awkward kicks of a hind leg vying for a comfortable resting position, and starts humming along.